The Colour of Heaven

by Runcie, James

  There was a light breeze and the tree began to sway. A flock of cranes flew low against the horizon.

  Paolo watched the leaf cling to the tree. Would it weaken in the wind or darken in the sun? Would it hold the rain? How would it nourish itself?

  He wanted to look at the trunk of the tree and sense the sap rising, the tree nourishing itself from the earth, but did not want to take his eyes away from the leaf. He wondered if he should be hungry or thirsty, and then, as he gazed at the leaf, he began to lose the sense of his own body, its dampness and its discomfort.

  ‘I could lie here for ever,’ he thought.

  He began to concentrate on his own breathing. He tried to slow down his heartbeat, and to become aware only of his breath, keeping the leaf alive. Every exhalation, steady and regular, reached out towards the leaf.

  His breath. And the leaf.

  He now lived in the moment alone. He was outside both memory and time. If the dreams came again, then they came. And if death came, then it came.

  Now he wanted to look at the leaf in a different way, examining the curve of its side, its undulation, and its resolution, the fineness of its point.

  He stood up and reached for the branch, pulling it down towards him so that he could study it more closely.

  The branch bent, cracking quietly as Paolo examined the dark-green sheen on the surface. Should he touch it, feeling its fragility in his hands? Or should he test its strength? How sharply would he have to pull to sever the leaf from the tree? How much before its time would the leaf then die?

  Or, if he let nature take its course, how long would he have to wait for the leaf to fall of its own accord? How brown would it have become? Or how yellow?

  As dusk fell he reached out and held it gently between his fingers. He looked at the broad expanded blade, the stalk-like petiole, and the veins. He ran his finger along the margin and wondered if it could ever draw blood. Then he lifted the branch, raising it up against starlight and watched the moon against the clouds. In the distance he could hear the laughter and the fires of the town, cries in the night, gongs, firecrackers.

  And so he stood, for three days and for three nights. At times he was aware that people had come to watch the sight of the man and the leaf, but he neither turned to greet them nor acknowledged their presence. Well-wishers left bowls of rice and cups of water but it was strange to eat and drink. All that he needed to do was to hold on to the leaf, examining every pore, stroking the sheen between his fingers, testing the firmness of its stalk, watching it age.

  Was the transience of the leaf his life or an image of beauty held in a moment, a glimpse of the perfection of heaven? He understood now why he had been sent to think on these things, and that they were both ridiculous and true at the same time.

  On the fourth day he decided that he was ready to let go.

  He did not know why he had chosen this day. Perhaps the day had chosen him. He took his hand away, and, almost immediately, the leaf fell, turning gently in the air, landing on the grass.

  He looked at it lying on the ground for another hour.

  Then he picked it up and took it to the monk.

  At the caves K’otan, the chief priest, was greeting pilgrims with the image of the Amitabha Buddha.

  ‘He who desires by meditation upon Buddha and by performance and austerities to obtain birth in the Pure Land, let him first in a clean place put this holy image, with a due portion of perfumes and flowers as his offering. Whensoever he comes into the presence of the holy one let him with undisturbed heart lay together the palms of his hands, put away all distraction, and bend his will to the task of calling upon Amitabha’s name, doing reverence, saying, Praise to Amitabha Buddha of the Region of Sukhavati, maker of the forty-eight vows, the Great Merciful, Great Compassionate …’

  Although Paolo wanted to consult Chen’s father, he could see that the way was blocked with pilgrims.

  ‘Say it ten times,’ K’otan instructed. ‘Praise to Amitabha Buddha of the Region of Sukhavati, maker of the forty-eight vows, the Great Merciful, Great Compassionate …’

  Paolo began to chant.

  ‘Now give praise to the Great Merciful, Great Compassionate ones of the Sukhavati Region and of the various holy Bodhisattvas and to all sages and saints.’

  Paolo gave praise.

  ‘Now concentrate all your thoughts upon repeating the name of the Amitabha Buddha ten thousand times.’

  Ten thousand! How long would that take? Three hours? Four? He wanted to see Chen’s father but the other pilgrims had already begun.

  Paolo wondered if he could slip away once they had achieved trance.

  He began to say the name, repeating it so often that he almost fell asleep. When he came to he found it hard to concentrate on what he saw, but the other supplicants were now all in a state of deep meditation.

  ‘Now let us say the name of Avalokitesvara, Mahasthamaprapta, and the holy Bodhisattvas one hundred and eight times.’

  For Paolo, this was enough.

  ‘By virtue of this invocation and repetition of the name of Buddha your merit will be abundantly increased and throughout the planes of existence all sentient beings will desire to hear the Good Voice, and will learn the Right Invocation, and be born again in the land of Amitabha.’

  Paolo didn’t know if he wanted to be born again in the land of Amitabha, or travel for forty-nine days on the back of a white-plumed crane to be judged by King Yama. All he wanted was to see Chen’s father.

  He uncoiled his legs, stood up, and skirted around the back of the pilgrims.

  It took him over an hour to find his way through the caves and he was relieved when at last he saw Chen’s father again, sitting alone, eating rice.

  The monk handed him the bowl and Paolo took a few grains. ‘You have seen the leaf?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And you have learned from it?’

  ‘I have learned that my life is as a leaf. That it clings to the tree. It can be ripped away from it, or it can grow, wither, and fall.’

  ‘And when it falls?’

  ‘It falls.’

  ‘And what have you learned?’

  ‘That death gives life its beauty.’

  The monk said nothing.

  Paolo waited. ‘What must I do now?’

  ‘Still such a rush.’

  ‘I want to know.’

  ‘Take out your sack,’ said the monk. ‘And lay all that you have before me.’

  ‘You require offerings?’

  ‘I require nothing. Just explain what you have.’

  Paolo emptied his sack and laid his goods on the ground, as if he were trading for Jacopo. The possessions seemed small and vain in front of a man who had forsaken society. A water bottle. Cloth. Pieces of lapis. A knife. And the leaf.

  ‘This is all that I have. This is what I travel with,’ said Paolo.

  ‘And if you could keep one thing, what would it be?’ asked the monk.

  Paolo knew that he should probably say ‘the leaf’ but it was too obvious an answer. He looked at the lapis.

  ‘I cannot decide.’

  The monk smiled.

  ‘Then keep nothing.’

  ‘I can imagine what it must be like to live with nothing,’ answered Paolo. ‘But these possessions are memory. I do not keep them for worldly reasons, because I want to use the wealth that they may bring, selling them at a profit at a later date; nor do I keep them for show, as a sign that I have travelled and made something of my place in the world. I hold this stone because my beloved, Aisha, held it. These items connect me to my friends, to my past, and to all that I have been. To rid myself of everything I have would be to take away my former lives and selves, both good and bad, casting away my past and the things that I have loved. If you ask me to live without such things then you are asking me to live without memory.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the monk. ‘I left my home too, and moved to a monastery where everything was new. A rich merchant had forswo
rn the vanity of the world and given all that he had to found a place in the hills. The rice bowls were of the most perfect lacquer, each intricately decorated. The meditation hall held a thousand candles that were lit afresh each morning. The scarlet curtains billowed in the wind and were made of the finest silk. The walls were bare but perfectly smooth, unscarred by time. The wind struck against the clean stone but it stood firm, solid in its beauty. And yet this was a place without history. I could not feel the prayers of those who had gone before. There were no indentations on the steps, no footprints of those who had lived and prayed and died. The building had no past. And so I did not feel at home. It was too perfect: a place of serenity and peace, but one which had not been earned. The beauty had been purchased rather than won. Do you understand?’

  ‘You think that stillness only comes after a sacrifice, when we renounce. It cannot be given simply.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Paolo continued. ‘You cannot pray without doubt, love without fear, or live without the past. There is no such thing as a new life without an awareness of the past; cleanliness without forgiveness; redemption without the knowledge of sin.’

  ‘It takes time to change. To live without. Could you live, for example, without your spectacles?’

  For the first time Paolo was surprised. He had not thought of the spectacles as a possession but as a need; they had become a part of him

  ‘All my life I have not been able to trust the things that I see. They have been too far or too close; and I have had to guess. Now I can see clearly, I still find that I must be suspicious of sight. But I long to return to the mines of Badakhshan and see my love through these lenses, to know that her beauty is as true from afar as it is when seen closely. This is my hope.’

  ‘You live for love?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But even love is a possession. You must anticipate its loss.’

  ‘But if I do then I die every day.’

  ‘Whether it is memory, history, love, or desire, you cannot hold on to the cares of the world. You must give them away when you die; why then do you not give them away while you live, and lead a different life?’

  ‘Because there is little point in our being born if we choose to live outside the world, trading the present for the future.’

  ‘By keeping your possessions you are keeping all that has troubled you. Even the lapis that you hold so closely.’

  ‘They are all that has made me what I am.’

  ‘The greatest possession is health, and the secret of life is simple: contentment is the greatest treasure. Confidence is the greatest friend. Nirvana is the greatest joy.’

  ‘I know this but I do not trust it. I am afraid of giving up all that I have.’

  ‘But are you at ease with what you have? Are you at peace with yourself?’

  ‘No,’ Paolo replied. ‘I am a prisoner on this journey separated from all that I love.’

  ‘Then you are already cut off from that which most enslaves you.’

  ‘And that which is me, that without which I cannot live. Do you not understand it?’

  ‘Of course I understand,’ said the monk. ‘But you must understand that until you learn that there is, or at least that there will one day be, no “Me”, then you will never be at peace.’

  ‘Then why was I born? Surely I must do something, love something, and leave the world better than when I found it. Why was I born if there is no need for me?’

  ‘Is there a need for anything?’ asked the monk.

  Soon it would be time to leave, but Paolo noticed that neither Salek nor Jacopo was in any great haste to depart. He began to worry about Simone, his commission, and their promise. Did the discovery of such a perfect blue mean nothing?

  Paolo also saw that over the last few days his guardian’s enthusiasm for jade had been exhausted. Although Jacopo was ready to return, the prospect of repeating such a long journey seemed daunting. He needed more time to gather his strength. He moved slowly, and Paolo noticed how he appeared paler, even smaller. Although this might have been the power of his spectacles, Paolo also observed that Jacopo’s lips contained the faintest tinge of blue.

  ‘Those lenses you wear in front of your eyes,’ Jacopo complained, ‘they make your sight better but mine worse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Paolo. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Sometimes I see the blue of the sky reflected in them, or my own face, but then when I look back the colour is no longer so clear and the world begins to turn. I do not see so well. My eyes are tired, my head aches.’

  ‘You must rest,’ replied Paolo.

  ‘My chest too is bad.’

  ‘Your chest is always bad,’ said Salek.

  ‘But I feel it: in my heart.’

  ‘It is worry,’ Salek replied, ‘and digestion. You think too much. Money, jade, travel, weather. And you are missing your wife.’ He shrugged. ‘This is enough. What comes will come.’

  But two days later, as they sat eating their evening meal, Jacopo suddenly stopped and pushed back his plate.

  ‘I can’t eat any more. Perhaps I should conserve my energy for Pesach. It will soon be here.’

  ‘You have lost your appetite?’ asked Paolo.

  ‘No. I feel giddy, uncertain, as if I have the falling sickness.’

  ‘It is your sight again?’

  ‘No. I do not think that it is.’

  ‘You have eaten too quickly,’ said Salek. ‘It will pass.’

  ‘Perhaps you need lenses like mine,’ said Paolo. ‘I will ask Chen.’

  ‘No,’ said Jacopo, ‘it is not that.’ His voice seemed far away and he looked out into the distance.

  Paolo began to worry. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Jacopo tried to rise from his chair but then fell back. ‘I can’t find my balance.’ Surprised by this unsteadiness, he attempted to raise himself once more. Again he could not stand up, as if the energy had left his body. Embarrassed by his failure, Jacopo now began to pretend that he had never wanted to get up in the first place, that nothing had happened. ‘It will pass. Leave me. Let me rest.’

  ‘You look pale.’

  ‘I said it would pass.’

  But it did not. Jacopo began to rub at his heart. ‘The sky is turning.’

  ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps it is something I have eaten. My heart aches.’

  ‘Lie down,’ said Salek. He stood up and tried to persuade Jacopo to move.

  ‘I am not sure if I can.’

  ‘Come, rest. Let us take you inside.’ Paolo and Salek each took an arm and tried to pull Jacopo from his chair. But as they did so, his legs gave way and his body turned in on itself, convulsed with pain. The force of the attack began to radiate away from the heart up into the chest and neck, so that Jacopo’s head stretched out and his lungs filled with a surging sensation. He closed his eyes, unable to do anything but let the intense heat possess him.

  ‘The fire,’ he said, ‘the fire inside me.’

  ‘Water,’ said Salek, ‘I will fetch water.’

  But when he let go Paolo could no longer support their friend. Jacopo’s body began to twitch and shake. His arms flailed, and he started to strike out, as if fighting off demons who had come to claim him. This tightly controlled man, impeccably dressed and never hurried, was caught in the dark savagery of pain.

  He staggered forward, the world turning around him, clutching his heart with one hand while his other arm stretched out like a blind man finding his way.

  ‘What can I do?’ asked Paolo.

  ‘Help me,’ Jacopo gasped.

  Salek returned with a jug of water and was about to pour it out when Jacopo fell to the ground. He turned over, onto his stomach, trying to grind his pain into the earth.

  ‘Hold him,’ said Salek. ‘It is a seizure.’

  ‘No,’ replied Paolo, ‘he needs to be free.’

  The body twitched, and Jacopo’s head turned to the
side, his tongue outstretched, gasping for air.

  And then, suddenly, he stopped.

  Both Paolo and Salek were caught in the stillness, unable to move.

  ‘Is he breathing?’ asked Salek. ‘Check.’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  Salek knelt down and placed his fingers against Jacopo’s neck. Then he felt his wrist.

  ‘Still alive. We must provide ease. Help me to lift him. Let us take him inside.’

  They carried him to a low bed and began the long watch over their friend’s struggle to live.

  The first time Jacopo opened his eyes, Salek tried to comfort him. ‘Rest, my friend.’

  ‘No, there will be time enough. And that perhaps is a relief to me. I can see the end. I have time to prepare.’

  His eyes began to dart, looking for Paolo. ‘Where is the boy?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘I must ask you to help me.’

  Salek left to find chervil to cleanse the blood, garlic to ease the pressure, water to cool the forehead: anything that might ease Jacopo’s pain.

  Paolo looked at the old man, so pale, his beard untrimmed, his eyes exhausted. ‘May my death be atonement for all my sins.’

  ‘Why do you need forgiveness?’ asked Paolo.

  ‘I have travelled. I have been selfish. We work to acquire and possess, and yet what do I leave? My wife without me, a widow.’

  ‘Live,’ begged Paolo. ‘Travel. Let us return.’

  ‘I do not think I can do so. I must die and hope for mercy. Perhaps it is good for you to see such pain.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘When it has come to pass then go to the Giudecca in Venice and inform Sofia. Tell her that I have always loved her. That she has been my life companion, and that, if it please God, and after the dreadful Day of Judgment, we will be together. Nothing will come between us in eternity. Promise me that you will tell her this: that I die thinking of her, my Sofia, my love.’

  His breathing faltered. ‘She once hoped that she would never see me dead. At least we have spared her such a sight. Take my goods, change what you can for jade, and give her half. Take the blue stone to Simone. Share the rest of my possessions with Salek. Then do what you will. But, please, tell my wife that I loved her.’