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

CHAPTER NINE

There can be few things more disagreeable than discovering a man with a face like a monkey parked in the seat of a much-loved friend.

Well, perhaps there are one or two things more disagreeable, such as being chased up a high wall by a pair of slavering retrievers or discovering that you were a dog in a previous life. Still, you can understand my dismay the morning I sidled into the executive assistants’ office, roughly a week before the Dalai Lama was due home, and instead of finding the desk chair opposite Tenzin empty, it was occupied by a small, gnarled monk. I was so shocked when I saw his wizened face that I almost fell over backward. He had a tiny mouth, buckteeth, and no chin at all. His expression seemed fixed in a grimace.

I asked myself if this was actually happening, or if I was having one of those crazy, fitful, predawn dreams. But no, everything else was just as it should be. Tenzin was calmly writing a letter to the president of France. From across the courtyard came the sound of chanting monks. The scent of roast coffee intermingled with Nag Champa incense was wafting down the corridor. It was just another day at the office—except for this strange apparition.

Tenzin greeted me with his usual formality. “Good morning, HHC.”

I took a few steps in his direction and then glanced over my shoulder.

“The Dalai Lama’s Cat,” he explained to the other man. “She likes sitting on our filing cabinet.”

The monk grunted in acknowledgment, flashing only the briefest of looks in my direction, before continuing to work at Chogyal’s computer.

I am, dear reader, used to many different reactions to my appearance, from being pursued by the hounds of the hell realms to being prostrated before by the Namgyal monks. What I am not accustomed to is being ignored. Crouching for a moment, I launched myself into the air, landing with an unsteady thud on Chogyal’s desk. Well, I thought, Venerable Monkey Face can’t ignore me now.

But he did! There was an initial moment of disbelief as he stared at my sumptuously fluffy and—to most people—irresistible form perched on an ancient text. Then he abruptly turned back to his computer screen as if by pretending this wasn’t actually happening, he could make it go away.

I was getting far more attention from Tenzin, who was following my movements with his usual diplomatic inscrutability. But I knew him well enough to realize that a lot was going on behind that poker face. If I wasn’t mistaken, he seemed to find my unscheduled appearance quite amusing.

After long minutes during which the monk continued to ignore me, his eyes glued to the screen as though his life depended on it, I realized there was nothing to be gained by sitting on his desk. Instead, I ambled over to Tenzin’s desk, taking care to leave a paw mark on the elegant engraved stationery from the Élysée Palace that was lying there before sweeping my bushy tail across his wrist. That was my way of saying, “Come, come, dear Tenzin, you k

now and I know that something here isn’t as it should be.” Then I hopped up on the filing cabinet behind him and after the most cursory wash behind the ears, settled down for my morning nap.

But sleep wouldn’t come. As I sat sphinxlike, paws tucked neatly beneath me, and gazed across the room, my thoughts returned to Monkey Face. It looked like he was working on something under Tenzin’s supervision. But for how long? Would he be gone by the end of the morning? The day?

That was when a new thought alarmed me: What if he had been brought in do Chogyal’s job? Could he be a full-time appointment? The very idea was a horror! There he sat, a little brooding cloud of intensity—nothing like the warm-hearted, roly-poly, and benevolent Chogyal. If Venerable Monkey Face was to be a permanent fixture, the executive assistants’ office was not a place I would want to spend my time. From a welcoming sanctuary, conveniently close to the suite I shared with His Holiness, it would become a forbidding place to be studiously avoided. What a terrible turn of events! Where would I spend my time when the Dalai Lama was away? How could this be happening to me, HHC?

The monk was still there when I left for lunch at the Himalaya Book Café, but, thankfully, he was gone by the time I returned. I was pausing in the doorway, looking over to where Tenzin was busy filing some paperwork, when Lobsang arrived. After reaching down to stroke me several times, he stepped into the office, hands folded behind him, and leaned against the wall.

“So how did it go with the first on your short list?” he asked Tenzin, glancing toward where the monk had been sitting.

“He’s very diligent. Razor-sharp intellect.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Gets through the work”—Tenzin snapped his fingers—“like that.”

I was following the conversation closely, looking from one to the other.

“Highly regarded by the abbots of our major monasteries,” said Lobsang.

Tenzin nodded. “Important.”

“Critical.”

There was a pause before Lobsang prompted, “I’m sensing a but.”

Tenzin looked at him evenly. “If it was only the abbots he had to deal with, that would be one thing. But whoever takes the position has to get on with a wide variety of people.” Glancing over at me, he quickly corrected himself—“beings.”

Lobsang followed his glance. Unable to restrain himself, he came over, picked me up, and held me in his arms. “A bit lacking in his interpersonal skills, is he?”

“Very shy,” said Tenzin. “He’s fine talking about scriptural matters. There, he’s on firm ground. But the biggest challenges of the role are always people problems. Conflict resolution.”

“Giving people ladders to climb down.”

“Exactly. Something Chogyal was very good at. He had a way of getting people to think that his ideas were their ideas and of appealing to their highest motives.”