The Train to Lo Wu by Jess Row Page A

you want to say.
    I think I may need to leave, Lewis says. I don’t think any of this is helping me.
    The teacher stares straight into his eyes for so long he stiffens his head to keep from looking away.
    Your karma’s got a tight hold on you, the teacher says. Like this. He makes a fist and holds it up to the light from the window. Each finger is your situation. Your parents. Your wife. Your job. Your friends. Things that happened to you, things you’ve done. This is how we travel through life, all of us. He punches the air. Karma is your shell.
    And now?
    He spreads his fingers wide.
    You’re sitting still, he says. The hand relaxes. It doesn’t know what to do with itself. The fingers get in the way. All of your natural responses are gone.
    That’s a kind of insanity, isn’t it?
    Hold on to your center, he says. Pay attention to your breathing. Follow the situation around you. So tell me, what is Zen?
    Lewis strikes the floor as hard as he can.
    Only that?
    Sitting here talking to you.
    Keep that mind and you won’t make any new karma for yourself.
    It’s not that easy, Lewis says. I came here to make a decision.
    The teacher adjusts his robe and takes a sip of tea. I remember, he says. You’re considering getting divorced.
    I’m not sure this was the best choice. Coming here, I mean.
    Why not?
    Well, Lewis says, I’m not supposed to be
thinking
about anything, am I?
    Haven’t you already tried thinking about it? Has that worked?
    It hasn’t. Does that mean I should stop?
    Sometimes you can’t solve your problems that way, the teacher says. Your thinking-mind pulls you in one direction, then the other. There are too many variables involved. The most important decisions we make are always like that, aren’t they?
Should I get married? Should I move to California?
You try and try to see all the dimensions of the question, but there’s always something you can’t grasp.
    So you’re saying that there’s no way to solve these problems rationally.
    Not at all. Your rational mind is very important, but it also has limitations. Ultimately you have to ask yourself,
what is my true
direction in life?
Logic won’t help you answer that question. Any kind of concept or metaphor will fall short. The only way is to try to keep a clear mind. And be patient.
    Aren’t you going to tell me that I have to become a monk?
    The teacher grins so widely that Lewis can see the gold crowns on his molars. Why would I do that? he asks. Being a monk won’t help you. Do you think we have some magic way of escaping karma? We don’t. Nobody gets away from suffering in this world. All we can do is try to see it for what it is.
    Lewis rubs his eyes; he feels a dull headache approaching.
    I’ve got a new question for you, the teacher says. Are you ready?
    Lewis straightens his back and takes a deep breath.
    You say you love your wife, right? What’s her name?
    Melinda.
    You say you love Melinda. But what is love?
Show
me love.
    Lewis strikes the floor and waits, but no words come. His mind is full of bees, buzzing lazily in the sunlight. Don’t know, he says.
    Good, the teacher says. That’s your homework. He rings the bell, and they bow.
    The housekeeper’s name was Cristina; she was paid for by Melinda’s company, part of the package that all expatriate employees received. Two days after they moved into their apartment, she arrived with three suitcases and a woven plastic carryall, and occupied the bedroom that Lewis had wanted for his studio. She was polite and efficient, and cooked wonderful food, but the apartment was small even for two people; they took to arguing in whispers, and gave up making love, feeling self-conscious. It took three weeks for Melinda to convince her supervisor that she didn’t want or need an amah, even though every other couple in the firm had one, and the contract had to be broken at extra cost, taken out of her salary. When they told Cristina she wept and begged them not to send her away, and they