I would never disturb a meditator like I bothered Kristin.
I scrub at crotches. Blue, red, green, white, black. Five pairs plus what I’ve got on. The cotton stretches and wrinkles. The stains fade but won’t go. Stuff from my body. Me. I never hand-washed clothes till I came to the Dasgupta. At home anything dirty disappeared the moment you chucked it on the carpet. Mum loved to slave, then whined about our being spoiled. I never chopped a carrot either. On tour I wore the same clothes for days. Zoë was always happy to swap. I liked her black smell. ‘You mucky little beast.’ Jonathan laughed. He’d paint me so people could smell it, he said. They’d look at the painting and smell I was wet. Carl wanted me to shower with him. Carl loved long hot showers. The quality of a hotel was the quality of the shower, for Carclass="underline" how long you could stay there rubbing soap over each other. Carl was always clean. Now I’m scrubbing hard. I’m scrubbing the sweat out of the cotton. Don’t even try to scrub out the letter. Because we love you. Blind to reason.
What did he mean, all the murder stories?
The kitchen servers ring the gong for meals and the course managers ring it for meditations. They carry their registers and their notebooks. They have biros. They are available if someone has an urgent question. They won’t offer an answer. They refer you to the course leader, to Harper or Mi Nu Wai. If people are skipping meditation, the course managers check their rooms. They catch them talking. They look for footprints in the mud along the fence at the bottom of the recreation field.
I’ve never been asked to be a course manager. Some people are invited the first time they serve. They must know I’m not the right person. I’d find it funny when people sneaked off for a pint. Sometimes it is hard to square the idea of having no self with the fact that they always know which person is right for which job. You are who you are even when you’re no one. That’s Anatta.
Another thing I wonder is how they decide which meditator will sit where. They have a plan of all the cushions. Rows A B C D, then the numbers along each row. Like stewards at a smart venue, they assign meditators to their places. That happens the first evening. It’s not alphabetical, but they keep a record, so when a cushion is empty they know whose bum isn’t on it, and they know what room that person sleeps in, they know where to find her. I had almost reached my place, late as usual, when I realized I was beside Marcia, the big Australian. They’d moved Meredith to the empty cushion on the right and put Marcia between us. When I sat down there was a smell of fart.
Equanimous mind. Tranquil mind.
Two thirty to three thirty is Strong Determination. ‘We are not masochists,’ Dasgupta says, ‘but there are great benefits to be gained from remaining absolutely still for a whole hour. This resolution is known in Pali as adhitthana, or strong determination.’
Marcia couldn’t decide if she was going to cross her right leg over her left or her left over her right. Her thighs are thick. She was wearing nylon trousers that swished and hissed. She lifted her backside and removed one of three foam cushions. Then she put it back. The fart is a rice-and-beans fart. I mustn’t attach my mind to an irritant. I mustn’t criticize. Will Kristin laugh about this in bed or will she lie silent on her slats? That’s how I should be: silent, concentrated, uncritical. Meredith will giggle. But I want Kristin to laugh. When she laughs I will bless her. Without any effort. She laughs and the blessing will rise from my gut, from my heart.
‘Sttart-tagain,’ Dasgupta intones. It’s the CD for day three, two thirty. The last day of anapana. ‘Concentrate on your breath as it passes through the nostrils and across the upper lip. Don’t try to change it or control it. Concentrate on the breath, as it is. As it is. If it is soft, it is soft. If it is hard, it is hard. The in-breath crossing the lip. The out-breath crossing the lip.’
Marcia huffs and puffs. She puts her hands on her knees, then moves them back to her lap, then back to her knees again. She can’t decide whether to have her blanket over her shoulders, or round her waist. Why is she so useless?
‘Eyes always closed, remain vvery vigilant, vvery aware, vvery vigilant, vvery aware.’
I open my eyes and look to Mi Nu Wai. She’s statuesque. No, a statue doesn’t vibrate. It’s a breathing stillness. I watch her. Words are popping and crackling in my mind: We recognized that you were in love. So beautiful to see you that way. A father was writing this stuff to his daughter. Not my father for sure. My father didn’t see anything. Maybe he saw the first daughter, maybe the second, but not the third, not Beth. Dad just did not notice when I was in love, or when I was out of love. ‘Carl tells me he loves me every day,’ I told Jonathan. ‘So do a couple of other guys, actually.’ It was true. There was an old guitar teacher in Swiss Cottage. Jonathan smiled. ‘But I don’t believe in love,’ I told him. That was what he wanted to hear. ‘What is love? A word? A sound? How can a girl in a band, with a solo career too, plus loads of session work, how can a girl like that not have other men? I love men. That’s what I love.’
Mi Nu is so still on the dais. There’s definitely a light from her cheeks and forehead. She’s lit up by her stillness. As if all the spotlights had been turned up on your shining face. The fact that that letter hurts should be a warning. I can feel the words in my ankles. Stay away from this man. Stay at the Dasgupta. Wrap yourself in the spirit of the Dasgupta. You came here so as not to kill yourself. So be here, Mr Diarist, damn it. Be here in this stillness and leave be. Stop writing your sad stories. Leave Susie be. Leave your wife be. Concentrate on your bloody meditation. I’m sure Mi Nu has a story behind her, but it’s long since dissolved into quietness. It’s an old magazine, read and forgotten. What’s forgotten can’t harm, has no power. Still, I’m hungry to know. I want to know. Why? The age gap with the older man is not the same as with the older woman. What is that supposed to mean? ‘I’m old enough to be your father,’ Jonathan said. ‘Hmmm, incest.’ I laughed.
My father was obsessed by money and security, no doubt about that, and he would never have denied it. Janet must study accountancy, Helen marketing, Elisabeth design. Each Marriot must take his place in Marriot’s Ltd. Or, rather, her place, defending Marriot against the taxman, promoting the Marriot brand, designing Marriot’s fabrics. Your life a project in Dad’s head. Mum’s role to shop, cook, clean and spend. The house must look good enough for all this work to have been worthwhile. Without spending too much. ‘It’s true your father’s a tyrant, Beth. But he came from nothing, remember.’
We all came from nothing, Mum.
Truth was Dad wanted a son. He would have left us alone if he’d had a son.
Marcia uncrosses and re-crosses her legs. She sighs and sniffs. It has begun to rain. Drops clatter on the roof of the Metta Hall. In a few minutes it will start to leak. The drip will begin.
Sit still. Right effort.