The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)

Sanjay, a fresh-faced young waiter in a crisp, white uniform, nodded.

“I’ll have a glass of your Sémillon Sauvignon Blanc,” the visitor told him. Spreading his travel books across the table in front of him and taking a cell phone from his pocket, he soon appeared to be busy researching travel plans, cross-checking details from one book to another, and keying them into his phone.

When the glass of Sémillon Sauvignon Blanc arrived, he took a tentative first sip, swirling the liquid around in his mouth with a searching expression. Thereafter he didn’t so much drink the wine as inhale it. Four sips and, only a few minutes later, his glass was empty.

This fact didn’t escape the attention of Headwaiter Kusali, whose omniscience was legendary. He dispatched Sanjay with the bottle of SSB to freshen the visitor’s glass. A third glass, then a fourth soon followed before the visitor asked for his bill, cleared away his books, and left.

It was half an hour later when developments took an unusual turn. Looking up from my own lunchtime treat—a delicious serving of smoked salmon cut into dainty, bite-size strips—who should I see at the café entrance but the same man, this time accompanied by his wife.

A matronly woman with a kind face and sensible shoes, she glanced around the café with an expression of appreciation. It was one we were quite used to. By the time many Westerners had made their way up to McLeod Ganj from Delhi, they were overwhelmed by India, with its chaos, crowds, poverty, traffic, and shocking v

ibrancy. The moment they stepped through the doors of the Himalaya Book Café, however, they found themselves in altogether different aesthetics. To the right of an ornate reception counter, the café had a soft-lit, classic quality, with its white tablecloths, cane chairs, and a large, brass espresso machine. Richly embroidered Tibetan Buddhist wall hangings, or thangkas, bedecked the walls. To the left-hand side of the counter and up a few steps was the bookstore section, its well-stocked shelves interspersed with a treasure trove of lavish cards, Himalayan artifacts, and other gifts. It was an exotic fusion of casual European chic and Buddhist mysticism.

Many visitors, on first encountering this, heave a visible sigh of relief.

The visitor’s wife wasn’t quite so emphatic. As she looked anxiously at her husband, she seemed to be hoping the café would suit him, which it did. Eminently!

Stepping forward to greet them, Kusali showed them to a window table, where the husband studied both menu and wine list as if for the first time, before ordering precisely the same bottle of wine. On this occasion he sipped his SSB with slightly more restraint, but during the course of the lunch, he sailed effortlessly through most of the bottle with minimal help from his wife.

Watching the two of them from a distance, I sensed something awkward about the way they were together. There were long pauses in their conversation, during which they looked everywhere but at each other, followed by exchanges that soon petered out.

Most Western visitors had such busy itineraries that they would visit the café only once or twice during the course of a brief stay. Not our dapper friend and his wife. The very next morning at 11 A.M., the hallowed moment at which alcohol was served, he arrived at the café, walked to the banquette, and ordered a glass of SSB. Foreseeing a rerun of the previous day’s events, Kusali made a gracious appearance, pouring the visitor’s wine personally before suggesting, “Would you like me to bring a wine bucket to your table, sir?”

The visitor decided that, on balance, yes, he would. Helping himself to refills as he paged through a travel brochure with somewhat less interest than the day before, he soon dispatched the contents of the bottle.

Once again, half an hour after leaving, he reappeared at the café entrance with his wife, this time telling Kusali, who was at the reception desk, that they had enjoyed the previous day’s visit so much they had decided to return. The ever-diplomatic Kusali smiled politely as this official, somewhat edited version of events was established.

Dear reader, would you believe me if I told you that the exact same Groundhog Day reenactment occurred the following morning? Well, perhaps not exactly. On day three, the visitor walked straight through the door to “his” banquette at 11 o’clock, whereupon Kusali had a waiter deliver his preferred wine in an ice bucket. Serena, who had been on a visit to Delhi for the two previous days to order new kitchen equipment, watched this happen and approached Kusali a short while later, eyebrows raised. During their tête-à-tête, when the visitor stared at his cell phone with a somewhat downcast expression, Kusali indicated it was safe for her to look in that direction.

As soon as she did, she froze. Then she quickly ended her conversation with Kusali and headed toward the bookstore. Moments later she was standing beside Sam, who was sitting behind the counter at his computer.

“Can I jump on for a minute?” she asked urgently.

“Sure.” As he slid off his stool she quickly opened a search engine.

Gordon Finlay. Sam read the name as she keyed it into the search field.

“You know who he is?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“I think he’s over there,” she said, tipping her head in the direction of the banquette. “Bagpipe Burgers.”

Sam’s face lit up. “That’s him?”

The two of them stared at the Wikipedia entry, which featured a photograph of the Bagpipe Burgers founder.

“‘Started as a single-outlet burger bar in Inverness, Scotland,’” Sam was reading. “‘Now one of the biggest fast-food franchises in the world.’” Skimming down the page, he pulled out highlights: “valued at half a billion dollars”; “presence in every major market”; “famous tartan uniforms”; “creators of the gourmet burger”; “commitment to quality.”

“Is it him?” Serena prompted.

Sam studied the photograph in front of them before turning to look at the restaurant patron. “Our guy looks … less jowly.”

Serena snipped her index and middle fingers together. “Dr. Knife.”

“You know about the drinking these past couple of days?” Sam asked her.

“Occupational hazard in our line of work.”