The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)
Serena and Sam exchanged a meaningful glance.
“It’s just …” began Serena at the same time that Sam said, “When we …”
Both stopped.
“What?” Franc looked from one to the other.
“The curry nights,” Serena managed, only moments before Sam said, “Spice packs.”
“Exactly!” Franc’s eyes gleamed.
“But we thought …” began Serena.
“Your e-mail said …” continued Sam.
“… that you didn’t like the idea,” Serena finished.
Franc frowned. “Last month’s accounts?”
As they nodded, faces grave, he said, “I remember exactly what I wrote: I DON’T LIKE. I LOVE!”
Sam was suddenly besieged with emotion. “The bottom of the page must have been cut off!” He looked at Serena in abject apology. “We only got the first bit.”
But Serena didn’t care. Rapturous, she grabbed Franc and hugged him. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me!”
The next morning after breakfast, I emerged tentatively from the suite I shared with His Holiness and tiptoed down the corridor that led past the executive assistants’ office. I was prepared to scamper back to my safe haven at the first sign of the Cat Strangler. Instead I heard Tenzin and Lobsang discussing some new development. Ever curious, I padded into the office.
“… completely by surprise,” Tenzin was saying, before catching sight of me.
They greeted me in chorus: “Good morning, HHC.”
I made my way over and rubbed first against Lobsang’s legs, then Tenzin’s.
“The thing is, he gets back in three days and has a very busy schedule from the moment he returns,” Tenzin said, resuming their conversation. He reached down for a moment to stroke me. “You hear that, HHC? In three days your favorite staff member will be bringing His Holiness back to us.”
Although I arched my back in appreciation of his affection, the news that His Holiness’s driver would be back at Jokhang thrilled me not one bit. I prided myself on being a cat of many names, but the name bestowed on me by this coarse fellow was shameful. It was one he had given me at the moment my very worst instincts had been provoked and I had brought a comatose mouse into Jokhang. Dear reader, can you believe what he named me, me? Mousie Tung!
“His Holiness knows what trouble we’ve been having finding someone for the job,” said Tenzin. “With the ones we’ve short listed so far there has been a problem with skills or temperament, which is why he suggested this short-term solution.”
I was greatly relieved. By the sounds of it, Chogyal’s position was not going to be usurped by the Venerable Monkey Face. Nor would I have to flee past the executive assistants’ office every day to escape the attention of the Cat Strangler.
“So when are you expecting your temp to arrive?” Lobsang asked.
Tenzin glanced at his watch. “Any minute. I just sent Tashi and Sashi to collect him.”
Lobsang nodded. Glancing at the computer, he asked, “What about his IT skills?”
Tenzin shrugged. “I’m not sure he’s even used a mobile phone before.”
“On the other hand, being able to read people’s minds certainly is an advantage,” Lobsang observed.
They laughed before Tenzin said, “Some of His Holiness’s decisions can seem strange at the time. But I have come to discover that very often, all is not as it seems.”
A short while later Lobsang returned to his office, and I occupied my perch atop the filing cabinet. There was a flurry of small, bare feet on the corridor outside, accompanied by boyish voices. Then, without any detectable noise or movement, Yogi Tarchin appeared in the office. Just like the time I’d seen him at the Cartwrights’, he was dressed in clothing that looked as though it came from a distant era, his robes a faded red brocade. There was a whiff of incense and cedar about him.
Tenzin rose to his feet. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said, bowing deeply.
“It is my privilege to be able to serve His Holiness,” Yogi Tarchin said, returning the bow. “My skills are few, but I am willing.”