A Well-tempered Heart by Jan-Philipp Sendker Read Free Book Online

where we went. I was at the end of my rope. I couldn’t stand to be alone anymore. I needed to get out of the city.

Chapter 7
    THE TAXI TURNED around and rolled slowly back down the dirt road. The driver shot us one more look of pity, then disappeared around the bend.
    Amy and I stood there surrounded by an eerie silence. No birds, no insects. Not even the wind whispering in the treetops.
    I looked around. Not much color. Leafless trees, scraggy brush, boulders thrusting up out of the earth. A world in grayish brown. Vacant.
    For one long moment I felt as if I had been marooned.
    Amy shouldered her backpack, nodded to me, and led the way. We walked up a path and crossed through a bit of forest until a bizarre building appeared on a hill before us. The bottom part looked like a blocky, flat conference center with large windows. Above that someone had set a pagoda roof, complete with octagonal cupola, little towers, golden ornamentation, and Buddhist symbols presiding over the corners. Our path led straight to it.
    A slender woman in a light-pink robe met us at the entrance. Her hair was cropped short. Her smile and her soft features masked her age. She and Amy were apparently well acquainted with each other, but she greeted me with no less warmth. We followed her around the main building to the guest quarters. Breathing heavily, she climbed up to the second floor and showed us where we would be staying.
    My room was maybe eight feet by ten. There was a bed, a chair, and a little cabinet. On the nightstand stood a Buddha made of light-colored wood. Behind it, in a vase, a red plastic hibiscus blossom. On the wall hung a painting of a meditating Buddha and a plaque with some of his aphorisms: “No sorrow can befall those who never try to possess people and things as their own.”
    I thought of my brother in Burma. Had he internalized this idea? Is that why he could remain so serene? In spite of the poverty in which he lived?
    The nun led us into the hallway and showed us where to find the bathroom and the shower. On the first floor, she told us, was a shared kitchen. The food in the refrigerator and the cabinets was available to all. There would be five other guests in the house. If we wished, we were welcome to participate an hour from now in the communal meditation that happened every afternoon at four. Dinner was at six, and, as with all the activities, participation was voluntary.
    Amy wanted me to drink a cup of tea with her before the meditation, but I was not in the mood.
    I put my backpack down, closed the door, and opened the window.
    A world without police sirens. Without cars. Without music from the next apartment.
    A silence without voice.
    She had not uttered a word since our departure from New York. It had been days since she had held her tongue for such a long time. Why had she suddenly clammed up?
    —Hello? Tentatively.
    —Where are you? More tentatively still.
    No answer.
    I lay down on the bed. Waited. Impatiently. On the one hand I wished for nothing more fervently than to be rid of her for good.
    On the other hand.
    The vague awareness that it would not happen of its own accord. That I was going to have to get to the bottom of what was going on inside myself. Where the voice came from. What she wanted from me.
    THE MEDITATION HALL was bigger than it had looked from the outside. It could accommodate several hundred people. Red carpeting on the floor. In one corner were piles of red blankets and blue meditation pillows. In three glass cases a range of Buddhist statuary; on small tables in front of them were offerings: a couple of oranges, bananas, cookies. The sweet fragrance of smoldering incense sticks filled the hall.
    I arrived somewhat late. Amy and the others were already sitting in a row meditating. I took a pillow and a blanket and sat in a lotus position beside them. I closed my eyes and listened to the quiet breathing of the others. Peace like theirs eluded me. My heart beat fiercely; my breath