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

was shallow and quick. There was a din in my head. Thoughts flitted past like clouds before a brisk wind. I thought of Mulligan with his bushy eyebrows. Of my brother’s small ears, inherited from our mother. Of U Ba’s threadbare green longyi. I saw an ice floe slowly melting in a lake until it vanished entirely. I thought of my shoes, which needed polishing. Of the milk spoiling in my refrigerator.
    The harder I strove to concentrate, the more banal and intrusive my thoughts became. It was like the times I had tried to meditate in yoga class. My teacher’s deep
Om
had not resonated with me. Relaxed emptiness, Buddhist serenity, had not descended on me. Frustration, rather. At myself. Why was I unable to sit still and do nothing? Why could I not stem the persistent flow of thoughts in my mind?
    I opened my eyes. Not even ten minutes had passed. What was the point of sitting here motionless for another three quarters of an hour subjecting myself to the torment of superfluous thoughts? Could I not make some better use of my time? Going for a walk? Reading? Helping to get the dinner ready? I was just about to stand up when I heard footsteps behind me. The light, nimble gait of a child. I turned around. A monk, a short, older Asian man in a dark-red robe, head shaven, approached me and sat down nextto me. Our eyes met, and he greeted me with a congenial chuckle.
    As if we had known each other for years.
    I could not take my eyes off him. He was wearing absurdly large glasses with thick lenses, the black frames much too dramatic for his thin face. His nose was unusually sharp, his eyes small. His full lips made me think of Botox. His smile revealed a prominent overbite. At the same time he carried himself with considerable grace. He radiated a dignity that I found impossible to reconcile with an outward appearance he was either unaware of or completely indifferent to.
    He lay his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and I could see his features relaxing further.
    I also gave it another try, but now I saw the old man’s face before me the whole time. From one minute to the next I became increasingly agitated. My pelvis ached, and my back was cramping up. My throat started to itch. It was torture; contemplation was out of the question.
    At some point the gong sounded to indicate the end of the meditation. Relieved, I opened my eyes. The old monk beside me had vanished. I looked around the room, somewhat irritated. Amy hadn’t moved yet. The others were slowly getting to their feet.
    Of the old monk there was no trace.
    SOON AFTERWARD WE met with the other guests for dinner. They were all from New York City. A yoga instructor,about my age. An older widower hoping through meditation finally to bid farewell to a wife who had died a year earlier. A student seeking something, she wasn’t sure what. A journalist who spent most of his time talking about a book he was working on called
The Power of Silence.
I ate my vegetable curry and hoped that his writing was more engaging than his conversation. And the whole time I could not get the old monk out of my mind. Between Amy and me one look was sufficient, and a couple of minutes later we were sitting in my room.
    She had brought a bag, and she had an air of mystery about her. Out of the bag emerged a candle, two small glasses, a corkscrew, and a bottle of wine.
    “Is that allowed?” I asked, surprised. The lawyer in me.
    Amy smiled and put a finger to her lips.
    She lit the candle and turned out the light, opened the bottle quietly, poured for both of us, and sat down next to me on the bed.
    “The Buddha says: ‘A fool who recognizes his own ignorance is thereby in fact a wise man.’ ”
    “I think he also frowns on drinking alcohol. Or will drinking wine turn us into sages?”
    She nodded conspiratorially.
    “So are you a Buddhist or not?”
    “Almost.”
    “What does ‘almost’ mean?”
    “The Buddha says: ‘To live is to suffer.’ ”
    “And?” I asked, now