The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (17 page)

I switched off my phone and tried not to think too much about the hours and hours ahead, aloft in a series of huge tin cans packed with live cargo, Julie and her Homer canoodling somewhere far behind and below me. I had an aisle seat, and the passenger to my left, a blessedly skinny hipster with black horn-rimmed glasses and a small yin/yang tattoo on his forearm, immediately plugged into his iPod and fell asleep.

Once in the air, I picked at my breakfast, a rubbery cheese omelet and an ice-cold bran muffin, washing both down with a weak cup of tea. I retrieved my Kindle from my backpack and waded through a number of books and articles I’d downloaded about the Bosnian War. I never like to arrive at a new place in a state of ignorance.

The information was repetitive, and disturbing—no wonder Bill didn’t want to discuss his time in Bosnia. After five plus hours, I’d exposed myself to as many tales of genocidal brutality and global denial as one sensitive soul could tolerate, and I set my research aside with a deep sense of relief.

I closed my eyes, intending to meditate, but my mind was quickly invaded with the haunting images of gang rape and torture, of random sniper deaths and full-scale tribal purging, of villages torn apart by warring families and former friends. When and how did these horrors start? And how could the rest of the world turn such a blind eye, allowing the atrocities to continue, not just for months, but years?

A sour knot of judgment formed in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. While no one community was without blame, the Serbians did seem to bear the greatest responsibility for the conflict. True, their initial resistance to peaceful resolution was encouraged by one power-hungry leader, and their later push for dominance was fanned into bloodthirsty flames by another. (First Karadžić, then Milošević insisted that the Serbian people were the most disenfranchised, and therefore had the most to lose—and gain.) But the slaughter of friends and neighbors was the conscious choice of thousands. How could that happen? What was the root cause?

I inhaled deeply, first through my mouth to address the tight twist of throat anger. Exhaled. Inhaled again, this time through the nostrils, directing the breath deep into my braced solar plexus. My belly softened.

Let go, Ten. Allow.

Bits of yesterday’s conversation with Stephanie floated up:
Whatever people might think, sexual slaves, any disenfranchised people for that matter, don’t choose their lives. Their lives choose them.

Any disenfranchised people.

When you’ve never been seen or valued? You’re a sitting duck. A tragedy waiting to happen. Pimps? Traffickers? They’re just filling a preexisting vacuum.

As are megalomaniac dictators.

I considered a new thought: a neglected people can be as vulnerable as a neglected child. Both are vulnerable to bullies. Like the mind itself, both are easily manipulated by the planting of false expectations.

Tito’s death. That created the vacuum. That made room for the horrors that followed.

I followed that idea. From everything I’d just read, Tito ruled Yugoslavia with a totalitarian hand, even as he called himself a good father.

Like my own.

Tito’s form of dictatorship, while benign, was absolute, and kept most of his people in an immature, unformed state of dependence.

Like me.

When Tito died, a vacuum of authority was created, and like immature nephews squabbling over a deceased uncle’s bequest, different factions immediately began to jockey for power. Bosnia’s distinct social and religious communities, lightly stitched into one multicultural quilt, began to unravel as the tribes pulled away. Serbians, especially, grabbed for the most pieces, instead of figuring out a new way to share equally. Add to the mix a substantial influx of deadly weapons and unbridled bullies, and mass genocide was sure to follow.

Their lives choose them.

Was the infliction of suffering, small or large, always the byproduct of a starving heart? Were its victims destined to repeat the pattern unless and until their own hearts were healed?

If I was born Serbian, would my own hand grasp the sniper’s gun, my own finger pull the trigger?

Yes.

My heart ached, the sensation sharp and unrelenting. Wherever I tossed my mind, it landed on a story of pain. I knew this state, though I hadn’t visited here for some time. I was in danger of entering into a dark, sticky tunnel, hard to escape from once inside.

I turned to the only place I knew to go for comfort, a pure realm filled with compassion for all, and rejection of none. Including me.
Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum.

We circled Newark for over an hour, and I again had to dash to my next flight.

Once I was buckled into the Lufthansa red-eye from Newark to Berlin, elbow-to-elbow with fellow travelers, I suffered through a slightly stale tuna wrap, trying to ignore the unnatural green color of the actual wrapping. I consciously avoided searching the rows for possible child traffickers. Anyway, weren’t we flying in the wrong direction for that?

For some reason the movie channels weren’t working, and a young female flight attendant wheeled through steerage with an unexpected peace offering, probably pilfered from the wealthier realms. I waved off the temptations of a personal ice cream sundae and chocolate chip cookies; no need to expose others to the sight of an ex-monk doing aisle laps to burn off his sugar-rush.

Instead, I retrieved my own special form of dessert—a small blue-green capsule with a lyrical name, manufactured especially for people like me. That is to say, people who have trouble sleeping on an airplane because they feel personally responsible for holding said plane aloft. The operative belief running through my head—
if I clench my muscles tight enough and fill my mind with enough obsessive thoughts, the plane won’t fall out of the sky
—made the act of slumber impossible. But the pill worked its wonders, and drowsiness soon seeped into my cells. I sent off a final acknowledgment to the pharmaceutical geniuses who’d concocted a capsule that would enable sleep without causing a mind-numbing hangover.

“Sir, we’re about to land in Munich. You need to raise your seatback.” The flight attendant was shaking my shoulder.

I lifted my eye-mask. Her smile dazzled me. Was she this pretty last night … ?

I knew what was going on. Julie had her Homer, and I needed to even things out.

My Munich stopover was a little under two hours. I found a generic German bakeshop, and ordered an espresso and a slice of apple strudel.

How could Julie still be with that idiot?

The espresso was neither hot enough nor strong enough. I sat at a small, sticky table and ate stale strudel alone. I’d so hoped for a layover in Paris, but apparently Parisians are not very interested in visiting Sarajevo.

I make the slow walk from customs to the passenger arrival zone at Charles de Gaulle, small for my age, my head freshly shaved. I am starving. I hope I never have to go back to that place again.

Will she be here this time?

There she is.

Maman! Maman!

She takes me right to our favorite airport café for my homecoming treat, like always. She orders a pot of
chocolat chaud
and not
un,
but
deux
croissants, s’il vous plaît: one plain, and one almond. They arrive warm, straight from the oven, their flaky layers crisp and buttery. She fills my cup with hot chocolate and then sits back to watch.

I dip a crisp corner into my drink. The flaky pastry sucks up dark, velvet liquid, turning the golden layers dark brown. When the soaked part is exactly the same height as my thumb, I remove the dripping croissant. I bite. The combination of softened almond pastry and warm, sweet chocolate sends my deprived taste buds into a delirious dance of joy.

She smiles at me, happy that I am happy.

“Welcome home, Tenzing.”

I push away from the table, my strudel half-eaten, but not before offering an impromptu mantra of gratitude for that gift from my mother. No matter what twisted gyrations her brand of mothering caused me, that homecoming gift of hot chocolate and croissants would always be her legacy.

Maybe not a firm foundation, but better than nothing.

C
HAPTER
16

Kim had booked a taxi for me ahead of time. After breezing through customs—“Business or pleasure?” “Here to visit a friend.” “How long are you staying?” “Not too long. A few days.” “Enjoy our beautiful city.”—I made my way to Terminal B, where Sarajevo Taxi had an exclusive hold on anyone wanting to enter their “beautiful city” by cab. I checked my phone, but though a couple of bars registered, I couldn’t seem to receive messages or make calls. Bill would have to give me his secret code, once he got over his shock at seeing me.

I sat outside the terminal waiting for my car to show up, riffling through a Sarajevo travel guide for English-speaking tourists. The little book proudly informed me that the metropolis I was about to visit had come in 43rd in a survey called “100 Best Cities in the World.” I pictured the department of tourism slogan: Come to Sarajevo—There Are at Least 66 Worse Places You Can Visit!

Maybe my mood was soured by jet lag.

The cab that pulled up was a green Mercedes, an older model coated in dust. It was topped with a perky yellow sign marked in black: Sarajevo Taxi 108.

Every Tibetan Buddhist
threngwa,
or prayer rosary, including my own, is made up of 108 beads. In one of our most beloved sermons, the Lākāvatāra Sātra, the Buddha is asked 108 questions, and his answer definitively described the 108 delusions of the mind. At our temples, 108 steps lead up to the prayer hall entrances, and according to my favorite tutor, Lama Sonam, the human heart is capable of experiencing 108 feelings.

Sarajevo Taxi 108 was auspicious, a wink, if not a bow, from my benefactors, and my temperament lightened.

My chauffeur could have been a cab driver anywhere in the Western Hemisphere. Medium height, medium build, generic jeans and nylon jacket, slight paunch, and three-day stubble on his cheeks. His shaved head couldn’t hide the V-shaped receding hairline, and his 40-year-old frame had been weathered by too many cigarettes and not enough fresh air. Still, he was amiable enough as he stubbed out a filtered butt and stuck out a hand.

“I am Petar,” he said. “Petar Kovacevic. Welcome to our beautiful city.” His smile revealed a gap between his front teeth big enough to drive a truck through.

“Tenzing Norbu.”

“You come for working?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“Ah. You stay for long?”

I was experiencing déjà vu. “Just a few days, thanks.”

“I give you my number. You want see this beautiful city, you call me. Also Dubrovnik. My brother live there. I drive you one day. Beautiful beaches.”

He started his meter and squealed out of the airport, merging onto a major thoroughfare without checking left or right. My seatmate on the last flight of the trip, a retired journalist and seasoned traveler, had warned that Sarajevo Taxi drivers were insane, and the fares were overpriced and nonnegotiable for the seven-mile drive into town. He explained in detail how to take a taxi to the nearby tram station in Ilidža and then ride the tram into town, but I couldn’t be bothered.

My billfold was now fat with the local currency, Bosnia-Herzegovina convertible marks, or known by the natives, according to my guide, as KMs. Eight American $100 bills translated into a variety of paper money ranging from 20 to 200 mark notes, each one a different pastel color and displaying a different stern-looking luminary from a different party, all with surnames ending in
ic.

Apparently there were a lot of principalities to keep happy in postwar Bosnia-Herzegovina.

“What this name you said? Tanzing Norbu?” Petar asked.

“
Ten
-zing,” I said. “My father was Tibetan.”

“Ahh. Here, you would then be Tenzing Norbuvic, I am thinking. Always, we take our name from the father. Sometimes his name, sometimes his work. Like me. Kovacevic. Long ago, we work with the iron. We are kovac, how you say, smit?”

“Smiths? Like blacksmiths?”

“Yes! Kovacevic. Son of the smith. In English, Smithson! You see how it works?” He craned his head completely around to look at me, and I nodded, surreptitiously checking that my seat belt was fastened. “Long time ago, father’s name is everything. It tells other tribe who you are, where you live. Whose sheep you can steal. Who you can marry.” He turned back, and fished a half-smoked cigarette out of an overflowing ashtray. “Now, everyone just use Facebook.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “What your father do?”

“He was a Buddhist monk.”

Petar grunted, temporarily silenced by this. He lowered his window and lit up, sucking in a lungful of smoke before dangling his left arm outside, thoughtfully.

L.A. traffic karma must have somehow attached itself to my heels. All the brake lights ahead of us broke out in red, and an array of vehicles, old and new, many of them studded with Sarajevo Taxi signs, started to stack up end to end. A black-and-white, with
Policija
stenciled on its side, screamed past us, lights flashing.

“Pah!” Petar said. “Probably late for his woman.”

“You don’t approve of your police force?”

“What force? Is more like police
mess.
Everything for politics, nothing for the people. At the top, they take the money and turn the head. At bottom, they just take the money.” Again, he twisted to meet my eyes. At least we were barely moving. “Ever since we have peace, too many presidents, no one in charge. Is like this with everything! Make committee for reforming police, write report, talk, talk, talk, draft law, and then Croats say no, not fair to Croats, and Serbs say no, too fair for Bosnians, and Slovenes say no, because everyone else say no. Nothing happen! They try to fix police for twenty years now, but nothing change. Only more confusion!”

I thought about the two cops in Van Nuys, and my suspicions. “It’s a little like that everywhere in law enforcement,” I said. “The right hand never seems to know what the left hand is doing.”