Share
12
Related chapters
The Wind in my Heart 13
13When I arrive at the dharma center on West 14th, there’s a plainclothes cop watching the entrance. Caucasian, buzz cut, I can just tell. And I don’t think he’s there waiting for a monk. It’s me they want to talk to and I haven’t been home or to the office. In my old jacket and lacking the trademark hat, I’m almost in disguise but there’s also nothing to hide my face so I duck into a corner store and buy a Yankees cap. There goes my lunch money. But with the bill pulled down, I’m able to blend in with the crowd on the street and slip up the garden path on the side of the building without getting collared.The side entrance puts me in the lobby with its high ceiling and art gallery atmosphere. I can see the cop on the street through the glass of the main entrance, the etched eternal knot superimposed over his restless form. At the front desk, where I expect to find Norbu manning the phone, I find a skinny young monk in glasses—one I haven’t seen before. I give him my name and tell h
The Wind in my Heart 14
14I’m still reeling when a young monk hands me an envelope stuffed with cash to cover my expenses and ushers me out the side door. I check for the undercover cop at the corner. When I don’t see him, I stuff the envelope into my jacket pocket and join the flow of pedestrians. Everything still looks a little brighter, more vibrant than usual, and one of the first things I see on the street is Jigme Rinpoche’s face again, smiling at me from a poster taped to an electrical box. Apparently he’s giving a public talk on mindfulness and compassion at the Union Square Theater on February 23rd. My step falters as I read the flyer, and for a moment I consider turning tail and marching back into the dharma center to ask him why he’s appearing in public when there might be assassins prowling around. But that’s Norbu’s alleged concern, not his.It’s only been a couple of days but enough has happened that I bet there might be something worth hearing on the cassette recorder I tucked behind the cei
The Wind in my Heart 15
15As I regainconsciousness, my head wrapped tight in a bandage, my nose taped up and throbbing through the haze of pain medication dripping into my vein, I realize it’s my lucky day.Not because I’m still alive.Not because it could be worse.It’s because of the kid. He’s the first thing I see as I take in the room. I can’t see my roommate, don’t know what particular brand of suffering he or she is afflicted with because of the drawn curtain between our beds. I hear the murmur of conversation drifting through that curtain and see a middle-aged woman in slacks and a sweater standing at the edge of the curtain with her hand on a little girl’s shoulder, and the shadow of what might be a man beside the bed. But none of them catch my eye like the acne stricken adolescent boy hanging out by the door. He has headphones around his neck and a Walkman in his hand.Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt to turn my head. I look around my side of the room and spot my stained army jacket hanging on
The Wind in my Heart 16
16They won’t releaseme until the following day. The thought of the deductible makes my head hurt even more than the beating I took, but they want to monitor me for swelling of the brain. It’s the first time I’ve ever been afraid of my brain getting too big. Mostly I sleep and wish I could borrow another Walkman, but no opportunity presents for that. Maybe my luck has dried up, or I’ve pissed it all out on one of my unsteady trips to the bathroom.Eventually I put the cassette out of mind. Not like I can translate what’s on it, anyway. All I’ve got is a name and a vague memory of adjacent words I don’t understand.But after stewing over it for a while, I realize that’s not entirely true. I can count in Chinese, and I might have recognized a number. In fact, I’m pretty sure Paul Tien said the number er shi sanin the same sentence as Rinpoche’s name. Twenty-three.The date when Jigme Rinpoche is giving a public talk at the Union Square Theater. Saturday night.It’s somet
The Wind in my Heart 17
17I was bornin the Year of the Ox.That’s my first thought when I wake up in the hospital again. The hospital where I was born. Mount Sinai. My next thought is that the confrontation with Paul Tien in the alley was a bad dream, that I’m still here from getting beaten by his goons; I never left.No. The room might look the same, but it’s different. Different wounds, too. And the first thought nags at me again before I can distract myself from it, like it’s been waiting by the bedside for me to wake up so it can poke my throbbing shoulder and whisper in my ear, demanding my attention.Your birthday is in January. Chinese New Year changes dates with the lunar cycle but it always comes later than the 14th. Often as late as February. You’re not a tiger, you’re an ox.Someone clears his throat. I turn my head to find Joe Navarro and Benny Chen staring at me.“Why?” Chen asks. Navarro doesn’t speak, but his eyes tell me everything. A soldier’s eyes, empty of anger and denial, of
The Wind in my Heart 18
18I’m less than a year into a life sentence at Great Meadow Correctional in Comstock, NY. Always thought I’d like to retire upstate someday, but for all I see of the outside, I may as well be in China. Paul Tien is back on the street, but Joe says the Fifth Precinct is keeping tabs on him. In October, the Dalai Lama’s visit to the Big Apple went off without a hitch, and things have settled down again for the monks of the Diamond Path Dharma Center. They have more time now for general meditation classes, hospital chaplaincy, and prison ministry visits.Far as I know, I’m the only Buddhist currently in residence. I took the refuge vows from Jigme Rinpoche the first time he visited me. Not monastic vows, not yet, just your garden variety vows to seek refuge in the three jewels: the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. But I already have a pretty monkish haircut, so who knows? I may get there. I’ve got time.For a while there, I thought my guru might be joining me full time. The police
The Wind in my Heart 1
1New York City, 1991On my wayback from the one hour photo with a satchel full of sins, I stand on the corner and wait for the dragon to pass before crossing the street. It’s my third Chinese New Year in the office on Mott Street where, in spite of spotty work, I haven’t been evicted yet, and that dragon is still as impressive as the first time I saw it. Wild-eyed, with curling horns and fierce paper jaws, the silk body winds down the street atop poles held by red and yellow clad dancers. I cross, trot up the steps to my building, and enter the lobby, dripping confetti from my shoes and shoulders. It’s a three-story walk-up, my office on the third floor, and by the time I get to the second landing I can hear my phone jangling. That’s the sound of thunder in the desert. I quicken my step.My shoes squeak on the grimy tile floor as I make the turn at the head of the stairs. Dim sunlight filters in through a skylight dome the color of sour milk but doesn’t quite reach the end of
The Wind in my Heart 2
2The first murder happened on New Year’s Eve—Gregorian calendar, not Chinese. The police wrote it off as gang violence, but even they knew it was too grisly for gangs. At least that was the word around the deli counters and bars of Little Italy. In Chinatown, nobody talks about the gangs. Certainly not with white guys who smell like pork. The underground gambling parlors in my neighborhood are all run by rival Chinese gangs overseen by the tongs, semi-legitimate Benevolent Associations. Above these groups are the international triads, organized crime syndicates that rival the Italian mafia with deep roots in Chinese secret societies and Southeast Asian drug cartels.What any of that has to do with Tibetan monks is anybody’s guess. Most of my clients are Caucasian. I don’t know much about Asia, despite my business address, but I’m old enough to remember when Tibet still looked like a separate country on the Rand McNally globe, and I’m pretty sure the only white powder they have there
Latest chapter
