“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. That must have been—”
“It was. It was shit. But … probably for the best. Better now than when we had kids or something.”
I nodded.
“It just makes me … I don’t know … Now that I’m single, I’m worried that I’m always missing out on something…. I felt more content before. I guess it’s just because I don’t—”
“Is it like you’re not grabbing opportunities? Ones that could lead somewhere? But you’re not sure where?”
“Exactly!” she said. “Yeah … like I could be missing out on the important things …”
I didn’t quite know what to say next. I knew exactly what she meant, but saying I did would cheapen it, somehow. Make it seem less unique to her. Because until now, I’d thought it was unique to me.
“How about you?” she said. “Last relationship? Or was that Hanne?”
“Well … kind of. There was a girl. But it couldn’t work. Long distance. I mean, it could’ve worked, but…”
“Sure,” she said. “That’s tough in its own way. The not knowing. Worse than the knowing, in a sense. No matter how many friends you have, sometimes you just want to be with one person.”
I liked Kristen. And I felt sorry for her. Things were still raw for her. And me? Well, I’m sure she felt sorry for me, too. I took another breadstick and realised that my heart just wasn’t in this. The date, I mean, not the breadstick. Kristen was right—sometimes you do just want to be with one person.
And then she smiled.
“Do you want to get some food?”
* * *
I felt like I’d made a new friend in Kristen. It was good to meet someone who … understood. I was glad I’d said yes to this.
We bought ourselves a fine meal of pasta and wine, and chatted and laughed, and the time didn’t seem to matter anymore. We hit another bar, and soon we’d forgotten our woes and our pasts and absolutely everything else, and as the bar closed, and we prepared to go our separate ways, she suddenly said, “Coffee?”
Christ. What did she mean by that? But it was a Yes moment. A moment to be grabbed, just like Kristen had said. But all I could say was “Um …,” before Kristen jumped in with, “Come on. I actually mean coffee. I live round the corner. You can have a coffee and call a cab. You can also have a biscuit if you’re lucky.”
I smiled and said, “Cool,” and we made our way to her place.
I heard her open a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and I laughed when she brought it through, and we talked some more—about holidays and childhoods and families. She told me she was going to try to get tickets to a gig in Camden soon, and should she get one for me, and even though I’d never heard of the band, I smiled and said yes.
And then, when I was putting my coat on, getting ready to go downstairs to find my way home, she tilted her head and said, “Look, I don’t normally do this …” And my heart leapt and my shoulders tensed as I realised what was coming next.
“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”
Chapter 19 In Which the Reader Is Required to Read Between the Lines
I probably shouldn’t talk about it.
And I’m not sure I really want to, either.
For now.
Just for now.
Sorry.
Chapter 20 In Which Daniel Travels to the Goodly Castle of Dobroyd, and Chances Upon More of the Wisdom of Maitreya
Now, if there’s one thing that we all learnt at school, it’s that the towns and villages of England’s West Yorkshire region make up the global centre of international Buddhist activity.
Which is why I was now on my way there to meet some monks.
My new and unexpected employers at Richard & Judy had charged me with an exciting mission: go to West Yorkshire, hang out with some Buddhists, and film a five-minute documentary. It sounded easy enough. And exciting enough. I still couldn’t really believe that I’d been asked to do this. I mean, there were plenty of people far more qualified than I was. Su Pollard was advertising steam cleaners, for God’s sake. Surely she’d have been free? I can only imagine that, after meeting me, Gareth and Dan had decided that out of everyone who could possibly benefit from a series of enlightenment courses, I was probably the one who needed it most.
The journey from London to Yorkshire is a long one. I was driving up with Robin, the researcher, and Ricky, the sound recordist, and we’d been on the road for several hours already. We’d spent much of that time stuck on a narrow road behind a blue car with a sign in the window that read BABY ON BOARD. It had taken me nearly forty minutes to realise that unless that baby was steering, I really didn’t need to know it was on board at all. Eventually we managed to pass the car, and to our joy saw a sign marked TODMORDEN.
I’d be meeting the director and cameraman from Richard & Judy at a secluded castle in this small town. But this made me a little nervous. After all, as I slowly worked out, Todmorden is made up of two basic words: “tod’ and “mord.” “Tod” means “death” in German. And “mord” means “murder.” I’m not sure about you, but spending the day in a secluded castle in a town called Deathmurder doesn’t sound like the ideal weekend to me. I decided very quickly that if I was approached by any monk named either Professor Plum or Colonel Mustard, I’d be out the door, in the car, with a five-iron. Which is a scenario Clue never seemed to cover.
* * *
“So you’re the man looking for enlightenment, eh?” said Jim, the director.
“Well, I suppose so,” I said, shaking his hand. “If there is any enlightenment. So this is the place, eh?”
We were standing outside Dobroyd Castle, an imposing but friendly castle surrounded by trees and woodland. It was built in 1865 as a symbol of love from a husband to his wife, but things hadn’t quite worked out. He’d been the rich mill owner’s son; she a poor mill worker. He’d fallen deeply in love with her, and she’d said she would only marry him if he built her a castle as a present. In a grand gesture of love, he did just that. She didn’t like it very much. She moved into a little chalet on the grounds instead. The man was heartbroken; the woman died an alcoholic. It can be no coincidence that soon after, someone invented gift vouchers.
“So,” said Jim. “Here’s what we’re going to do….”
He took me to one side.
“I’ve had a look about the place. There are some great locations. This should be easy. So what we’ll do is this: We’ll film you arriving, and then we’ll film you meeting a couple of the monks, and then we’ll film you leaving.”
“Right. Sounds easy enough.”
“Yes. The whole thing shouldn’t take more than six or seven hours.”
“Oh.”
“Have you presented much TV before?”
“No. This is my first time.”
Jim went a bit pale.
“Right. Well, the whole thing shouldn’t take more than nine or ten hours. Robin will brief you on what else we’ll be doing, and Ricky will put a mic on you.”
“Basically,” said Robin, who was wearing a baseball cap and had the chin of a superhero, “we want you to get under the skin of the Buddhist monk. Find out if Buddhism is the way for you. What makes a monk tick? And we need to work in the stuff they do here—the courses, the things you can learn, the people you’ll meet. Sound good?”
“Yep. Just point me at a monk, and let’s do this.”
Ricky sprang into action. He pulled my jumper down and attached a microphone to my chest with a piece of tape.
“Good. Smooth chest,” he said. “I won’t be ripping any hairs out, then.”
“It’s all thanks to HairBeGone,” I said, and he laughed, because I don’t think he believed me.
“Right,” said Robin. “We’ve arranged a meeting for you with”—he paused—“Samten.”
“Who’s Samten?”
“Samten’s the man. He’s the big monk on campus. He’s in charge. And he’s agreed to let you talk to him.”
“Grea
t.”
“But first, why don’t you take a bit of a walk around? Get to know the place?”
Dobroyd Castle was bought by the monks in 1995 for a few hundred thousand pounds. It was in total disrepair. The monks decided to use it to start up a centre, the Losang Dragpa Centre, which would offer cheap courses, teachings, and meditations to anyone who decided they needed it. It’s a remarkably giving attitude, seeing as all they want in return is some help with rebuilding the castle. Anyone is welcome at any time of year. If you’re stuck for something to do, I’d genuinely recommend it.
“Oh,” said a man suddenly in front of me. He had a shaved head and was wearing a long, red robe. I guessed he was probably a monk. “Hello.”
“Hello,” I said. “Nice place.”
“Thank you. Are you with the TV people?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Welcome,” he said.
And he started to walk with me.
His name was Liam, and he loved it here.
“This is a place to nurture inner peace,” he said. “Anyone can seek refuge here. They don’t even have to be Buddhist. You can just come along and free your mind from the negative. We just want to help increase peace and happiness in the world.”
Liam and I talked more as we walked around the castle. Eventually we found a bench and sat on it.
“We learn things here, like, you know, we should value all our moments,” said Liam. “And live each day as if it were our last on Earth. Well, actually that’s a bit strong. Let me rephrase that. What I mean is we should constantly be aware that we may die today.”
I raised my eyebrows. Liam thought about it.
“Actually that’s even stronger, isn’t it? All I mean is: We must be aware that there is a distinct possibility that you and I may die today.”
Bloody hell. I was in a secluded castle in a town called Deathmurder with a man who was repeatedly telling me there was a distinct possibility that I may die today.
“I mean, we may not die today,” he said, raising his finger. “But… we may.”
He wasn’t making me feel much better, to be honest, but there was no stopping him now. We were on a path to existentialism.
“Both statements—that we may die today and that we may not die today—are ultimately true. But it’s more meaningful to say we may die today, because we then value every moment.”
“It’s also a bit more frightening,” I said. And it was. Fair enough, I’d be valuing every moment. But I’d probably be valuing them from under my bed.
“Well, maybe. But the thing is, Danny, it’s very easy to become complacent. Samten says that being aware of our mortality makes us more open, and ironically, makes us feel more alive. Now, let’s take a walk over here …”
For the next hour and a half, the Richard & Judy crew filmed me chopping celery with monks, cleaning toilets with monks, wandering around the gardens with monks, and generally just getting up to all sorts of monk-based mischief. And I was having fun. The monks had welcomed me with open arms and shaven heads, and I was slowly falling in love with their way of life. It’s hard to explain, but everyone had a certain … glow. They were happy. And rested. I was taught how to meditate, and I was given a slap-up lunch, and I learnt about their teachings.
Eventually the director called for a break.
“Are you getting what you need?” I asked.
“It’s fine,” said Jim. “But we need something … else.”
I nodded enthusiastically.
“What else do you need?”
“I’m not sure…. It’s just that … at the moment it’s all quite … nice.”
“But monks are nice. That’s one of the things about monks. Especially Buddhist monks. They’re renowned for their niceness.”
Which is true. Very rarely will you hear that a Buddhist monk has, for example, attempted a kidnapping or tried to carjack a pensioner. That’s one of the main things about Buddhist monks—they possess a total and utter inability to carjack a pensioner. I call it a weakness.
“Monks are nice, yes,” said Jim. “But I just wonder … well… You already seem pretty sold on Buddhism….”
“It’s lovely!”
“Yes, but … You see, if you decide that Buddhism is the way ahead for you, then there probably isn’t any point in doing any more films with you. Because you’ll already have decided. So, you need to take a deeper look at their way of life, I think … show them from another angle.”
“Right,” I said, determined to come up with a solution. Yes had given me a chance. I wasn’t about to stuff it up.
“I’ll leave that with you,” said Jim, and he went off to do something important.
I was having a biscuit with Ricky. He said he’d known I was hungry, because even at a distance of thirty feet, he could hear my tummy rumbling through his headphones.
“I have to try and show them from another angle,” I said. “Look at them in a deeper way. How am I going to do that?”
Ricky took a bite of his biscuit and thought about the situation.
“You could mess with them a bit,” he said.
“Mess with the monks?”
“Mess with their Zen. They’re supposed to be the calmest people on Earth. See if you can get one riled. It’ll make for great telly.”
“You think I should anger a monk?” I said in disbelief. “It’ll never work! They’re too laid-back!”
“Well, you could give it a go. It’d just give them some options in the edit. You know … you could spice it up a bit. You could show the darker side of monks.”
“But monks don’t have a darker side. Do they?”
I can honestly say that if there was one thing I wasn’t comfortable with, it was this. After all, Robin had said I’d be getting under their skin, not getting on their tits. But it was a suggestion—from a television professional! Plus I knew why I was there, and I didn’t want to be a primadonna, and so I nodded and said that was a good idea. Well. It was the only idea.
Rather reluctantly I set about finding a way of severely vexing a Buddhist.
I wandered around the grounds, looking for potential ways and means.
I’d be meeting Samten later on, and I didn’t really want him to think I was some kind of maverick monk-baiter. But suddenly I noticed a pond. If all else failed, I could always push a monk into the pond. But somehow that seemed too harsh. It seemed to me that it would be a shame if at some point in the distant future, when scores of young people take up the lessons of Yes, all they did was get drunk and push a couple of monks into a pond.
Inspiration just wasn’t coming. I walked on with lead in my shoes.
“So you’re going to be meeting with Samten later on?” said a monk on the bench.
I’d sat myself down for a moment to compose myself.
“Yes,” I said. “I think so.”
“Oh, that’s great. You’re lucky. He’s amazing. You’ll love him. He’s amazing.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. He’s amazing.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he’s amazing. He makes you feel like the only person in the world when he talks to you. He’s the most spiritual man you’ll ever meet. He just knows things. You can ask him anything, and he just knows things. And he’s patient, and he sets a pure example to all he meets.”
“He sounds brilliant,” I said, genuinely convinced.
“He is. He’s brilliant,” he said. “He’s amazing.”
Suddenly there was a voice from one of the windows behind me. It was Jim.
“Danny! You ready?”
I signalled that I was and began to collect my thoughts.
“So …,” I said to the monk on the bench. “I was just wondering—not that this has anything to do with anything, really—but what annoys someone like you?”
The monk breathed in through his nose, and thought long and hard.
“War,” he said.
“War?” I repeated.
“War,” h
e said, and he turned to face me and nodded, grim-faced.
Jesus. If I was going to have to start a bloody war before I could vex a monk, this was going to be a very long day indeed.
“Okay, Danny,” said Robin. “Samten is ready for you now. We’ll just do a general interview with him, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m ready.”
Ricky winked at me and gave me a little thumbs-up. And then the tallest monk in the world walked into the room. He smiled and shook my hand.
“I’m Samten,” he said.
“Wow!” I said, genuinely impressed. “You’re the tallest monk in the world! You should be King of the Monks!”
“Well … thank you,” said Samten, who had taken it as a compliment, when I’d actually meant it as a fact. “Why don’t we sit down in the lounge and have a chat?”
Samten had the kind of voice that made anything sound peaceful and appealing. He could have said, “Why don’t I tie some bacon to your face and bring a wolf round your flat?” and I’d have said, “Definitely! Let’s go!”
So I did as Samten asked, and while the crew set up cameras and microphones, we sat in the lounge of Dobroyd Castle and had a bit of a chat. I instantly warmed to Samten. He had a kind face with round glasses and short, neat hair. His smile never seemed too far away.
“I should warn you,” I said, “I’ve never done this before. So I might be a bit rubbish.”
“You’re going to be fine,” said Samten, and I believed him.
“Have you ever seen the Richard & Judy show?” I asked.
“No,” said Samten. “We don’t have televisions here. But this will be very good for us. We rely on donations and on people coming to visit us and lending us their skills. So, rather than giving us money for staying here, people can help out. If they’re an electrician, they can help make sure our wiring is safe. Maybe they’re good at gardening, in which case they can help maintain the garden for a bit. Or, like, in your case …”
Samten looked at me, but then stopped. It was clear he was struggling to come up with a way of someone like me being of any use whatsoever to a castle full of monks. I tried to help him.
Yes Man Page 32