The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (32 page)

He stamped me through.

I stepped outside, breathing in the crisp air. I spun round and round; at home in a place I’d never been to before. A chill wind whipped my face, and I was shocked to notice my cheeks were wet.

I was some kind of Tibetan mess, wasn’t I?

During my years in the monastery, Tibet shimmered in the background of every conversation, salted every bite of bread, sweetened every sip of tea. But it was never completely real. Now, as I stood in the wind, facing the jagged ridgeline of the Himalayas, I absorbed the deep pulsation of the Dharma and the land, and finally understood the depth of their connection to each other, and my connection to them. I felt the power and innate happiness of my tradition, felt how the wild heart of the land beats in the earth, and in the air. I understood how it was that my ancestors knew how to reconcile the animal and spiritual nature of our species.

Two hundred and fifty years ago, the sixth Dalai Lama, too, was called Tenzing. He, too, had a wild heart. He, too, was a spiritual man blessed, or cursed, with an erotic nature. As a young lama, I fell upon his poems for reassurance. Now my favorite verse of his paid a visit:

I dwell apart in the Potala.
A god on earth am I.
But when the sun goes down,
I roam the town,
A master of boisterous revelry.

He was my kind of monk, and Tibet was my kind of country. Fierce.

Tenzing. We need you.

I had to find the local Lhasa fixer, Chubchen, and quickly. The second person I asked pointed me toward the two-acre square of rubbled ground on the edge of the airport that served as a parking lot for a motley bunch of rental vehicles. Mr. Mohan was correct. Chub was there, squat, merry, raggedy, and gap-toothed. He stood guard over an equally well worn 3-wheeler. Even with his broken English and my almost nonexistent Tibetan, it was an easy deal. I handed him six hundreds, he handed me the key. If I returned the ATV in one piece, he’d give me three hundreds back. If I, or the vehicle, didn’t survive, all bets were off.

“
Gzab gzab,
” Chub warned. I vaguely recognized the word:
helmet.
Chub pointed to my Dodger cap and frowned—his fixing hadn’t extended to a
gzab gzab.

I might scrounge up safer covering for my cranium in the center of town, but there was no time. I had to get to my friends as fast as possible.

I fired up the 3-wheeler and took a few laps around the parking lot to get a feel for the vehicle before I started the long trek. I concluded the experience was somewhere between steering a burro and straddling a trike. Over an hour later I trundled around a curve and saw the Potala for the first time, a magnificent multileveled palace perched on a hill overlooking the Lhasa valley. I smiled. The location actually reminded me a little of the Getty. I pulled over to the side of the road to take a quick look, since I wouldn’t set foot on its holy ground, not this trip, anyway.

For a brief moment, I soaked in the silent grandeur of the immense, sprawling structure, a monument to the Buddha that took thousands of workers many years to complete. Some said the hillside itself still harbored a sacred cave, used as a meditation retreat in the seventh century. Centuries of contemplation, centuries of compassion. It was humbling.
I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, the supreme Sangha.
I bowed to the home of my spiritual ancestors.
I take refuge in my teachers.

I restraddled my ungainly mount and hit the throttle.

I steered around the outskirts of Lhasa and up into the hills. The gravel road petered out, replaced by narrow yak trails skirting high above a river gorge. A gust of wind sent my Dodger cap soaring to the bottom of the thousand-foot ravine. My trusty ATV and I dodged boulders, branches, and piles of yak dung. On the positive side, since I’d left the main road, the only bipeds I’d seen were Tibetan hill people—no Chinese officials in evidence.

I was hungry, thirsty, and battered from the bumps in the road. I was beyond jet-lagged as well—Monday or Friday, morning or evening, I hadn’t a clue. But I pressed on. I had to find Dip-Dorje before I lost the light. The final few miles of twisted, rocky trail required my final few ounces of focus. Close to the top, the wind changed direction, blowing hard down the slope and straight into my face. I paused to put on my wraparound sunglasses, tightening them in the back with their little leash. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, but at least I could see where I was going.

Finally the trail widened, and I saw the whipping prayer flags and colorful turrets of a little monastery up the slope to my right, just past a few stone huts. A gaggle of children, streaked with grime, giggled and shrieked as they played some sort of jumping game in the courtyard. I chugged up the path and braked to a halt. They fell silent, staring at me in astonishment.

In an instant I was surrounded. I tried out a greeting in my rusty Tibetan, and they hooted and crowed at my pronunciation. Then they asked me where I was going—at least I’m pretty sure they did. In any case, I pointed to Dip-Dorje. They led the way, filling the trail with happy chatter as my machine and I crept behind them. I was still wearing my sunglasses, and I was sure no movie star ever had a better entourage.

I dismounted and bowed my thanks. They scampered down the hill to their homes.

I stretched my creaky bones and tight muscles.

“Tenzing! Is it possible?” a familiar voice cried behind me. I straightened up and spun around, grinning at the sight of my soul brother Lobsang. I threw open my arms. “
Tah-shi de-leh,
Lobsang
.
I am happy to see you, my friend.” My smile faded. Lobsang’s round face was pinched with worry.

“No time,” he said. “No time! It’s Yeshe!”

He grabbed my arm and hurried me to a small door in the back of the monastery. He lit a candle and pulled me inside. The flickering light illuminated our way up the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor. He opened a door in the hallway and whispered “Yeshe. Our brother, Tenzing, is here.” He pushed me inside.

Yeshe lay still, on a rough mattress on the floor. His face was slick with sweat.

“Yeshe!” I ran to his side and knelt. I took his hands in mine. The palms were hot, and papery dry. Yeshe moaned.

“How long has he been like this, Lobsang?”

“Three days,” Lobsang said. “He scratched his ankle, gathering wood. It seemed like nothing.”

I pulled the covers down. The scratch was badly infected. His right ankle was swollen to twice its normal size, and the hot, red skin was speckled with white spots.

I thought of Heather’s autopsy—how quickly untreated sepsis can kill.

I jumped to my feet and ran downstairs and back outside to the ATV. I grabbed the first aid kit.
Please. Please have what I need.

My fingers trembling, I unzipped the kit and rummaged through its contents.

“Hah!” I pounced on the small tube of Neosporin and Z-pack of six miraculous pills.

I ran back upstairs. “Antibiotics. These will stop the infection,” I said. Lobsang hurried over with a cup of water, and together we lifted Yeshe upright. I placed a pill far back on his tongue and Lobsang tipped the cup to Yeshe’s lips. He swallowed the pill, his throat working.

“Can you bring me a clean, wet cloth and some hot water?”

I washed the infected area, trying not to press on the painful swelling. Then I applied the cream to his wound. The simple act touched my heart deeply, and I had to blink back tears. As I wrapped his ankle with a second clean cloth, Yeshe’s breathing slowed. In moments, he was asleep.

“He has to take all six of the pills, Lobsang.” My words came out in a rush. “Do you understand? All six. He could have died. One more day and . . . “

“Tenzing.”

I looked up. Lobsang met my eyes, his full of compassion. He opened his arms. I stood up and walked straight into his rough embrace.

I took a step back. We studied each other. His squat powerful body had thickened over the years.

“At least one of you looks healthy,” I said. A grin plastered his face.

“Come eat with me,” he said. “Then we will talk.”

I followed Lobsang downstairs, through the kitchen and into a dining room, where monks were slurping and ahhing over yak-butter tea. They were all in their 50s and 60s, their skin leathered from the harsh Tibetan climate.

Lobsang ladled out lentil soup and a generous mound of rice. We sat cross-legged on the floor, guzzling straight from our bowls, using fingers to convey little wads of rice into our mouths. After my afternoon trek, a boiled shoe would have tasted pretty good, but this simple soup of yellow lentils, flavored with cumin and some other spices I didn’t recognize, was delicious—deep and rich, and tasting of comfort.

Lobsang poured two mugs of homemade beer, or
chang
. Chang tastes more like fermented orange juice than ale, and I’d gotten a gloomy headache from it more than once in my past, but under the circumstances, it would do just fine. Anyway, I owed it to Lobsang to keep him company—he had always loved the tart brew.

I stopped after half a mug—the fermentation was speeding directly to my brain. Lobsang drained his mug and eyed mine. I handed it over, and it was gone in one gulp. I waited, smiling.

“
Brrraapppp!
” There it was, the traditional postchang belch of appreciation. Between the three of us, Lobsang had always been the champion burper. It was our signal to talk.

He leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. He cocked his head, as if measuring my features.

“What?”

“You won’t like hearing this, but you look very much as your father did, when I first met him.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Still the same Tenzing. Still denying your inheritance.” Lobsang smiled. “So you saw him?”

I’d forgotten how few words we actually needed to communicate.

“Yes,” I said. “But I’d rather wait for Yeshe to talk about it.”

Lobsang nodded.

“So how are you?” I said. “How is . . . “ I waved my arm around the room. “ . . . all this?”

Lobsang’s domed forehead furrowed slightly. “I must confess something. There are times I think of you with envy in my heart, my friend. Your life is . . . Well, the things you used to write to us about, the people you’ve met, your work. Since we’ve moved,” he gestured. “Nothing ever happens here. Nothing.”

I understood completely. That’s why I’d left Dharamshala in the first place. I hadn’t wanted to spend my existence with my eyes closed, life happening elsewhere. But leaving was not without its own consequences.

“Sometimes I think of your world with envy in
my
heart,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Just so. The things you see must sicken you. I can imagine you might long at times for a place where nothing happens.”

“I’m sorry you were sent here,” I said. “I know my father gave the order, but I am responsible.”

“You must not worry yourself. Nobody is in control of anybody else’s existence. Our karma brought us here; yours brought you to where you are. Your father’s karma . . . well, let’s just say it will take him wherever it takes him.”

“Still, there’s something I don’t understand,” I said, when a cheer swelled from the dining room, where monks were still congregated. In a moment Yeshe limped his slow, unsteady way to us.

“Yeshe! What are you doing? You need to stay in bed!” Lobsang scolded.

Yeshe smiled. “Yes, mother. It’s just—I had to make sure Tenzing was really here, and not some spirit, conjured up by fever.”

He swayed a little, and we both sprang to our feet.

“Bed,” Lobsang repeated.

We helped him upstairs and back under fresh covers. His fever had already broken. Lobsang marveled at the healing power of western medicine, and I puffed up a little, as if the credit was mine to claim. Lobsang made a bed for me on the floor, using two yak-hair blankets for a mattress, and another to cover up with. He blew out the candle and we were enveloped in dense darkness. Soon, though, we were speaking to each other across the shadows, just as we’d always done.

“Yeshe, are you still awake?”

“Yes.”

“Lobsang?’

“Yes.”

“I have to ask you both. I know my father sent you here to Lhasa, so my letters could no longer find you. But why couldn’t I find you with my mind?”

There was a long silence.

“You have lived for some time now in a world where the practice of obedience is perhaps not common,” Lobsang said. “We took a vow, Tenzing.”

“Your father forbade us from contacting you,” Yeshe added. “He is still our abbot.”

I tasted anger, and beneath it, hurt. “We also vowed to always stay in touch,” I said. “To take refuge in our sangha of friendship.”

I could hear the smile in Lobsang’s answer. “As you may have realized, I recently came to the same conclusion. Especially when our mutual friend here managed to force the issue by hurting himself.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Yeshe said.

“Hurting yourself?”

“No. Hurting you.”

We breathed together quietly.

“Anything else?” Lobsang said. “Just so you know, Yeshe, I’ve already admitted my envy to Tenzing.”

“I envy you as well,” Yeshe said. “But not for your adventures. I envy your access to books, your exposure to different philosophies and spiritual systems.” He sighed. “I only know the one.”

“Hey,” I said. “It’s a great one to know.”

“I know, I know, the Dharma is a perfect transmission, but what about the rest? Don’t others find theirs perfect, too?”

It was a big question, especially for this time of night. Too big for me, but maybe not too big for technology. Anyway, I was dying to see my friends’ expressions at my new toy. I felt my way to my backpack and pulled out the Kindle. I turned it on—the battery was still strong. I shone my little clip-on light onto the screen. Lobsang and I joined Yeshe on his bed, and we huddled around the Kindle, like cavemen clustered around the first fire. I clicked a few times until I could pull up my latest favorite spiritual tome. I found the page I wanted, and pressed the Kindle into Yeshe’s hands. I pointed to the first line.