The Train To Lo Wu Part 6

Why not?

Well, Lewis says, I'm not supposed to be thinking thinking about anything, am I? 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? 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. 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 what is my true direction in life? 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. 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. n.o.body 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 Show me love. 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 were at a loss to justify themselves. I'll be more quiet! she said. Not even any telephone calls! Finally Lewis threatened to call her agency and complain, and she went to the elevator crying and wailing in Tagalog. All along the hallway he heard doors opening and closing, the neighbors talking in low tones.

Afterward Melinda couldn't sleep for days. She might have been sent back to the Philippines, she said. That's what she was afraid of. Anytime they're out of work they risk losing their visas. Maybe we could have kept her on.

What did you want me to do? Not work?

No, she said. I know. But I don't know how we can live with ourselves.

It isn't our fault, Lewis said. Who thought that an American couple would be comfortable having a live-in housekeeper in a tiny apartment? Couldn't they at least have asked?

Everybody else has one.

Well, I'm not interested in having a servant, Lewis said impatiently. I don't want some kind of colonial fantasy life.

I want my my life, he wanted to add, life, he wanted to add, our our life, the one we promised each other, the one we had in Boston. He remembered what she'd said to him in the airport, when they were standing in line at the gate, clutching their tickets and carry-on bags and staring out the window at the tarmac, as if seeing America for the last time: she'd turned to him, wide-eyed, and said, life, the one we promised each other, the one we had in Boston. He remembered what she'd said to him in the airport, when they were standing in line at the gate, clutching their tickets and carry-on bags and staring out the window at the tarmac, as if seeing America for the last time: she'd turned to him, wide-eyed, and said, no matter what no matter what happens, we'll still be the same, right? happens, we'll still be the same, right?

That was how it began, he thinks, staring at the ceiling, on the nights when the throbbing in his knees keeps him awake. The things they couldn't have predicted, and couldn't be faulted for. In the first month he visited the offices of a dozen magazines and journals, after sending slides and a portfolio in advance, and found himself talking to a.s.sistants and deputy editors who seemed not to have heard of he thinks, staring at the ceiling, on the nights when the throbbing in his knees keeps him awake. The things they couldn't have predicted, and couldn't be faulted for. In the first month he visited the offices of a dozen magazines and journals, after sending slides and a portfolio in advance, and found himself talking to a.s.sistants and deputy editors who seemed not to have heard of Outside, Conde Nast Traveler, Outside, Conde Nast Traveler, or or Architectural Digest, Architectural Digest, and who regretted to inform him that there was a glut of photographers in Hong Kong at the moment. For the first time in six years he was officially out of work. On the bus, in the subway, in restaurants, he had moments of irrational rage, hating everything and everyone around him: the women who brayed into their mobile phones; the insolent teenagers with dyed-blond hair and purple sungla.s.ses; the old men in stained T-shirts who stared at him balefully when he paid with the wrong coins. Cantonese was an impossible language: even people who'd lived in Hong Kong twenty years couldn't speak it. He couldn't master the tones well enough to say and who regretted to inform him that there was a glut of photographers in Hong Kong at the moment. For the first time in six years he was officially out of work. On the bus, in the subway, in restaurants, he had moments of irrational rage, hating everything and everyone around him: the women who brayed into their mobile phones; the insolent teenagers with dyed-blond hair and purple sungla.s.ses; the old men in stained T-shirts who stared at him balefully when he paid with the wrong coins. Cantonese was an impossible language: even people who'd lived in Hong Kong twenty years couldn't speak it. He couldn't master the tones well enough to say thank you. thank you.

But I'm not the only one who changed.

Melinda's cello, which had cost them a thousand dollars to ship, sat in its case in the corner of their bedroom, unopened, growing a faint green tinge of mildew. Her address book hadn't moved from its slot on the shelf above her desk in months. When he called their friends on the East Coast, waking them up after eleven at night, they asked, what the h.e.l.l's happened to her? what the h.e.l.l's happened to her? It wasn't just the seventy-hour weeks; it wasn't the new secretaries she had to train every month, or the global trades that could happen at any hour of the day, in Tokyo, or Bombay, or Frankfurt, so that she often had to be on call overnight. She'd always worked hard, and complained about it, and fought Coopers for every bit of time off she was ent.i.tled to. Now they never discussed her schedule at all. If he asked her about vacation time, or free weekends, or made a casual remark about never seeing her enough, she would say, It wasn't just the seventy-hour weeks; it wasn't the new secretaries she had to train every month, or the global trades that could happen at any hour of the day, in Tokyo, or Bombay, or Frankfurt, so that she often had to be on call overnight. She'd always worked hard, and complained about it, and fought Coopers for every bit of time off she was ent.i.tled to. Now they never discussed her schedule at all. If he asked her about vacation time, or free weekends, or made a casual remark about never seeing her enough, she would say, that's the last thing I want to think about. that's the last thing I want to think about. Her face had taken on a kind of slackness, a faint, constant unhappiness, as if no disaster could surprise her. She slept with her knees tucked up to her chest; she was constantly turning off the air conditioner, even when the apartment was stifling, complaining she was cold. Despite the subtropical sun, her skin was becoming paler; she had to throw away all her makeup and start over with lighter shades. And in three months she had gone from two cigarettes to four to half a pack a day. Her face had taken on a kind of slackness, a faint, constant unhappiness, as if no disaster could surprise her. She slept with her knees tucked up to her chest; she was constantly turning off the air conditioner, even when the apartment was stifling, complaining she was cold. Despite the subtropical sun, her skin was becoming paler; she had to throw away all her makeup and start over with lighter shades. And in three months she had gone from two cigarettes to four to half a pack a day.

On a Sunday afternoon in March of that first year he convinced her to come shopping with him at the new underground supermarket in Causeway Bay. She wandered through the aisles like a sleepwalker, picking up items almost at random-a jar of gherkin pickles, a packet of ramen-frowning, and putting them back. Half-joking, he said, I think we've become a reverse cliche, don't you? I'm the bored housewife, and you're the workaholic businessman. Maybe my mother was right.

She stopped in front of a pyramid of Holland tomatoes and turned to look at him, her lips pressed into a tiny pink oval. Just before the wedding, his mother had said to him wryly, marry a marry a career woman and all you'll wind up with is a career, career woman and all you'll wind up with is a career, and they'd quickly turned it into a joke: when she kissed him, or touched him, she would say, and they'd quickly turned it into a joke: when she kissed him, or touched him, she would say, how do you like my career now? how do you like my career now? But the joke isn't funny anymore, he thought, and wished he could suck the words out of the air. But the joke isn't funny anymore, he thought, and wished he could suck the words out of the air.

Is that what you really think? she asked. Do you think I arranged it all this way? So that you'd be out of work and frustrated and taking it all out on me?

Is this what you call frustrated? he said. Making a joke? Asking an innocent question every now and then?

I'm not a workaholic. She tore off a plastic bag and began filling it with broccoli rabe, inspecting each stalk carefully for flowers. A workaholic likes likes it. it.

No, he said. A workaholic can't stop.

She turned away from him, sorting through mounds of imported lettuce: American iceberg, Australian romaine, all neatly labeled and shrink-wrapped.

Can't you ask them for more time off? Lewis asked. Just one Sat.u.r.day? I mean, it's the same company, isn't it? You're in a more senior position than you were in Boston, and now now you don't have any flexibility? you don't have any flexibility?

Do you know what happened to the Asian markets last week? she asked. Did you even read the papers?

That isn't the issue. That's never been the issue. You'd be working this hard regardless.

I don't know how to explain it, she said. Her face darkened, and she stopped in the middle of the aisle, her shoulders drooping, as if the bags of vegetables were filled with stones. It's different here. She looked as if she would cry at any moment. A young Chinese woman pa.s.sing them stared at her, then twisted her head to look at him. We have to fight for everything, she said. Clients. Market share. Out here we're not the Big Five. Accounts don't just fall in our laps here the way they do at home. And anyway, the whole economy's in a G.o.dd.a.m.ned meltdown. n.o.body n.o.body wants to open up a new account right now. wants to open up a new account right now.

He should have taken the bags from her hands, and dropped them in the cart; he should have embraced her and said, forget forget about shopping, let's get a drink. about shopping, let's get a drink. Instead, he crossed his arms and waited for her to finish, feeling impatient, irritated at her for making a scene. Instead, he crossed his arms and waited for her to finish, feeling impatient, irritated at her for making a scene.

And you just don't care, do you? she said. It's not that you want to see me, is it? You've just given up trying, and now you want to go home. Well, it's not that easy. You made a promise to me, and we never said that there wasn't a risk. Hong Kong isn't Boston. If you can't adapt, well, I feel sorry for you.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth. I'm glad you feel sorry for me, he said. I'm glad you feel something. something. He turned around and walked toward the escalator, and though she called after him, He turned around and walked toward the escalator, and though she called after him, Lewis, wait, I don't know how to get home, Lewis, wait, I don't know how to get home, he ignored her and kept going. he ignored her and kept going.

At first he thought he would head straight back to the apartment, but he turned right on Queen's Road, blindly, and walked in the opposite direction, into a neighborhood he'd never visited before. It seemed to him that everyone he pa.s.sed-the old man selling watches from a suitcase, the young fashionable women laden with shopping bags, even the boys throwing a volleyball back and forth-had red, puffy eyes, as if the whole city had been crying. He was walking too slowly; people veered around him, or b.u.mped him with their elbows as they tried to get by.

It would be so easy to leave: to buy a ticket for Boston tomorrow, to rent a studio in Central Square, to make a few phone calls, get some small a.s.signments, to start making a life for himself again. She wouldn't fight the divorce; she would give him a fair settlement, probably more than he needed. A lawyer could finish the paperwork in a few weeks. And she would stay here, getting thinner, smoking more, biding her time until her bosses realized she wasn't going to be driven away. Whatever inertia it was that gripped her now would swallow her whole. I can't do it, I can't do it, he thought. he thought. I can't abandon her. I can't shock her out of it. I can't abandon her. I can't shock her out of it. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared up at the buildings overhead, looking for a landmark to orient himself. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared up at the buildings overhead, looking for a landmark to orient himself. If I were If I were home, home, he thought bitterly, he thought bitterly, someone would stop and ask if I needed someone would stop and ask if I needed directions. They wouldn't all stare at me and think, what are you directions. They wouldn't all stare at me and think, what are you doing here in the first place? doing here in the first place?

I have a question, he says to Hae Wol as they are walking through the market, searching for the lightbulb store. What about change?

Change? The monk furrows his eyebrows. Everything is always changing. What kind of change?

Changing yourself. Trying to do better. Not making mistakes.

Mistakes are your mirror, Hae Wol says. They reflect your mind. Don't try to slip away from them.

Enough with the Zenspeak, Lewis says. Plain English, please.

The monk shrugs, and a look of annoyance crosses his face. You have to understand cause and effect, he says. Watch yourself. When you see the patterns in how you act, you'll begin to understand your karma. Then you won't have to be afraid of your feelings, because they won't control you.

I've been been watching myself, Lewis says. But I keep wondering: even if I understand completely, can't I still make mistakes? How do I know that when I go back to Hong Kong things will be different? watching myself, Lewis says. But I keep wondering: even if I understand completely, can't I still make mistakes? How do I know that when I go back to Hong Kong things will be different?

It isn't so much a question of conscious effort. You have to give up the idea that coming here is going to get get you anything. you anything.

Lewis looks around him, at the meat vendors carving enormous slabs of beef, the shoe repairmen, the grandmothers carrying babies tied to their backs with blankets. His eyes are watering.

I keep hearing that, he says, and it just sounds like a recipe for standing still.

No one ever said it was easy, Hae Wol says sharply. It's not like a vacation for losing weight. If you come here looking for some kind of quick fix for all your problems, you're missing the point.

There's something different about him, Lewis thinks. Lewis thinks. I'm asking I'm asking too many questions. too many questions. But it's not just that; the monk is nervous, unfocused, even a little jumpy. Every few minutes he scratches the same spot behind his right ear, automatically. But it's not just that; the monk is nervous, unfocused, even a little jumpy. Every few minutes he scratches the same spot behind his right ear, automatically.

I'll tell you a story, Hae Wol says. Once there was a famous Zen master who visited a temple and asked to see the strongest students there. The abbot said, we've got one young monk who does nothing but sit Zen in his room all day. He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, and doesn't work. So the Zen master went to see this student. What are you trying to do by sitting so much? he asked. I'm sitting to become Buddha, the student said. So the famous master picks up a brick and starts rubbing it with his walking stick. What are you doing to that brick? the student asks. I'm trying to turn it into a mirror, the master says. You fool, the student says, that brick will never turn into a mirror, no matter how hard you rub it. Yes, says the master, and neither will you ever become Buddha by sitting this way.

You lost me.

Think of a horse and cart. Your body, your actions-they're the cart. Your mind is the horse. If you want to move, which one do you whip, the horse or the cart?

Lewis starts to laugh, shaking his head.

I don't even know why I ask you these questions. You're no use.

It's not me, Hae Wol says. The questions questions are no use. Nothing I can tell you will ever make you satisfied, because all you really want to know is, are no use. Nothing I can tell you will ever make you satisfied, because all you really want to know is, will everything turn out all right? will everything turn out all right?

So what should I do?

The monk stops and draws his fists together in front of his stomach, his hara, hara, the center of energy. Tell yourself, the center of energy. Tell yourself, don't know, don't know, he says to Lewis. Say it to yourself, over and over. he says to Lewis. Say it to yourself, over and over. Don't know. Don't know. Don't know. Don't know. Don't speculate. Don't make plans. Just accept it: Don't speculate. Don't make plans. Just accept it: I don't know. I don't know.

Lewis lets out a long sigh.

So we're back at the beginning.

No, Hae Wol says, giving him a playful, twisting smile. Not yet. When you're back at the beginning, then then you'll really be getting somewhere. you'll really be getting somewhere.

That night he has a dream: They are in Melinda's apartment in Somerville, the one she had when they met, when she was in the second year of Harvard Business School. The dream begins at their third date, just as it really happened. Late spring, twilight, the sun's last rays streaming through her bedroom window. He is sitting on the bed, and she is standing; they are having an intense conversation about some painter she admired in college, and in the middle of it she begins unb.u.t.toning her shirt, still talking, dropping it to the floor, unhooking her bra, unzipping her jeans. He forces himself to maintain eye contact, because he understands, somehow, that that is what is required; but when he blinks he glimpses the rest of her. The light makes her skin glow like liquid gold. Every movement, every gesture, is like some beautiful kind of dance he's never seen before; he wishes he could see it again, from the beginning; he wants to say, stop there, start over stop there, start over. He thinks he is having a religious experience. He thinks, I have just become a photographer. I have just become a photographer.

Good for you, she says, still standing there. You just pa.s.sed the first test.

What test? he asks, trying to look incredulous.

You'd be surprised how few men can hold a conversation with a naked woman.

Stay still, he tells her. Stop moving. Her face blurs; her body vibrates in the air. What's happening to you?

There's this problem with you, Lewis, she says, her voice hollow, echoing, as if they're on opposite ends of a much larger room. You trust me too much. You believe in surfaces. Think about it this way: You could be making the biggest mistake of your You could be making the biggest mistake of your life this instant and you would never know. life this instant and you would never know.

But that's what love is, isn't it? he says. You have to take that risk, don't you?

Not me, she says. That's the difference between us, Lewis. I've read your papers.

What papers, he says. What are you talking about?

A bell is ringing somewhere in the distance, heavy shoes pounding on the stairs. The monk sleeping next to him reaches up and flips the light switch, and he covers his eyes, shuddering.

The morning is cold and overcast, the mountain hidden by low-hanging clouds. In the meditation hall he sleeps, his head fallen to his chest. A monk wakes him with a jab between the shoulder blades, and he struggles to his feet, barely able to stand.

Hae Wol pa.s.ses him a note scribbled on the back of an envelope. Demons are everywhere, Demons are everywhere, it says. it says. Don't follow them. You're not Don't follow them. You're not the only one. the only one.

So I ask you again, the teacher says. What is love?

Today it is cloudy.

The teacher watches him for a moment, lips pressed together, and shakes his head.

Not enough? Lewis asks.

Not enough.

Lewis pa.s.ses a hand over his eyes.

Love is just coming and going. Like a bad dream.

The teacher picks up his stick and taps him on the shoulder.

I give you thirty blows, he says. You understand emptiness. But emptiness is only half the story.

It's the most incredible thing, Lewis says. I don't feel my legs anymore. No more pain.

You'll want it back, the teacher says. He balances his stick on the ground and leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. Don't linger in h.e.l.l, he says. Wake up!

In the fall of their second year, with nothing else to do, he decided to write a book proposal, and began reprinting every picture he'd taken in the last six years: taking out hundreds of his best negatives and recasting them with every possible shade and filter. The third bedroom was webbed with drying lines, and the whole apartment reeked of developing fluid. He spent thousands of dollars on paper and chemicals, bought a new computer for digital editing, and still all the new work fell short somehow. In his sleep he twitched and groaned, and Melinda made him move to the couch; then he began working later and later at night, and sleeping in the afternoon. One night, in a fit of rage he kicked the side of his desk, putting his foot through the particle board, and smashed his favorite lens, a 75mm, three-thousand-dollar Leica telephoto. He collapsed into a corner, weeping like a child, and then fell asleep there, in the dim red glow, his head between his knees. Melinda woke him in the afternoon of the next day and pulled him out into the living room, where he sat on a chair with a blanket wrapped around him, trembling.

You need to leave, she said. Sitting in their narrow window seat, her arms wrapped around her chest, as if for warmth, she looked haggard and frail, as if she'd aged thirty years. Go back to Boston if you have to. Or go on one of those retreats you told me about. Two months, absolute minimum. After that we can try again.

Hong Kong isn't the problem anymore, he said. I'm I'm the problem. I'm useless, can't you see that? Sending me away won't help. the problem. I'm useless, can't you see that? Sending me away won't help.

She leaned back against the window gla.s.s, resting her weight against it, as if daring it to break. Her eyes were horribly bloodshot, like blood in milk, like blood in milk, he thought, for no good reason. I don't know what to do with you, she said. You've got one more chance, Lewis. Do whatever you have to. This paralysis-whatever you want to call it-it's he thought, for no good reason. I don't know what to do with you, she said. You've got one more chance, Lewis. Do whatever you have to. This paralysis-whatever you want to call it-it's temporary, temporary, can't you see that? can't you see that?

I can't, he said calmly, scratching his three-day beard. That's why I'm finished. I can't see see.

Days pa.s.s. He sits quietly, following the course of shadows across the floor. At night he tumbles exhausted onto his bedroll and sleeps without dreams. At meals he eats what is given and takes nothing extra, hardly noticing the burning taste of kimchi, the piquant sourness of preserved spinach. He cleans his bowls with tea and drinks the dirty remains without hesitation.

On a certain bright, cloudless day, the warmest yet, the monk who sleeps next to him gives him a note. Bathe. Bathe.

The men's washroom consists of a short hallway, where clothes are left on hooks; a room with spigots protruding from the wall at waist level, low plastic stools and small mirrors, for washing and shaving; and beyond that, closed off by a door, a room with a huge bathtub that stands empty. A sign in Korean and English says, Conserving water, no use. Conserving water, no use. It is the middle of the day, and no one else is there. Removing his robes, Lewis winces at the cold, then reaches for the nearest faucet and turns it to hot. It is the middle of the day, and no one else is there. Removing his robes, Lewis winces at the cold, then reaches for the nearest faucet and turns it to hot.

A strange sensation, looking at his nakedness for the first time in weeks. His legs are skinnier than before, his ribs showing slightly. When the water touches his shoulders and face, tears spring to his eyes, and he remembers Melinda showering him in their tiny bathtub, pouring body wash over his head, to his protests, working his shoulders with her loofah sponge. His muscles feel rubbery; he nearly slips from the plastic stool.

A few minutes later, when he turns off the water, he hears someone breathing hard, and close by. A plastic bag rustles. No one has come in, and the door to the outside is closed. He rises from his stool.