pdouglas.thecodex-第8部分

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　〃This　discussion　is　irrelevant。　I'm　not　selling　the　Klee。〃
　〃Sometimes　the　client　loses　his　nerve　and　wants　to　back　out。　Sometimes　bad　things　happen　to　good　people。　I　kiss　the　babies　and　attend　the　funerals　and　keep　going　until　the　case　is　solved。〃
　〃You　can't　expect　me　to　sell　that　painting；　Mr。　Hauser。　It's　the　only　thing　I　have　of　any　value　from　my　father。　I　love　that　painting。〃
　Philip　found　Hauser　gazing　at　him　in　a　way　that　made　him　feel　odd。　The　man's　eyes　were　vacant；　his　face　calm；　emotionless。　〃Think　of　it　this　way：　The　painting　is　the　sacrifice　you　need　to　make　to　recover　your　inheritance。〃
　Philip　hesitated。　〃You　think　we'll　succeed？〃
　〃I　do。〃
　Philip　gazed　at　him。　He　could　always　buy　the　painting　back。　〃All　right；　I'll　sell　the　Klee。〃
　Hauser's　eyes　narrowed　further。　He　took　another　careful　puff。　Then　he　removed　the　cigar　from　his　mouth　and　spoke。
　〃If　successful；　my　fee　will　be　one　million　dollars。〃　Then　he　added；　〃We　don't　have　much　time；　Mr。　Broadbent。　I've　already　booked　us　tickets　to　San　Pedro　Sula；　leaving　first　thing　next　week。〃
　
　7
　
　When　Vernon　Broadbent　finished　chanting；　he　took　a　few　moments　to　sit　quietly　in　the　cool；　dark　room　with　his　eyes　closed；　allowing　his　mind　to　resurface　after　its　long　meditation。　As　consciousness　returned；　he　began　to　hear　the　distant　boom　of　the　Pacific　and　smell　the　salt　air　just　penetrating　the　myrrh…fragrant　confines　of　the　vihara。　The　glow　of　candles　on　his　eyelids　filled　his　internal　vision　with　a　reddish；　flickering　glow。
　Then　he　opened　his　eyes；　took　a　few　deep　breaths；　and　rose；　still　cradling　the　fragile　feeling　of　peace　and　serenity　that　the　hour　of　meditation　had　given　him。　He　went　to　the　door　and　paused；　looking　out　over　the　hills　of　Big　Sur；　dotted　with　live　oaks　and　manzanita；　to　the　wide　blue　Pacific　beyond。　The　wind　off　the　ocean　caught　his　robes　and　filled　them　with　cool　air。
　He　had　been　living　at　the　Ashram　for　more　than　a　year；　and　now；　in　his　thirty…fifth　year；　he　finally　believed　he　had　found　the　place　he　wanted　to　be。　It　had　been　a　long　journey；　from　those　two　years　in　India　through　Transcendental　Meditation；　Theosophy；　EST；　Lifespring；　and　even　a　brush　with　Christianity。　He　had　rejected　the　materialism　of　his　childhood　and　had　tried　to　find　some　deeper　truth　to　his　life。　What　to　others…especially　his　brothers…seemed　a　wasted　life；　had　been　to　him　a　life　of　richness　and　striving。　What　else　was　the　point　of　life；　if　not　to　find　out　why？
　Now　he　had　the　chance；　with　this　inheritance；　to　do　some　real　good。　Not　just　for　himself　this　time　but　for　others。　It　was　his　chance　to　do　something　for　the　world。　But　how？　Should　he　try　to　find　the　tomb　on　his　own？　Should　he　call　Tom？　Philip　was　an　asshole；　but　maybe　Tom　would　want　to　join　forces　with　him。　He　had　to　make　a　decision；　and　quickly。
　He　tucked　up　his　linen　robes　and　started　down　the　path　to　the　Teacher's　hut…a　sprawling　redwood　structure　set　in　a　gentle　vale；　nestled　among　a　stand　of　tall　oaks；　with　a　view　of　the　Pacific。　On　the　way　he　passed　Chao；　the　cheerful　Asian　boy　who　ran　the　Teacher's　errands；　bouncing　up　the　trail　carrying　a　bundle　of　mail。　It　was　the　life　he　sought：　peaceful　and　unplicated。　Too　bad　it　was　so　expensive。
　As　he　rounded　the　side　of　the　hill；　the　Hut　came　into　view。　He　paused…he　was　a　little　intimidated　by　the　Teacher…but　then　resolutely　carried　on。　He　knocked　on　the　door。　After　a　moment；　a　low；　resonant　voice　called　out　from　the　depths　of　the　pound；　〃e　in；　you　are　most　wele。〃
　He　removed　his　sandals　on　the　veranda　and　stepped　inside。　The　house　was　Japanese　in　style；　simple　and　ascetic；　with　sliding　screens　of　rice　paper；　floors　covered　with　beige　mats；　and　expanses　of　polished　wood　planking。　The　interior　smelled　of　beeswax　and　incense。　There　was　the　gentle　sound　of　water。　Through　a　series　of　openings　Vernon　could　see　down　the　length　of　the　house　to　a　Japanese　garden　beyond；　with　mossy　rocks　standing　among　raked　pebbles；　and　a　pool　with　blooming　lotus　flowers。　He　could　not　see　the　Teacher。
　He　turned　and　peered　down　another　hallway　to　his　left；　through　successive　doorways；　which　disclosed　a　teenage　girl　in　bare　feet　and　robes；　with　a　long　blond　French　braid　down　her　back　entwined　with　wilting　flowers。　She　was　chopping　vegetables　in　the　Teacher's　kitchen。
　〃Are　you　there；　Teacher？〃　he　called。
　The　girl　went　on　chopping。
　〃This　way；〃　came　the　low　voice。
　Vernon　went　toward　the　sound　and　found　the　Teacher　sitting　in　his　meditation　room；　cross…legged　on　a　mat；　his　eyes　closed。　He　opened　them　but　did　not　rise。　Vernon　stood；　waiting　respectfully。　The　Teacher's　fit；　handsome　figure　was　draped　in　a　simple　robe　of　undyed　linen。　A　fringe　of　long　gray　hair；　bed　straight　down；　fell　from　a　small　bald　spot；　giving　him　a　Leonardo　da　Vinci　look。　Astute　blue　eyes　crinkled　under　strongly　arched　orbital　ridges　carved　out　of　the　broad　dome　of　his　forehead。　A　trimmed　salt…and…pepper　beard　pleted　the　face。　When　he　spoke　his　voice　was　soft　and　resonant；　underlain　by　a　pleasing　bed　of　gravel；　with　a　faint　Brooklyn　accent　that　stamped　him　as　a　man　of　humble　origins。　He　was　about　sixty…no　one　knew　his　exact　age。　Formerly　a　professor　of　philosophy　at　Berkeley　named　Art　Brewer；　he　had　renounced　tenure　to　retreat　into　a　life　of　the　spirit。　Here；　at　the　Ashram；　he　had　founded　a　munity　devoted　to　prayer；　meditation；　and　spiritual　growth。　It　was　pleasantly　nondenominational；　loosely　based　on　Buddhism；　but　without　the　excessive　discipline；　intellectualism；　celibacy；　and　fatalism　that　tended　to　mar　that　particular　religious　tradition。　Rather；　the　Ashram　was　a　beautiful　retreat　in　a　lovely　location；　where　under　the　gentle　guidance　of　the　Teacher　each　worshiped　in　his　own　way；　at　a　cost　of　seven　hundred　dollars　per　week；　room　and　board　included。
　〃Sit　down；〃　the　Teacher　said。
　Vernon　sat。
　〃How　can　I　help　you？〃
　〃It's　about　my　father。〃
　The　Teacher　listened。
　Vernon　collected　his　thoughts　and　took　a　breath。　He　told　the　Teacher　about　his　father's　cancer；　the　inheritance；　the　challenge　to　find　his　tomb。　When　he　finished　there　was　a　long　silence。　Vernon　wondered　if　the　Teacher　would　tell　him　to　forgo　the　inheritance。　He　remembered　the　Teacher's　many　negative　ments　about　the　evil　effects　of　money。
　〃Let's　have　tea；〃　said　the　Teacher；　his　voice　exceptionally　tender；　placing　his　gentle　hand　on　Vernon's　elbow。　They　sat　and　he　called　for　tea；　which　was　brought　in　by　the　girl　with　the　braid。　They　sipped　silently；　and　then　the　Teacher　asked；　〃How　much；　exactly；　is　this　inheritance　worth？〃
　〃I　figure　that　after　taxes　my　share　would　probably　be　worth　a　hundred　million。〃
　The　Teacher　seemed　to　take　a　very　long　sip　of　tea；　and　another。　If　the　sum　surprised　him　he　didn't　show　it。　〃Let　us　meditate。〃
　Vernon；　too；　closed　his　eyes。　He　had　trouble　concentrating　on　his　mantra；　feeling　agitated　by　the　questions　facing　him；　which　only　seemed　to　grow　more　plex　as　he　thought　about　them。　One　hundred　million　dollars。　One　hundred　million　dollars。　The　phrase；　not　dissimilar　in　sound　from　the　mantra；　got　tangled　up　with　his　meditating；　preventing　him　from　achieving　either　peace　or　internal　silence。　One　hundred　million。　Om　mani　padme　hum。　One　hundred　million。
　It　was　a　relief　when　the　Teacher　raised　his　head。　He　took　Vernon's　hands　and　enclosed　them　within　his　own。　His　blue　eyes　were　unusually　bright。
　〃Few　are　given　the　opportunity　that　you　have　been　given；　Vernon。　You　must　not　let　this　opportunity　pass　you　by。〃
　〃How　so？〃
　The　Teacher　stood　and　spoke　with　power　and　resonance　in　his　voice。　〃We　need　to　recover　that　inheritance。　We　need　to　recover　it　now。
　
　8
　
　By　the　time　Tom　had　finished　doctoring　the　sick　horse；　the　sun　was　setting　over　Toh　Ateen　mesa；　casting　long　golden　shadows　across　the　sagebrush　and　chamisa。　Beyond　rose　up　a　thousand…foot　wall　of　sculpted　sandstone；　glowing　red　in　the　dying　light。　Tom　gave　the　animal　another　quick　lookover　and　patted　him　on　the　neck。　He　turned　to　the　Navajo　girl…the　horse's　owner。　〃He's　going　to　make　it。　Just　a　touch　of　sand　colic。〃
　She　broke　into　a　relieved　smile。
　〃Right　now　he's　hungry。　Lead　him　around　the　corral　a　few　times　and　then　give　him　a　scoop　of　psyllium　mixed　in　with　his　oats。　Let　him　water　afterwards。　Wait　half　an　hour；　then　give　him　some　hay。　He'll　be　fine。〃
　The　Navajo　grandmother　who　had　ridden　on　horseback　five　miles　to　the　vet　clinic　to　get　him…the　road　was　washed　out；　as　usual…took　his　hand。　〃Thank　you；　doctor。〃
　Tom　gave　a　little　bow。　〃At　your　service。〃　He　thought　ahead　to　the　ride　back　to　Bluff　with　anticipation。　He　was　glad　the　road　had　washed　out；　giving　him　the　excuse　for　a　long　ride。　It　had　wasted　half　his　day；　but　the　trail　had　taken　him　through　some　of　the　most　beautiful　red…rock　country　in　the　Southwest；　through　the　Jurassic　sandstone　beds　known　as　the　Morrison　Formation；　rich　with　dinosaur　fossils。　There　were　a　lot　of　remote　canyons　running　up　into　Toh　Ateen　mesa；　and　Tom　wondered　if　any　paleontologists　had　ever　explored　up　there。　Probably　not。　Someday；　he　thought；　he'd　take　a　little　side　trip　up　one　of　those　canyons　。。。
　He　shook　his　head　and　smiled　to　himself。　The　desert　was　a　fine　place　to　clear　your　mind；　and　he　had　had　a　lot　of　clearing　to　do。　This　crazy　business　with　his　father　had　been　the　biggest　shock　of　his　life。
　〃What　do　we　owe　you；　doctor？〃　the　grandmother　asked；　breaking　his　reverie。
　Tom　glanced　around　at　the　shabby　tar…paper　hogan；　the　broken…down　car　half　sunk　in　tumbleweeds；　the　skinny　sheep　milling　in　the　pen。
　〃Five　dollars。〃
　The　woman　fished　into　her　velveteen　blouse　and　removed　some　soiled　dollar　bills；　counting　out　five　for　him。
　Tom　had　touched　his　hat　and　had　just　turned　to　get　his　horse　when　he　noticed　a　tiny　cloud　of　dust　on　the　horizon。　The　two　Navajos　had　also　noticed　it。　A　horse　and　rider　were　approaching　fast　from　the　north；　from　the　direction　he　had　e；　the　dark　speck　getting　bigger　in　the　great　golden　bowl　of　the　desert。　He　wondered　if　it　was　Shane；　his　vet　partner。　It　alarmed　him。　It　would　have　to　be　one　hell　of　an　emergency　for　Shane　to　ride　out　there　to　get　him。
　As　the　figure　materialized；　he　realized　it　wasn't　Shane　but　a　woman。　And　she　was　riding　his　horse　Knock。
　The　woman　trotted　into　the　settlement；　covered　with　dust　from　her　journey；　the　ho