Chapter 4

‘Damn you,’ he said at the closed door, ‘damn you. Haven’t I enough to attend to already?’

Ma curled his fingers into fists and made to thump the table but he never made contact and his animated indignation soon evaporated in the heat.

Presently, the robed Ma stood up and shuffled across to the barred window of his hot and dingy little office. He leaned against a pile of papers, stacked high against the wall and peered out into a simmering courtyard, secluded at the rear of the temple grounds. His duties had just multiplied and he wondered how he would cope and even whether he wanted to cope or not. What was the point, he asked himself. Fang would get all the credit again, all the glory—and most of the money. And he would remain stuck in this gloomy little office, on the assistant’s rung, still looking up—forever ignored by the temple worshipers. Ma slid a brochure from the top of a stack and looked down at the Abbot’s grinning face.

‘Damn you,’ he said as the paper crumpled into his closing fist.

Ma scratched at his chest then returned to his desk, draping his pale-orange robes over the wicker chair. He reached for the telephone, but pulled back without touching it.

‘Damn,’ he said aloud. ‘What’s happening to me?’

He grabbed a sheet of temple-headed paper and scribbled a few numbers before breaking the point of his pencil, scarring the smooth white surface. He threw down the pencil and jarred open a desk-drawer, yanking out a tatty, hardback notebook. After flipping over a few of its pages, he held the book up to his face and read out a number. He dialled.

‘Hello,’ Ma said into the receiver, scratching himself again in the same manner as before.

‘Hello,’ a voice came back. ‘Hello, is that you, Assistant Ma?’

‘Mmm . . . yes, yes; it’s me . . . eghh . . .’

‘Gin. It’s me Gin. Are you alright Ma? You sound a little . . . different.’

‘Gin, yes . . . Gin.’ The empty picture frame in Ma’s mind suddenly filled with the colourful Mr. Gin from across the street. Gin’s scarred, round face was smiling out from the bosom of his family: his baby son bounced on his knee, his garrulous old mother yapped away over his shoulder, and his beautiful wife busied herself with the pleasing of them all.

‘I’m fine thanks,’ Ma replied at last, ‘just a funny turn, that’s all, sorry. I’m so busy at the moment, get a little confused, you know. Where are you? It’s so noisy I can hardly hear you. Are you outside?’

‘Yes, I’m across the street with the family; you know what day it is today; we are paying our respects. I just saw you arrive in your car. Wait a second I’ll walk inside.’ Gin’s voice disappeared and, slowly, so did the background din of laughter, traffic, and the roar of fire.

Ma did not admire this family man’s profession (he considered his services more suitable for a circus than a temple) but this was a business call—The Three Treasures needed Gin and his friends for the big night. Ma heard a door slam and then Gin came back on:

‘So what can I help you with Ma?’

‘You just told me: it’s that time of year again. We need you at the full moon; can you get something together?

‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ve been expecting your call. Always happy to oblige the good Abbot.’

Ma sighed at the mention of Fang and wanted to hang up. He scratched himself, more vigorously this time, then continued to speak into the receiver:

‘I wish we could do things differently this year.’ He was solemn. ‘Not so many theatrics; less entertainment; something more spiritual; something to make the people think and not just something to marvel at.’

Ma’s voice steadily grew stronger as the remnants of his recent indignation returned to him. He continued:

‘Every year The Abbot has to out-do the previous year: more fire, more blood, more money. This year he even wants me to bribe the provincial television station into coming along. Says it’ll be good for attendance.’

‘You mean that I’m going to be on TV?’ Gin butted in.

‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

‘What do you mean, "sorry"? That’s great. I mean it’ll be as good for us as it will be for you: publicity, future bookings . . . ’

Ma took the receiver away from his ear and frowned. It was hopeless to expect more from this man; he was little more than a showman after all. The congregation could not be spiritually uplifted while people such as Gin and Abbot Fang were around. ‘Gin,’ he said, silencing him on the other end. ‘Gin, I just want things to change around here. You have your business to attend to, I suppose, that’s your concern. I’m stuck at this temple and I’m getting tired of waiting. Goodbye.’

Ma hung up abruptly without waiting for another word from Gin. He slumped back into his chair, still agitated. He put both hands up to his shoulders, and, grabbing at the cotton, he pulled up his robes, trying to let in some air to cool his chaffing skin. It had little effect. Swinging his right leg out from the depths beneath his desk, he kicked the old electric fan that was sitting on the stone floor next to him. It scraped sideways on the flags and redirected the breeze of warm air up towards him.

Ma leaned back in the creaking wicker chair, careful not to let the cotton rub his chest. His heavy eyelids dropped and slowly his mind drifted off into an enlightened future. A future where the Three Treasures offered real spiritual guidance to the worshippers who thronged its shrines and courtyards. A time of joy and wonder. A time where the little-known assistant would rise up to lead the congregation forwards into knowledge and light. Things could be so different, if only . . . . Fang’s smiling face popped up into Ma’s flight of fancy and he quickly came to, as if he had been slapped on the back. He scratched at his chest before settling back again with a squeak from the rickety chair.

This time his mind drifted back over the years he had given to the Abbot and his temple. He had been at Fang’s right hand for more years than he cared to remember. They had worked furiously together in the beginning to build up the reputation of the Three Treasures Temple, changing it from a small shrine to a single land-god into a booming pay-and-pray enterprise, with altars and shrines to every god in the pantheon. Exactly when it had begun to go wrong he couldn’t remember; maybe there wasn’t an exact date that could be attached to it. It was more of a parting of personalities than anything. Nothing dramatic had happened: they hadn’t fought or even quarrelled. On a better day than this he might have put it down to fate, but today he was not being so kind to his superior.

He opened his eyes and grimaced up at the framed picture of Fang that hung on his dingy office wall. That photograph had been taken years ago when the suave Abbot had played the celebrity, ingratiating himself with the rulers of the city, following power and money with a keen nose. Ma, the underling, meanwhile, had been left to the unglamorous job of the day-to-day running of the temple.

Ma reached for a string of prayer beads that he often used to control his rage—it was lying on his desk, under a pile of parchment that would soon have to be turned into prayer sheets. At least he still had his belief, he thought, what did Fang have? What would be waiting for him on the other side?

He started to count off the black beads with his sweaty fingers, trying to let go of Fang, but he never got beyond five or six without his master’s smug face popping up before him, grinning, taunting. He was prickly again and quickly swapped the beads into his left hand, his right hand darting beneath his robe to the delicate and tender skin, where the nails scratched out a few seconds’ relief. He leaned forward, letting his robe gape open, dropped his chin, and peered down at his chest. He tensed and broke out into a tingly sweat when his eyes caught the huge blotchy rash that ran from his right collar-bone down towards his navel. He dropped the beads from his left hand; they clattered to the floor.

In the panic, his mind flashed back five years; it was happening all over again: first the rage, then the rash, and finally . . . . He breathed deeply, trying to steady himself, bring himself out of disbelief. How had he treated it the last time? A balm! Yes, he would need to get to the herbalist as quickly as he could. But had that worked before? He saw the spreading red skin as just the beginning of his problems, and his mind spun with images of what might become of it. Pain and remorse at what had happened those five years before seeped into the swirl of fear. He again pulled the cotton of his robe away from his chest, trying to fan in some air.

For the last five years, Ma had successfully blotted that miserable episode from his mind: his missed opportunity, his chance that had been snatched from him by a mysterious and diabolical hand. But now it came flooding back as he realised what was happening to him.

His mind swam with images of a younger Fang, ugly in his ambitions for spiritual supremacy of the city. Fallen pretenders to his throne. A viper’s head conspiring in its chambers; a beguiling face publicly attacking; an angry voice privately threatening. His work was done swiftly: banishment for the lucky; subjugation for the unfortunate, forever in thrall to the grinning Abbot. Unbidden, the serene old monk floated into Ma’s spinning mind, long white hair dancing on his shoulders. The cave-dwelling hermit, down in the city, making a name for himself on abstinence and charity: Fang’s nemesis. Ma pictured a desperate Abbot being beaten back in his own kingdom, giving way, sharing the spoils. Enraged, Fang had sunk to new depths of malfeasance and dishonour, from where he had swiped at the old monk. Ma saw the trapped tiger paw through his cage.

Ma came to, trying to shake off his reverie—a shame he could not face. He had been there, a witness, when Fang had played his hand—a hand dealt by the devil. The white-haired old monk had stopped dancing, turned, and fled, back to his crag in the side of a mountain.

Ma leaned forward and pinched at his forehead; another image: Fang’s dirty trail. The Abbot had misplaced his trust in his assistant and had exposed too much—Ma had thought he could rid the temple of its master.

He shuddered, dropping his hand from his forehead as his chest ignited into flames. He was reliving the last time he had plotted for the Abbot’s downfall.