By Elsie Sze
(Second of Two Excerpts)
The following comes from The Heart of the Buddha (2009, Emerald Book Co, 231 pages, US$14.95), the latest novel by Elsie Sze, one of Canada’s most-talented authors. She writes this story about twin sisters, one of whom has vanished in the Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan, bringing the other in search of her.
“For every visitor to Bhutan, it is a sin not to see the Taktshang Monastery,” said Karma, pointing to a big framed poster in the lobby of Paro’s Hotel Druk the next morning. It was the picture of an isolated monastery perched on a bare and vertical cliff. “The monastery was built on a granite cliff 900 meters above the Paro Valley. It was heavily damaged by a fire last year. Still, it is awesome.”
I smiled at his use of the attribute, which he must have picked up from his North American clients. “Why did they build it on such a high cliff?” I asked, to show polite interest, although my mind was far from the partially ruined structure on the rock.
“Guru Rimpoche flew here from Tibet in the eighth century, on the back of a flaming tigress, and landed where the monastery is today. He meditated in a cave there. He brought Buddhism to Bhutan,” explained Karma, doing his guide’s spiel. “The monastery was first built in 1684 on that sacred site. We call it the Tiger’s Nest. Maybe we can see it when you come back to Paro, before you leave.”
“Yes, maybe on my way back, if things work out favourably,” I said, too preoccupied at the moment to be interested in a guru riding on a flying tigress to meditate in a cave.
At breakfast, I mapped out for Karma my initial plans. When we reached Thimphu, my first place of call would be the public library, in case Marian had left word with someone there about her plans before she left. Then the Pelri Guesthouse. Then there was Mrs Campbell’s grand-daughter, Tashi Campbell, whom I wanted to question. Karma assured me there would be no problem finding Tashi. Thimphu was no big city, and everybody knew everybody else.
“While we are in Thimphu, I’d also like to see the dzong,” I said to Karma, with Lopen Pema in mind.
“Sure, it’s called Trashi Chhoe Dzong. It’s very grand. Now that the Central Monastic Body has moved to Punakha for the winter, I should be able to take you into the main courtyard, but I won’t be able to take you inside the lhakhangs without special permission.”
Perhaps Lopen Pema had also moved to Punakha for the winter. Then I would have to go to Punakha, which was on my original itinerary. He could probably answer a few important questions concerning Marian.
“Do all the monks from Thimphu go to Punakha for the winter? ‘Cause when I was traveling in India once, I met a monk who said he was from the dzong in Thimphu,” I fabricated my story, remembering Marian had written that Lopen Pema had been educated in India, “and I’m wondering if he’s there now.”
“Most monks go to Punakha, but a few stay behind to look after the lhakhangs inside the Trashi Chhoe Dzong. We’ll ask about your monk at the dzong.”
That morning, we left Paro and headed for Thimphu in Chimi’s jeep. I had arrived in the dead of winter, and the fields were bare except for scattered patches of golden mustard. I recognized the three chortens at the confluence of the Paro Chhu and the Thimphu Chhu, as Marian had described, but we did not stop. I was anxious to press on.
The Hotel Druk in Thimphu – the second one by that name that I had so far come across – overlooked the town square which was dominated by a clock tower in the center, no higher than the height of the three-story buildings all around. My room had all the basic amenities, plus a portable electric heater since central heating was a sophistication yet lacking in Bhutan. The first evening after I checked in, Karma told me to order anything I wanted from the hotel dining room menu for dinner, all included in my daily fee. Both he and Chimi lived on the outskirts of Thimphu. They went home for the night, he to a space he rented in a farmhouse, and Chimi to his wife and two children. I therefore dined alone.
After an early dinner of Chinese fried noodles, I took a walk down Wogzin Lam to Norzin Lam. What if I ran into Marian, wild as the thought was. There were just a few main streets in Thimphu, easily identifiable with the help of a map from my guidebook. I passed buildings that were two to four stories high, all in the traditional style with lots of painted decorations on walls, windows and door frames. I soon came to one of the traffic circles that Marian wrote about. The streets, the circle, the shops, the dogs in her memoir all came alive. I thought of Marian walking down Norzin Lam not too long ago, on her way to meet Lopen Pema, her anxiety to see him, her fear of discovery, her hopeless obsession. Who was this man who captured my sister’s heart even as he conducted his daily affairs wearing a monk’s garb and with a shaven head?
I made my way along Norzin Lam toward the north end of town, wishing Marian would materialize. I took a second look at every young woman I passed. Thimphu was not a big place, as Karma said. It was not unlikely that I would encounter Marian on the street, if she was still in the town. Before I knew where I was, I had walked a great length of Norzin Lam, and I came to a sign above a door that said Thimphu Public Library. I felt a sudden surge of adrenalin. The library was closed, the time being eight in the evening. So this was Marian’s library. For six months, this was where she came to work, a place where she had left her footprints, and the legacy of a better library.
That first evening in Thimphu was when I caught a momentary glimpse, from a distance behind, of a woman in a light-colored kira that could be Marian, her height, her gait, her build. The woman disappeared from view as quickly as I spotted her.
Moments later, as I crossed the town square toward my hotel, I frightened myself with the sinister feeling that someone standing below the clock tower was watching me.
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