The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (7 page)

The owner of the Himalaya Book Café, Franc, had arrived from San Francisco in a cloud of Kouros cologne and with his French bulldog, Marcel, as his constant companion more than ten years ago. No one had ever quite worked out what brought him here. Perhaps it was simply that Dharamsala was like a magnet for eccentrics—and there was
nothing
commonplace about Franc. He created a café that would have been more at home in one of the cobbled alleys of Montmartre or Monterosso than off the cracked asphalt of McLeod Ganj.

Franc started out as a “designer Buddhist,” captivated by the outward trappings of the religion. But, after being taken on as a student by the uncompromising Geshe Wangpo at Namgyal Monastery, Franc soon dropped his golden om earring and allowed his shaven hair to grow again. He began focusing on inner transformation. On Geshe Wangpo's advice, he even went home to make peace with his dying father, during which time Serena acted as caretaker-manager of the café. When he returned, the two of them came to a job-share arrangement that was mutually satisfying: Serena would be able to achieve the work-life balance that had eluded her in Europe, and Franc would be able to have the freedom to read and meditate under the watchful gaze not only of Marcel but also of Kyi Kyi, a Lhasa apso he'd rescued after hearing from the Dalai Lama's office that it needed a home.

Franc had always been intensely private. Very little was known about his life before he opened the café. When he returned from San Francisco, though, things were different. He had always been a curious mix—charming to his customers but imperious to his staff. Lately, his mood swings seemed even more intense. There were times when he blossomed with good feeling, barely able to contain the pleasure he took in the company of everyone around him. At those moments it seemed the whole world had been created especially for his delight. But on other days, for no apparent reason at all, his whole world shifted on its axis and he would become suddenly withdrawn. His face would appear drained of all expression. While going through the motions of being maître d', he would communicate in bare monosyllables. In these moments he seemed hardly able to contain his self-loathing and despair.

In the midst of one of his “up” periods, he had made the unexpected announcement that playing the piano had been his passion when growing up, that he planned to buy a piano for the café, and that he'd like to hold a soiree when it arrived. We all noticed that, since getting back from San Francisco, he had been much more actively involved in the selection of background music played in the café. He would arrive with downloads of classical music, and he was especially drawn to vocal tracks. He knew better than to overwhelm the clientele with anything too intrusive, but on one occasion, when the café was closing, he had loudly proclaimed the “Queen of the Night” aria from Mozart's
Magic Flute
to be the finest ever composed for a soprano and had ramped up the decibels to an unbearable volume. I fled from the scene as fast as my fluffy gray boots would take me!

The afternoon of the piano delivery, we didn't have to wait long before Franc pulled up outside in his ever-shiny Fiat Punto, Marcel and Kyi Kyi at his feet. He swept into the café and headed toward the piano, happiness lighting up his face. But he also showed some uncertainty in his movements as he looked over the piano, pulling out the stool and lifting the lid to reveal a gleaming keyboard.

Serena, Sam, and a small group of the wait-staff stood in silence a short distance away studying Franc, who was in turn studying the piano: the way he leaned down to inspect the glistening white and black keys and ran a fingertip lightly along their surfaces; how he lowered and raised and lowered the piano rack, as though recollecting times in the past when he had placed sheet music in front of him; how he leaned back, looking down at his feet as he depressed first one of the brass pedals, then the next, getting a feel for them. There was a strong and growing sense of expectation.

Even though this was the first piano I had ever seen, I was very familiar with piano music. In times gone by I had spent many lunch hours with Tenzin in the first-aid room, a quiet place where he could shut the door for a while and enjoy a meal while listening to concerts broadcast from Bush House in London. These moments had been my cultural education. Knowing something about the amazing versatility of the piano made me all the more eager to hear one in real life. Just like Serena, Sam, and the waiters, I watched as Franc adjusted the height of the piano stool by twisting knobs on either side of it. How he sat upright, head moving fractionally from side to side as though trying to remember.

Just play something!

Turning to look over his shoulder, Franc noted that the only patrons were at the far side of the café by the open doors. Turning back, his posture straightened. He extended his arms to the upper end of the keyboard. There was a moment while all of us watched, transfixed. Time seemed concentrated by our all-absorbing anticipation. Then, suddenly, his hands were moving, crashing down on the keys to create the dramatic opening chords of Grieg's Piano Concerto. Just like the mountainous landscape they described, the chords descended in spectacular style from the upper register to the lower, where they rumbled thunderously.

It was a flawless opening. Bedazzling. We watched, entranced, as Franc continued playing. Who would have guessed Franc was such a great pianist? Or that he could still remember and play so well after years away? What a performer!

After a short while, however, Franc's playing faltered. He played a few ugly, block chords that Edvard Grieg had most certainly not included in his composition. He stopped and flicked his hands despairingly to each side.

“Franc! That was wonderful!” Serena was the first to congratulate him.

“Truly amazing! Terrific!” chimed Kusali and Sam.

Franc shook his head, ignoring their warm approval completely. “Hopeless memory . . . ,” he said, sounding bereft.

Soon he tried something very different—a few gentle, rippling bars of “Für Elise.” This time he was able to continue for much longer before fumbling over a note. Although it went undetected by anyone else, he abruptly stopped and vented with a few dark chords.

“Must have played that piece a thousand times—
ten
thousand times—since I was a boy. Used to be able to play it in my sleep. Now look!”

“But you haven't played for years, Franc,” Serena tried to reason. “With the sheet music—”

“That's just it! I shouldn't
need
the sheet music! I should have it down pat. I used to!”

“Bit of a refresher—” Sam began saying, but Franc had already started another piece.

It wasn't one I recognized, though the lavish, brooding cadences suggested something romantically Russian. He didn't get very far into it before he once again castigated
himself for his “appalling” memory. His audience murmured consolingly. He ignored them.

“What about playing something you don't need music for?” suggested Sam.

However well-intentioned the advice, it provoked a strongly negative reaction.

Franc pushed his stool back. “That's just it! I can't improvise!” he berated himself. “I'm a hopeless musician!”

“Franc—”

“Come on—”

“But, sir—” tried Kusali.

With calm deliberation, Franc lowered the piano lid and rose to his feet. Head bent and eyes lowered, he made his way out of the café. On his way past the counter, the two dogs leaped from their basket and glanced curiously toward the group standing by the piano, as if seeking to confirm that Franc's short visit really had come to an end. They trotted faithfully after him.

Around the piano, Serena, Sam, Kusali, and the waitstaff stared at one another. They had just witnessed one of the most dazzling, if all-too-brief, piano performances of their lives. A performance made all the more exceptional for knowing that Franc hadn't touched a keyboard in more than fifteen years. To hear him dismiss his highly developed ability as “hopeless” left them speechless.

“Tonight's subject is compassion,” began Geshe Wangpo on the teaching throne at Namgyal temple. Every Tuesday night Geshe Wangpo, who—apart from being Franc's teacher—was one of the monastery's most revered lamas, gave a teaching in English. It was open not only to the monks but to anyone in Dharamsala who wished to attend.

From the time that Franc had begun taking a serious interest in Buddhism years earlier, he had attended his lama's Tuesday night classes. After recruiting Sam as bookstore manager, he had found himself irresistibly drawn up the hill for what he would tell people was “free psychotherapy.” Later, when Serena became caretaker-manager, she, too, had become a regular.

The mysterious, calming atmosphere of the temple at night was part of the appeal. It was filled with drifting incense and beautiful Buddha statues, their gold faces lit by a sea of flickering butter lamps. But so, too, were Geshe-la's teachings, which, week after week, seemed powerfully and personally directed at every single person who attended. As on my previous visits to the Namgyal temple, conveniently just across the courtyard from home, I perched myself on a shelf at the back that, over the years, I had made my own so I could survey the temple's proceedings.

One of the most revered lamas at Namgyal, Geshe-la was one of the “old school” and had been trained in Tibet before the Chinese invasion. He had a round, muscular presence that was both powerful and utterly heart-melting. He was as respected for his intolerance toward slothfulness of body and mind as he was loved for his unceasing kindness. Geshe-la was also well known for his clairvoyant abilities.

“Love and compassion are the two core values of our tradition,” he told his audience while I looked on from my shelf. “But what do we mean by these terms? In Buddhism we define love as ‘the wish to give happiness to others.' If we practice love, then compassion arises quite naturally, for it is ‘the wish to free others from suffering.'

“All of us feel love and compassion for friends, family, and other living beings. This is natural. Normal. When we cultivate love and compassion as part of our spiritual path, our task is to practice
pure, great
love and
pure, great
compassion.
Pure
means free of attachment. Not only wanting to give in order to get something back. This is not love—this is business!”

His chuckle reverberated throughout the temple.

“How much of our love and compassion is conditional? We only want this one to be happy if he or she behaves in a particular way. We are willing to help that one because we think there will come a time when he or she can return the favor. It is up to each of us to be honest with ourselves. To challenge ourselves by asking, ‘How much of my love, my compassion, is pure—and how much is attachment-based?'

“We also try to make our love and compassion
great
, which means not limited just to those beings we naturally care about. How many beings is that—five? Twenty? Two hundred? What about the other seven billion people on planet Earth? And the countless other nonhuman
semchens,
or sentient beings? Don't they seek happiness, too? And the avoidance of suffering? Are their lives not as important to them as my life is to me? If so, on what basis can I say, ‘I only want this one and that one to be happy. The other seven billion, not so much.' Or, ‘May all beings be free from suffering'”—here he brought his palms to his heart in mock reverence—“‘except for my ex-husband and all conservative voters.'”

Again there was a ripple of levity as an evening breeze caught the tassels dangling from the thangkas in a gust of cool air.

“Great love and great compassion come when we practice Buddhism without partiality. We don't restrict ourselves only to those people and beings whom we
like
. To do this it helps to recollect that all beings, even the ones we find difficult, are just like you in that they only want to be happy. They only want to be free from pain. The way they go about seeking happiness may be delusional, it may cause great harm, but in what we want, we are all the same.”