The Book of Lost Fragrances

Forty-five

3:45 P.M.

The bald Asian woman in amber robes looked at the LED readout on her cell phone, recognized the number, and answered it.

It was an incongruous sight: a holy woman talking into a state-of-the-art piece of electronic equipment. The picture had nothing to do with simplicity or mindfulness.

“What’s happening?” the man on the other end asked without any salutation.

“The archaeologist was just here. He’s asked me for my help.”

The temple was empty as far as she knew. There had been only one visitor so far that afternoon, and he had left ten minutes ago, but still she walked outside and hid in a thicket of locust trees so she could see anyone who might be approaching.

Each morning before she got out of bed and each night before she fell asleep, she meditated on ridding herself of anxiety. She couldn’t be out of her self if she was not one with her self. At the retreat, she’d learned deep meditation, and it had proved a worthwhile gift. The lamas might be disappointed to learn how she chose to use it, but the old ways belonged to history.

The future had to be honored, not just the past.

“What did he say?” the man asked, his voice insistent, stern.

“Robbie L’Etoile is safe and is asking for assistance in setting up a meeting with His Holiness.” She smiled. “He also gave me a list of items I’ll need to get in order to make the trip.”

“The trip?”

The sky was clear. Only a few puffs of clouds moved across the blue canvas. There were no birds flying, but she could hear them chirping just on the edge of her consciousness.

“In order to see L’Etoile. He didn’t explain.”

“What are they?”

The woman in the saffron robes listed the items.

“So he’s underground,” the caller observed.

“It seems so.”

“We should discuss next steps.”

The birds were unrelenting. So loud that she was distracted. Their song set her teeth on edge. Picking up a handful of pebbles and dirt, she threw it into the tree to the right. Then another handful into the tree to the left. There was a flurry of wings and a cessation of song. Quiet. She could concentrate again.

As they described the plan, she felt confident it would work.

“Conviction but not certainty,” she could hear her mentor warn. “Pride interferes with the task at hand. Plays havoc with concentration. Dilutes effort.”

It was one of the lessons he’d tried to teach her-one that she’d never quite conquered. To transform pride in her work into pride in their work. To be truly selfless. Ego would get in her way. It was a conundrum, because growth only fed her ego more.

“We’re counting on you,” her superior said. “What L’Etoile has is very important.”

“I understand.”

“It’s critical it not fall into the wrong hands.”

“Yes, yes.” She knew this much but little beyond it. She had been taught to accept what she didn’t know. “I’d like to know why this pottery matters.”

There was a moment of silence on the line. She always asked too many questions. Her mentor used to warn her about that, too.

“This isn’t about you understanding, it is about you obeying.”

Her curiosity, like her pride, needed more work.

“You are certain you can do this?”

“I’ve accepted every difficult task asked of me. And accomplished them,” she said, trying to keep her tone deferential but secure. Except she hadn’t often worked on her own. Now the operation was about to enter into its second phase. It made her heart race. Years had led her to this point. Now she could finally prove her worth. Reach her potential.

The call over, she leaned her back against the lotus trunk. Felt its solid, unmoving mass. The wind rustled. A lama at the retreat had said every time the breeze blew, the leaves bowed in thanksgiving.

Returning to the temple, she glanced around. She needed to clean up, put everything in order. But first she did what any good Tibetan nun would do. Made a cup of tea and sat down to mediate. She needed to prepare herself for the journey ahead.