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

curious.
    She leaned far over to me and whispered: “The master is mistaken: to live is to love.”
    “Love and suffering are not mutually exclusive,” I quipped. “Perhaps one even implies the other?”
    “Nonsense. Anyone who truly loves does not suffer,” she countered, still in a whisper. An even lower whisper.
    “Oh, please.”
    “No, really. Trust me.”
    She leaned back, smiled, and raised her glass slightly. “To the lovers.”
    “And the sufferers.”
    I did not wish to pursue the matter and asked whether she had noticed the old monk with the oversized glasses during the meditation.
    Amy shook her head. “But the nun told me that they have a monk visiting from Burma.”
    “What did she say about him?” I asked, curious to know more.
    “I guess he’s pretty old, and in Burma he’s highly esteemed and has lots of devotees. Supposedly people come from all over the country seeking his advice in difficult situations. He was forced to flee, I’m not sure why. He’s been here four weeks and is leading a secluded life in a small hut somewhat deeper into the woods. They don’t see him very often; she said he doesn’t usually participate in the group meditation. Funny that today is the day he would show up.”
    We gazed silently for a while into the light of the candles.
    “What does the voice have to say about our excursion?”
    “Nothing at all.”
    “Didn’t I tell you that it would do you good to get away from it all? You should listen to me more often.”
    “I’m not sure that it’s just a matter of getting away from it all.”
    “What else, then?”
    “Maybe … I don’t know.”
    “Time will tell. Do you want to go back tomorrow, or should we stay a bit longer?”
    I nodded. We clinked glasses. Quietly. We two conspirators.
    THERE WAS A freeze during the night. A thin layer of frost covered the grass. The house was empty; the others had already gone to the first meditation. I saw their footprints in the lawn. Every step we take leaves a trace.
    I got dressed and went outside. Cold, clear air. It smelled like winter. The bare, thin trees looked like sticks rammed by some giant into the ground.
    The rising sun, a reddish sky.
    I was not about to go suffer through another meditation. Better to go for a walk. A clearly marked trail led away from the house into the woods.
    A brook. The first icicles on branches rising up out of the water.
    The crackling of twigs under my feet.

    WHY ARE WE HERE?
    Not joy, certainly not. But a curious relief.
    —Because I’m looking for answers.
    To which questions?
    —Why I hear you. Where you are from.
    Silence.
    —Where have you been this whole time?
    No reaction.
    —What’s bothering you?
    I want to get out of here.
    —Why?
    I’m afraid
, she answered in a whisper.
    Of what?
    I’m suffocating from fear. Help me.
    There was no trace now of the intrusive, demanding tone she had bullied me with in New York. She sounded now weak and needy.
    —What are you afraid of?
    I don’t know.
She paused for a long while.
Of boots. Black boots. Polished. So shiny that I can see my fear reflected in them.
    —Whose boots?
    The boots of Death.
    —Who is wearing them?
    The emissaries.
    —Which emissaries?
    The emissaries of Fear.
    —Who is sending them?
    Silence.
    —What can you remember?
    White pagodas. Red flecks. Everywhere. On the ground. On the wood. Red fluid running out of mouths. Coloring everything. My thoughts. My dreams. My life.
    —Blood? You remember blood?
    It’s dripping onto my face. Into my eyes. It burns. Oh, how it burns.
    She cried out briefly. I winced.
    —What’s happening?
    It hurts. So much.
    —What hurts?
    The memory.
    —Which memory? Where are you from?
    From a land you know well.
    —Where exactly?
    From the island.
    —Which island?
    Thay hsone thu mya, a hti kyan thu mya a thet shin nay thu mya san sar yar kywn go thwa mai.
    —What did you say?
    She repeated the unfamiliar sounds.
    —What language is that?
    I can’t go on.