by Susan Dunlap
Turning his back to them, Braga paced to the rear. As he neared the wall, the guru’s assistant, Chupa-da, grabbed his arm. His words were muffled, but anguish was etched on his round face.
Braga shrugged.
“Miss, Miss.” Chupa-da rushed toward me. “I must go. I must be with Padmasvana. He will need me.”
Softly, I said, “No, he won’t. He’s probably already dead.”
He stared, unbelieving.
“I’m sorry.”
Without comment, he walked back toward the wall. The residue of shock was visible on his face. The stiffness of his walk and the tremor of his hands suggested that only by a great effort of will was he managing to contain his distress.
I looked away, an awful feeling of helplessness welling up inside. Above the altar, Padmasvana’s likeness still smiled down.
Forcing myself to be professional, I surveyed the stage itself. The only access to it was through the side door that Braga had used. Steps that led to the audience had been blocked off with giant pictures of deities. The stage was about four feet high and the latticework railing that extended up from its edge added another foot or so. Only a pole-vaulter could have got to Padmasvana from the audience. I caught myself thinking how ridiculous it was even to pursue this line of thought. Padmasvana’s presence was so mesmerizing that the audience’s attention had been firmly fixed on the stage. No one could have attacked him that way unseen.
Catching the pacing Braga on a turn, I said, “Where were you during the ceremony?”
He stopped. “What?” He glanced at the crowd and, turning back to me, lowered his voice. “I was downstairs in my office taking care of the donations.” When I let my gaze rest on him, he added, “I’ve already been blessed. I am free of hate. You don’t need it more than once.”
“Smith?” It was the print man addressing me. “The altar’s been done,” he said. “Everything but the brass box. You want that?”
I turned to the altar. It stood a few feet right of center stage. The brocade cloths had been pulled slightly apart, revealing the edge of a yellow metal folding table that had probably held tea and cookies at P.T.A. meetings. Still on the altar, still sending smoke on high, were four incense burners, and in the middle sat a long, narrow brass box, studded with what appeared to be rubies. The box was the right shape to have held the knife. Its lid was fastened by a snap hinge that would catch on impact. The guru could have pulled the knife from it while shielding it from view with his body. He could have plunged the knife into his chest as the lid of the box snapped back. I didn’t know why Padmasvana would kill himself, but motive would wait.
To the print man I said, “Yes.” He reached toward it.
“Cease!” Chupa-da yelled.
The room turned silent once more.
“Do not touch the Tsali-deho.”
“You mean this box?”
“The Tsali-deho. Only Padmasvana can open the Tsali-deho.” He stepped between us and the box, his hands shaking visibly. All the emotion he had been trying so hard to control up to now seemed ready to burst out.
Pausing for a moment to show we were not about to grab for the box, I said, “What is inside the Sally, uh—” I pointed to it.
Chupa-da bowed his head. Clasping his shaking hands together, he said, “The Tsali-deho holds holy incense. Padmasvana frees the incense at the finish of his blessing. It is very holy.”
“Is that all that’s inside?” A few sticks of incense would hardly fill the box. There would have been plenty of room for the knife. The box was the only place the knife could have been.
“Only incense is inside,” Chupa-da said. “Incense is very important. In Bhutan, Padmasvana used it to keep away evil spirits. But here”—he glanced sharply at the audience—“here people do not believe in spirits. People believe only what their eyes see. They think they are as gods. What they choose to believe—only that exists. Here Padmasvana used the holy incense to end his blessing. A symbol, Westerners say. We allow that.”
“I understand,” I said, choosing my words carefully. I could feel the growing tension in the room. “But I have to see the inside of the box.”
“No!”
“It is possible the knife could have been in there.”
“No!”
Chupa-da’s voice had risen to a shout. The audience gasped. Braga moved away, seeming to shrug off the dispute as unworthy of his attention.
I called him back. I needed his intervention. The last thing I wanted was an international incident, an accusation that a Berkeley police officer had violated a Bhutanese temple.
“Braga,” I said, and a note of appeal was in my voice, “I have to check the box. I won’t disturb the incense, but I must see it.”
Braga looked from me to Chupa-da and back, his face tense. “Look, I, uh—”
“Women cannot touch the Tsali-deho!” Chupa-da yelled.
Distractedly, Braga ran a hand over his hair. He glanced at the audience and back to the box. “It has to be opened,” I said.
Braga’s hand moved toward it, but he stopped halfway. “Only Padmasvana’s most trusted disciple may exercise that duty.”
As one, the audience inhaled.
Pointedly, I stared at Braga.
“No, Officer, I can’t open it. I am not a disciple. I am an associate.” His voice rose as he made the distinction.
Without looking, I knew every eye in the house was on us.
“It has to be opened,” I repeated.
To Chupa-da, Braga said, “Naturally I am not as well versed as you are in the laws of Buddhism, though”—his voice grew louder—“I am not ignorant. There are laws that govern normal circumstances in Bhutan, but here in America”—he shifted, facing the audience—“circumstances change. There may be nothing written in the holy books to cover these circumstances, but Padmasvana would have expected you to do what is necessary.”
When the smaller man made no move, Braga said, “Padmasvana would have expected it.”
The fans hummed, the prayer wheels whirled. The audience held its breath. Chupa-da stood motionless. Then, facing the box, he extended his hand slowly and, with one move, jerked open the lid. As the box clattered to the floor, I jumped back. The audience gasped. Sticks of incense tumbled out and Chupa-da fell to his knees, feverishly gathering them up.
I stared down at him. The box would have to be checked, of course, but from the number of incense sticks that had been crammed inside, no one could have fitted in a knife, too.
Sighing I leaned back against one of the two chairs, ignoring the grumbling from the audience. So the knife had not been hidden in the box. Where had it come from? Chupa-da was dressed as Padmasvana had been—in a flowing robe that hung open over a gold T-shirt and pants. There was no place to conceal a knife. As he stood up, I noted the tight fit of the shirt as it outlined his ribs—a perfect target to drive a knife into.
I tried to run the minute prior to the stabbing through my mind. I remembered Padmasvana kneeling, his arms raised, his chin just above the edge of the altar. He had made no move that could be construed as stabbing.
And yet he had been alone on stage.
His assistant was tucked away downstairs, his followers beyond the barrier of the stage. Did the guru have any enemies? What if he did? Had they flown down invisibly to stab him?
There was only one conclusion that could be drawn from the facts I had—one of the facts had to be wrong. One seemingly solid fact was not as solid as I had thought. As I reviewed the scene once again, it became obvious where the break had to be.
Chapter 3
I BORROWED A FLASHLIGHT from a patrol officer and, pushing back the altar curtain, shone it on the floor. There just might be a trapdoor … and there it was.
I beckoned the print man, and while he dusted the trapdoor, the ladder that hung from it and the area below, I briefed Connie Pereira, one of the patrol officers who would assist me. Then, leaving her in charge, I climbed down the ladder, noting the grime-covered
nails that secured it at the top.
The basement room I found myself in was the width of the stage. The temple was built on a down slope so that the front door was at ground level, but the rear section—where the stage was—was sufficiently above ground to allow space for this half basement.
Along all four walls were brightly labeled cartons of Padma Herb Tea. The weary red-robed Penlops were a familiar sight, hawking their tea at all hours of the day on Berkeley streets. I wondered how much this little enterprise grossed. From the persistence with which the Penlops tackled prospective customers (and from the number of complaints we’d had), it should have been quite a profitable business.
Four doors led from the room. Up a few steps behind me was a small, low door. I pulled it open and found myself facing the first row of the audience in the temple. I shut it before anyone noticed me.
At the rear of the room was a door to the outside. It was locked.
Still, anyone who had access to the key—or a credit card to load the lock—could have entered here and popped up through the trapdoor to kill Padmasvana.
Coming back down the steps I looked at the two remaining walls. One was blank; the other held two doors—one at the top of the stairs that led to the side of the stage, the one Braga had used; and a lacquered red door.
I pushed open the red door.
The room behind it might have been a well-appointed law office, with its rosewood desk and padded leather chair, its Oriental rug and, in the far corner, an antique safe. On top of the safe were piles of greenbacks—mostly fives—enough to make theft a very inviting prospect. I crossed the room toward it.
“Hold it!”
I spun to face a handgun and Rexford Braga.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, eyeing my jeans. He lowered the weapon and, glancing at it, added, “It’s okay. I have a permit.”
“Do you always carry a gun, Mr. Braga?”
“Of course not. I keep it here in my desk. You can ask anyone. They all know I keep it in the desk drawer. It’s for protection.”
“Protection. Were you afraid one of Padmasvana’s followers might hold you up?”
He strode past me, planting himself in front of the money-laden safe. Taking a breath, he stood up straighter and looked at me as he might have done with an audience. “Of course, Officer, I have no such worries about the devotees. Certainly none of them would consider theft, even though crime had become a way of life for many before they came under the light of Padmasvana. Some of the devotees were on drugs, many had stolen, but since they have been here at the ashram, they have come to understand the benefits of the spiritual life.
“No, Officer, it is not our devotees I worry about. But surely you, of all people, are aware of the crime rate in Berkeley. Anyone could break in the back door. I do keep the office locked when the donations are here. I make sure everyone knows that. You see, Officer”—he waited till I had nodded—“you see, I realize that precaution is the best protection.”
I felt as if he were expecting applause. “So, Mr. Braga, that means anyone could have come through the basement and you wouldn’t have noticed. And anyone familiar with your routine could have counted on that.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. It’s a very uncomfortable idea, some stranger prowling here.”
“Less uncomfortable than the alternative.” Braga said nothing but instinctively moved closer to the piles of cash. In the silence I took time to observe him. Up close there was nothing outstanding about the man. He was shorter than average, about thirty pounds overweight—a factor that he had ignored when choosing his shirt. Braga had grown his hair long and sprayed it down; it hung in stiff clumps over his collar. His eyes were pale, his nose a line between the swells of his cheeks, his mustache mirrored the weak curve of his chin. Unquestionably, Braga was someone who looked better from a distance.
“About the receipts, Mr. Braga. How much do you have there?”
“Nearly six hundred. Could have had more. Every seat was filled. Padma was drawing better and better. Particularly tonight, he—” Braga looked away. “I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean, then?”
“Well … I suppose…”
“What is it?”
“It’s just that, well, during the ceremony Padma spoke a few words of English.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, many of the devotees thought that he planned to atone for the evil they had done before they became his followers.”
“Are you saying that Padmasvana decided to die tonight? That he stabbed himself?”
Braga shook his head, a small motion that barely agitated the clumps of hair on his collar. “No, no, Officer, I am not saying anything definite. I’m merely telling you that this was a feeling among some of the devotees.”
“But stabbing? Wouldn’t that be a rather violent way of dying?”
“Perhaps. Padmasvana was a very advanced being. Who are we to question his methods?”
“Why would the devotees think that, Mr. Braga?”
“The words ‘I go.’ You see, he had said them before, during the last two ceremonies.”
“And what do you think he meant?”
Braga shrugged. “How can I say? Perhaps the words were merely sounds—his English was very sketchy. English is a very difficult language. It is entirely different from Bhutanese, you see. Learning English was a very ambitious undertaking for Padma.”
“Then how did Chupa-da come to speak so fluently? Isn’t he from Bhutan, too?”
Braga pushed a clump of hair from his forehead. “Yes, of course, but there was a difference in dharma—in vocation, that is. What I mean is that they were trained differently, for different callings. You see, Officer, when a great leader like Padma is born, it is not without warning. Prophecies are given telling when he will be reincarnated and where. When he is born, the spiritual leaders are waiting. He is not left to grow up like other children. He is taken to the monastery, brought up on a diet of Buddhist teachings, taught all the esoteric knowledge that he will need to be a great leader.”
Braga paced to the far side of the room and halfway back. “Padmasvana learned only spiritual things. Now, Chupa-da, Officer, also studied in the monastery, but he was raised to be a scribe. He was destined to be in charge of correspondence with people in India. Bhutan is right next to India. Anything that is shipped in must come from India. India is Bhutan’s pipeline to the rest of the world. So, it behooves each monastery to have a few monks trained to deal with the Indians.”
“But don’t Indians have languages closer to what they speak in Bhutan than English?”
Braga sighed. “Doubtless they do, but there are so many dialects in India, just as there are in Bhutan. Why, do you realize, Officer, that Bhutan, a Himalayan country of less than a million people, has eight major dialects? You can imagine how many there are in India. No one in either country could expect to travel a hundred miles and understand the local tongue. That is why India has made English a state language.”
“Mr. Braga, I still don’t understand about the ‘I go.’ I don’t—”
A rookie hurried into the office. “Are you Officer Smith?” He eyed my jeans and shirt.
“Yes. I was off duty when I came here.”
He nodded. “Pereira sent me. We’ve finished with the people in the audience. She wants to know if you need them for anything.”
“No. Tell her to let them go. Then round up the boys in the red robes. I’m going to check out the rest of this place. Tell Pereira to finish up upstairs.”
“Right.”
To Braga I said, “I want to see the rest of the complex.”
“The ashram?”
“Is that where Padmasvana lived?”
“Yes. … Okay, I’ll get Chupa-da to take you there. It’ll be better for him to keep occupied.”
Braga hurried upstairs, with undisguised relief.
In a moment Chupa-da followed Braga down the steps leading from the side stage door. H
e had used the time upstairs to pull himself together, and now his hands were under control. He merely looked pale and a bit dazed.
Without comment, he led me out the back door onto the lawn behind the temple. To my right, the grass flashed red, tinted by the lights of the patrol cars. Squeals from the radios mingled with the grumbles of devotees as they emerged in small groups from the temple.
Chupa-da led me across the lawn to a three-story brown-shingle building. It was in the corner of the lot away from either street and about thirty feet behind the temple. From the outside it was just a house, but inside it looked like a maze. Each room, except the kitchen and the dining room, had been broken up into cells approximately four by six feet. The better ones had windows. The rest had bare walls, a sleeping bag, a round pillow that I recognized as a meditation cushion and a small, framed copy of the picture of Padmasvana that hung behind the altar. I wasn’t totally familiar with the housing code, but this had to be breaking plenty of regulations.
“How many people live here?” I asked.
“Padmasvana has twenty-four Penlops.”
“And they live in these cells?”
Chupa-da turned to me, shaking his head slowly. “We are all in cells. Life is a cell. In Bhutan, we know this. Here in Berkeley people are ignorant. The Westerners, they decorate their ‘cells’ with music, with large houses, with theaters and parties. They think if they put enough things in them, the cells will not be cells anymore. But Padmasvana teaches the Penlops to see a cell as a cell and to work to get out of it.”
“The Penlops seem to have succeeded.” All the cells were empty.
Chupa-da headed up the central staircase. “The Penlops do not return—except at mealtimes—until two o’clock on any night,” he said. “Their days are totally devoted to Padmasvana.”
We turned left from the landing and were aced with more cells. “They put in long days,” I said.
“This life is short, and many of the Penlops have bad karma to overcome. Some have been very violent.”