‘So, when do I get my reader’s report?’
GH sat down beside me.
‘Is it Gary?’ I asked. ‘Or Gregory or Gordon or George?’
‘Geoff,’ he said. ‘Geoff Hall.’
‘I’m Lisa,’ I told him.
‘Good to meet you, Lisa.’
I asked him about the food and he said too bad he’d never got anywhere near the bananas. ‘Those little apples were sour.’
‘I thought you’d appreciated the cantaloupes, though.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He didn’t understand. He’s the kind of guy who says ‘I beg your pardon’. And he had a cute line in bushy-eyebrow-raising. Then he got it. ‘Oh, right. The canteloupes. Sorry about that.’
We went for a walk around the field. There were people in pairs and knots, moving, leaning on trees and benches. The sky was milky.
‘How come you were in my room?’ he asked.
‘How come you were keeping a diary? You know you’re not supposed to.’
He didn’t reply. Maybe he was still surprised to be speaking again.
‘All day you sit in the meditation hall supposedly dissolving your big ego, then you rush back to your room and start scribbling away and building it up again.’
‘It was quite a shock finding you there.’ He laughed.
‘I was taking some bedding over for a student who was cold. I pushed the wrong door.’
‘And just happened to see the exercise books and just happened to sit down to read and just happened to pick up a pen and write me a message.’
I laughed.
‘You came more than once. And you tore out a page. Why did you do that?’
‘What is this, an interrogation?’
You could see he was excited someone had read his stuff.
‘By the way, I really liked what you wrote about your daughter.’
‘Oh? What in particular?’
Then I realized that the stuff about adoring his daughter was in the letter. And he didn’t know I’d read that.
‘Just the way you obviously care.’
He sighed. He had a craggy, troubled look to him, but when he laughed he relaxed.
‘Let’s cut across diagonally,’ I said. We’d finished a first time round the field. ‘We can do the bit in the wood.’
We left the path and walked on the wet grass. He was silent.
‘Home tomorrow, then?’
‘Right.’
‘What are you going to do with your famous dilemma?’
‘I’ve no idea. I was hoping the meditation would help me take a decision.’
‘It doesn’t. It just helps you accept you’re a piece of shit.’
He frowned. ‘Actually, that’s not bad for a start.’
‘Have you collected your stuff from the locker yet? You can, you know. You can use your phone if you want.’
He said he’d opened the locker but then shut it again.
‘Are you scared?’
‘Of course I’m scared.’ He thought about it. ‘But less than when I came. I feel stronger these last few days.’
‘Ah. I haven’t read anything since day seven.’
‘And I haven’t written anything. I stopped.’
‘Really?’
He didn’t answer. We walked. And as we walked I knew I was getting to like him. I liked his troubledness.
‘Why did you stop? Tell me.’
‘I had this experience, meditating.’
He waited while we crossed two guys coming in the other direction.
‘One of those awful hours of Strong Determination. My ankles and thighs were on fire, but I was determined not to move before the end of the hour. Then I realized how stupid it was. I was holding on so that I would feel proud when I made it, which is exactly the opposite of what meditation is supposed to be about. I don’t know how it played out then. I decided to give up, to change posture, not because I absolutely had to, but to avoid this whole endurance-test mentality. I thought it would be better to be humble and accept I was beaten. But instead of uncrossing my legs I leaned forward a bit, leaned into the pain in my knees, my ankles, and let go, mentally. It was such a strange feeling. Like I was diving into a deep pool of pain, giving myself to it. And right when I thought I’d drown, I’d be overwhelmed, it all drained away, ran off like water. That’s what it felt like, like hot water running away, and I was fine. I didn’t have any trouble at all getting through the hour, even sat on a bit afterwards.’
‘That’s the experience that hooks everyone,’ I said.
‘Anyway, after that I really got into it. And I stopped writing. I’m even sad it’s over.’
‘So maybe you should stay.’ I laughed. ‘I’ve been here nearly nine months, you know.’
He asked how come and I told him they always needed volunteers, you just worked for them in return for room and board. ‘Aside from the kitchen there’s all sorts of maintenance and stuff. Gardening. Plumbing. Electrics.’
‘I meant, how come you were here so long?’
I made him wait a moment. ‘That’s my business.’
‘Oh, come on, tell me.’
‘Why? Why do you want to know?’
He smiled. ‘I’m curious about you.’
‘Give me one good reason why I should tell.’
‘You’ve read about my life.’
‘Not a good reason.’
He laughed out loud. ‘Because I like you.’
What was that supposed to mean?
We reached the corner of the field and moved into the path with the wood chippings, through the trees along the bottom fence where people skive off to the pub.
I said, ‘OK. There was a drowning accident. Last summer in France. I was saved by a helicopter, but the other bloke in the water ended up in coma. It was sort of my fault and it started me thinking. Then on the ferry back home someone mentioned this place.’
‘Did he survive? The guy in the coma.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘But why not? You’ve got a phone, haven’t you?’
‘It’s been in the locker since I arrived here.’
‘Are you scared of phoning, in case he’s dead?’
I thought about it. ‘I used to be. But not now. The point is, it really doesn’t matter whether he’s dead or not. I did what I did. My problem is my problem whether he died or not. I hardly knew him in the end.’
He was silent.
‘Sorry, it was kind of complicated.’
A little further on he stopped by a tree. ‘A couple of days ago I was totally transfixed by this branch.’ He pointed at a long twig with thick sticky buds. ‘I sort of got stuck looking at the buds about to flower with drops of rain on them.’
‘That’s a very Dasgupta moment. Day eightish, I reckon.’
‘I can’t remember.’ Then he said: ‘Let’s go and get our phones. Let’s make the calls we have to make.’
‘No.’
‘Come on. Let’s do it. Together.’
‘No.’
I started to walk back beside him.
Mum
IN MY LOCKER I would find the earrings Jonathan brought back from India, Zoë’s black swan brooch and the weird amulet with the insect in amber that Carl picked up from the African market in Bordeaux. Jewellery is another thing that is forbidden in the Dasgupta, and makeup, and perfume. Anything bright or smelly. The amulet was supposed to guard against sudden death, Carl said, though it looked more like a bad omen to me. Who wants to be preserved in amber? ‘As soon as you get out of here we’ll check into a proper hotel and have a fantastic shower,’ he said. He was always at my side when I woke in the morning and when I went to sleep at night. It was the last week of August and there was no air conditioning. The note I left said: ‘It’s over, Carl. I’m sorry. Don’t try to contact me.’