I opened my eyes. Not even ten minutes had passed. What was the point of sitting here motionless for another three quarters of an hour subjecting myself to the torment of superfluous thoughts? Could I not make some better use of my time? Going for a walk? Reading? Helping to get the dinner ready? I was just about to stand up when I heard footsteps behind me. The light, nimble gait of a child. I turned around. A monk, a short, older Asian man in a dark-red robe, head shaven, approached me and sat down next to me. Our eyes met, and he greeted me with a congenial chuckle.
As if we had known each other for years.
I could not take my eyes off him. He was wearing absurdly large glasses with thick lenses, the black frames much too dramatic for his thin face. His nose was unusually sharp, his eyes small. His full lips made me think of Botox. His smile revealed a prominent overbite. At the same time he carried himself with considerable grace. He radiated a dignity that I found impossible to reconcile with an outward appearance he was either unaware of or completely indifferent to.
He lay his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and I could see his features relaxing further.
I also gave it another try, but now I saw the old man’s face before me the whole time. From one minute to the next I became increasingly agitated. My pelvis ached, and my back was cramping up. My throat started to itch. It was torture; contemplation was out of the question.
At some point the gong sounded to indicate the end of the meditation. Relieved, I opened my eyes. The old monk beside me had vanished. I looked around the room, somewhat irritated. Amy hadn’t moved yet. The others were slowly getting to their feet.
Of the old monk there was no trace.
SOON AFTERWARD WE met with the other guests for dinner. They were all from New York City. A yoga instructor, about my age. An older widower hoping through meditation finally to bid farewell to a wife who had died a year earlier. A student seeking something, she wasn’t sure what. A journalist who spent most of his time talking about a book he was working on called The Power of Silence. I ate my vegetable curry and hoped that his writing was more engaging than his conversation. And the whole time I could not get the old monk out of my mind. Between Amy and me one look was sufficient, and a couple of minutes later we were sitting in my room.
She had brought a bag, and she had an air of mystery about her. Out of the bag emerged a candle, two small glasses, a corkscrew, and a bottle of wine.
“Is that allowed?” I asked, surprised. The lawyer in me.
Amy smiled and put a finger to her lips.
She lit the candle and turned out the light, opened the bottle quietly, poured for both of us, and sat down next to me on the bed.
“The Buddha says: ‘A fool who recognizes his own ignorance is thereby in fact a wise man.’ ”
“I think he also frowns on drinking alcohol. Or will drinking wine turn us into sages?”
She nodded conspiratorially.
“So are you a Buddhist or not?”
“Almost.”
“What does ‘almost’ mean?”
“The Buddha says: ‘To live is to suffer.’ ”
“And?” I asked, now curious.
She leaned far over to me and whispered: “The master is mistaken: to live is to love.”
“Love and suffering are not mutually exclusive,” I quipped. “Perhaps one even implies the other?”
“Nonsense. Anyone who truly loves does not suffer,” she countered, still in a whisper. An even lower whisper.
“Oh, please.”
“No, really. Trust me.”
She leaned back, smiled, and raised her glass slightly. “To the lovers.”
“And the sufferers.”
I did not wish to pursue the matter and asked whether she had noticed the old monk with the oversized glasses during the meditation.
Amy shook her head. “But the nun told me that they have a monk visiting from Burma.”
“What did she say about him?” I asked, curious to know more.
“I guess he’s pretty old, and in Burma he’s highly esteemed and has lots of devotees. Supposedly people come from all over the country seeking his advice in difficult situations. He was forced to flee, I’m not sure why. He’s been here four weeks and is leading a secluded life in a small hut somewhat deeper into the woods. They don’t see him very often; she said he doesn’t usually participate in the group meditation. Funny that today is the day he would show up.”
We gazed silently for a while into the light of the candles.
“What does the voice have to say about our excursion?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Didn’t I tell you that it would do you good to get away from it all? You should listen to me more often.”
“I’m not sure that it’s just a matter of getting away from it all.”
“What else, then?”
“Maybe … I don’t know.”
“Time will tell. Do you want to go back tomorrow, or should we stay a bit longer?”
I nodded. We clinked glasses. Quietly. We two conspirators.
THERE WAS A freeze during the night. A thin layer of frost covered the grass. The house was empty; the others had already gone to the first meditation. I saw their footprints in the lawn. Every step we take leaves a trace.
I got dressed and went outside. Cold, clear air. It smelled like winter. The bare, thin trees looked like sticks rammed by some giant into the ground.
The rising sun, a reddish sky.
I was not about to go suffer through another meditation. Better to go for a walk. A clearly marked trail led away from the house into the woods.
A brook. The first icicles on branches rising up out of the water.
The crackling of twigs under my feet.
WHY ARE WE HERE?
Not joy, certainly not. But a curious relief.
—Because I’m looking for answers.
To which questions?
—Why I hear you. Where you are from.
Silence.
—Where have you been this whole time?
No reaction.
—What’s bothering you?
I want to get out of here.
—Why?
I’m afraid, she answered in a whisper.
Of what?
I’m suffocating from fear. Help me.
There was no trace now of the intrusive, demanding tone she had bullied me with in New York. She sounded now weak and needy.
—What are you afraid of?
I don’t know. She paused for a long while. Of boots. Black boots. Polished. So shiny that I can see my fear reflected in them.
—Whose boots?
The boots of Death.
—Who is wearing them?
The emissaries.
—Which emissaries?
The emissaries of Fear.
—Who is sending them?
Silence.
—What can you remember?
White pagodas. Red flecks. Everywhere. On the ground. On the wood. Red fluid running out of mouths. Coloring everything. My thoughts. My dreams. My life.
—Blood? You remember blood?
It’s dripping onto my face. Into my eyes. It burns. Oh, how it burns.
She cried out briefly. I winced.
—What’s happening?
It hurts. So much.
—What hurts?
The memory.
—Which memory? Where are you from?
From a land you know well.
—Where exactly?
From the island.
—Which island?
Thay hsone thu mya, a hti kyan thu mya a thet shin nay thu mya san sar yar kywn go thwa mai.
—What did you say?
She repeated the unfamiliar sounds.
—What language is that?
I can’t go on. Please help me.
—How can I help you?
Leave this place. I don’t want to go back.
—Back? Back where?
To the island.
—We’re not going to any island.
Oh, yes we are. We’re headed there right now.
—I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You have to explain it to me.
She fell silent again.
—Don’t leave, stay here. Try to remember.
No answer.
How was I supposed to piece together those fragments of her memories? A land I know? Boots of Death? Emissaries of Fear? What did it all mean? I hadn’t the foggiest.
Suddenly a small hut appeared among the trees. A cabin built of dark-brown timbers, an A-frame. On both sides the roof reached clear to the ground. On the porch a monk’s robe was hung over a line. From the chimney, snow white billows. I walked right to it without any hesitation.
As if someone had called me.
Through the large front window I could see the monk from yesterday. He was sitting in the middle of the room on a tatami mat reading a book. In a wood stove behind him a fire was blazing.
I knocked and opened the door without waiting for an answer.
He looked up and set his book aside.
“How nice to see you,” he said in a distinctly British accent. “Come in.”
I took off my shoes and went in, closed the door. I stood before him, uncertain. What was I doing here?
“Come closer. Please, sit down.” He gestured to a spot on the floor in front of him.
I hesitated, embarrassed.
Neither of us spoke. He was a master of the art of waiting.
Eventually I took a few steps forward and sat down.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked tentatively.
“I am a monk, not a clairvoyant.” He smirked.
More silence. The crackle of the burning wood. He looked at me. A gaze that harbored no demands. Gradually I felt as if I was arriving in the room.
“You are from Burma?”
The old monk nodded.
“So was my father.”
He nodded again.
“I’ve heard that people in Burma come to you when they need advice.”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“How do you help them?”
“I listen to their stories and remind them.”
“Of what?”
“Of a few truths that we all know but sometimes forget.”
“Which truths?”
“Aren’t you in a hurry!”
“Is that bad?”
“Grass does not grow more quickly for pulling on it. Have you ever meditated?”
“Yes, yesterday. Next to you,” I replied testily.
“You sat there and did nothing. That’s not the same.”
“How do you know that?”
He smiled. “If you like, I will help you.”
“With what?”
“Coming to rest.”
I had no reason to refuse.
He slid over to me until he was sitting right in front of me. Knee to knee. He did nothing but wait patiently again. Behind him the fire blazed in the stove. He gave me the feeling that I had all the time in the world. My breath, much too quick, gradually slowed. He took my cold hands, which I willingly let him do. As if I had been waiting for it to happen all along. He examined them slowly from both sides. I closed my eyes and let it happen. Heard his even breath. Felt his warm fingers. His soft, wrinkled skin. The sensation of falling. Like a leaf drifting to the ground from a great height. Unhurried. Inexorable. Calmly fulfilling its destiny.
He was supporting my hands. And me.
I lost all sense of time.
When I returned to the guest house Amy was already cleaning up from breakfast.
“Where were you?”
“In the woods,” I answered spontaneously.
“Meditating?”
I nodded.
“With the old monk?”
I nodded again, astounded afresh at how well Amy knew me.
“Pity he’s not a bit younger,” she said with a wink.
THE NEXT MORNING I woke before sunrise. I would have liked more than anything to go straight to the old monk, but I waited until all the others had left for the meditation hall. Then I got up, dressed, and set off.
“Come in, sit down,” he said, not in the least surprised to see me again. “Or lie down, if you prefer.”
I took off my shoes and stretched out on the floor. Only now did I notice how cold I was and that I was shivering all over. He spread a blanket over me and squatted right behind me. He put his hands briefly on my temples and then tucked them like a thin pillow under my head. They were wonderfully warm. I closed my eyes. My breathing slowed, the shivers dissipated, and a feeling of calm stole over me that I had only ever experienced with my brother U Ba. As if I could entrust everything to the hands of this old man. The weight of my entire world.
“What is troubling you?”
Sometimes one question is enough.
And so I began to tell. Of an oversized love and my longing for it. Of unlived lives. Of butterflies one could recognize by their wing beats. Of the Book of Solitude and its many chapters. Of the mighty wings of Deceit, which darkened the heavens until they were black. Of the many colors of grief. And of dread. Of the voice and her questions. And mine. Of my fear of her. And of myself.
I felt the tears streaming down my cheeks. Flushing out things I had thought buried forever.
He said nothing.
I knew that he understood every word. When I was through, he brushed the hair out of my face and gently stroked my brow. His fingers had the softness of a child’s.
“Something extraordinary has happened to you. In my entire life I have only ever encountered this phenomenon one other time.” He spoke slowly and quietly, but his voice suddenly betrayed an urgency. “You know that we Buddhists believe in rebirth. The body dies while the soul, if you will, lives on. It departs the body and slips into a newly born being. We call the process reincarnation. The karma from one’s previous life determines the future life. If you have done good, then something good will eventually come your way. If you have mistreated your fellows, you will have to bear the consequences. Nothing vanishes. Many Buddhists think that people with bad karma can be reborn as monkeys or lice. That is not my belief.”
The monk paused. He was talking in riddles. I had no idea what he was getting at or what it might have to do with me.
“In your particular case, there’s something.” He faltered. “I can think of no way to say it that will not seem like quackery to you.”
He sat for a while in silence. “In your case, something went wrong, to put it bluntly, during one of these processes of transformation. I’ll try to explain it to you.”
He stood up, put another log on the fire, and sat down beside me again.
“You are hearing a woman’s voice?”
“Yes.”
“She remembers white pagodas and red stains on the ground? She is afraid of black boots?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday she uttered phrases in a strange language, something like Thay hsone thu mya, a hti kyan thu mya a thet shin nay thu mya san sar yar kywn go thwa mai. Did I understand that correctly?”
“It sounded something like that, yes.”
“It’s Burmese. It means ‘The Isle of the Dead. The Isle of the Loving. Of the Lonely.’ Given all you have told me of this voice, given the things she knows and doesn’t know, I suspect that she lived in Burma. She must have been a troubled spirit. A restless individual whose soul could not find peace after death, but took refuge in you instead. Which means that two souls now live in your body.”
I sat up abruptly. Astonishment in his eyes. Doubt in mine.
“Two souls?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Not all explicable things are true.
Not all truths are explicable.
“I can’t say that I blame you. It is a most unusual story. Yet I am convinced that it has happened just that way.”
“How long will this
soul stay inside me before she moves along?”
“Until you die.”
“Forever? I’ll never be rid of her?”
Swaying back and forth a bit with his upper body, he took my hands. “There is one possibility to lead her back …”
The monk paused and looked at me for a long while. “You would have to find out who this woman was. Find out why she died. In that way and only that way will she have a chance to find peace. Then she would be able to leave your body again. But you would be setting off on a long journey. A journey whose destination is unknown to you. Are you ready to do that?”
Chapter 8
A WARM WIND played in my hair; the blinding sun stood almost directly overhead. I stood in the shadow of an airplane’s tail, one hand over my eyes, surveying my surroundings. Heho Airport consisted of a single tiny terminal, one runway, and a tower that did not rise above the treetops. Ours was the only plane. It stood on the airfield like an intruder from a very strange, very distant world.
The pilot had powered down the engines, and I heard nothing beyond the rushing of the wind. The other passengers, a tour group from Italy, a few Burmese, and two monks, had gone ahead and were gradually disappearing into the little arrivals area. Three men were pulling a baggage car behind them loaded with suitcases, bags, and backpacks. A gust of wind stirred up a thin light-brown dust devil and chased it across the airfield. I picked up my bag and hesitantly followed the men. Again and again I stopped and looked around. As if reassuring myself where I had landed.
I had spent the days since my conversation with the monk in a kind of trance. My decision to follow his advice. Amy’s encouragement, as if she feared I might reconsider. My hasty travel preparations. The long flight to Bangkok, the delayed arrival, the missed connection to Rangoon. Waiting for hours in a lounge. I had drowsed my way through a large part of the trip.
Now I was shedding stress with every step. My exhaustion and weariness were falling away. The anticipation was too intense. I could hardly wait another minute to see my brother again. With his help I would be able to sort out the fate of the voice inside me.
There was nothing at all going on in front of the airport. One old, dented Toyota waited with rolled-down windows on a patch of sand in front of a shack. The driver sat sleeping behind the wheel. Someone had painted the word “Taxi” in black paint on the door. I knocked hesitantly on the hood. The driver didn’t move. A second knock, more assertive. He lifted his head and looked at me through groggy eyes.
A Well-Tempered Heart Page 5