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

“Very big funeral,” chimed in someone else, evidently impressed with the scale of it.

“Over two hundred people are coming to say goodbye,” added Beryle, looming up in the screen again. “That’s the main thing right now, isn’t it? We all need closure, all of us.”

“Closure,” chorused the group behind her.

“Dad wanted something very simple at the crematorium,” said Franc.

Beryle was having none of it. “Funerals are for those of us left behind,” she declared. “We’re a Catholic family. Well”—she looked pointedly at Franc—“most of us are.”

“None of that sky-burial stuff,” pronounced the same scratchy male voice from behind.

Franc was shaking his head. “I’ve never suggested …”

“That’s what you Buddhists believe in, isn’t it?” said a wizened, white-haired figure, eyes red and teeth missing, who was homing in on the computer. “Chop people into little pieces and feed them to the vultures? No, sir.”

“This is Uncle Mick,” Franc said.

Uncle Mick scrutinized the computer screen for a few long moments before rebuking Franc, “They’re not Indian!”

“I never said they were,” Franc protested gently, but Mick had already turned his back and was shuffling away.

Franc raised his eyebrows pointedly before saying, “I’m hoping to get out to feed birds in the park tomorrow.”

Buddhists believe that acts of generosity benefit those who have died, when dedicated by people who have a close karmic connection to the deceased.

“Birds?” Beryle was incredulous. “What about us? What about your own flesh and blood? Plenty of time for that sort of nonsense after the funeral.”

“I’d better go,” Franc said quickly. “I’ll call again when I’m alone.”

As Serena and Sam said good-bye, Uncle Mick’s voice rose. “Birds? I knew it! There’ll be no sky burial as long as I’m around!”

After the call ended, Sam and Serena turned toward each other.

“Looks like he’s having a rough time,” said Serena.

Sam nodded. “At least he knows he did the right thing by going home. Though he could be back a lot sooner than everyone thought,” added Sam, his expression thoughtful.

“Who knows?” Serena ran her fingers through her hair. “If he has to deal with the estate he could be there for a while yet.”

Sensing a movement she looked down to find Marcel, Franc’s French bulldog, at her feet.

“How did he know?” she wondered, smiling at Sam.

“Heard his voice?”

“From under the counter?” She looked over at the dogs’ basket. It seemed unlikely that the sound of Franc’s voice had traveled that far.

“No,” she said, kneeling down to pat him. “I think dogs can sense these things. Can’t you, my little friend?”

Soon after that came alarming news much closer to home, news that struck at the very heart of Namgyal—more specifically, at the office where I oversaw the activities of the Dalai Lama’s executive assistants. There was usually something going on in there that I would observe from on top of the filing cabinet behind Tenzin, which offered a panoramic view not only of the office itself but also of everyone who came and went from His Holiness’s quarters. Consequently, when the Dalai Lama was out of town, I spent many of my days in the office, watching the to and fro of official business at Jokhang.

Chogyal and Tenzin tried to take their vacations during His Holiness’s lengthier absences, and on this occasion it had been Chogyal’s turn for time off. Several days earlier he had left to visit family in Ladakh. Two days ago, Chogyal had contacted Tenzin with an urgent message for Geshe Wangpo. With customary efficiency, Tenzin had immediately summoned two novice monks who were undertaking cleaning chores down the corridor.

I had known Tashi and Sashi from my earliest days in the world, when their treatment of me had been shabby, to say the least. Since then they had made great efforts to redeem themselves and were now fervent in their concern for my well-being.

“I have an urgent message for you to deliver,” Tenzin told them as they entered the office.

“Yes, sir!” they replied in unison.