The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense by M. J. Rose Read Free Book Online Page B

eighty, Wu, the head of the calligraphy department, was as sprightly and vital as a man thirty years younger. His work, he professed, was what kept him healthy and satisfied. He often lectured his students about the spiritual and psychological benefits of calligraphy—of any art—about how it connects you to history and the continuum of the universe, how it bypasses politics even when it is political, and how it speaks directly to the best in man.
    “Most delicious,” Wu said, popping the delicacy in his mouth.
    Chung dipped in and took another for himself.
    With both men eating, it wasn’t long before a sickly smell permeated the work area. Xie’s impulse to gag was strong, but he controlled it.
    “We’re honored to have you visit the studio,” Wu said respectfully to Chung.
    Xie had been reluctant to tell Professor Wu about his past. Better to be silent than take risks. Xie had a karmic responsibility to fulfill. To draw attention to himself for any reason other than his prowess with the brush and ink could ruin his chances of accomplishing his goal. But Wu was perceptive. He was wise. He’d known the boy was hiding a terrible secret that weighed on him.
    “Professor Wu also tells me that your work won the first prize in the graduate competition,” Chung said, talking as he chewed. “Congratulations.”
    Xie nodded and again averted his gaze, as if humbled by the compliment. “Thank you.”
    “Do you still find your studies here at the art institute satisfying?”
    Always the same questions. Always the same answers.
    “Yes, I’m very satisfied here.”
    “Nature is a good subject to concentrate on,” Chung said.
    “I’m glad you are pleased.” Xie had chosen his specialty precisely for its neutrality. No one ever was accused of subversive thinking by painting a mountain, a stream, or clouds. And the poetry that graced his work was ages old.
    While artists were still encouraged to glorify the state, in the last decade socially critical artists had emerged and even flourished. The most extreme, who created sexually explicit art or overtly challenged government decisions, lived off the radar, but the more moderate were now accepted as part of China’s cultural establishment and even held positions in universities. Despite the changes, Xie could ill afford suspicion, and he avoided politically charged messages.
    Or so it appeared.
    “And Professor Wu has also told me you are one of only four graduate students from this university whose paintings have been chosen to go on an exhibition tour in Europe. This is quite an honor. We are all very proud of you.”
    Xie intoned yet another thank-you.
    Chung sighed. “That’s all? Thank you?”
    Xie knew his silence frustrated his old Beijing tutor, but it was hard to say the wrong thing if you said nothing at all. Or next to nothing. From the time he had arrived at the orphanage, he’d spoken little.
    When Xie had first smelled the flames, he wondered why the monks had lit the sacrificial fires before dawn. But as much as he wanted to investigate, he didn’t get up. The six-year-old, who then was called Dorjee, had been living in the Tsechen Damchos Ling monastery for a few months, learning the practice of dzogchen . At the heart of the ancient and direct stream of wisdom was discipline. Dorjee was engaged in a meditation. Nothing was supposed to disturb that.
    But he couldn’t block out the screams. Or the sounds of running feet.
    “Dorjee, come with me.” Suddenly Ribur Rinpoche was at the door. “Quickly. The monastery is on fire.”
    The hallway was thick with smoke that smelled of burning rubber. That was what their fuel smelled like. The blaze was consuming the yak chips. How would they stay warm though winter?
    Outside, the Rinpoche settled Dorjee under a snow-capped tree and warned his young student to stay clear of the burning buildings. “You could get hurt. It’s dangerous. You understand, don’t you?”
    Dorjee nodded.
    “If you’re