The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away

by Tonya Alexandra

  ‘No more buses,’ I say as we walk through the chilly cobbled streets of Lhasa. ‘I promise it’s luxury from now on. Every night, Pins.’

  ‘I don’t even feel like a person anymore,’ Jordan replies. ‘I feel like I’ve been hallucinating for the last two days.’

  ‘But we made it,’ I say, trying to be positive. I hold my arms wide. The morning sky is huge and grey. The air is so crisp it sings ‘mountain’. ‘Finally! We’re in Lhasa!’

  I turn to Jordan, grinning with the thrill of arriving in this spiritual city. But her head’s down; she’s checking her phone. She doesn’t want to be here.

  No. She doesn’t want to be here with me.

  CHAPTER

  9

  I park Jordan at a tea stall while I check her into the five star St. Regis Lhasa Resort. I’m desperate for her to enjoy herself so I make sure she’s checked in for real this time—she won’t tolerate another penthouse evacuation.

  Jordan looks like last night’s leftovers. When I go out to fetch her, she’s sitting on a wooden box hunched over her tea.

  ‘Can you tidy yourself up a bit, Pins? You look like a street urchin.’ I unzip her bag and hand her a hairbrush. ‘At least brush your hair.’

  Jordan tugs the brush through her hair. ‘You’re so appearance-obsessed for someone who doesn’t even have an appearance.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I am obsessed,’ I say, straightening the collar of her jacket. ‘And I do have an appearance, by the way. You’re just not special enough to see me.’

  ‘Shame I’m special enough to hear you,’ she mutters, forcing the brush back into her bag.

  I roll my eyes at nobody. Could she be more intolerable?

  Reception checks Jordan in without question, thank god, handing her a keycard and wishing her a pleasant stay. We cross the glossy floor to the gleaming elevators and ride to the top floor. The luxury acts like a tranquilliser to relax me after that bus ride. Jordan pops the lock of our room and the door swings open: I gasp—the Potala Palace stares down at us like a regal overlord through the floor-to-ceiling glass. The scene is so majestic my breath expands until I fear my lungs will explode.

  I move to the window. ‘Wow.’

  Jordan drops her bag and joins me. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Maybe the central heating is defrosting her.

  I never thought I would see Lhasa—this mystical city of monks and mountains. The palace casts deep purple shadows over the city and I’m so happy to be sharing this moment with Jordan it seems like a dream.

  Then Jordan pulls out her phone again. She checks it, sighs, and thrusts it deep in her pocket.

  I watch her, disappointment dissolving my joy. ‘Do you want to go out and see the city?’

  ‘Think I’ll take a nap,’ she says, kicking off her shoes.

  My disappointment intensifies but I refuse to show it. ‘Do you want to meet for lunch?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’ She’s on the floor peeling off her socks, examining them like they’re far more interesting than anything she could find outside.

  I’m determined not to let her get me down. I’m hellbent on loving Lhasa, even if it kills me. I leave the hotel and head for the mystical Potala Palace.

  But I hate it. Yes, it’s full of incredible ancient relics and yes, the building is stunning and the view is spectacular. But it’s empty of life, a tomb. The monks who lived here are long gone and all that’s left is a shining vision of a tourist trap. I want to feel the Shangri-La it once was, but it’s impossible. The Shangri-La has abandoned this place. I feel desolate.

  When I find Jordan in the square below she looks even worse than I feel. Her skin is pale and moist, and there’s dark pools under her eyes.

  ‘You’re late.’ The nap hasn’t helped her mood.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘My head hurts.’

  Hell. Will this moping ever end? ‘It’s the altitude. You need some food. Where do you want to eat?’

  ‘Wherever.’

  I restrain my impulse to remind her she was the one who wanted to come here and force a cheery voice. ‘What about the yellow cafe behind you?’ It’s a narrow double-storey building, prayer flags fluttering from the doorway. ‘We could try butter tea?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I’m not sure how much longer I can stand this. I’m supposed to be the bitter negative one. This positive attitude is really hard to maintain.

  Thankfully, the cafe is perfect. We sit in a tiny dark upstairs room with wooden floors, tealight candles and colourful Tibetan wall hangings. It’s so cosy and welcoming even Jordan seems to cheer up a little. We eat steamed yak dumplings with pepper oil sauce after I translate the menu items on my phone. How did anyone eat in foreign countries before the internet?

  Jordan takes a sip of tea and makes a face. ‘Argh. It’s salty!’

  ‘Um yeah. What part of salted yak butter tea didn’t you get?’

  ‘You didn’t say salted yak butter tea, you said butter tea. Do you like it?’

  It isn’t the taste sensation I hoped for but at least I didn’t screw up my face like I’d drunk baby pee. I silently claim culinary superiority but admit, ‘It’s a little disappointing.’

  Jordan is chewing mournfully on her dumplings. ‘Nothing’s like you think it’s going to be, is it?’

  I wonder what she’s thinking about. Tibet? Us travelling together? Simon?

  ‘Hopefully the Jokhang temple won’t be as depressing as the Potala. It’s not like real Tibet is it?’ I say to change the subject. Jordan grunts. ‘Did you know Tibetans thought their country was controlled by a wild demoness who didn’t like Buddhism? To thwart her evil intentions, the king built twelve temples across the country to pin her down.’

  ‘The king sounds like a despot,’ Jordan says. ‘Using a fake threat to get his people in line with the Buddhist thing.’

  I gasp. ‘Jordan! That’s—’

  ‘What? It’s true. If it was any other religion, you’d agree with me.’

  She’s right. I’d never thought of it that way. ‘Well, he wasn’t cruel …’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He was Buddhist! Loving kindness is like their biggest catchphrase.’

  ‘Maybe now it is …’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  Jordan raises her eyebrows. ‘Which god would that be?’

  ‘Are you trying to infuriate me, Pins?’

  ‘No. I just think you need to accept reality. You’re always comparing things to how you imagine they should be. This is the real Tibet. Simon warned me it had changed.’

  Simon. Barf. Will I never hear the end of him?

  ‘Let’s just go.’ I pop the last dumpling in my mouth, tugging at her shirt for her to follow me.

  Jokhang Palace has a much better vibe; the wooden temple has black and white banners with the eight auspicious symbols flying from its golden roof and the monks are just hanging out like they want to be there, rather than selling Cokes like the monks at the Potala.

  Inside is dark and stuffy. Pilgrims push against us, muttering mantras, thumbing their mala prayer beads. The whole place reeks of yak butter and incense. It’s wonderful.

  Outside, I watch the Tibetan women. With their glossy black hair plaited down their backs, their dresses and boots and cowboy hats, it’s like a Himalayan Texas.

  ‘We have to do the Barkhor Kora,’ I tell Jordan.

  She yawns. ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Jordan!’

  ‘What? I’m tired!’

  ‘Too bad.’ I grab her arm, determined for her to enjoy herself, and we join the tide of locals, pilgrims and tourists walking clockwise around the Kora, soaking in the faded prayer flags and smoking incense, stepping around the prostrating pilgrims. I skim my fingers along the bronze prayer mills to release more ‘Om mani padme’ hums into the stratosphere and begin to mutter the words myself.

  Jordan looks sceptical. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Speeding up my path to enligh
tenment by multiplying my spiritual merits.’

  ‘Is it a competition?’

  ‘Jordan, really? I wish you could see the disappointment on my face.’

  ‘But you’re saying you’ll become enlightened faster than me just because you’re saying a mantra?’

  ‘Yep. And if I do more circuits. Which I intend to do.’ I can use all the help I can get.

  Jordan snorts. ‘Sounds like you’ve been reading Buddhist brochures.’

  ‘I have not!’ I looked it up on my phone.

  We walk in silence for a while and I realise Jordan is lagging. I’m feeling unnaturally puffed myself. ‘It’s got to keep you fit, walking at this altitude.’

  ‘Karma-robics,’ Jordan says, which makes me laugh myself silly.

  ‘We could totally market that! We’d make squillions as religious pimps.’

  Jordan rewards me with the smallest of smiles but deserts me after only one lap of the Kora, saying she’ll meet me back at the hotel. I’d be happy to go with her, to be truthful, but it seems like she could do with a break from me.

  Watching her trudge down the cobblestone street, disappearing behind a tourist group in lurid parkas, I hope she doesn’t blame me for losing Simon. I didn’t force her to choose between us. Did I?

  I wander around until it starts to get dark. The lights pop on, rendering the city Instagram-worthy, but it’s damn cold. The best view of the Potala would be from my hotel room right now.

  The curtains are drawn when I return. Jordan is watching TV but it doesn’t seem like she’s absorbing the content at all. She lies on the bed clutching her phone. How can she not be gazing out the window at the palace?

  ‘Do you want to get room service?’ I ask her.

  ‘Not hungry.’

  I prise her phone away and lay it on the bedside table. Her expression remains glazed, strands of hair stick to her damp forehead. It worries me. ‘Why don’t you take a shower? You look like hell.’

  Jordan blinks slowly as if she’s just woken from a deep sleep. ‘Yeah. I think I will.’

  As Jordan showers, I unload our clothes into the laundry bag for housekeeping. Reluctantly I peel off Dillon’s Killers T-shirt, which reeks of Chinese bus, and wrap myself in a robe. Jordan’s still not done when I finish so I lounge in my hotel robe, examining the room service menu. I’m about to order when I hear the familiar ping of Jordan’s phone. I go over and pick it up. I don’t feel bad. It’s not like we have any secrets from each other. But one glance at the screen turns my stomach.

  Simon: I miss you jordy. I was a fool to let you go.

  Oh god. So lame.

  It pings again.

  Simon: I could be in Lhasa the day after tomorrow if you’d have me?

  Cac. I can’t let that happen. We’d never shake him. Ping, again.

  Simon: Please give me another chance.

  I don’t have time to think. I act quickly, typing in:

  Jordan: No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  Then I add:

  Jordan: Please do not call or text me again.

  My heart thumps as I press send. I’m a bad, bad friend.

  I hear Jordan turn off the shower. In a mad panic I delete the messages then spring back to position myself away from the phone. But I hear another ping.

  Simon: You’re joshing me?

  Crap! How can I get this idiot to understand?

  Jordan: No. I’m serious. I’ve met someone else. Please leave me alone.

  I used the word ‘please’ to sound like Jordan.

  Then the phone rings! It rings! Crap. Crap. Crap. I can hear Jordan spraying deodorant next door; she won’t be much longer. I reject the call and send him another text message.

  Jordan: Do not call me ever again. You’re an idiot and I hate you. Not to mention your oversized kneecaps.

  No. No. Delete the kneecap bit. I press send. Then I go to the settings on her phone and add his contact to the blocked caller list. I’m still madly tapping to delete messages and caller history when Jordan opens the bathroom door and calls out, ‘Was that my phone?’

  Tap, tap. Silently as I can. ‘Um. Not that I heard.’

  ‘It sounded like my ringtone.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything. Maybe it was the TV?’

  I slide the phone back onto the bedside table just as she comes out and picks it up, frowning at the empty screen.

  ‘Expecting a call?’ I ask her.

  She lays it down. ‘Simon. He said—’ She slumps onto the bed. ‘Doesn’t matter. He was obviously full of it.’

  I want to agree categorically but something tells me she’s not ready for a Simon-bashing.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll meet much better guys in New York.’

  Jordan doesn’t answer. She grabs the remote and starts apathetically flicking through the channels. She goes straight past the History Channel without noticing. This isn’t looking good.

  ‘Are you okay, Pins?’

  She grunts.

  I bite my lip and ask reluctantly, ‘Is it about Simon?’

  Jordan’s sigh is more a mournful shudder. ‘I know you don’t understand—but I liked him.’

  She’s right. I don’t understand. ‘Why? He’s not your type. You like fun guys, cool guys.’

  Jordan’s boyfriends in high school were awesome—they were always the naughty ones who knew where the parties were. I was way jealous.

  ‘I used to like fun guys,’ Jordan corrects me. ‘When you weren’t around.’ She shrugs and looks a bit embarrassed. ‘I think I was trying to fill a hole because I lost you.’

  I squirm in my seat. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re in love with me?’

  Jordan takes an impatient breath. ‘No, you idiot. I’m telling you I missed us and the fun we had together.’

  Oh, okay. Slight humiliation.

  ‘But those guys weren’t really fun. They were stupid mostly. And now that you’re back, I’ve got enough fun—and stupidity.’

  ‘I’ll try not to be insulted by that.’

  Jordan gives me a split second of a smile. ‘So I can look for what I really want in a boyfriend, what I need.’

  ‘A boring Englishman?’

  ‘A good guy. Someone I can trust.’

  ‘How do you know you can trust Simon? He’s probably a criminal.’

  ‘I can see him. Hold him.’ Her hands flex in the air as if she’s holding something tangible. ‘I know he’s here and I haven’t dreamed him up. I spent my whole childhood doubting myself, questioning my sanity about you. I know it sounds lame but I just want something real, something stable.’

  Wow. There it is. The undeniable evidence of how much I’ve screwed her up.

  ‘I know you think he was boring,’ says Jordan, her eyes looking scarily like they might well over, ‘but he was kind and gentle, and he made me feel safe.’

  We sit in silence and my heart actually hurts. It’s a soft ache like a burn. What have I done?

  I don’t know what to offer. What do you say to your best friend you’ve just betrayed?

  Suddenly, I remember the leaflet I saw in a store window. Everest, I decide on the spot. ‘You know what? I’m taking you to see Mount Everest,’ I say. ‘By helicopter.’

  Jordan looks up. The wicked dark circles under her eyes have sunk deeper, but she smiles. ‘That would be amazing.’

  ‘I know, right?’ I say, getting to my feet. I have to run away before I admit to the message exchange with Simon. She’d never forgive me. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

  The hot water feels good on my body. I haven’t showered this well since the penthouse. If only the water could wash away the shame of betraying my best friend like it washes away the bus grime. I swear I’ll never interfere with your love life again, I promise Jordan silently as I stand there watching the dirty water swirl down the drain.

  My phone vibrates on the sink as the water pounds on my shoulders. I dry myself down and pick it up. Dillon!

  Dillon: Have y
ou got my shirt lemon ice?

  Oops.

  Olive: Looks better on me, Coconut.

  Dillon: I can imagine …

  I blush. How do I respond to that? Keep it clean, respectful.

  Olive: How’s Honkers?

  Dillon: To quote U2—I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

  Olive: U2! How old are you Nut?

  Dillon: 20. And U2 are Irish legends! You’re betraying your blood. Where are you?

  Olive: In Lhasa with Jordan.

  Dillon: Not Simon?

  Olive: He’s in China.

  Dillon: They broke up?

  Olive: She can do better.

  Dillon: She could do worse too. He’s a decent lad.

  Olive: Actually he seems like a pretentious asshole.

  Dillon: You should look closer at things ice. See past yourself. Not everything is an attack against you.

  Is he kidding me with this? It makes me furious.

  Olive: I’m sorry, you’ve spent like 3 minutes with me and you think you know me?

  I wait for a reply. I wait and wait. Have I stuffed this up again? Finally he answers.

  Dillon: My mistake. Enjoy Lhasa.

  Yep. I stuffed it up. Ironically doing exactly what he told me I do.

  I can’t reply. I’m so mortified. How did everything get so bad so quickly? I wrap myself in a robe and stare at the fogged-up empty mirror, trying to pluck up the courage to face Jordan. Dillon might think Simon’s okay but he doesn’t know Jordan. She could do way better. In ten years from now, when she’s married to some amazing guy, I’ll tell her about this and she’ll thank me.

  Jordan smiles when she sees the bathroom door open. I’m surprised to see a member of the hotel staff with her. ‘This is Norbu,’ she says. ‘He’s a masseuse.’

  I look back at Norbu and notice what I didn’t see at first glance. The guy is blind! Wow. I’m going to get a real, professional massage.

  ‘I just wanted to say thanks,’ Jordan says. ‘I know you’d rather be in New York and I’ve been an ungrateful turd today.’