For now, anyway.
Next thing I knew, the sun was low on the horizon, and I was about to be late for my date with Julie.
I tore back up the hill and hustled inside. I brushed my teeth. Ran a hairbrush over my thick black buzz cut, not that anyone but me would notice any difference. I changed into a white linen shirt and a clean pair of black jeans, and put a good bottle of Pinot Grigio into the fridge. I pictured her freckles, her warm lips and soft curves. Added a second bottle.
Julie’s car pulled up at 7:30 on the dot. Good girl, a time-Nazi just like me. I added a mental check to the “Pro” column. As the bell sounded, Tank arched his back and ambled to the door.
“You behave,” I said as I opened it, and he ran off.
Julie was wearing tight black leggings, black leather boots, and a soft angora tunic the color of cream. She was carrying a cardboard box containing a blue enamel casserole, out of which wafted the rich scents of rosemary and stewed tomatoes. My saliva glands reminded me I had skipped lunch.
She set the box on the kitchen counter and held out her hand.
“Keys,” she said. For a horrifying moment I thought she wanted her own set of keys to my place. But then, “You still owe me a spin in your Mustang.”
She looked past me, and her eyes widened. Tank had deigned to poke his head around my bedroom door and check out the new visitor.
“Who’s this handsome fellow?” she crooned. She hunkered down on the floor and made a come-hither motion with her right hand. To my shock, Tank hithered right over. She scratched behind his ears. “Oh, yes, you are quite the Romeo, aren’t you?”
Tank rolled over and put all four limbs in the air.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Julie said. And then she did the same thing. I never knew a cat could actually look gobsmacked. He and I were both in big trouble.
Here’s what I learned about Julie on our second date: Her minestrone was undeniable proof that divinity can exist in edible form; creme brulee tasted even better when served by a curvaceous chef clad only in an apron; and holy shit, this woman was gifted handling a close-ratio, four-speed racing stick.
CHAPTER 20
I woke up calm and clear-headed. Any residual anger had been loved right out of me, and I savored the sense of spaciousness, the clarity of intent. Somehow, a plan had formed in my mind. I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew how I wanted to do it.
I glanced to my right. Julie faced away from me, asleep on her side. The dip from shoulder to hip was breathtaking, like the curved lines of a cello. I ran my palm along the slope and rise of her.
She rolled to face me. Her eyes were warm and direct, and clear as a bell I heard her thinking, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”-only from her, the questions were tinged with wonder. She snuggled closer, arranging my arm so it draped around her neck. She pressed her ear against my chest, and I could feel my heartbeat against her cheek.
“How did you end up in Los Angeles, Ten? It’s so unlikely.”
“A Lama sent me,” I said.
She raised her head. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” I said. “Lama Serje Rinpoche Neysrung. Rinpoche’s a highly regarded spiritual leader, scholar, and teacher in my order. He traveled all over the United States in the 1980s, setting up dharma centers for His Holiness.”
I explained how I was 17 and in a high state of rebellion when Serje Rinpoche paid a surprise visit to our monastery.
Julie’s head rose and fell on my chest, as I breathed quietly, my heart remembering that day, the one that changed everything.
“I was a typical teenager, I guess, getting into one conflict after another with the three ruling lamas of the monastery.” I felt my voice tighten, along with my jaw. “One of them was my father.”
Julie shifted away, so she could see my eyes. I pulled her close again.
“Apa only ever had one goal for me: that I be the greatest Gelugpa scholar in all Tibetan monkdom. Just his luck, his only child seemed to have been born without the studious gene. He’d always tell me I was gifted with intelligence far beyond his, that if I only applied it I could be a great lama. That I was squandering my gifts with my childish rebellions. But I didn’t know how else to be. The truth is, I just hated it. I hated being a monk.”
I sat up, my stomach and chest tensing as long-buried resentments poked their heads out of my past.
“Tibetan monasteries are oppressive institutions, little fiefdoms, did you know that? Nothing is ever done by logic or reason or any kind of democratic process. It’s all about following the rules. In my monastery alone, there were more than two hundred we were supposed to remember, and obey. Rules that had been made over a thousand years ago. Only a handful of them even make sense anymore. ‘Extinguish candles before going to bed.’ Okay, that one makes sense. ‘Monks may only read sacred literature.’ I broke that one every night, and got busted for it at least once a month. Oh, and how about ‘A Monk must not jump, or swing his arms when walking’? Do you know how hard that is for a rambunctious eleven-year-old? My best friends, Yeshe and Lobsang, embraced their monastic life: the rules, the shaved heads, the red robes. I struggled at every turn.”
Julie laughed softly. I stiffened. Was she mocking me?
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just … people never think that, do they? That a monk might hate being a monk? We just assume it’s all bliss and enlightenment and peaceful navel-gazing. Poor thing. You were only a kid. It’s not like you could just quit your job.”
I felt my heart give a little flip.
She understood.
Then, just as quickly, it flipped the other way, into a defensive stance.
“It wasn’t that bad. I mean, I had two great friends, and all my needs were taken care of there. I had a roof over my head. Two meals a day.”
Julie put her hand over my mouth.
“Stop, Ten. It was that bad. Let me feel for you a moment, will you?”
I tried to appreciate her empathy, but I was relieved when she said, “Okay, so this … Rinpoche?
I nodded.
“This Rinpoche came for a visit and …”
“… and I think he spotted the tug-of-war going on inside me that day. In fact, I’m sure of it, because after he finished a long lecture on the importance of maintaining a disciplined practice, he pulled me aside. He told me he and my father had entered the Litang monastery in Tibet the same year. That they had been friends a long time. Then he asked if I had any questions for him. All I could think to ask was … was … whether he thought my father would ever be proud of me.” I swallowed.
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Your father is the way he is. Do not ask for mangoes in a shoe store.’”
“I like that.”
“Well, at the time, it infuriated me. I thought it was just another glib aphorism, and I’d had my fill of them from my father. Rinpoche left soon after to spend time with His Holiness. But later that week, he came back. The whole monastery was abuzz with this second visit, coming as it did so close to the first. That night, my father sent for me. He told me Rinpoche had proposed a radical solution to the Tenzing Norbu dilemma: send me to the West to share the Dharma teachings with American teenagers. He’d contacted the Tibetan center he’d founded in Los Angeles, and they’d agreed to sponsor me-they had a special outreach program to introduce meditation to young people. I was to be a novice member of their team. I could continue my studies there, and postpone the decision to take my final vows. My father was quick to agree with this plan.” My voice hardened. “Of course he was. I was nothing more than an embarrassment to him by that point.”
Julie touched my cheek. I covered her hand with mine, and gently removed it. I didn’t want her touching my face, for some reason.
“It all happened very quickly. With an American mother, I could bypass all the immigration issues. Within six months I was living in a small back room in the Dharma center, earning my room and board as a teacher, wondering if I’d ever belong anywhere again.”