Game of Greed Page 5

  But he was just a monk leading the meditation, I guess. I hope.

  Thunder moved toward us from afar. Gradually, the sound increased from a low rumbling to a violent noise, drowning out any thoughts you might have. Closer and closer, an unstoppable force. Rain enveloped the meditation hall in an impenetrable gray blanket, raindrops pounding the sheet-metal roof. An ear-splitting noise. Heavenly to sit there, safe and dry and protected from rain and thunder. Feeling like a victim of nature, wonderfully defenseless, nothing to do but to surrender to a force greater than myself. Lovely to be submissive; nice not having to act.

  Ayaa never stirred, despite the fierce thunder and overpowering noise of the rain.

  Great morning meditation lasting several hours. Lights and shadows dancing. Images of Buddha. Sense of bliss. But once again, the meditation before lunch was horrible. Had to get up and do some walking meditation just to stay awake. The heat, the heavy food, the humidity, and the lack of sleep are getting to me.

  Reminded about the curious fact that when tired, the mind is darkened; when energized, the mind is full of light. But when looked at directly, light and darkness interchange. Well, at least that is how my mind seems to operate.

  Fourth day: Spent time with Ayaa today. She so looks like an exotic butterfly in yellow robes. (I asked her why she’d chosen yellow for her robes, and she actually said, “Because of the sun.”) So tiny, so frail, as if life has already left her and only the dregs of it are left in her vast, radiant eyes. She can’t weigh more than four and a half stone. A fourteen-year-old body with an age-old heart. Which explains the fleeting glimpses of pain and weariness in her eyes. And why she moves so very stiffly and slowly.

  The food is, as usual, plentiful and good. Breakfast at a quarter past six this morning was curry and vegetables. Yesterday, breakfast was a feast of pancakes and bread. Happens once a week. And all my Western desire for anything but rice was suddenly reactivated. Dinner at a quarter past eleven is way too early for me. Can’t eat anything at that time. Same as breakfast, but with a greater variety of vegetables and a dessert of fruit, or in rare cases, cake or pudding. You need to be fast if you want dessert. Fortunately, I don’t have a sweet tooth…

  Forgot to bring my soap inside last night and this morning it had been almost completely devoured by rats. Ah, well. At least it cleans them on the inside. The rats, that is.

  In the evening, mice dart back and forth on the roof of my hut, little feet pattering faster than lightning. Frogs croak singularly, but at one point so loud and in accord that they either must have spotted a snake or just decided to do a little evening chorale for my benefit. Surprising how incredibly loud they are, these rather small creatures. Small squirrels are not nearly as nice as they look, but cheeky and noisy and rather aggressive, actually. Nothing cuddly about them. My bath is full of leeches. Spiders are everywhere, and ants appear out of nowhere at the mere thought of food. I share a life with thousands of tiny animals. And being in a Buddhist monastery, I am not granted the right of passage.

  Fifth day: It is very early morning, before the sun even considers rising, when dew is still caught in spiders’ webs, and the air is saturated with moisture allowing every scent to linger. I love this time. You can smell the soap from the morning shower long after somebody has passed by you. The humidity intensifies everything. Especially colors and smells.

  Later, when Ayaa took me into her tiny room to see her Buddha and her meditation place, the reek of naphthalene was so strong I nearly fainted. She was as house-proud as any woman showing her home would be. In her case, it was a room of approximately five square meters, a narrow bed, a lamp, and a set of drawers. But how can she sleep in that smell? Let alone meditate? And what does she use it for?

  The process of dependent origination in a few words: “There must be in what is seen, just the seen. In the heard, just the heard; and in the experienced, just the experienced.” Buddha speaking to Bahiya.

  Sixth day: Night of terror. Couldn’t sleep at all. An aversion so deep, so profound, so inclusive, that I didn’t know what to do. Caught in a mind so disturbed that madness seemed the only way out. No terror is greater than being the prisoner of your own mind. It is the ultimate betrayal. My ultimate fear, my very own room 101, or the room that contains the worst thing in the world as immortalized by Orwell in 1984.

  Again, the feeling of being caught in a coffin. Sealed up in a cell. Darkness is death. Unable to breathe, unable to get out. Destined to join the living dead. The darkness was impenetrable. The heat oppressive. Body frozen by fear. Paralysis.

  Rationalized myself out of the psychosis and finally managed to reach out for the light. And suddenly, of course, the anxiety is gone. Made a cup of tea, drank it to the accompaniment of two highly vocal frogs. They really can make a racket, those small beings.

  Went back to bed and fell asleep after reminding myself that this Night of Terror always happens on the fifth or sixth night of a retreat when my ego finally grasps that it is out of control with no influence on when or what to eat, no power over the humid heat, no power to prevent insects from feasting on my body. Ego hates that. Ego dies in a horrible night (to be woken and in full vigor once I leave the monastery, though). Ego gives a place for insight and peace. That seems to be the mechanism.

  Spotted two frogs making love today. Very quietly, which just goes to show they can be quiet when it really matters.

  Seventh day: As I am writing this, something very large is desperately trying to break through the wire mesh of the window. I won’t have it. I won’t even look to see what it is.

  Wonderful, long morning meditation. A bit harder later on in the day. Feelings of peace and calm, yet alien and novel images and sensations flooded my mind. Something builds up; something else dissolves. Seeing the inside of my body, organs, pumping heart. Suddenly knowing how the eye was created, how the foot looks under the skin. Madness. Insight. Clarity. But mainly just stillness and serenity.

  Distant thunder and a morning darkened by impending clouds hung like a threat until rain finally broke through and came pounding down. And then the heat returned. Afternoon like a furnace. Nobody moved. Even the animals lay around inertly. Dry and very, very hot. But by early evening, a golden light had spread. The colors of the flowers more vibrant than usual. Everything was suddenly beautiful, intense, exquisite. The animals romped about. Delirious.

  Went for a walk with Ayaa, whose body is so light it could fly away any time. Like a dried leaf. She’s ready for death. Only stays alive to help others. My love for her is wordless.

  Sat for a long time by a pond with lotus and golden fish.

  The gravity of peace.

  Chapter 6

  They found the dead monk early on the morning after the conference call. He had been missing for two days by then, ever since evening Puja Wednesday night. That, in itself, was not remarkable, since monks disappear into solitude from time to time for a day, a week, a month, or more. But he had not arranged for food, and that was unusual. A monk going into retreat would need somebody to feed him once or twice a day.

  Jo’s in the shower when she hears a scream. A sound so unusual for the peaceful monastery that, at first, she can’t identify it among all the sounds of the forest. For a moment, she thinks it might have been a monkey or a bird.

  She grabs a sarong to cover her body and runs toward the sound, which seems to have come from the dining hall. Monks and nuns in varying degrees of disarray hurry in the same direction. Outside the female end of the dining hall, high up under the roof, the monk is hanging. Feet still suspended in mid-air. The killer must have used a very tall ladder or else been extremely adept at climbing. The monk’s head is covered in what appears to be burlap, his hands tied behind his back. Around his neck hangs a sign in broken English: I am traitor. A cloud of flies swarms around him, hungry for a feast. The nun who must have been the one screaming is prostrating herself in front of him. A nun will prostrate to any monk, regardless of whether he’s alive, whether
he’s an idiot or a saint, just because he is male. The other nuns follow her example while the monks stand around, confused and uncertain of what to do.

  Suddenly, Dhammakarati’s deep, clear voice is heard. “Everybody but Pemasari, Ondaatje, and Jo go back to your quarters and wait there. We will send for you once we have taken the body to the temple. Go now and meditate on death.” He makes a gesture as if to shoo them away like flies. Jo wonders why he has asked her to stay. And why he suddenly seems so impatient with his brethren.

  The monks and nuns shuffle off, eyes cast to the ground. Dhammakarati directs the two remaining monks to get a table and take the body down. They seem reluctant, as monks are wont to be in the face of physical labor, particularly if the task is distasteful. He barks something quick and angry in Sinhalese, and they spring into action. After some difficulty, they manage to get the dead monk down and lay him on the table, none too ceremoniously.

  Dhammakarati pulls off the burlap sack covering the monk’s head and mumbles, “Bhante Padman.” The two monks shiver imperceptibly while their faces remain impassive. Dhammakarati examines the monk’s neck, opens his eyelids, his mouth, and then gestures to the other monks to turn over the body and uncover it. As the robes are pulled off, an intricate pattern of deep slashes appears on the back of the body. Rough and uneven strikes, as if one person had carved while another held the body. Jo looks closer and shudders. Running a finger lightly over the marks, she exclaims, “It looks like a deliberate design. And it would seem that the wounds have only recently stopped bleeding. They can hardly have been made after he died. It’s horrible!” She searches Dhammakarati’s face, but it reveals nothing but his habitual expression of gentle firmness.

  He seems to hesitate slightly before replying. “It’s the Sinhalese sign for traitor. Whoever did this certainly wanted us to recognize the message since they went to the trouble of writing it in two languages. The question is, a traitor to whom and for what?” He doesn’t seem to expect an answer. And Jo doesn’t have any to offer.

  One of the monks holds up Padman’s soiled robes. He looks inquiringly at Dhammakarati, who rolls his head in that peculiar Indian way of nodding and the two monks set about covering the dead monk in his robes before carrying him to the temple. Jo fetches water and a cloth.

  Dhammakarati sends the two monks on an obscure task that Jo doesn’t quite catch, and while they are gone, she and Dhammakarati wash and shave Padman before dressing him in a fresh set of robes. At some point, she tries to talk to him. But he hushes her with a gruff comment about, “Later.”

  When the sun sets, the whole congregation is assembled in the temple, seated according to hierarchy. The monks first, then the nuns, and finally the laypeople. Seniority before youth. Males before females. Those who have taken vows before those who haven’t.

  One of the senior monks intones the opening chant. His voice reverberates through the humid night, a voice so full of longing it seems to carry all the sorrows of the human race. Jo shivers. After a little while, the other monks join him, and the chanting rises and falls like a human pulse. The chief monk holds a sermon in Pali, of which she understands very little, except that it is about the transience of this human life. Then the chanting starts again. She recognizes some of it but doesn’t join in. Somehow, it would seem like trespassing, as if she assumes a belonging that isn’t hers. Not yet, anyway.

  The chanting is beautiful, though.

  The monk is dead, his life is celebrated, his death accepted. Life is transient. And one cause of death is as good as any other.

  Life goes on. Except for the lives of a few people who still have to figure out why he died.

  Jo is packing a few things for the unexpected trip to New York. She’ll have to go shopping once she gets there; she has nothing suitable for metropolitan life in the bags she brought. It seems to be the bane of her life, always having to stock up on clothes and shoes in airports and hotel shops. Not that she minds, really. She considers it to be a fair price for traveling light.

  The night is warm and pleasant, the air caressing. Frogs are calling from the ponds, night birds shrieking, and regardless of the gruesome event earlier that day; there is a sense of serenity in the air. Footsteps approach her hut, and she knows for certain that somebody is coming to see her. Jo’s hut is at the far end of the compound, and nobody has any business there unless he or she wants her.

  Dhammakarati calls out, “Jo, may I have a word?” He holds out a parcel of tea. As he stands there in the soft light of the hut with a slight smile, he’s quite possibly the most handsome man she’s ever seen. She recalls the first time she saw him. The first time she experienced falling, disappearing, losing herself into the eyes of somebody else. Those brown, liquid pools that for her suddenly became the entry to eternity. She realized then, and she realizes now the banality of it. But nevertheless, for days afterward, she had wandered around in a haze of girlish dreams, feeling the ultimate gratitude for falling in love, for experiencing this unconditioned willingness to give herself to somebody else. Surrender of body and soul. The curse and blessing and madness of humanity. Fortunately, it was momentary.

  He’s the very embodiment of the spiritual warrior, the one she has longed for since her teenage days. He is a romantic hero, not the disillusioned, worldly Francis-type, but a sincere, dedicated fighter. Controlled passion. On the surface, he is calm, reasonable, and rational. But in unguarded moments, he shows a flash of something truly terrifying: the capacity to kill and to love with equal intensity.

  He’s a beautiful man. No doubt about it. She would’ve preferred him to be hideous. An external beauty such as his seems just as manipulative as the treacherous beauty of deadly snakes.

  Her stomach turns. He’s a monk, damn it, she reminds herself. But it has been so long, and he’s so alive, so clear, so glowing, so wise. And beautiful. While some monks’ robes hang loosely, wrinkled and sloppy on their bodies, Dhammakarati wears his like a king would. He’s a man molded to perfection. And a monk.

  While Jo prepares the tea, he searches her hut and almost immediately discovers the two hidden microphones. He pulls out the microphones and leaves the hut for a short while.

  “I thought we could have a chat about what happened earlier today,” he says when he returns. “Let’s sit out on the porch. Nobody will disturb us here.” He pours tea for both of them, and they sit in silence for a while, savoring the tea and the beautiful night. Dhammakarati breaks the silence.

  “Francis told me that you’ve done other jobs that involved Schwartz. Perhaps our paths have crossed earlier, without us knowing. I’ve been on a few myself. Unfortunately, none that caused any lasting damage to Schwartz’s corporation. But perhaps this one will.”

  “This one?” Jo asks guardedly. “Do you mean the one with Wharton? Or the one with the Bhante Padman?”

  “They may be connected,” he answers. “Bhante Padman was currently investigating another Schwartz case. Not a big one, but one that would have caused some embarrassing secrets to come out. I talked to him the night before he disappeared, and he seemed pleased with his progress. He wouldn’t tell me anything, though. But then again, that has always been his way keeping the cards close until he could present something complete. It would seem then that he was silenced just in time. Unless, of course, he managed to leave some information somewhere that we have yet to discover. I have somebody sitting in the communications center for constant surveillance in case something turns up.”

  “The supposedly secret center that lies behind the master’s bedroom?” Jo asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yes, I have seen it. Actually, I wandered right in, and nobody stopped me. Mind you, there were only a couple of young boys in there. Hardly enough to stop anyone who really wanted to get in there.”

  “You are mistaken. Those young boys are quite capable of stopping anybody. At least if there are no weapons involved. The reason they didn’t stop you is that you’re cleared. Have been for a
while.”

  She searches his face for a hint of irony, a trace that he might be mocking her for her naïveté but finds none. Dhammakarati is an advanced meditator and, compared with other people, has control of not only his emotions but of most of his facial micro muscles, allowing him to check his expressions and give nothing away. She’s training that very skill. Highly useful in her job. And in poker.

  Dhammakarati continues, “Since yesterday, we’ve gone through all his technical communications and, so far, we have come up with nothing. My instincts tell me that he used old-fashioned means of communicating.”

  “You don’t know?” Jo asks, surprised.

  “No. You know the game. As few people in the loop as possible. Bhante Padman ran his own small operation. Everyone but Francis and I was on a need-to-know basis.”

  “But the mark, traitor, what does that mean?”

  “Personally, I think it is a diversion. To put us off the scent and make it seem as if his own people killed him. Although thinking that we might buy that explanation is such a gross underestimation of our skills that it seems almost deliberate. To be honest, I think somebody is sending us a message.”

  “I guess I’ll know soon enough,” Jo says. “I’ll be meeting the research team and doing some investigation myself in the next few days, and I’m sure we will uncover any connection there might be.”

  “Are you always this confident?” Dhammakarati asks with a smile.

  “Well, yes, when it comes to my job, I am pretty confident.”

  “And in other parts of your life?”