Authors: Marc Laidlaw
The dead man
lay back in the litter, one arm having fallen limp across his breast with the
forefinger pointing at the boulder. The lumps of dough had dropped from his
eyes. He might have been staring at the two of them.
Kate jumped
to her feet in panic and revulsion, unable to restrain herself. Her movement
caught the eye of the thin, grieving man—the only mourner in the procession. He
hesitated, staring at her, apparently wondering where he had seen her before.
His hand went to the white scarf slung around his neck.
For a moment
she was certain she saw thanks in his eyes. Thanks, no doubt, for the little
they had done in capturing his friend’s murderer.
The man with
the drum and horn made a gesture to one of the monks, who ran up to rearrange
the corpse and draw the sackcloth back over it.
She caught
her breath and sank back to the rock.
The
procession ambled on up the hill. The lean man occasionally glanced back at
them until the party reached a bend in the road and disappeared through the
trees.
Peter and
Kate climbed down from the rock. Neither spoke during the walk back to town;
they kept their hands tightly clasped.
Later,
toward sunset, Kate looked back at the hill that rose above the buildings and
the market square. From the peak, a coil of smoke drifted up into the flaming
sky. Fumes from a funeral pyre.
She put a
hand on her belly, feeling nauseous again.
That was
their last night in Dharamsala.
Peter and
Kate Strauss hiked up Geary Street, hauling two carts full of groceries behind
them. It was a cold August day, with wind and fog streaming over the buildings
of downtown. The sidewalks were lined with open-air markets and squatters’
homes set back in the broken facades of ruined hovercar showrooms. Summer was
the cruelest season in San Francisco, and hit the homeless the hardest. Kate
often wondered why they didn’t simply move east or south, away from the fog-belt,
toward Oakland or San Jose. There was no firewood in the city, nothing to burn
for fuel; Golden Gate Park had been stripped to the ground and reclaimed by
sand dunes. But the people stayed on, long after their pleas for assistance had
gone unanswered, their loans for rebuilding unapproved. Developers had kept
their money in the expanding Great Plains metropoli, having finally seen the
absurdity of stacking fortunes on a major earthquake fault.
To Kate, San
Francisco resembled a graveyard of tumbled gray stone and broken black glass.
Streets and alleys had buckled during the quakes; grass and dandelions sprang
triumphant. Equally hardy groups of citizens clung to the seaport, promising to
restore the city’s vitality without the help of investors. In the future,
people would not build so high, nor out of such heavy materials. The Fellowship
had sent the Strausses to help with the restoration.
As they
climbed the hill, they gradually came in sight of the church to which they had
been assigned. Its low walls of gray and reddish-brown stone had survived with
only minor damage, but the steeple tower had collapsed entirely, destroying
everything inside the walls. Fog streamed around the new spire, a tall cone of
emerald Plexiglass surmounted by a circle and cross. The summer wind whistled
through the symbol.
She smiled
over at Peter and found him looking at the church with a builder's pride. She
reached out and squeezed his hand.
“The work is
good,” she said.
He nodded.
They covered
the last block in silence. A banner hung over the main entrance:
DEDICATION TONIGHT. ALL WELCOME.
Inside, the
church was warm and crowded. There was the smell of food cooking, the shouts of
children, and the eternal sound of hammering. Kate could still hear the wind in
the cross; she was thankful to be inside.
“I’ll take
these to the kitchen,” she told Peter, catching the handle of his cart. He
nodded, already looking preoccupied as he saw a man walking past with a plank
under his arm. Repairs would continue until the dedication ceremony, then
resume the moment it ended. As long as Peter was in the church, he thought of
little else.
At least
he’d had an hour away with her, sharing in the shopping. They hadn’t spoken
much, except when haggling with the grocers. Peter had no idea how expensive
food had become. It was good for him to see for himself where the Fellowship’s
money went, and why it went so quickly.
As she
passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, she felt a hand tugging at
her skirt. “Mommy!”
“Hello,
Marianne.”
She picked
up her daughter, leaving the carts by the door to be unloaded, and went through
the kitchen talking to the cooks. The utility co-op—a skeleton of the former
gas and electric company—had extended gas privileges to the church. Peter had
had to be talked out of refusing the preferential treatment, which he
considered unjust when practically everyone else in the city shivered and ate
cold food.
Little
Marianne received treats from nearly every cook: a slice of fresh baked bread,
a sliver of roast chicken. She observed the kitchen with the wide green eyes
she had inherited from Kate. Her hair was blonde, like Peter’s, and she had his
way of fixing on vacant air with a look of intense absorption.
“Where’s
Daddy?”
“He’s
getting things ready for tonight.”
“What’s
tonight?”
“The
dedication ceremony.”
“What’s
that?”
“It’s where
we bless the church and open it up again.”
“Why did it
close?”
“Because of
the earthquakes, silly. The steeple fell
down. Why do you think we’ve worked so
hard rebuilding
it?”
“I don’t know.
Why?”
“I just told
you why.”
“Can I get
down?”
Marianne ran
from the kitchen into the crowded reception area. Kate followed, looking out
for any odd task that needed doing. It pleased her to keep busy. When all the
work was done, it would be time to move on. She had grown fond of San
Francisco, with its winters clear as crystal and its frigid summer weather.
Two
strangers came through the front door as she entered the lobby. For a moment,
seeing them, she was transported to another time, another place.
Memories of
India rushed back to her. The smell of dust and human waste, asafetida and
incense; the constant heat and the even more oppressive evidence of drought,
famine, and starvation. She never hoped to see so much death again, or walk
through such a living hell. It was no wonder the East had evolved the religions
it had, with their emphases on suffering, impermanence, and the mercy of
annihilation; with their vision of the human body as nothing more than a
stinking bag of guts.
But there
had also been the cool highlands, the hill country—Dharamsala.
Something in
the demeanor of the two newcomers reminded her more of that place than of the
baking plains.
They wore
simple burgundy robes over vermilion shirts, and carried rosaries of dark beads
wrapped around their wrists. They were dark men with black hair, although the
older man’s hair and mustache were speckled with gray and he walked somewhat
slowly.
As Kate
moved to greet them, she heard Peter calling out. “Chokyi! I’m glad you made
it.”
Peter spotted
Kate as he pressed through the crowd. “Kate, these are friends from the Kagyu
temple. Tibetan Buddhists.”
“I thought
so,” she replied.
“They were
kind enough to come offer their blessings at the dedication ceremony. This is
Lama Nyinje Rinpoche. He’s visiting from Sikkim.”
Kate bowed
to the elderly man, who gave her a beautiful if crooked smile.
“And
Chokyi.”
She held out
her hand to the younger Tibetan, who was full-faced, smiling, plump. “I am
charmed,” he said.
As Kate
smiled at the elder Lama, searching for appropriate words, Marianne pushed her
way between her parents. When she saw the Lama, a cloud passed over her
expression and she grew very solemn. She pressed her hands together as if in
prayer, then put them to her forehead, lips, and breast, finally bowing as low
as she could before the old man.
Peter winked
at Kate. “Very nice, Marianne,” he said.
She felt
curiously relieved to know that he must have taught Marianne the formal
gestures, which seemed to make their guests feel welcome.
Lama Nyinje put
out his hand so that Marianne could take hold of it. She led him toward the
chapel.
“I wonder if
I should go with them,” Kate said.
“Don’t
worry,” said Peter. “She’ll give him the grand tour. Could you show Chokyi the
order of the ceremony, so he can translate for Lama Nyinje? I have to supervise
a work crew.”
Kate nodded.
As Peter walked away, she turned to Chokyi. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Peter tells
me that you two met in India,” Chokyi said as they worked their way down the
crowded hall toward the rooms at the back of the building.
“That’s
right. Nearly four years ago. He came back to California with me and we got
married.”
“And your
daughter?”
“She’s three
now.” Kate smiled, thinking of their nights in Dharamsala. Marianne had been
conceived in the hill town, although they hadn’t known it at the time. Those
memories were a melange of pleasure and strange fears. She had felt so lost
then, cut loose from everything familiar to her as she set foot on a new path
that she would share with Peter. In addition, there had been the murder in the
hotel, the man with three eyes, the strangeness of the funeral procession.
She had not
thought of these things in ages. The appearance of the Tibetans had stirred up
a flurry of memories.
“Have you
been to Dharamsala?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Most exiled Tibetans make a pilgrimage at least once in their lives, now that
Tibet itself is closed. I grew up in India, but times were hard, especially for
Tibetans. After more than a century and a half, we are still refugees. Things
change so slowly there; the culture is huge, stubborn, and very discriminatory.
I stayed in school as long as I could bear it, then ran away to the mountains.”
Kate nodded.
“India exasperated me, too. But Dharamsala was a very special place. My life
changed there.”
He smiled
sweetly. “Mine, too. I went to Dharamsala as an activist. The Tibetan Youth
Congress attracted me. For months I kept busy agitating and arguing politics
with new friends. But then something happened. It was gradual. I think it was
the town—some presence there, the ghost of the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, the power
of Chenrezi. I fell out with my companions and began frequenting the temples,
praying as I had not prayed since I was a child, searching for some
understanding that my political sophistication could not give me. I found an
old monk willing to miss a few pujas in order to argue with me. Not long after
that, I took my vows.” He shrugged. “I am still an activist, but I have found
different ways of working with my mind and heart. Fighting China is like
beating one’s head against a mountain. I’m convinced that suicidal campaigns
will never liberate Tibet.”
Kate could
not find the list she sought, so they had to turn back in search of someone who
might have a copy. On their way to the reception room, they met Lama Nyinje. He
was carrying Marianne in his arms and regarding her with a delighted
expression.
“Let me take
her,” Kate said. “She’s getting too heavy to carry around.”
As the Lama
handed her over, he said a few words to Chokyi. A brief, incomprehensible
conversation ensued.
“She wasn’t
any trouble, I hope,” said Kate.
Chokyi
looked puzzled. “Lama Nyinje asks where she learned to speak Tibetan.”
Kate didn’t
answer for a moment. The hall was full of noise and she thought she had heard
him incorrectly.
“I’m sorry?”
she said.
Lama Nyinje
spoke another, slower string of musical syllables to Chokyi, whose eyes widened
steadily.
“He says
that Marianne has been speaking to him in Tibetan, asking some very pointed
questions.”
“I don’t
understand.” She looked at Marianne and for a moment she found herself looking
at someone unfamiliar, someone utterly strange and remote. It was only after
staring for a full minute that she saw her daughter again, the face she knew so
well.
“Marianne, what
did you say to Lama Nyinje?”
Marianne
giggled, blushed, and hid her face against her mother’s shoulder.
“Marianne,
please tell Mommy. This is very important.”
Her daughter
leaned back, gazed into her face, and spoke a few words of nonsense.
Kate laughed
in relief. They were the same nonsense syllables that Marianne always sang to
herself. There had been times when it sounded more like a language than a
child’s babble, but wasn’t it true that nonsense was a language in its own
right?
“She speaks
like a native,” Chokyi said.
“A native?”
said Kate. “What are you . . . oh, no. Are you serious? But it’s nonsense!”
Chokyi said
a few words to Marianne, who reached out and touched his nose with her finger
before answering in kind. It all sounded like nonsense to Kate—Chokyi’s words
as well as Marianne’s.
“I asked her
where she learned to speak. She says she’s always known.”
Lama Nyinje
held up a finger before Kate could protest. Something in his eyes calmed her.
He made her believe that although this was impossible and could never be
explained, there was nothing to fear—that in fact it might be a great thing.