Fifty Degrees Below

  “Like Anna’s husband Charlie, thinking Mr. Mom is Hollywood’s greatest movie.”

  “Ha. Exactly! We love the art that tells our story. Maybe that’s why I love the Quartet so much. Expatriate angst in a steamy exotic city, full of sin and craziness. Maybe it’s the same Alexandria after all.”

  “And is that why The Triplets of Belleville is your favorite movie?”

  “Yes! Story of my life, every single detail of it, right down to the frogs. Right down to the dog.”

  On they ran, laughing at Edgardo.

  In the evenings Frank returned to the Khembali house. He learned that it had an “entertaining kitchen,” occupying the back half of the house’s ground floor. It had been big to begin with, and was now equipped as if for a restaurant and bakery. Its exquisite heat always enveloped a dozen women and half a dozen men, shouting over the steamy clangor in Tibetan, and also a guttural English that was like Indian English but not. Frank now understood why they sometimes put subtitles under the Dalai Lama on film when he was speaking English.

  Early on Drepung introduced Frank to two men and three women, all of whom spoke this English Frank could barely understand.

  “So good to have you,” one said.

  “Welcome to Khembalung,” said another.

  “Can I help?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. The bread will soon be ready to take out, and there are many potatoes to peel for dinner.”

  “How many do you feed per meal?” Frank asked later, surveying the bustle as he scraped the skin off a potato.

  “Hundred. First hundred eat here, the rest have to eat out. Or leftovers. Makes people timely.”

  “Wow.”

  Sucandra came by when he was finished and led him out back past a frozen compost heap to show him the backyard, now a frozen garden patch and a small greenhouse, the steamy clear plastic walls gleaming greenly, like a shower stall for vegetable people. “Best to join garden duty now,” Sucandra suggested. “It will be very nice in the spring.”

  Frank nodded, inspecting the trees in the yard. Possibly one at the back could support a platform. Something to bring up later, obviously.

  Sucandra and Padma’s room was a half-flight below Frank and Rudra’s. This meant Frank had other acquaintances to talk to, even when Rudra was asleep or Drepung was gone. Sometimes one of them came up to translate something Rudra had failed to communicate in English but still wanted to say. Mostly the two new roommates were left to hash it out on their own. In practice this meant a few exchanges a day, combining with a formal lesson in the last hour before the old man fell asleep. Rudra would nod out over Richard Scarry’s Best Word Book Ever, muttering in his gravelly low voice, “chalk, pencil sharpener, milk, cookies, paper clip, thumbtacks, lost clothing drawer,” chuckling as his finger tapped on the latest appearance of the pig man with the windblown hat. He would tell Frank the Tibetan words for these items, sometimes, but the main focus of their sessions was on English; Frank could learn Tibetan or not, Rudra did not care, he even appeared to scoff at the idea. “What’s the use?” he would growl. “Tibet gone, ha.” Many odd things appeared to strike him funny, and he laughed with an abrupt low “Ha,” as if laughter were a surprise attack against invisible demons.

  Frank was content to lie there on his groundpad in the evening, listening to the old man read and occasionally correcting his pronunciation. Usually Frank worked on his laptop.

  “Pumpkin, ghost, what say? What say?” This was something the Khembalis often said as a kind of “um” or “er” as they searched for the right word or expression, so Frank had to be prompted to treat it as a real question.

  “Oh sorry. That’s a witch on a broom, but he’s made the witch an owl in this case.”

  “Ghost festival?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “That is very danger.” Tibetan was made of syllable roots that stayed the same in different word forms, and Frank noticed that a lot of the Khembalis used English nouns the same way, letting them do the work of verbs and modifiers: “You will learn to meditation.” “He became enlightenment.”

  As they drifted off to sleep the two of them would hold strange conversations, involving both languages and a lot of confusion. Companionship without comprehension; it was just the kind of company that suited Frank. It reminded him of the bros in the park. In fact he told Rudra about his acquaintances in the park, and the winter they had had.

  “Wandering tramps are often spirits in disguise.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The whole situation in the household was proving more congenial to Frank than he had expected it to be. Not knowing the language excused him from many conversations, but there were always people around; a crowd, faces gradually known, amazing faces, but few of them named or spoken to. That too was somewhat like being in the park with the bros. But it was warmer; and easier. He didn’t have to decide where to be so often, where to go. What to do next—it was as simple as that. He didn’t have to decide what to do every hour or so. That was hard even without damage to the prefrontal cortex.

  One decision remained easy; on Friday after work, he drove over to Bethesda and ate at Rio Grande, and then at quarter to nine he was standing before his telephone at the Metro bus stop. He waited through nine, and at 9:05 called Caroline’s number. No answer.

  He wondered if he could find out the location of her number. But would knowing it help him in any way, given that she didn’t appear to be going there? What could have happened? What he should do? What might keep her from calling? Deep uneasiness was almost indistinguishable from fear.

  He was walking sightlessly down Wisconsin toward his van, deep in his uneasiness, when his cell phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket, while at the same time seeing that he was standing right before the elevator box that he and Caroline had emerged from last year. His heart leaped—”Hello?”

  “Frank it’s me.”

  “Oh good. What’s happening?”

  “—really sorry, I couldn’t get there last week and I thought I’d be able to make it this week but I couldn’t. I can’t talk long. I just slipped out.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Well yeah, but look I need to just set up another call here and get off. He’s suddenly asking me to do things on Fridays and I don’t know if it means anything, but can you be there at that number next Monday at nine?”

  “Sure but hey listen, can you make a call to the Khembali embassy house in Arlington? They’re not under his surveillance are they?”

  “I don’t think so. Who are they?”

  “Embassy of Khembalung, their house is in Arlington. I’m staying there now and so you can call me there whenever you get free. In the evenings I’ll likely be around.”

  “Okay I’ll look for a chance and call soon. I’m so sorry about this. He’s changed jobs again and it’s getting really complicated.”

  “That’s okay, I’m just glad to hear from you!”

  “Yeah I bet, I mean I would be too. I’ll call real soon okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Love you bye.”

  It was amazing how much better he felt. Lack of affect was clearly not his problem; on the contrary, he had to avoid being overwhelmed by feelings. Giddy with relief, happy, worried, pleased, in love, frightened: but what did all those feelings combined add up to? This was what the studies never seemed to discuss, that you could feel so many different things at the same time. He felt Caroline. The uncanny presence of their elevator box, standing there before him throughout their conversation, had given him a palpable sense of her, an instant connection from the moment she spoke. Some quality in her voice drew his affections out. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted to be with her.

  Leap before you look, stop trying to decide, just act on the spur of the moment. On Saturday he went over to Rock Creek, first to move most of his stuff from his tree house to his van, then to play a round with Spencer and Robert and Robin. The frisbees still tended to shatter if they hit
a tree straight on, but other than that the frisbee guys seemed fine with the hard winter. Spencer said it was the same with all the fregans. They were Ice Age people, running with the aurochs and the wolves.

  And the bros were back by their fire, stubbornly waiting out the cold. The pile of ashes in their fireplace was huge, and the area beyond Sleepy Hollow where the deer carcasses lay was beginning to look like a real shambles. Fedpage handed Frank a paper plate with a scorched venison steak when he sat down at the picnic table.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s a little bloody, but—”

  “Blood for the hemophiliac! Just what he needs!”

  “Uh huh. Hey Fedpage, how many spy agencies are there in the federal government?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s how many they admit to. Actually there’s more. It’s like those Russian nested dolls, with blacks and superblacks inside.”

  “Spy versus spy.”

  “That’s right. They fight like dogs. They guard their turf by getting blacker.” This statement made Cutter laugh. “Nobody even knows everything that’s out there, I judge. Not the president nor anyone else.”

  “How can that happen?”

  “There’s no enemy, that’s why. They pretend there’s terrorists, but that’s just to scare people. Actually they like terrorists. That’s why they went into Iraq, they got oil and a bunch of terrorists, it was a two-for-one. Much smarter than Vietnam. Because it’s all about funding. The spooks’ job is to spy on each other and keep their funding.”

  “Shit,” Frank said. He prodded his steak, which suddenly tasted off. “I think you guys need to kill another deer maybe.”

  “Ha nothing wrong with that deer! It’s Fedpage making you sick!”

  On some afternoons Frank walked around Arlington. He had never spent much time there, and this was an odd time to get acquainted with it, its big streets were so wintry. Broad avenues ran for miles westward, past knots of tall buildings erupting out of the forest in every kind of mediocre urban conglomeration. It was possible to walk to the Khembali house from NSF in half an hour, so some days he did that, and got in a winter hike through the snow’s bizarre masonry, with cars belching past like steam-powered vehicles.

  At night after dinner he usually went up to his room and read on his mattress, chatting with Rudra every half hour or so. Otherwise he drifted around on the internet, looking things up under the long list of sites that came when he googled Khembalung. What he read in these rambles often caused him to shake his head.

  before the great guru Milarepa left Tibet for the Glorious Copper-Colored Mountain, he made a tour of Tibet, among other tasks finding hidden valleys, or beyuls

  “Guru Rudra, what is a beyul?”

  “Hidden valley.”

  “Like Khembalung?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you were on an island?”

  “Hidden valley moves from time to time. This seems to be what Rikdzin Godem says. He was the guru who knew about the hidden valley. From Tsang. Fourteenth century. He talked about the Eight Great Hidden Valleys, but Khembalung seems to be only one that ever appeared. A refuge from the kaliyuga, fourth of the four ages. Iron age of degradation and despair.”

  “Is that what we’re in?”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “Ha ha. What else did he say about them?”

  “He say many things. Many books. He told location and described how to get in. When it would be good to enter, what would be the omens. What say, the power places in Khembalung. The magic.”

  “Oh my. And what was that?”

  “Like Khembalung as you saw it. A place for good. A buddhafield.”

  “Buddhafield?”

  “A space where Buddhism is working.”

  “I see.”

  “Compassion increase, wisdom.”

  “And Khembalung was like that.”

  “Yes.”

  “And where was it, before your island?”

  “At head of Arun valley. Phumchu, we call it in Tibetan. And over Tsibri La, into Tibet. That was the trouble.”

  “China?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is China so much trouble, do you think?”

  “China is big. Like America.”

  “Ah. So you left there.”

  “Yes. South gate in a cave, opens way down Phumchu. Then downvalley to Darjeeling.”

  “Does anyone go through that hidden valley anymore?”

  “They go through without seeing. Too busy!” A gravelly chuckle. “Buddhafield not always visible. In this case, Dorje Phakmo, the Adamantine Sow, lies along that valley.”

  “A pig?”

  “Subtle body, hard to find.”

  Another time, because of that:

  “So animals are kind of magical too?”

  “Of course. Obvious when you see them, right?”

  “True,” Frank said. He told Rudra about his activities with FOG, including the arrival in Rock Creek Park of the aurochs.

  “Very good!” Rudra exclaimed. “I liked them.”

  “Uh huhn. What about tigers?”

  “Oh, I like them too. Very good animal. Scary, but good. They have scary masks, but really they are friendly helpers. At power places they are tame.”

  “Tame?”

  “Tame. Friendly, helpful, courteous.”

  “Kind, obedient, cheerful, brave, clean, and reverent?”

  “Yes. All those.”

  “Hmm.”

  Another time, Frank read a passage on his screen and said, “Rudra, are you the Rudra Cakrin, the one people write about?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not? There’s more than one?”

  “Yes. He is very old.”

  “Sixteen thousand years before the birth of Christ, it says here.”

  “Yes, very old. I am not that old.” Gurgle. “Almost, but not.”

  “So are you some kind of boddhisattva?”

  “No no. Not so good as that, no.”

  “But you are a lama, or what say, a tulku or what have you?”

  “What have you, I guess you say. I am a voice.”

  “A voice?”

  “You know. Vehicle for voice. Spirits seem to speak through me.”

  “Like in those ceremonies, you get taken over and say things?”

  “Yes.”

  “That looks like it must hurt.”

  “Yes, it seems so. I don’t remember what happens then. But afterward I often seem to be sore.”

  “Does it still happen?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are you scheduled for a ceremony anytime soon?”

  “No. You know—retired.”

  “Retired?”

  “Is that not word? What say, get old, give up work?”

  “Yes, that’s retirement. I just didn’t know that your kind of job allowed for retirement.”

  “Of course. Very hard job.”

  “I imagine so.”

  Frank googled “oracle, Tibetan Buddhist,” and read randomly for a while. It was pretty alarming stuff. What always got him was how elaborated everything was in Tibetan Buddhism; it was not a simple thing, like he imagined American Protestant churches being, with their simple creeds: I believe in God, an abstract or maybe a human image, with some vague tripartite divisions and a relatively straightforward story about a single visit to Earth. Not at all; instead, a vastly articulated system of gods and spirits, with complicated histories and interactions, and ongoing appearances in this world. The oracles when possessed would grow taller, lift enormously heavy costumes, cause medallions on their chest to bounce outward under the force of their elevated heartbeat. If certain powerful spirits entered the oracle, he had less than five minutes to live. Blood would gush from nose and mouth, body go completely rigid.

  Maybe this was all a matter of adrenalin and endorphins. Maybe this was what the body was capable of when the mind was convinced of something. Oxy
tocined by the cosmic spirit. But in any case they were quite serious about it; to them it was real. “The system is so complex and multilayered that it operates with some degree of freedom.” The mind, ordering the incoming data one way or another; different realities, perhaps. And what if they were evaluated on the basis of how they made one feel? On that basis there was certainly no justification to condescend to these people, no matter what strange things they said. They were in far better control of their feelings than Frank was.

  Through all of March the winter stayed as cold and windy as ever. Twelve days in a row record lows were set, and on March 23rd it was twenty below at noon. Frank worried that any trees that had survived the worst of the winter would have their blooms killed in the frigid spring; and then where would they be? What would the East Coast be like if its great hardwood forest died? Would whole biomes collapse as a result, would agriculture itself be substantially destroyed? How would Europe feed itself? What might happen to Asia’s already shaky food security? It seemed to him sometimes that a winter this severe might change things for good.

  In this context the campaign for the presidential election coming up in the fall looked more trivial than ever. Phil Chase wrapped up the Democratic nomination, the president’s team upped the firepower of their attacks on him; the SSEEP virtual candidate caused trouble for everybody who came in contact with it. Frank couldn’t be bothered, and it seemed there were others like him out there. The long winter came first in the news and in people’s thoughts.

  HALFWAY THROUGH APRIL THE INCREASING LENGTH of the days became impossible to miss. Spring was here, snow or not. Daylight savings time came, and even though the mornings were darker at first, that did not last long. By the first of May there was so much more light that there simply had to be more heat; and then one day without warning it hit eighty degrees, and everyone and everything sweltered. The whole world steamed, thawed branches drooped and hung, thawed pipes leaked, wires shorted, mold grew. It was like a permafrost melt in the tundra, with pingos and polygonal cracking and fields of new mud, and the air stifling. Mosquitoes came back, and everyone began to wonder if the hard winter had really been that bad after all.