with the shapes and structures of the characters they used. He encouraged them to be brave and break the rules.
But the worst rule he broke was the yearly conversation he had with Xie.
Before the professor accepted students into his program, he took them to a waterfall in an ancient park and asked them to create a spontaneous drawing expressing the mood of the sacred spot.
Wu studied how the prospective student interacted with nature, brush and ink and then, based on this one effort, made his final decision on whether or not to allow the young artist into his program.
When Xie had finished his waterfall test, Wu had complimented his work by inviting him to study with him. Xie had bowed his head and said he’d be honored.
Then Wu put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was the first time anyone had touched him like that since his Rinpoche so long ago.
“I can see there’s great suffering in your eyes. What happened to you, son?”
In halting, whispered phrases, as water rushed over primordial rocks, Xie, who had never said a word to any living being about what he’d experienced as a child, never alluded to his past or what he knew about himself, told his professor who he was.
Later he would wonder what had made him so confident that he could trust in the elderly man. Had he sensed a kindred spirit? Or been desperate to find someone who could help? Or was it simply the long-forgotten and comforting touch of someone who cared enough to reach out to him?
Once a year, Wu and Xie hiked out to the waterfall. And there, with the water’s roar blanketing their words, they discussed Xie’s options. Coming up with a plan. Slowly. Patiently.
“You mentioned a glass of wine before I go back to my hotel. Is that still possible?” Chung asked Wu.
Xie returned to his brush and ink. As usual, his “special” tutor was hungry. Hungry, and in a hurry, and slightly lazy—always on the lookout for a shortcut.
“Yes, if you could just take care of this first?” Wu handed Chung the document giving Xie permission to take the trip to England, Italy and then to France. Ten days of traveling with a dozen other Chinese artists.
Hungry, lazy, in a hurry. Would Chung read the document carefully?
Xie averted his eyes, afraid to watch, and focused on his painting, but his mind wasn’t still. Was his old programmer going to note the dates? Write them down to take them back to Beijing and check them against some master document that kept track of the comings and goings of heads of states? Was this trip going to get caught up in inexhaustible bureaucratic red tape or be allowed?
Again Xie dipped the brush into the ink that was the color of a moonless sky and touched the point to the fine paper. He let his wrist and his fingers go where they wanted, let them soar across the page.
“Now, about that wine?” Chung said as he placed the document on the table.
Xie’s eyes slid to inspect it.
The signature was sloppy. There was no grace to his letters, just as there was no grace to the man. But it was signed.
Six
NEW YORK CITY
WEDNESDAY, MAY 11, 6 P.M.
Robbie approached the Queen Anne–style villa with its gables, pitted stone gargoyles, and scrolled wrought-iron railing. He was pleased that the Manhattan developers—always tearing down the old to make way for something newer and bigger and taller—seemed to have skipped over this small section of the West Side. The elaborate details on these nineteenth-century buildings made him feel at home, as if he were back in Paris.
In the early evening shadows, the Phoenix Foundation took on an almost mystical appearance. As if all the reincarnation investigation that went on inside—examinations into the synchronicity and parallels of lives lived and lost and found again, and the complicated philosophical, religious and scientific issues raised because of them—had given the building a rich patina.
Even though his sister had known Dr. Malachai Samuels, the foundation’s
But the worst rule he broke was the yearly conversation he had with Xie.
Before the professor accepted students into his program, he took them to a waterfall in an ancient park and asked them to create a spontaneous drawing expressing the mood of the sacred spot.
Wu studied how the prospective student interacted with nature, brush and ink and then, based on this one effort, made his final decision on whether or not to allow the young artist into his program.
When Xie had finished his waterfall test, Wu had complimented his work by inviting him to study with him. Xie had bowed his head and said he’d be honored.
Then Wu put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was the first time anyone had touched him like that since his Rinpoche so long ago.
“I can see there’s great suffering in your eyes. What happened to you, son?”
In halting, whispered phrases, as water rushed over primordial rocks, Xie, who had never said a word to any living being about what he’d experienced as a child, never alluded to his past or what he knew about himself, told his professor who he was.
Later he would wonder what had made him so confident that he could trust in the elderly man. Had he sensed a kindred spirit? Or been desperate to find someone who could help? Or was it simply the long-forgotten and comforting touch of someone who cared enough to reach out to him?
Once a year, Wu and Xie hiked out to the waterfall. And there, with the water’s roar blanketing their words, they discussed Xie’s options. Coming up with a plan. Slowly. Patiently.
“You mentioned a glass of wine before I go back to my hotel. Is that still possible?” Chung asked Wu.
Xie returned to his brush and ink. As usual, his “special” tutor was hungry. Hungry, and in a hurry, and slightly lazy—always on the lookout for a shortcut.
“Yes, if you could just take care of this first?” Wu handed Chung the document giving Xie permission to take the trip to England, Italy and then to France. Ten days of traveling with a dozen other Chinese artists.
Hungry, lazy, in a hurry. Would Chung read the document carefully?
Xie averted his eyes, afraid to watch, and focused on his painting, but his mind wasn’t still. Was his old programmer going to note the dates? Write them down to take them back to Beijing and check them against some master document that kept track of the comings and goings of heads of states? Was this trip going to get caught up in inexhaustible bureaucratic red tape or be allowed?
Again Xie dipped the brush into the ink that was the color of a moonless sky and touched the point to the fine paper. He let his wrist and his fingers go where they wanted, let them soar across the page.
“Now, about that wine?” Chung said as he placed the document on the table.
Xie’s eyes slid to inspect it.
The signature was sloppy. There was no grace to his letters, just as there was no grace to the man. But it was signed.
Six
NEW YORK CITY
WEDNESDAY, MAY 11, 6 P.M.
Robbie approached the Queen Anne–style villa with its gables, pitted stone gargoyles, and scrolled wrought-iron railing. He was pleased that the Manhattan developers—always tearing down the old to make way for something newer and bigger and taller—seemed to have skipped over this small section of the West Side. The elaborate details on these nineteenth-century buildings made him feel at home, as if he were back in Paris.
In the early evening shadows, the Phoenix Foundation took on an almost mystical appearance. As if all the reincarnation investigation that went on inside—examinations into the synchronicity and parallels of lives lived and lost and found again, and the complicated philosophical, religious and scientific issues raised because of them—had given the building a rich patina.
Even though his sister had known Dr. Malachai Samuels, the foundation’s
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