The Breath of God. Jeffrey Small
heart. He’d seen Jigme’s textbook on several occasions. As he and Kristin stood there, a few, including Jigme and Ummon, turned to smile at them, but most stole curious glances at Kristin.
With the students occupied, Kinley strode over to the temple doorway where Grant and Kristin waited. Grant tried unsuccessfully to suppress his excitement.
“You must be feeling better today.” Kinley gave Grant’s arm a fatherly squeeze.
“I can climb steps safely now.”
“Ah, but I see you’ve brought a lovely friend to visit,” Kinley said, bowing to Kristin.
He’s avoiding me, Grant thought.
“Well, if Grant won’t introduce me,” Kristin said, extending a hand. “Kristin Misaki.”
“Kinley Goenpo.” The monk bowed again, taking her hand. “Japanese?”
“My father’s family was from Okinawa, but my mother is pure New England Catholic.”
“The combination suits you well.”
Kinley smiled. Grant noticed that when Kristin shook the monk’s hand, she used both of hers in a familiar embrace. He recalled the thrill he received in the courtyard when their hands touched for a moment longer than was necessary. She’s the touchy-feely type, he thought.
Grant opened his mouth to suggest that they move outside where they could speak in private, but Kristin spoke first. “Who’s he?” She pointed to the throne.
“Lama Dorji. He arrived today. He’s the fifth reincarnation of a holy lama who lived several hundred years ago. These people have come to receive a blessing from him.”
“Will he be staying here long?” Grant asked.
“Only until the Je Khenpo arrives in two weeks.”
“Who’s Jay Kembo?” Kristin asked.
Kinley chuckled. “No, the Je Khenpo is the head abbot of the dratshang, the central monk body; he’s our country’s spiritual leader, and a friend. Soon, he and several hundred monks will move from the Thimpu Dzong in our capital, where they’re based during the summer, back to Punakha. Our lower altitude provides a more temperate climate in the winter months. Lama Dorji and I usually meet a few weeks before to go over logistics.”
Grant felt the handles of his crutches become slick with the sweat from his palms. First, some reincarnated holy man had drawn crowds of villagers into the monastery and next hundreds of monks would be returning. He might only have a brief opportunity for Kinley to sneak him into the library.
Then he sneezed. The incense that had seemed pleasant ten minutes earlier now seemed to restrict his oxygen intake. A number of the villagers turned their heads and stared at him.
“Excuse me,” Grant said. “Maybe we should step outside?”
Instead of following his request, Kristin stepped further inside the temple, stopping at the wall on their left. She brought her face right up to a section of the mural that covered the wall’s entire fifty-foot length. “Hey, this looks familiar.”
Kinley moved to her side. “A poor country’s version of stained glass.”
“Sarnath,” Kristin said. “India. A temple there has a similar mural. Down the road from Varanasi, where I was writing my last article.”
“Yes, that one is also lovely.” The monk waved a hand across the fresco. “The life story of the Buddha.”
A coughing behind them drew their attention. Grant felt the stares. Turning his head, he saw that the lama had paused his blessings and was now glaring across the hall toward them. Kinley exchanged a look with him that Grant couldn’t interpret, but he felt distinctly uncomfortable.
“Maybe we should move,” Grant said.
The lama gestured to the three of them with his staff.
“We’re being summoned,” Kinley said.
Kristin started off with Kinley in the direction of the throne. “I’ve never met a reincarnated lama before,” she said over her shoulder to Grant, as if that was why she had traveled to Bhutan.
Unsure of the proper protocol when he reached the altar in front of the lama, Grant bowed as best he could without falling over his cast. Kristin did the same beside him. Lama Dorji was indeed about Grant’s age but much shorter and at least forty pounds heavier. His round face with its smooth head sat on top of his orange robes like a small pumpkin resting on a larger one.
The lama dipped his head in Grant’s direction but ignored Kristin. “So you are the American Kinley Goenpo has permitted to stay in the goemba?” He spoke in a singsong voice that was higher-pitched than Grant expected.
Grant opened his mouth to respond but closed it when Kinley rested a hand on his shoulder. His friend replied, “Grant was near death when Jigme and I carried him here, la.” Kinley said, adding the formal la as a sign of respect.
“You are better now, no?” Lama Dorji asked Grant.
“I’m mobile now. The doctor says I can leave soon.”
Lama Dorji turned to Kinley. “The preparations for the Je Khenpo and the dratshang?”
“I scheduled the juniors to clean the dormitories Friday, la.”
“What about these disruptions?”
“Disruptions, Lama Dorji?”
“This American and”—the lama flicked his hand toward Kristin—“this woman. I know the temptation that cavorting with these foreigners must hold for you. After all, you did leave the order to study in the West.”
When the lama grinned at Kinley, Grant heard Kristin inhale sharply beside him. The lama’s teeth were deeply stained and his gums oozed a bright red saliva, giving him the appearance of a vampire in the midst of a kill. The plate on the narrow altar in front of the lama revealed the source of the blood: three leaf-wrapped betel nuts. Grant had seen some of the other monks chewing these around the monastery. Kinley had explained that the betel nuts acted as a stimulant and that they were used much in the way some Westerners chewed tobacco, but in place of the dark, leafy spit produced by tobacco, the betel nut produced a crimson red juice that permanently stained one’s teeth over time. Kinley never cared for them, and, he explained, the Buddha taught that if the mind was under the control of narcotic substances, truly transcending one’s thoughts and emotions would be impossible.
Kinley returned the lama’s smile. “During Grant’s recovery, I have taught him a little of our ways. He’s beginning to understand the dharma.”
“Is your role here to teach Westerners?” The lama’s bloody grin vanished. “Their culture is too undisciplined to master our teachings.”
Grant felt his face flush. Is the lama accusing me of being lazy? Even though the content of their studies differed, Grant put as much energy into his work as these students did. Even in the month he’d been stuck here, he’d made the most efficient use of every minute. When he wasn’t sweating through the physical therapy exercises his doctor had prescribed, he was taking notes on Kinley’s teachings or brainstorming how he would rewrite his dissertation once he saw the Issa texts. Kinley’s grip on his shoulder intensified, indicating that he should keep his mouth closed and let the lama speak. “Look at the dedication of these young ones.” Dorji waved to the students, many of whom now watched the two orange-robed seniors and the Americans. “Do you believe that enlightenment can be obtained with a few mind tricks and fancy sayings?”
His voice steady, Kinley asked, “Do you remember the story of the blind men and the elephant?”
A look of irritation flashed across the lama’s face, but he did not respond. Kinley continued, “One day, the Buddha asked his students to imagine a group of blind men being led to an elephant and asked to describe it