Chapter 13

The awning was strung with red lanterns, hanging in lines of ten from side to side and the man remembered that when lit at night the illusion was surreal. The path was stepped, but the slope up to the destination was not great and each step stretched horizontally for a few strides before a small vertical reach. Even so, it took the suited man’s breath, and when the monk scurried through the third or fourth bend and disappeared, he stopped to rest. He took off his jacket and hung it over a hand rail that was following the steps up. The path continued on around the shoulder of a small, wooded hill, and when he leaned on the rail and looked, he could just see the beginnings of a monastery building, coming into view through the haze of the morning. He swore—it was still some distance away. He turned his head back and gazed out from the hill—the city below was invisible: too far away on a hazy morning. A breeze whispered through the grass at the edge of the path and the man, still slouching against the rail, pulled up the tails of his shirt to get its cooling effect. He hawked and spat and for a moment, like a hot dog, he left his tongue hanging out, towards the distant smoggy city. He stepped back and tugged at his hanging jacket, coming away with a red box, from which he tapped out a cigarette. But he didn’t reach for a lighter; a screech from a circling kite distracted him and he pushed off from the rail with the unlighted cigarette limp between his fingers, below the jacket that he now slung over his forearm. He began to slog on, following a yellow butterfly that seemed to be leading the way.

Cackling monkeys, buzzing cicadas, and cawing birds provided many welcome breaks: he heaved to, panting, and listened to them all.

Rounding a bend he saw his guide waiting at an entrance. He recognised the two stone pillars between which the young man stood. Each had been carved into guards and were turreted at their tops, with miniature, ornate roofs. He watched the monk brush at his blue-grey robes then smile for the first time—but not at him.

Within yards of the statuary, puffing and blowing like a dragon, the man staggered to a halt. He squinted on through the pillars; his memory was hazy but he sensed that things had changed. It was as if in those brief few years of absence the buildings had lived a lifetime, grown old and sick, begun to die. The forest had seen its inheritance and was already pushing in, eager to stake its claim. Vines and creepers first, trees following. He relaxed a little and wiped his sweaty brow; he wanted to ask what had befallen the monastery, why the difference, but by now knew better than to ask his guide.

The monk stopped smiling, backed between the pillars, and swivelled: another whirr of grey-blue robes and shiny, olive skin.

The man sighed deeply and with his dropped eyes followed a line of sweat as it ran along the tendons of his clawed hand. The unlighted cigarette! He held it up for inspection then with a muttered curse he tossed it away into the undergrowth.

Without a sound the monk lifted his black-slippered feet and hurried off between the broken, mossy walls.

The man trundled after him, following as best he could, but was soon lost amongst crumbling pagodas, falling pavilions, and eerie, empty buildings. He felt the silence, almost shocking after nature’s raucous applause that had clapped him on his way as he sweated up the hill. The forest had arrived; but not its insects, birds, and monkeys, and their deafening noise.

Minutes later, hot, lost and disoriented, he stumbled over a tuberous root into a small courtyard, just in time to see the grey-blue robes vanish through an iron-strutted, wooden door, into a shadow. He pinched off his sunglasses and with squinting eyes following the monk in.

‘Mr. Lee,’ a soft voice called out to him from nowhere.

The man heard the words but his stabbing eyes could not find their speaker. In confusion, he pirouetted, like a drunk ballet dancer. A full circle, without the grace, but not a sign of the man who’d spoken.

And then at the very corner of his eye a body joined the disconnected voice and the wispy presence of an old man materialised, white-haired, robed, and uttering the soft incantations of a welcome.

The man jumped away then turned to face the old monk. ‘Master Long,’ he said, ’I wish you wouldn’t do that.’ Sweat rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his jaw. He pushed a forefinger into the bridge of his sunglasses.

‘So sorry, so sorry,’ Long said. Cool. He shook his head, gently swaying his long white hair. ‘But Mister Lee, you must learn to relax and be aware. I was here all the time.’ His words were smooth and dripped like liquid caramel. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ He paused. ‘I do hope your guide, Xin, wasn’t too impolite.’ He gestured towards the building into which the blue-grey robes had vanished. ‘He’s silent for the week. Getting too wordy, needs time to empty himself. A man full of knowledge knows nothing. Xin is learning.‘

Lee nodded, politely, his breathing now under control. ‘You know, Master Long, you should really get a telephone; it would save me a lot of time.’

‘Time, Mister Lee; man’s most wicked invention. Come let’s go and be with the banyan tree; we can talk there.’ He then produced a small metal cymbal from somewhere in his grey robes and suspended it from the red cord that pierced its centre. He struck it with a metal rod; a chime left the cymbal and rang around the courtyard. A young monk appeared, almost at once, as if he’d been poised in the shadows, waiting for this very moment. He padded over to the old man and dropped his shaved head in respect. The elder monk called him by his family name prefixed with his lowly rank in the monastery:

‘Novice Lin, our guest needs tea and fruit. Please leave some with the banyan tree.’

Novice Lin’s eyes rose to his masters as a sign that he’d understood, but he said nothing, then padded away.

‘Another vow of silence?’ Lee asked.

‘No, certainly not. Novice Lin came to us fairly empty. Nature has been very kind to him and decided that he should live without voice.’

‘You mean he’s mute?’ Lee said

‘He can talk, but not with a voice like you and me.’

Lee nodded again, politely.

‘How long is it since you were last with us, Mister Lee? My memory fails me often these years. Do remind me . . .’

Lee put on his sunglasses and said: ‘I suppose it was the year that you first came up here. I don’t think I have seen you since then.’

‘Aghh, Mister Lee, I remember, I remember. Such an unfortunate time for us all. Come let’s walk a little.’

Lee followed the old man out of the courtyard. ‘Master Long, you never come down to the city? he said.

‘No, I am quite content up here in the hills; and when I need to be alone, I go further up, to where I began.’

Lee had heard about the old monk’s cave, way up in the mountains somewhere; he didn’t know exactly where it was and didn’t ask. ‘You could start again down in the city,’ he said, ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘No, Mister Lee. Move on and don’t look back. Life is a movement without beginning and without end. We must keep moving.’

‘We have uncovered few secrets about our friend down there; nothing we can prove yet but we could make his life much more difficult for him, make a space for someone like you.’

‘Mister Lee, Mister Lee.’ The old man raised his arm. ‘Release yourself from this grudge. Stoke the fire of your anger and let it burn down to a flickering flame of awareness. You must be with it in order to be without.’

Jon Lee turned away, amazed at the old man’s lack of indignation. If he had been the old monk, he would have rode down to the temple with blazing guns a long time ago.

‘Come let’s drink some tea.’

They had reached a huge tree at the edge of the monastery grounds. A small table, nestled in amongst the vertical roots, had been set with a steaming clay pot, two glasses, and a large bowl of fruit.

‘Please sit,’ the old man said, motioning to one of the stools at the table. He himself chose a smooth stretch of almost-horizontal root on which to seat himself.

‘I have come about the boy,’ Lee said.

‘Yes, I know. Your friends were here a few days ago: Fat and Mao, such nice gentlemen.’

‘You know, I . . .’

The old monk raised his hand, ‘Mister Lee, we need not talk about the boy. A most unfortunate affair for us all.’ He leaned forward from his root, turned over the two glasses, and poured.

‘Of course,’ Lee said. ‘But I must tell you that an American will be coming in a day or two. I will try to keep him out of the way, but he might want to come up here. He might want to see you . . . I can’t . . .’

‘Mister Lee, what will be, will be; everything will be fine. Let him do what he needs to do. You do what you have to do.’

Lee was silent for a moment. He fingered a slice of guava in the bowl but he didn’t take it. ‘But I still don’t understand why . . .’

‘Mister Lee, what you perceive is not what-is; clear your mind to cut the illusion.’