Randy ran up the stone stairs with a gilded cobra-shaped railing, and I stayed downstairs.
It was an unusual place. To the left and right towered multi-tiered turrets mosaicked with pieces of porcelain and shards of mirrors. They shimmered in the sun in all the colors of the rainbow.
It took me a while to realize that I was standing in a cemetery, and that the miniature pagodas were nothing more than tombstones. I could not see any portraits on them, only a frame with a photo of a man screwed to one of the turrets. The intricate inscription in Sanskrit, the dates of birth and death – I shuddered involuntarily when I saw the numbers 2457-2508, as if I were standing on the grave of a man not yet born, but already dead.
Then, of course, I realized that the Buddhist calendar is used to count the years on the Island, but it was still kind of creepy. “What are you afraid of? You’re dead too!” I laughed to myself. “You better think about who you are going to give the flyers to – the tourists wandering around the area of the temple under construction, or the monks? Although why would they need a nightclub? Maybe I’ll just throw the flyers into the sea, and be done with it?” I wanted to go back to the beach, but it started to rain. The drops came down harder and harder, and soon it was pouring so hard that I had to find shelter.
On the covered terrace outside the temple, an elderly monk in an orange robe sat cross-legged and smoking. His face looked familiar. But where could I have seen him before? The monk smiled amiably, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, and gestured for me to sit next to him. He continued to stare thoughtfully into the distance.
It was the first time I had seen a smoking Buddhist, especially one with glasses, and while he remained silent, I glanced furtively at the decoration of the terrace. Buddha figurines framed by saffron garlands, and stone elephants, trunks raised in triumph, guarded mortars of sand, in which thin wax candles and incense sticks were placed. There were matches and a donation box.
On the table I noticed a large thermos with cups, bags of coffee and tea, and cookies on a tray. I could have had a snack, but I found myself thinking that I wasn’t hungry at all.
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From the terrace my eyes slid over the Golden Stupa, the observation arbor, and back to the temple, which was only half built. The windows were still empty, and the terracotta walls were covered with bas-reliefs of bizarre monsters, demons and dragons. Inside, lone tourists like me caught off guard by a downpour, wandered around the golden statue of Buddha. Cameras flashed. The watchman, dozing in a nearby booth, paid no attention to them. The only thing he cared about was that everyone who crossed the threshold of the shrine took off their shoes. Otherwise, the old man would ran out of the booth, screaming, stomping his clumsy feet and shouting in his language. The guilty would be frightened and hastily remove their sandals.
It had stopped raining. The monk put out his cigarette and stood up. A black jeep drove into the courtyard, its wheels rustling on the wet gravel; men in black suits got out and walked toward us. After a brief negotiation, the monk rolled out his robe with a slight movement, passed it through his armpit, wrapped it around his waist, knotted it under his neck, and voila – a piece of cloth was transformed into a fashionable sweater. The men in black waited patiently. I decided it was time for me to go too, but the monk waved his hands: sit-sit. He only locked the door to the hiding place with a flimsy padlock, leaving the terrace and the temple at my disposal.
I entered an arbor with its thick white marble balusters, which gave me a magnificent view of the sea. The sun was setting. Children were splashing in a sandy patch, hidden from prying eyes by the stones. Brown and agile as monkeys, they clung to the branches of a tree growing on the shore, pushed themselves off the ground, and plunged into the water with a screech. As soon as the waves pulled a hesitant swimmer into the depths, his mates rushed to his rescue. They would grab his arms and legs and drag him to shore, laughing. Oh, how I would have loved to be in those Thai shoes!
I sighed and trudged to the gate where a group of cheerful elderly tourists were already streaming in. I took the opportunity to hand them the invitation cards. They didn’t mind, on the contrary, they gesticulated animatedly and demanded more. Why do they need flyers at their age? Maybe they thought they couldn’t enter the temple without them? I had no time to think. I ran into the street, hitched a ride and raced to the club.
To be continued