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

“He’s doing a roaring business,” Finlay said.

“Are you a shareholder?”

“No. But I was only too glad to set him up. He reminded me so much of me when I was starting out: starved for capital, surrounded by competitors, and no product differentiation. All it took was a couple of hundred pounds and a bit of training. Now he’s acing it!”

As he spoke, Gordon Finlay seemed to grow taller and stand straighter. For the first time there was a glimpse of the commanding CEO he had been until so recently.

“Perhaps,” suggested Serena, “you’ve just described what you might do next.”

“I couldn’t rescue every street vendor in the world!” he protested.

“No. But you would change the lives of the ones you did. You obviously got a lot of satisfaction from helping just the one. Imagine the satisfaction from helping many!”

Gordon Finlay stared at her for the longest time, a glint illuminating his dark, observant eyes, before he said, “You know, you just might be on to something.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Boredom. It’s a terrible affliction, is it not, dear reader? And as far as I can tell, it’s an almost universal one. On an everyday level, there’s the boredom of being wherever you are and doing whatever task lies ahead, whether you’re an executive with a dozen dreary reports to produce before month’s end or a cat on a filing cabinet with a whole empty morning to doze through before those deliciously crispy goujons of sea trout—perhaps with some clotted cream to follow—are served for lunch down at the café.

How often I overhear tourists say, “I can’t wait to get back to civilization”—the very same visitors, I expect, who for several months earlier were eagerly crossing off the days on their calendars in keen anticipation of their once-in-a-lifetime trip to India. “I wish it were Friday” is another variation on the same theme, as if we must somehow endure five days of oppressive tedium for those precious two when we may actually enjoy ourselves.

And the problem goes even deeper. Raising our heads from this particular batch of month-end reports or this specific empty morning on the filing cabinet, when we think of all those still to come, our boredom slides into a more profound existential despair. What’s the point of it all? We may find ourselves wondering, Why bother? Who cares? Life can seem a bleak and endless exercise in futility.

For those beings with a broader perspective of Planet Earth, boredom is sometimes accompanied by a darker companion—guilt. We know that compared to many others, our lives are actually quite comfortable. We don’t live in a war zone or in abject poverty; we don’t have to dwell in the shadows on account of our gender or religious opinions. We’re free to eat, dress, live, and walk however we like, thank you very much. But even so, we’re bored beyond measure.

In my own case, if I can claim mitigating circumstances, the Dalai Lama had been away for some days. There was none of the usual bustle of activity and no visits from Mrs. Trinci, lavish with both food and affection. Most of all, there was none of the reassuring energy and love I felt simply by being in His Holiness’s presence.

And so, I set out for the café one morning heavy of heart and slow of paw. My customary dawdling was even more dawdling than usual; just moving my rear legs felt like a Herculean effort. Why was I even doing this? I asked myself. Delicious though lunch might be, eating it would take me all of five minutes, and then it would be a long wait until dinner.

Little did I realize how events were about to shake me from my lethargy.

It all began with Sam behaving in an unusually urgent manner, leaping off his stool in the bookstore and hurrying down the steps to the café.

“Serena!” He stage-whispered to catch her attention. “It’s Franc!” He gestured behind him to his computer screen. Franc was in the

habit of Skyping for business updates, but his calls were always on Monday morning at 10 A.M. when the café was quiet, not in the early afternoon when activity was near its peak.

Serena hurried over to the bookstore counter. Sam turned up the speakers and opened a screen revealing Franc in a living room. There were several people behind him sitting on a sofa and in armchairs. His expression was strained.

“My father died last night,” Franc announced without preamble. “I wanted to tell you before you heard from anyone else.”

Serena and Sam offered sympathy and condolences.

“Even though it was inevitable, it’s still a shock,” he said.

A woman got up from the sofa behind Franc and came toward the screen. “I don’t know what we’re going to do without him!” she wailed.

“This is my sister, Beryle,” said Franc.

“We all loved him so much,” sobbed Beryle. “Losing him is so hard!”

Murmurs of agreement came from behind them.

“It was good that I could be here for him at the end,” Franc said, seeking to regain control of the conversation. Even though his relationship with his father had been difficult, his return home had come at the insistence of his feisty lama, Geshe Wangpo. One of the senior most lamas at Namgyal Monastery, Geshe Wangpo was uncompromising on the importance of actions over words and others over self.

“I’m glad that Geshe Wangpo persuaded me,” Franc continued. “My father and I were able to resolve …”

“We’re having a big funeral,” interrupted an elderly, disembodied man’s voice from behind Franc.