The Colour of Heaven (20 page)

Paolo watched the stars and the colour of the night sky through all its clouds and clarity and wanted to tell Aisha that now he saw as she did. He saw the moon as a crescent illuminated against a darker sphere. Before, it had always been a patch of white. Now he could see its dark planes and far craters.

When he returned he told Chen how the world served only to remind him of the suffering it contained, the love he had lost, and the futility of his own existence.

‘I am sorry to hear you say this.’

‘I am sorry to feel it. What can I do?’

‘If the sky does not bring you comfort then you must go to see my father.’

‘He will help me?’

‘He is a holy man. He does not always speak. But he knows of the sorrows of the world. That is why he has withdrawn from it.’

‘But does he see the world clearly? With all its faults and yet know what it is to live within it? Does he believe there is a purpose, even if this life is all there is?’

‘It is his only concern, his daily hope,’ replied Chen.

It was the eighth day of the fourth moon. Approached through a grove of elms and poplars, the caves of the Ch’ien-fo-tung lay to the southeast on a steep bare slope of the Altyn Tagh range of mountains. Inscribed silken banners hung from the cliffs, stretching hundreds of feet down to the ground. A honeycomb of rock temples paid tribute to the dream of Lo-tsun, a monk who once had a vision of a thousand Buddhas in a cloud of glory.

The head lama was a small man who combined religious certainty with an air of distrust, as if he were far more confident of the next life than he was of this. He asked if Paolo had come to trade or to seek wisdom. If the former, then he required candles, lamp oil, small metal cups, and bowls; if the latter, then his journey need go no further.

The caves stretched back into the darkness, each lit by a series of small flames. Here people prepared to scale the ladder, climb the tree, cross the perilous bridge, ford the river or ascend the mountain to the blaze of heaven. Some of the monks were making images: first in straw, and then covering them with clay before firing, glazing, and firing again. Others contemplated the paintings on the dark walls: Avalokitesvara with eleven heads and a thousand arms, cock-headed demons on pothi leaves, the lotus pond of paradise, or scenes from the life of the Buddha. Pilgrims lit silver lamps at shrines whose light pierced the darkness of the sky. Travellers intoned from sacred texts, made offerings, and burned incense, either praying for protection as they embarked on the start of their journey over the silk route, or thanking the gods for their safe return.

Chen’s father was meditating.

He was a tall man with a shaved head and an expression that was more determined than serene. He wore a yellow robe, and sat perfectly still, his twisted feet bent back in the lotus position. His strength and vigour suggested that he must once have been a warrior.

Chen and Paolo sat and watched.

An hour passed.

Paolo looked at every head and every arm of the painting of Avalokitesvara on the wall of the cave; he tried to analyse what made each detail different but could only surmise that they all seemed the same.

Another hour passed.

He wondered what it would be like to walk around with eleven heads. Was one head in charge of the other ten, or were they all equal? Were there eleven brains, each with different roles and responsibilities? And what must it be like to carry a thousand arms with you as you walked? There must be five hundred on each side of the body. Paolo thought that reproduction would also be a problem but he supposed that the gods were beyond such desires. Still, he thought, it would involve a great deal of grappling if it ever happened, never mind the eleven heads.

Paolo listened to the monk’s breathing. It was shallow, almost imperceptible, with a long intake and a slow release. The three men sat in silence. When Paolo could bear it no longer he asked Chen if anything else might happen.

‘Those who speak know nothing; those who know are silent.’

Finally the father opened his eyes, although he kept staring ahead.

Paolo realised that this was the only event of any interest that had happened in the previous four hours.

‘This is Paolo,’ Chen said at last.

The monk turned, nodded, and remained silent. Perhaps he was still in a trance.

‘I am troubled,’ Paolo said quietly. ‘Now I have spectacles I see the world too clearly.’

Chen’s father answered at last. ‘And what do you see?’

Paolo paused and wondered what he did see. The central line of wrinkles on the monk’s forehead. His small brown eyes. The saffron of his gown. The flower floating in the bowl of water in front of him. He looked away, out to a bamboo grove in the distance.

‘I see the leaf of every tree.’

The monk nodded, as if he understood; but how could he know what it was like? How could he live as Paolo lived?

‘Then take time to study.’

‘Every leaf?’

‘Each leaf. Or one leaf. From spring through to summer. Its rise and its sap, the greening and the fall. In one year you will understand all years.’

He had already spent one night looking at the sky darken and then lighten again. ‘You want me to spend a year looking at a leaf?’

‘It is not me who should want such a thing. I have no wants and no wishes. It is you who must want it: as the leaf needs to grow and then fall, so must you.’

‘Such a long time.’

‘One of our ancestors, Bodhidharma, spent nine years in meditation facing a wall. Great things are disclosed through the small. You will be glad of the leaf.’

‘And if I cannot do this?’

‘Come to me again when you can.’

For the next few days Paolo tried to ignore the monk’s advice but found that the idea would not leave his head. He must try such an experiment, however absurd. Perhaps he would learn more from standing still than he ever had from travelling.

His only mistake was to tell Salek and Jacopo.

‘I do not understand,’ said Jacopo. ‘First you want to stay with that woman. Now you want to live with a leaf.’

‘How will you ever return home?’ asked Salek.

‘I will come whenever you are ready,’ Paolo replied.

‘Then we look forward to hearing of your adventures.’ Jacopo smiled. ‘Perhaps the leaf would like to join us on our return? I anticipate much philosophical conversation both with the leaf, and, indeed, upon it.’

Paolo walked out to find a cherry tree at the end of a long avenue on the edge of the town. The ground was damp with dew. He attempted the lotus position, just as the monk had sat, but could not manoeuvre his legs in the correct manner. Never had his body seemed so unyielding, as if his limbs were too long. In fact he could not find a single position in which he could relax and concentrate. He tried to lie on his side, but the ground felt even harder. There was a chill in the air, and he found that he could think of nothing but the damp earth beneath him.

‘Om,’ he said, half-heartedly.

Nothing happened.

‘Om, Om, Om, Om.’

He wondered if he should abandon this activity, but to return now, so soon, would admit failure, and he could not face scorn from Jacopo or laughter from Salek.

An hour passed before he decided to lie down on his back and look up at the tree, watching the light filter through the leaves.

He was surprised by the difference between the leaves. Upon which one should he concentrate? Perhaps this was the message of the monk: to find his own life in the midst of so many.

He looked at a branch already gnarled with age.

A pale-green leaf, lighter than jade, nestled under a piece of blossom.

He wondered if he could not meditate because he was frightened of what he might find. Perhaps that is why he had never stopped for long enough to think further on what his life had meant and what it might become.

There was a light breeze and the tree began to sway. A flock of cranes flew low against the horizon.

Paolo watched the leaf cling to the tree. Would it weaken in the wind or darken in the sun? Would it hold the rain? How would it nourish itself?

He wanted to look at the trunk of the tree and sense the sap rising, the tree nourishing itself from the earth, but did not want to take his eyes away from the leaf. He wondered if he should be hungry or thirsty, and then, as he gazed at the leaf, he began to lose the sense of his own body, its dampness and its discomfort.

‘I could lie here for ever,’ he thought.

He began to concentrate on his own breathing. He tried to slow down his heartbeat, and to become aware only of his breath, keeping the leaf alive. Every exhalation, steady and regular, reached out towards the leaf.

His breath. And the leaf.

He now lived in the moment alone. He was outside both memory and time. If the dreams came again, then they came. And if death came, then it came.

Now he wanted to look at the leaf in a different way, examining the curve of its side, its undulation, and its resolution, the fineness of its point.

He stood up and reached for the branch, pulling it down towards him so that he could study it more closely.

The branch bent, cracking quietly as Paolo examined the dark-green sheen on the surface. Should he touch it, feeling its fragility in his hands? Or should he test its strength? How sharply would he have to pull to sever the leaf from the tree? How much before its time would the leaf then die?

Or, if he let nature take its course, how long would he have to wait for the leaf to fall of its own accord? How brown would it have become? Or how yellow?

As dusk fell he reached out and held it gently between his fingers. He looked at the broad expanded blade, the stalk-like petiole, and the veins. He ran his finger along the margin and wondered if it could ever draw blood. Then he lifted the branch, raising it up against starlight and watched the moon against the clouds. In the distance he could hear the laughter and the fires of the town, cries in the night, gongs, firecrackers.

And so he stood, for three days and for three nights. At times he was aware that people had come to watch the sight of the man and the leaf, but he neither turned to greet them nor acknowledged their presence. Well-wishers left bowls of rice and cups of water but it was strange to eat and drink. All that he needed to do was to hold on to the leaf, examining every pore, stroking the sheen between his fingers, testing the firmness of its stalk, watching it age.

Was the transience of the leaf his life or an image of beauty held in a moment, a glimpse of the perfection of heaven? He understood now why he had been sent to think on these things, and that they were both ridiculous and true at the same time.

On the fourth day he decided that he was ready to let go.

He did not know why he had chosen this day. Perhaps the day had chosen him. He took his hand away, and, almost immediately, the leaf fell, turning gently in the air, landing on the grass.

He looked at it lying on the ground for another hour.

Then he picked it up and took it to the monk.

At the caves K’otan, the chief priest, was greeting pilgrims with the image of the Amitabha Buddha.

‘He who desires by meditation upon Buddha and by performance and austerities to obtain birth in the Pure Land, let him first in a clean place put this holy image, with a due portion of perfumes and flowers as his offering. Whensoever he comes into the presence of the holy one let him with undisturbed heart lay together the palms of his hands, put away all distraction, and bend his will to the task of calling upon Amitabha’s name, doing reverence, saying,
Praise to Amitabha Buddha of the Region of Sukhavati, maker of the forty-eight vows, the Great Merciful, Great Compassionate
…’

Although Paolo wanted to consult Chen’s father, he could see that the way was blocked with pilgrims.

‘Say it ten times,’ K’otan instructed. ‘
Praise to Amitabha Buddha of the Region of Sukhavati, maker of the forty-eight vows, the Great Merciful, Great Compassionate
…’

Paolo began to chant.

‘Now give praise to the Great Merciful, Great Compassionate ones of the Sukhavati Region and of the various holy Bodhisattvas and to all sages and saints.’

Paolo gave praise.

‘Now concentrate all your thoughts upon repeating the name of the Amitabha Buddha ten thousand times.’

Ten thousand! How long would that take? Three hours? Four? He wanted to see Chen’s father but the other pilgrims had already begun.

Paolo wondered if he could slip away once they had achieved trance.

He began to say the name, repeating it so often that he almost fell asleep. When he came to he found it hard to concentrate on what he saw, but the other supplicants were now all in a state of deep meditation.

‘Now let us say the name of Avalokitesvara, Mahasthamaprapta, and the holy Bodhisattvas one hundred and eight times.’

For Paolo, this was enough.

‘By virtue of this invocation and repetition of the name of Buddha your merit will be abundantly increased and throughout the planes of existence all sentient beings will desire to hear the Good Voice, and will learn the Right Invocation, and be born again in the land of Amitabha.’