To say that Franc was surprised would be an understatement. He was astonished! Hayder’s Food Guides were among the most revered on the planet. Widely published and highly regarded, they could make or break a dining establishment.
Franc blurted out something about it being an honor.
“I heard about Café Franc from a friend in New Delhi. We thought we’d give you a try,” Hayder said, nodding toward his wife, who smiled brightly. “I have to say, the meal we’ve had today was outstanding. Every element of it! I’d go so far as to call it the best in the region. We’ll be providing a commendation in our India feature for The New York Times.”
Franc was so overcome that for the first time in his life, he seemed at a loss for words.
“Only one disappointment,” continued Hayder, more confidentially. “I was told the maitre d’ was the most appalling Buddhist wannabe. Was I misinformed?”
Franc paused for a moment, looking down at his naked wrist. “No. No, you weren’t,” he said. “He was.”
“Ah, so a facelift at Café Franc?”
“It goes deeper than that,” suggested Franc.
“Of course it does!” chimed Hayder. “Permeates the whole experience.” He allowed himself a wry smile. “As much as it goes against the grain, I’m going to have to write an entirely favorable review.”
It would be foolish, dear reader, to imagine that a single teaching from a high lama would result in a permanent cure for self-cherishing in either cats or humans. Of all the delusions, self-obsession is perhaps the wiliest at disguising itself, seeming to disappear from view completely, only to be revealed in monstrous dimensions in a transmuted form.
I hadn’t coughed up my last fur ball.
Nor had Franc.
But a change had occurred. A new direction was being pursued. And in the months ahead, there were to be all kinds of intriguing developments at Café Franc, as I was to discover.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Are you a creature of habit? Among the coffee mugs in your kitchen, is there a favorite that you prefer, even though any of them would serve the purpose? Have you developed personal rituals—perhaps in the way you read a newspaper, enjoy a glass of wine an evening, or conduct your ablutions—that provide a reassuring sense that life is as it should be?
If your answer to any of these probing questions is yes, then, dear reader, you may very well have been a cat in a previous lifetime. And I, for one, can think of no higher distinction!
We cats are the most habitual of creatures. Preferred sun loungers, meal times, hidey holes, and scratching posts are among the considerations in which we take daily satisfaction. And it is exactly because many humans embrace routine that we even consider allowing them to share our homes, let alone retain them as members of our staff.
There are, of course, some disruptions that we all enjoy. How dull life would be without, for example, the occasional sampling of a new delicacy, like the day that Mrs. Trinci arrived at Jokhang triumphantly bearing a tray of roasted-eggplant lasagna for all to taste. Or the morning’s entertainment at Café Franc, when an Asian gentleman laboriously broke his breakfast toast into small pieces, applied butter and marmalade to each individually, then used chopsticks to eat them.
Such incidents are a welcome diversion. But when more important events threaten the comfortable pattern of life, that’s a different matter entirely. I am talking here about change. A favorite Dalai Lama theme. The only constant in life, as Buddha himself said.
Speaking for most cats and humans, it’s probably accurate to say that change is something we would rather have happen to beings other than ourselves. But, alas, there seems to be no escaping it. There you are, assuming that your familiar life, with all its reassuring rituals and habits, is set to continue indefinitely. Then, out of nowhere, like a slavering, unleashed pit bull or some such demonic archetype appearing suddenly on the pavement before you, everything is thrown into wild disarray.
My own discovery of this truth began uneventfully enough one morning when I strolled unsuspectingly from my morning meditation with His Holiness into the executive assistants’ office. Nothing was said initially. That particular working day began like any other, with the usual buzz of phone calls and meetings and the driver arriving to take His Holiness to the airport. I knew he would be away for two weeks, visiting seven countries in Europe. Having lived at Jokhang for more than eight months, during which His Holiness had made frequent trips abroad, I was used to the idea that he had to travel often. When he went away, his staff would make sure I was well cared for.
Usually.
On this occasion, however, things turned out very differently. Midway through that first morning, two men in paint-spattered overalls arrived in the office. Chogyal took them through to the quarters I shared with His Holiness, where they were soon setting up ladders and covering the floor with plastic sheeting.
Horrifying disfigurement rapidly followed. Photographs and thangkas were removed from walls, curtains stripped from windows, furniture draped with canvas. Within minutes my rarefied sanctuary was reduced to unrecognizable chaos.
Chogyal picked me up, I thought for reassurance. I fully expected him to apologize for the upheaval, tell me that the painters would be finished in no time, and confirm that my home would soon be my own again. But events became only more distressing.
Carrying me back to his office, he placed me inside a hideous wooden box that had appeared on his desk. Made of rough-hewn wood, it was so small I could barely turn around inside. Before I could even protest, he was fastening the metal-grill lid and carrying the whole thing downstairs.
I didn’t know which I felt more intensely—outrage or terror.
Outrage predominated to begin with. This was kidnap! How dare he take such liberties! Had he forgotten who I was?! And the moment the Dalai Lama’s back was turned! Of all people, the usually warmhearted Chogyal! Whose malevolent influence had he fallen under? If His Holiness knew what was happening, I had no doubt he would have put an immediate end to it.
Chogyal walked through a section of Namgyal Monastery with which I was familiar before continuing on a path that I’d never traversed. As he walked, he chanted mantras under his breath in his usual, easygoing way, as though nothing untoward was happening. From time to time he paused for a brief conversation, on several occasions holding the cage so that others could look at me like some zoological exhibit. Glaring furiously through a crack between two pieces of wood, I caught glimpses only of red robes and sandaled feet. Had I been able to lash out and administer a severe claw-lashing, I most certainly would have.
Chogyal continued walking. And all of a sudden it occurred to me that this had happened before. Not to me personally—at least not in this particular lifetime. But there was a time in history when refined individuals of higher breeding were wrenched from their homes and carted off to a bleak fut