afraid, use your mantra and engage in mindfulness.”
It was the last thing the Rinpoche said to him before he ran back to join his fellow monks trying to save the sanctuary, the centuries-old thanka paintings, the holy relics and the rare scriptures.
Om mani padme hum.
Dorjee repeated the mantra again and again, but it wasn’t working. The flames had eaten through the temple’s roof and were reaching toward the sacred Mount Kailash. What was happening inside the monastery? Was the Rinpoche all right? Why hadn’t he come outside again?
Then a hand clamped roughly over Dorjee’s mouth. Fingers grabbed him around the waist. He tried to scream, but his lips moved against flesh. He tried to kick and get loose. The man’s grip was too tight.
“We’re saving you from the fire, you fool. Stop trying to fight us.”
Chung and others believed that the fire, the immolation of his teachers, and the boy’s ensuing “rescue”—which was how they all referred to the kidnapping—had traumatized him and made him almost a mute.
Xie, as they had renamed him when they hid him in the Beijing orphanage, knew better. But it was convenient to allow them to think so.
Chung had tried to encourage the boy to converse, telling him he’d never be able to find a wife or have children if he didn’t speak. The threat didn’t scare Xie; the Rinpoche in Tibet had explained to him that he wasn’t fated to have a traditional life.
Now Chung’s voice brought Xie back to the present. “Professor Wu has made a formal request that you be allowed to travel along with your fellow artists to Europe on the exhibition tour. That’s why I’m here. To talk to you about that. Is it something you want to do?”
Xie didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle in his face, and didn’t look up from the drawing. He dipped his brush in the ink and then dragged it in a leisurely movement that created half a character. The spirit of the letter was like a bird flying high above the mountain. Xie knew that Chung was waiting for an answer. He couldn’t hesitate too long. When Chung became impatient, he could get angry, and Xie didn’t want to invite his rage.
“If my government wants me to go, I’d be pleased.”
Chung smiled. A ten-word sentence from Xie was like a lengthy ballad from anyone else. As if in celebration, he plucked a third rice candy from the red cellophane bag and popped it in his mouth. He offered another to Professor Wu and to Xie, in turn, who accepted it with another soft thank-you. And set it aside on the taboret.
In the orphanage, there were two types of children. One accepted Chung’s candy and ate it on the spot, hungrily, desperately, not savoring it as much as absorbing it, trying to gain some comfort from the treat, from its specialness, from the break in the routine and the delight in the moment. The other group took their candy and carefully, as if it were made of glass, put it in the pockets of their smocks and saved it for later.
Some were clever, hoarding the candies and trading them for favors. Others just saved them for when they were alone, and used the candy almost like a memory tool to take them back to a time before the orphanage, when they had families and knew love.
Xie did none of these. When another of the children was especially sad, he would give him a piece from his cache. He got pleasure from knowing that for a few minutes, the little boy was a bit happier.
All he asked of the other children was that they promise not to tell the matron what he’d done. He was worried Chung would hear about his acts of kindness and suspect that the brainwashing wasn’t working.
Wu believed if calligraphy was going to thrive as a modern art form, its young masters had to open themselves to new techniques and interpretations. Under his tutelage, students were trained not only in poetry, music and the brush and ink arts, but also in Western materials, colors and concepts. He encouraged them to be creative—to play
It was the last thing the Rinpoche said to him before he ran back to join his fellow monks trying to save the sanctuary, the centuries-old thanka paintings, the holy relics and the rare scriptures.
Om mani padme hum.
Dorjee repeated the mantra again and again, but it wasn’t working. The flames had eaten through the temple’s roof and were reaching toward the sacred Mount Kailash. What was happening inside the monastery? Was the Rinpoche all right? Why hadn’t he come outside again?
Then a hand clamped roughly over Dorjee’s mouth. Fingers grabbed him around the waist. He tried to scream, but his lips moved against flesh. He tried to kick and get loose. The man’s grip was too tight.
“We’re saving you from the fire, you fool. Stop trying to fight us.”
Chung and others believed that the fire, the immolation of his teachers, and the boy’s ensuing “rescue”—which was how they all referred to the kidnapping—had traumatized him and made him almost a mute.
Xie, as they had renamed him when they hid him in the Beijing orphanage, knew better. But it was convenient to allow them to think so.
Chung had tried to encourage the boy to converse, telling him he’d never be able to find a wife or have children if he didn’t speak. The threat didn’t scare Xie; the Rinpoche in Tibet had explained to him that he wasn’t fated to have a traditional life.
Now Chung’s voice brought Xie back to the present. “Professor Wu has made a formal request that you be allowed to travel along with your fellow artists to Europe on the exhibition tour. That’s why I’m here. To talk to you about that. Is it something you want to do?”
Xie didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle in his face, and didn’t look up from the drawing. He dipped his brush in the ink and then dragged it in a leisurely movement that created half a character. The spirit of the letter was like a bird flying high above the mountain. Xie knew that Chung was waiting for an answer. He couldn’t hesitate too long. When Chung became impatient, he could get angry, and Xie didn’t want to invite his rage.
“If my government wants me to go, I’d be pleased.”
Chung smiled. A ten-word sentence from Xie was like a lengthy ballad from anyone else. As if in celebration, he plucked a third rice candy from the red cellophane bag and popped it in his mouth. He offered another to Professor Wu and to Xie, in turn, who accepted it with another soft thank-you. And set it aside on the taboret.
In the orphanage, there were two types of children. One accepted Chung’s candy and ate it on the spot, hungrily, desperately, not savoring it as much as absorbing it, trying to gain some comfort from the treat, from its specialness, from the break in the routine and the delight in the moment. The other group took their candy and carefully, as if it were made of glass, put it in the pockets of their smocks and saved it for later.
Some were clever, hoarding the candies and trading them for favors. Others just saved them for when they were alone, and used the candy almost like a memory tool to take them back to a time before the orphanage, when they had families and knew love.
Xie did none of these. When another of the children was especially sad, he would give him a piece from his cache. He got pleasure from knowing that for a few minutes, the little boy was a bit happier.
All he asked of the other children was that they promise not to tell the matron what he’d done. He was worried Chung would hear about his acts of kindness and suspect that the brainwashing wasn’t working.
Wu believed if calligraphy was going to thrive as a modern art form, its young masters had to open themselves to new techniques and interpretations. Under his tutelage, students were trained not only in poetry, music and the brush and ink arts, but also in Western materials, colors and concepts. He encouraged them to be creative—to play
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