coming.’
“‘Right now?’
“You might have guessed, Mr. Pennings: I’m a lover of the American basketball. I looked over at the flight attendant again and unbuckled my seat belt. We were still sloshing from side to side through the turbulence. She looked back at me and mouthed something I didn’t understand, but she pointed for me to sit down. I ignored her and made my way to the galley, where I grabbed a washcloth from a bin. I put some cold water on it and brought it back for my wife to put on her head. She was heating up, ready to give birth. The flight attendant figured out what was happening by now and was talking with someone on the phone. She unbuckled her harness, disappeared into the front of the plane, and returned with a bottle of oxygen, three big blankets, and a bottle of water. I reclined my Nazia’s seat slightly for her and put up the footrest. She was panting, and I looked into her eyes. She nodded to me. I knew we would not have the fortune of waiting until the wheels touched the runway of our destination before the child would come.
“The flight attendants did their best, as did two of the passengers, who were nurses. They identified themselves when the captain came over the loudspeaker and announced what was happening in seat 14A. By the time we touched down at Dulles Airport, we had named him Luftan, partly after the airline and partly after me, and he was quietly asleep in my Nazia’s arms. Although a stretcher and an ambulance were waiting for us at the gate, my son had made his way into this world without incident. I politely declined the help, but the medic was frantic that we go to the hospital to make sure everything was okay. I took a look at my lovely wife and new son, and while it was very clear that Nazia was sore and uncomfortable—my son covered in dried blood and both weary from the experience—they were just fine. Who would pay for this trip to the hospital anyway? I had always heard that medical care in America was an unaffordable and slick business, ready to rip off any unwary partaker of its services. I wasn’t about to become another victim.”
Soft chimes floated from the band at the front of the dance floor.
Ruftan shrugged and put his hands up in the air. “It’s time for dinner. I suppose I’ll have to tell you the rest of the story another time.”
Ruftan and Gavin made their way to their table. It was the first time Gavin had realized that Leo had disappeared. Ruftan was seated at the other side of the table; the Dalai Lama was to Gavin’s right; and on his left sat a rather short, pudgy man who was mumbling something about the way his name had been spelled on his place card. It read, “Shimon Webster.” Everyone made their introductions before the first course of petit duck soufflé was placed in front of them and steaming crusty rolls were set on the small saucer to Gavin’s left. There were so many utensils and glasses at Gavin’s plate that he wasn’t sure which ones he should use. He listened to the polite conversation around the table, trying to pick up the reason they had all come together for the dinner. The talk was pleasant, but it only skimmed the surface of each person’s situation. He heard several “Nice to see you again” and “I can’t believe its been that long” comments.
He leaned over to the Dalai Lama next to him and awkwardly said, “So how do you know Lucifer?”
“He’s been involved in helping the people of Tibet return to an independent country since 1950. He’s also a close friend of the Nechung Oracle. The Oracle sees things we cannot see, and Lucifer receives great insight from him.” He moved the food around on his plate.
“Is there something in Tibet that helps Lucifer’s cause?”
The Dalai Lama smiled. “Lucifer’s cause cannot be defined in one breath. It is like a wide, thin veil that blankets the earth, often difficult to understand. It would be like asking, ‘Where does the wind blow in America?’
“‘Right now?’
“You might have guessed, Mr. Pennings: I’m a lover of the American basketball. I looked over at the flight attendant again and unbuckled my seat belt. We were still sloshing from side to side through the turbulence. She looked back at me and mouthed something I didn’t understand, but she pointed for me to sit down. I ignored her and made my way to the galley, where I grabbed a washcloth from a bin. I put some cold water on it and brought it back for my wife to put on her head. She was heating up, ready to give birth. The flight attendant figured out what was happening by now and was talking with someone on the phone. She unbuckled her harness, disappeared into the front of the plane, and returned with a bottle of oxygen, three big blankets, and a bottle of water. I reclined my Nazia’s seat slightly for her and put up the footrest. She was panting, and I looked into her eyes. She nodded to me. I knew we would not have the fortune of waiting until the wheels touched the runway of our destination before the child would come.
“The flight attendants did their best, as did two of the passengers, who were nurses. They identified themselves when the captain came over the loudspeaker and announced what was happening in seat 14A. By the time we touched down at Dulles Airport, we had named him Luftan, partly after the airline and partly after me, and he was quietly asleep in my Nazia’s arms. Although a stretcher and an ambulance were waiting for us at the gate, my son had made his way into this world without incident. I politely declined the help, but the medic was frantic that we go to the hospital to make sure everything was okay. I took a look at my lovely wife and new son, and while it was very clear that Nazia was sore and uncomfortable—my son covered in dried blood and both weary from the experience—they were just fine. Who would pay for this trip to the hospital anyway? I had always heard that medical care in America was an unaffordable and slick business, ready to rip off any unwary partaker of its services. I wasn’t about to become another victim.”
Soft chimes floated from the band at the front of the dance floor.
Ruftan shrugged and put his hands up in the air. “It’s time for dinner. I suppose I’ll have to tell you the rest of the story another time.”
Ruftan and Gavin made their way to their table. It was the first time Gavin had realized that Leo had disappeared. Ruftan was seated at the other side of the table; the Dalai Lama was to Gavin’s right; and on his left sat a rather short, pudgy man who was mumbling something about the way his name had been spelled on his place card. It read, “Shimon Webster.” Everyone made their introductions before the first course of petit duck soufflé was placed in front of them and steaming crusty rolls were set on the small saucer to Gavin’s left. There were so many utensils and glasses at Gavin’s plate that he wasn’t sure which ones he should use. He listened to the polite conversation around the table, trying to pick up the reason they had all come together for the dinner. The talk was pleasant, but it only skimmed the surface of each person’s situation. He heard several “Nice to see you again” and “I can’t believe its been that long” comments.
He leaned over to the Dalai Lama next to him and awkwardly said, “So how do you know Lucifer?”
“He’s been involved in helping the people of Tibet return to an independent country since 1950. He’s also a close friend of the Nechung Oracle. The Oracle sees things we cannot see, and Lucifer receives great insight from him.” He moved the food around on his plate.
“Is there something in Tibet that helps Lucifer’s cause?”
The Dalai Lama smiled. “Lucifer’s cause cannot be defined in one breath. It is like a wide, thin veil that blankets the earth, often difficult to understand. It would be like asking, ‘Where does the wind blow in America?’
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