The men both guffawed. The squint-eyed young fellow said, “Please don’t accuse us like this. You’re a Chinese and soon will board a plane for China.”
“Yes, you can grouse as much as you like to the elders of your monastery,” Zong told him.
Realizing it was useless to argue, Ganchin clammed up the rest of the way, though he was thinking hard about how to break loose.
They parked in a garage and then took him to Air China. A large uniformed black woman stood at the entrance to the ticketing counter; Ganchin wondered if he should shout to get her attention, but thought better of it. The three of them entered the zigzag cordoned lane filled with people. This wasn’t personal, Master Zong kept telling him. They just didn’t want to sully China’s image by letting an ocher-robed monk roam the streets of New York. That would tarnish the temple’s reputation as well.
What should Ganchin do? He could get rid of his robe as he had slacks underneath. Should he go to the men’s room and see if he could find a way to escape from there? No, they would see through him. How about calling to the fully armed security guards with the big German shepherd near the checkpoint? No. Master Zong might still be able to get him on the plane, claiming he was mentally ill, dangerous like a terrorist, and must be sent home for treatment.
As he was wondering, a passenger cart with three rows of seats on it was coming up, an old couple sitting in the first row. Ganchin glanced at his kidnappers — both of them were looking at the counter, where two young women were lugging a family’s baggage onto the conveyor belt. Ganchin lifted the blue cordon beside him, slunk out of the lane, and leapt upon the last row of seats on the cart, then rolled down into the legroom. He pulled in his feet so his kidnappers couldn’t see him. The battery-powered vehicle was running away when he heard Zong shout, “Ganchin, Ganchin, where are you?”
“Come here, Ganchin, you dickhead!” another voice barked.
“Ganchin, come over, please! We can negotiate,” Zong cried.
Ganchin realized they didn’t know he was on the vehicle, which veered off and headed for another terminal. He stayed put, letting it take him as far away as possible.
Finally the cart stopped, and he raised his head to look around. “Hey, this is for disability only,” the black driver told him, flashing a smile while helping the old couple off.
Ganchin didn’t know what the man meant, and just said, “Thank you.” That was all the English he had besides “goodbye.” He got off and went into a men’s room, where he shed his robe. He dumped it into a trash can and came out wearing black slacks and an off-white sweatshirt.
• • •
He managed to get back to Flushing by a hotel shuttle, following the suggestion of a middle-aged Taiwanese woman. Terrified, he could not return to Fanku’s place. Evidently that man and Master Zong were in cahoots. Where to go now? Where was a safe place? Never had Ganchin imagined that Zong would resort to force to fly him back. A pain tightened his chest and he coughed again.
He still had a few dollars in his pocket, so he slouched into Teng’s Garden, which wasn’t far from Gaolin Temple. A trim little man in shirtsleeves, apparently the owner of the restaurant, greeted him and, raising his forefinger, said heartily, “One?” He was about to take him into the interior.
“Just a minute. Can I use your phone?” Ganchin asked.
“There’s a pay phone down the street. Why not use that one?” The man waved in the direction of the temple.
“I don’t know how to use a pay phone.”
“Similar to a regular one — drop in a quarter and dial the number you want to call. We’re talking about a local call, right?”
“Actually, I don’t have to use a phone. I’m Ganchin, a monk of Gaolin Temple, and I’d like to leave a word for Master Zong there. Can you pass it for me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Look, this is me.” Ganchin produced a laminated photo and showed it to the man. In it Ganchin, wearing black cloth shoes, struck a pose like an eagle about to hop off; above his shiny shaved head a golden banner was floating in a breeze; he looked like a movie star, a hero, full of spunk.
The little man squinted at the picture and then at him. “Yes, it’s you. What do you want me to tell your master?”
“Tell him to say prayers and make offerings for my soul tomorrow morning before sunrise.”
“What are you talking about? Like you’re already a ghost.”
“I’m going to die soon. Tell Master Zong to pray to redeem my soul before six o’clock tomorrow morning, all right?”
“Young brother, you shouldn’t think like this. You mustn’t give up so easily. Come with me, let’s talk and see if this old man can be any help.”
Ganchin followed him into an inner room; in its center stood a round dining table with a revolving, two-level tray on it. Apparently this was a place for banquets. The moment they sat down at the immense table, Ganchin said he’d decided to kill himself today. He was sick and penniless, while Master Zong tried to send him back to China without paying him the salary the temple owed him. The little man listened, wordless. The more Ganchin rambled, the more heartbroken he became, until he couldn’t continue anymore and collapsed into sobbing.
The restaurant owner sighed and shook his broad head. He said, “You wait here and I’ll be back in a minute.”
By now Ganchin had calmed down some, though was still tearful. He believed this was his last day on earth. Thinking about his old parents, he felt his insides writhing. How devastated they would be by his death! And without him, their only son, how miserable their remaining years would become. But he simply had no way out. If he died here, at least some of the creditors might take pity on his parents and forgive the debts. Oh, this was the only way he could help his family!
The little man came back with a large bowl of rice topped with sautéed seafood and vegetables. He said to Ganchin, “Young brother, I can see you’re hungry. Eat this and you might think differently afterward. Gosh, I totally forgot you’re a monk, a vegetarian! Sorry about this. I’m gonna—”
“I eat seafood,” Ganchin said.
“Then eat this. Keep in mind, yours is not the worst sorrow. Life is precious and full of wonderful things in spite of all the bitterness and sufferings.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” he mumbled. “I will put in a good word for you when I meet the Buddha in the other world.” He broke the connected chopsticks and began eating.
Oh, it tasted so good! This was the most delicious meal he’d had in recent years, and he picked up the shrimp and scallops one after another and swallowed them as if they did not require chewing. The snow peas were crisp, the bamboo shoots crunchy, and the portabella mushrooms succulent, perfectly done. He ate and ate, and in no time finished the whole thing. Then he lifted the bowl, about to drink up the remaining sauce, but caught himself and put it down.
“Uncle,” he said, “I know you’re kind and generous. You gave ear to a stranger’s grievance, you didn’t ask me but guessed I was hungry, and you have a compassionate soul. Here’s a bit of cash. Please keep this.” He pulled all the money out of his pants pocket and left it on the table, one five and three singles.
Waving his stubby fingers, the man protested, “I didn’t mean to sell you any food. I don’t want your money. Just think about all the good things in this life, okay? Don’t let your grief crush you.”
“Please tell Master Zong to pray for me before sunrise tomorrow morning. Good-bye, Uncle.” Ganchin hurried out the door and dragged himself away, feeling the restaurateur’s gaze at his back.
Where should he go? He wanted to find a building out of which he could jump and kill himself. How about the temple? No, it had only two stories. Too low. How about the elementary school? No, his ghost might frighten the children if he died there, and people would condemn him.