A Single Eye (23 page)

I swallowed; even the thought of the question I was about to—
had
to—ask, filled me with a cold no shiver would ease. “Amber,” I said, “did he eventually become only that? A mirror of other people?”

She nodded. Then she bawled. I pulled her to me, let her sob on my shoulder until the cold and wet forced us both back into our sleeping bags. It must have been the first time she had really wept for Aeneas, the sweet brother who became no more than a mirror. I thought of the tale of the Sixth Patriarch, the first student's poem:

                    
The body is the Bodhi-tree

                    
The mind is like a clear mirror standing

And the Sixth Patriarch's retort:

                    
The body is not like a tree
,

                    
There is no clear mirror standing
,

                    
Fundamentally nothing exists

Fundamentally, Aeneas did not exist, except as a mirror. People see through their own eyes, Yamana-roshi had said. With Aeneas it must have been so easy for them. And the descriptions people had given me of Aeneas were not of him at all, but of themselves.

Eventually, I blew out the oil lamp, sure that I would lie awake in the cold dark, wondering about Aeneas who lost his self, and about Rob and Maureen and everyone who mistook a mirror for a man, and were afraid. And Amber, who admitted her brother didn't go to Japan after the opening, but nevertheless believed he was in Japan.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

WEDNESDAY

R
ain came sharp and hard, and worse, the wind was blowing. It was the kind of night to be tucked in bed, curled around a lover. But at 4:15
A.M.
the kitchen was warm and bright in that cozy way of rooms lit when the world still sleeps. The winy bouquet of cocoa mixed with the aroma of coffee. Barry's winnower rattled companionably as it did its part to bring us cocoa. Best of all, Barry was alone in here. I stood for a moment, inhaling luxuriously. I was operating at capacity. One look at Barry told me he was, too. He looked as jumpy as a great bald bear startled out of hibernation. He wasn't even in his black robe yet, but still in sleep-rumpled gray sweats. He stood over the sink splashing water on his face again and again and again, inadvertently spraying the counter and a good bit of the floor.

“Barry, it's not going to help. You could step outside and douse your whole body and it would still be four-fifteen in the morning.”

He jerked up. “I didn't realize—Oh, it's you, Darcy.” He lurched over to the stove, rubbing a paper towel over his scalp like he was drying the outside of a bowl. “Oh, Roshi's cocoa. Oh, sorry, I was up till, till, uh, I don't know, uh, late.”

I gasped. It was too early to control reactions. But another lethal cup of cocoa anywhere near Leo—no way. “That's okay. I'll just make him some tea.”

“Didn't he like the cocoa? It was the old batch. Around too long? New batch . . . tomorrow. But I could, uh, make . . . He didn't like it?”

He stood there in his wrinkled water-stained sweats, his big feet bare on the floor, his thick hands open-palmed and held out as if begging for a redeeming answer.

“He didn't complain to me,” I said truthfully. “But he said he's got a fever. ‘Starve a fever,' right? He's better off with tea.”

“A fever? Oh, I better make him special broth. I can . . .”

His worried gaze shifted to the steel table that had reminded me of an autopsy site. It was covered with yet another a layer of cacao beans. I wondered how many times during the night Barry had covered the table with criollos and sorted them, bean by bean. He had the stiff walk of one who'd spent the night bending over. I noticed a staircase behind him, which led to a loft. “Barry, do you
live
in the kitchen?”

It was a big kitchen, a warm, bright room, with access to food, drink, fire, and light. But it was still a kitchen.

“Huh?” Barry said, still rubbing his eyes. “Oh, yeah. I mean, I could have a cabin, but what's the point? I'm always here. When it's not sesshin, I haul in an armchair from the shed. But nights like now, I wouldn't get to bed anyway, not with the rain.”

“The rain?”

“It's the chocolate. It's conching.” He nodded toward what looked like a clothes dryer. “This is the key part, mixing the nibs with the sugar and lecithin. Too fast and it's grainy; too long and the volatiles float off and you end up with”—he looked revolted—“bland brown paste. It's the aromatic compounds that give chocolate its ‘vive.' Time! Time is so short. I've got to finish conching, and the tempering, the cooling, and give it time to set, all finished so I can get down to the city by the weekend. No second chance. No
time
. But the way it's raining, I'll be lucky if the road holds till tomorrow.”

He was scanning the room frantically, as if his precious time were hiding in cupboards and under pots. Reliable Barry had disintegrated. Suddenly I realized even this distracted Barry was going away. Tomorrow! That would leave me with only Gabe, and I trusted him only because he had arrived too late to poison Leo. I couldn't let Barry leave tomorrow.

“What are you doing with the chocolate in San Francisco?”

“The Cacao Royale, the international chocolatiers' tasting. The Royale comes only every seven years. It's vital for new entries.”

“But you already sell your chocolate, don't you?” Maureen had said he supported the monastery.

“I do, but this batch will be a whole different class. The butterfly compared to the, uh, uh . . .” The simile was too much for that hour of the morning.

“Worm-like thing,” I put in. “So you'll be down there with lots of old chocolate friends, huh?”

“Yeah. It's fun.” The creases in his forehead eased, his whole face relaxed and he smiled. “That's if you don't mind eating like a pig.”

I laughed. “Right, Barry, I'll be pitying you all weekend, particularly at dinner when I'm eating gruel.”

I relaxed too. Barry was going to spend the weekend with his old cooking friends. If he had been involved with the Big Buddha Baker who poisoned his wares he wouldn't have been accepted back into the food fraternity, him or his chocolate. But here he was, rushing around to get his fine new chocolates down there to show them off. In fact, while he was there, maybe he could ask if anyone remembered the bakery scandal and if they recalled Aeneas hanging around.

“Barry, about the Big—”

A rush of icy air slapped my face. Rob hurried in and over to the coffee table. With his gaunt, drawn face, with his black robes hanging out from under his black slicker he looked like the Grim Reaper dropping in for a cup of java before his first kill of the day.

I picked up Roshi's tea and took a warm, wonderful sip of my own coffee. Rob stood drinking his slowly, as if tasting each drop separately.

“Barry,” I whispered. “You were in San Francisco. What
did
happen at the Big Buddha Bakery?”

The beans dripped out of his hands back into the unsorted pile. He didn't seem to notice. He braced his two big hands against the edge of the metal table, and stared down. The table shook from the quivering of his hands.

“Barry?”

I don't think he would have answered me anyway, but at that moment Rob walked over shaking an empty milk carton accusingly as he veered to the fridge for a replacement. The outside door opened and Maureen stumbled in wiping her eyes. My moment had passed and I took the Roshi's tea and my coffee and lurched out in the blackness, not knowing what to make of Barry. I could only fear the worst, and hope the Roshi would tell me truths to clear this up.

Rob Staverford glared at the empty milk urn. Already things were out of hand in this sesshin, and it was only the third day. You can't run a sesshin for twenty-six people and have the cook up all night making chocolate, for commercial purposes yet. He'd told Roshi that Barry couldn't handle his precious chocolate and his responsibilities as cook; and he was right, as he knew he'd be, as Roshi should have known. Dogen Zenji himself said in the
Tenzo Kyukun
, “Put your whole attention into the work, seeing just what the situation calls for. Do not be absent-minded.” If Dogen walked into this kitchen, the thirteenth-century master would be appalled. Do not be absent-minded, indeed. A mind could hardly be more absent than Barry's.

Students needed their days to start quietly; they shouldn't be forced into chatter about absent milk. Sesshin was a precious opportunity, not to be spoiled by the cook's personal preoccupation. Rob's jaw was clamped so tight flesh bulged at either side. His shoulders clenched at the very sight of Barry blithely making tea while the milk urn sat empty.

In the meantime, he poured milk into the container, checked the sugar and honey, and realized there was no bread put out for students who couldn't make it two more hours till breakfast. He grabbed a loaf, and made himself stop and take a deep breath so he wouldn't slam it down on the table. His practice was to do what needed to be done, not to condemn Barry or to remind Roshi that he, Rob, had been right, even though he certainly had, as any idiot could see.

When he stood up, he spotted the jisha, Darcy, still here in the kitchen. He flung back the sleeve of his robe and checked his watch. Four-twenty-two. She ought to have that cocoa in Roshi's hand by now.
He
always did. He'd really have to tell her—

But then he spotted Maureen. She looked more out of it than the other two.

Rob sighed and shook his head.

Maureen Heaney ran a finger across her tight forehead to free the tendrils of blond hair that hung flaccid over her eyes. This morning she had made the mistake of failing to avoid the mirror that accented her ashen skin and the dark circles under her eyes. She squinted against the glaring light in the kitchen. She hadn't slept at all, worrying about Roshi. She could barely focus. She had tried to act normal, especially with the new jisha, but that was yesterday. How was she ever going to get through the day today?

She stared across the kitchen. Barry was tense, too, but of course he would be. The Cacao Royale was a huge deal for him. He hadn't had his head more than six inches from his beans since they arrived; no wonder he wasn't worrying about Roshi. And Rob? Busy pouring milk. If she hadn't been so exhausted she'd have laughed. There was Rob pouring slowly so Barry had ample time to see his unvoiced censure. He could pour till Monday and Barry wouldn't notice, not unless he was pouring it onto the beans.