by Bapsy Jain
“Yeah, but, just in case, you know…”
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case I’m right.”
“Sure. You’re sixteen and if I believe you—which I don’t—you dropped out of school and hacked into your records so you won’t get caught.” Lucky sighed. “I’m probably contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
Collette looked at Lucky, stony-faced. “You know, you’re my only real friend. Nobody else gives me the time of day. I mean, who else would hang out with some nerdy girl who keeps serving cherry Kool-Aid even when you never drink it? I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Lucky looked down at the table, trying not to show how touched she felt. Instead, she hung the stone around her neck. “Okay, just in case. For you.”
Collette stuck out her hand, and they hooked pinky fingers.
“I got that online. You know amber’s been around for, like, sixty million years. Imagine that. One day you’re sucking the blood out of a dinosaur, and the next thing you know, you’re set in stone and hanging around somebody’s neck. Against all odds. You know, reaper drones fly at 60,000 feet and can stay up for days at a time. You can’t hear them, or see them, but they can see you and hear you. They can listen in on any cell phone they want. They use them in Afghanistan.”
“I know,” Lucky said.
“And I know you know. You know how I know you know?” Without waiting for Lucky to say, she said, “Because Yazma told me you knew, and he’s read your hard drive. We use them in Afghanistan and wherever. Who’s to say we won’t use them here, too?” She looked out the window. “If I wanted to keep my eye on what went down in Washington, that’s how I’d do it. But what do I know? I’m just sixteen.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Lucky said.
“Yeah,” Collette replied, “and sometimes we don’t know what we don’t know because to really know what we don’t know would be too scary.”
Lucky looked at Collette. You’re sixteen and you’ve already figured that out?
Outside, Collette caught a cab to the airport, and Lucky walked back to the hotel. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like she was going to have to tell Coleman she knew about the hacking and the Bulgarian. After all, if he’d just asked, she would have told him anything. Why the subterfuge? So she’d tell him she knew. Then one of two things would happen: either he’d fire her, or they’d go on. She almost wished he’d fire her; she could go back to her yoga gig and working with Barkley. It suddenly seemed like the saner of her two choices.
A helicopter passed overhead. No, three of them. Hey, it was Washington. They were headed toward the White House. Maybe the president was inside. Lucky waved.
Long after the choppers were gone, she stood on the sidewalk staring up at the sky. Would they? Would they dare?
She was crossing the hotel lobby when a voice called out, “Lucky!”
What the hell? Lucky turned. It was Amay. What is this, National Let’s Surprise Lucky Day? “What are you doing here?” she stammered.
Amay took her in his arms and kissed her. “I’m glad to see you, too,” he said. He pressed a bouquet of roses into her arms.
“I’m sorry it’s just… it’s been a long, weird day. Bizarre.”
“Maybe I can make it longer, weirder, and more bizarre?” he said, and winked. “Have you had dinner?”
Lucky thought about the cheeseburger. “Just a snack,” she said.
“I’ve got reservations for two at L’Auberge Provencale.” He checked his watch. “We still have time.”
“You might have told me you were coming.”
“Something came up. There’s this artist from Bosnia doing an exhibit at the Hirshhorn.”
“I thought you hated the Hirshhorn?”
“I do, but this guy’s really good. I don’t know why they booked him. His name’s Berber. We’ve corresponded. He called me at the last minute.” Amay sighed. “I’m not much of a liar, am I? The truth is I came to see you.”
Lucky softened, then kissed Amay again. Maybe a night out would do her good. “I need to take a shower and change. I can’t go someplace swanky looking like this, can I?”
Chapter 9
Lucky woke in the middle of the night to find Amay propped up on one arm and watching her. For some reason, the sight irritated her. “What’s the matter?” Lucky asked.
“I love you,” Amay replied.
Lucky wondered, Why do the wrong guys always say this?
The only light in the room was what filtered through the white liner sheets that hung behind the darker, heavy curtains, which they’d left open. In the half-light Lucky could almost see the boy with whom she had played in Calcutta as a child. She remembered that they had once pledged as children to marry. Lucky had cut a finger, and on impulse, Amay had sliced his own and they had pressed the wounds together. Romantic, perhaps, but not all that sanitary.
But therein lay Lucky’s dilemma. Amay was there for every cut and bruise, but over time, she’d come to find his attention stifling. It was almost like he needed her to be wounded in order to love her — or to prove his love for her. But who wanted to go through life being wounded? Or rescued, either, for that matter? Maybe it was an insecurity that sprang from Amay’s being a skinny, sickly, nerdy boy. He always made a point of saying, I’ll always love you, as if he felt he would never be loved again. Just once, Lucky, thought, I wish he wouldn’t say it. Just once I wish he’d argue with me, or call me a bitch, or tell me that I don’t know what I’m talking about. Or make me feel normal! Would she love him more if he just rolled over and snored like Viki, her ex? How might she react if he ignored her? Would she be inspired to pursue him for a change?
“I’ll always love you,” Amay said.
“I know,” Lucky replied.
The next morning they ate a rushed breakfast of runny omelets and soggy hash browns in the restaurant downstairs, and Lucky was late to work. She rushed to her office and found Coleman sitting behind her desk again. “Looks like you had a late night,” he said. “You look like hell.”
He must know, she thought. Maybe Collette was right. “My boyfriend came down to surprise me. I guess we slept in.”
“You can’t spend a week apart?”
“It was a surprise. I didn’t know he was coming.”
“Helluva first impression. I expect my people to be punctual and responsible.”
Lucky sighed. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.”
Coleman clicked on the overhead projector and walked around the desk as the picture of Lobsang appeared. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. I don’t like being put on the spot like that, but I’d be a fool to dismiss your ideas without considering them. You’re a bright girl, Lucky.” Coleman stood in front of the video screen. “That’s why I asked for your help.” The colors of the image splashed across his face as he gestured for Lucky to sit. “The question is, are you too smart for your own good?”
Lucky sat on the edge of the desk, a few feet away from Coleman. His face was now almost perfectly superimposed over Lobsang’s. Coleman said, “Suppose we were to ‘fish’ for this man, as you so aptly put it. What would we use for bait?”
“I can research that.”
“I bet you can,” Coleman said. “And you will. How can we get to him? What does he want? How do we make him come up for air?”
“I really don’t know much about his beliefs,” Lucky said. “I mean, I know a fair amount about Buddhism, and I know something about the conflict between China and Tibet. But that seems to be more about politics and people than a conflict of religions. But my,” she shook her head, “the story changes depending on who is telling it.”
“What do you mean?” Coleman asked.
“Well, according to the Tibetans, Tibet was an independent country with a long and honorable history – a kind of political trusteeship for Buddhism. But according to the Chinese, Tibet was a renegade province that was always
under Chinese control.”
“And which is true?”
“Neither and both,” Lucky said. “The Tibetans are unique in language and culture, but at times, they were a province of China. It all depended on how strong the Chinese government was at the time. But then, Tibet itself was a poor, remote province, difficult to govern, and far from the concerns of most Chinese.”
Coleman traced a line on the desk with his finger, “Do you think this is a political ploy?” he asked. “A way to draw attention to Tibet’s plight?”
“I don’t know,” Lucky said. “But if there is something to this mushroom — and I have my doubts — but if there is, then it’s more likely that the Chinese would want to suppress or control that knowledge than that Lobsang would use it to attract attention to a cause. So far as I can tell, he’s done nothing in the past thirty years but avoid attracting attention. Why would he start now?”
Coleman looked at her blankly. “Didn’t you read the file? He has drawn attention to himself before this — he’s supposed to have written a book. By hand. Some sort of religious thing. People copy it by hand and pass it around. It must not be very long.”
Coleman clicked off the video screen and went to the window. For a moment, he squinted and seemed preoccupied with something happening on the street below. He grunted then turned to Lucky. “I’m going to be the richest man in the world, you know. I told you that. This is my big opportunity. My moment. This thing, this possible outbreak, this incident. It could be my springboard. When people hear about it, they’ll be panicking in the streets, searching for a cure. And guess who’ll have it? It won’t be suspicious. I’m a tireless worker. I’ve spent my life working for people’s welfare. I’ve whipped the Health Services into a fine-tuned machine. After all, I graduated summa cum laude from Georgetown. I have an MA with Distinction from Cornell and a PhD from Harvard. I’m a Fulbright Scholar. I have all the credentials. What’s more, I care—or at least, the pollsters say that’s the perception people have of me. Smart. Caring. But caring is not enough.” He shook his finger at Lucky. “I’m missing the n-factor. Nasty. Jimmy Carter was universally praised as a nice man, but Reagan trounced him in the election of 1980. Do you know why? Because nice is not good enough to get what’s yours. You want your neighbor to be nice. Your minister. Your doctor. Your schoolteachers and your bus drivers and your baristas and your what-have-yous. The world needs nice people, Lucky. You’re nice. Your son is nice. Your house is nice. Your housekeeper is nice, even if she does have a shady background. Oh, yes, I know all about her. Maria. You’re not the only one who can research. But what makes a visionary is something else, something that sets them quite apart from the rest of the species. A businessman, Boyce, has to be seen as mean and efficient. Especially in this day and age. A pit bull. Don’t tread on me. I have not yet begun to fight. Nothing to fear but fear itself. Blood, sweat, and tears. That kind of thing. This — this Lobsang fellow — is my moment.”
Coleman sighed and turned to face the image on the screen. “Reagan changed everything. He wasn’t just a politician. He was an actor. He knew that appearances are more important than reality. Carter commanded a nuclear submarine. While he was playing Patriot Games shadowing Red October at Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Reagan was making films like Boy Meets Girl, Girls on Probation, and Naughty but Nice. But Reagan, the actor, understood the importance of perception. Carter didn’t. Remember what I said about people who follow the rules? And Reagan understood the presidency better. At least, the public perception of the presidency. Carter played by the rules. Reagan was a pure politician. He knew it was more important to look strong than to be strong. So what? Shrewd move, if you ask me. The man knew what he wanted, and he was smart enough to go out and get it. That’s how the game is played. I learned that long ago. I want to be one of those people, Boyce, and I know how to get it, too. Find out what this Lobsang wants.” Coleman crossed the room to the door. “And while you’re at it, best make up your mind what you want, too. Ask yourself: Am I willing to do whatever it takes?”
A few minutes after Coleman left, Lucky realized she hadn’t told him about the hard drive. But then she thought, He has to know. Why didn’t he mention it? But I suppose he knows. If he’d wanted to talk about it, he would. But does he know the hacking program is still on my computer?
Lucky had no idea what to do about the situation. She was just thirty, with a good job and a good education, but nothing she’d ever learned or experienced had prepared her for this. Her ambitious and ruthless boss might be spying on her, but he also valued her, and was willing to treat her well if she delivered.
Could she deliver? Everything came back to the same question: what did Lobsang want? How could she know him? Lucky remembered a story Shanti had written in a letter before she died, a story that had stuck with Lucky. She closed her eyes, imagining Shanti, so tiny, wrapped in a green silk sari, narrating in that melodious, high-pitched voice. It was a story about a blind man who wanted to know the Buddha’s teachings. Since the man could not read, the Buddha sent the man walking all over India. “If you want to know me,” he’d said, “walk my path.”
But it wasn’t about walking, it was about living. Paths were lived, not walked. You could never truly duplicate someone else’s experience. Oh, you could duplicate some facets of it, sure. If you walked across the desert, it would be hot and you would be thirsty. But who could say what unique experiences each traveler would encounter? The cry of a hawk and the smooth arc of the bird circling overhead…the colors of a sunset, or the way the light played off a particular rock formation…a cool blast of wind, perhaps, carrying the scent of a distant shower…the way the moonlight fell about you when you woke in the night. Lucky wondered what path this man, Lobsang, was walking. She wished she knew. It would be easier to visualize a solution then. And which way did she want to go? She had had enemies before: enemies in her personal life, enemies in business, even enemies who meant her harm for reasons of their own. But she had never thought about getting inside the skin of one of her enemies before—getting to know them so well that it was like knowing herself. What did Lobsang want?
If you can never walk another’s path, then can you ever truly know them? No, Lucky decided, not unless you understood life, yourself, and your relationship with the universe. It was not enough to walk. One had also to be aware of, to witness, one’s own journey. Shanti used to ask Lucky why she liked coffee so much. Lucky tried to explain about the complexity of the taste, the aroma, the subtly stimulating effects of the caffeine, but Shanti always cut her off. “Enough with the psycho-babble already. All you want is to find a shortcut to staying awake. It’s a full-time job separating reality from the illusion. That’s why most people fail. They can’t be honest, not with themselves, not with anybody else. They live in the illusion.”
“But doesn’t the illusion…”
“But but but,” Shanti said. She laughed. “You sound like a tuk-tuk. There are no ‘buts’ on the path to enlightenment. Either you live in the present reality or you live in the illusion. Reality is hard work, but in the end, it is the only thing that is rewarding. The illusion is easy to carry, like a bag of feathers. But try eating feathers at the end of the day.”
Lucky spent the remainder of the day in a self-imposed hell, researching the history of China and its tangled relationship with Tibet. According to legend, China began with the creator of the universe, Pangu, who slept 18,000 years in an egg. Upon awakening, Pangu broke the egg and separated the pieces, creating heaven and earth. After this came the age of heroes, myths, and legend, which gradually transitioned into written, verifiable history: more than two thousand years of conquest and rising and falling civilizations — intrigue that spanned five thousand kilometers from the Caspian Sea to the Bering, from Southeast Asia to the northern extremes of Manchuria.
It was like riding a barrel down a river—sometimes the Chinese were on top, but sometimes they seemed to drown in their problems. The Chinese had great
strength to draw upon, but there were so many enemies, so many other people, and kingdoms to deal with. In 640, King Songtsan, of Tibet, married the niece of Emperor Taizong. Besides uniting the political fortunes of their kingdoms, King Songtsan might have inadvertently imported Buddhism to Tibet, because the niece, as well as another wife, were Buddhists. But after a few generations, the cooperation collapsed and the Chinese conquered Tibet, ceding independence later as their imperial power waned. When Genghis Khan subjugated China, the Tibetans negotiated a surrender with a much higher level of autonomy than the Chinese. After that…
Lucky rubbed her eyes. As much as she feared Coleman, she was beginning to resent him for pulling her away from her home. On the other hand, all this thinking made her blood flow fast. It was stimulating, perhaps even more stimulating than Amay.
Amay.
She focused on her research again.
The Mongols established the Yuan Dynasty, but in time, a revolution led by a peasant and a former Buddhist monk established a new regime: the Ming Dynasty. For nearly three hundred years, the Mings presided over a flowering Chinese civilization — an era so peaceful and skillfully managed that the Chinese felt they had achieved the apex of human civilization, and thus, neither needed nor wanted outside trade or interference. It was the beginning of the peculiar Chinese practice of isolationism that, to Western eyes, left it veiled in mystery.
After the Mings came the Manchus, from the north. Although not accepted as Chinese by the Han people, by the eighteenth century, the Manchus had conquered all of what later became modern China, including Taiwan—the last holdout against their power. Their borders and treaties were cited by modern China as proof of its territorial claims. And they included Tibet.
Lucky shut her eyes and envisioned Lobsang as a young boy growing up in a refugee camp. That would have been in or around Dharamshala. Hot in summer. Cold in winter. Probably hungry all the time.
Lucky was a Parsi. The Parsis were driven from northwestern Iran to India after being declared heretics by the Persian caliph. Depending on whom you asked, the emigration took place somewhere between 700 and 900 CE. She smiled as she remembered the story her father told her: that when the Parsis arrived in Gujarat they were met by an envoy from the king bearing a glass of milk. ‘You cannot stay here,’ the envoy said. ‘The land is full, as the glass is full.’ According to legend, the leader of the Parsis took out a spoonful of sugar and added it to the milk. ‘But we are so few,’ he said. ‘Just as a little sugar makes the milk sweet, so also we shall make the land sweet.’ The king was so impressed with the tactful and clever response that he granted the Parsi’s request to settle—on certain conditions, of course.