One week later, Wu Aizhen appeared on the streets of Linzhi in Tibet. Linzhi was said to be a relatively low-altitude region of Tibet. She had long wanted to visit Tibet, but because her lung function had been poor since childhood, altitude sickness had always deterred her. This time, after growing cold toward romantic love once again, she seemed to have swept this obstacle of life from the depths of her heart. She had become fearless.
Linzhi was known as “Little Jiangnan” in Tibet, and its scenery was beautiful. The city was not large. The Niyang River flowed slowly along one side of town, distant snow mountains and nearby peaks covered in flowers and green grass set each other off, and the high, distant blue sky and white clouds gave her heart a sense of vastness. She had studied the Esoteric School and had contact with many lamas, so she was no stranger to Tibet’s cultural environment. She quickly found a comfortable Tibetan restaurant in the city center and came there every day at a set time to drink butter tea. The owner proudly told her this was the most luxurious restaurant in town, open for barely two years. She looked around and felt the man was not boasting. The dining room was spacious, with carved beams and painted rafters in exquisite decoration that fully displayed Tibetan style. The butter tea was also authentically brewed. But Wu Aizhen was in no mood to enjoy the scenery. She simply brought a book on Tibetan Buddhism every day, drinking tea and reading there. When hungry, she ate something simple at the restaurant. Gradually the waitstaff and owner grew familiar with her way of life and rarely disturbed her, letting her sit there alone reading, drinking tea, and staring into space.
One day, two guests came to the restaurant — a young woman of seventeen or eighteen and a man dressed in black casual wear. They sat at the neighboring table. The man looked about forty-five or forty-six, with a stern, solemn face and an imposing bearing in every gesture. He wore a black silk casual outfit with a snug round collar, his clean face slightly cold and gloomy, his forehead high, not a single crease between his brows, his eyes calm and steady, showing no trace of fatigue — his gaze must have been very deep. As he entered the restaurant, he seemed to have no particular aim, glanced once around, then, as if everything was already clear to him, sat down firmly. Once seated, he only used the corner of his eye to note his neighbor. Wu Aizhen believed he had taken her in completely. With her years of cultivation in Chan samadhi and a psychologist’s keen powers of observation, Wu Aizhen could not help looking at this man with new respect.
After he sat down, Wu Aizhen felt an invisible pressure radiating from that seat. She was somewhat startled; she had never experienced this before. His black clothes could not have caused this effect. It had to be his “weight” and his “mind-power.” The “weight” came from long years of professional conditioning. This man must hold a very noble, very influential position. Then where did his mind-power come from? He did not look like a cultivator. In this age, even a realized master who practiced cultivation would show some of the weathering and marks of the path. But this man had a strong physique with vital energy held inward, and his face was smooth and well-nourished — clearly carefully maintained skin. Wu Aizhen steadied her heart. Suddenly, she felt as if a black hole in the universe sat beside her, containing destruction and death, and a powerful gravitational pull was transmitting from that black hole toward her. It was a “Demon King.”
She smiled and set her heart at ease. Once her heart relaxed, it bloomed like a flower. She leisurely resumed savoring her tea, and at once her surroundings were bright with sunshine, with clear breezes and white clouds flowing by. But when she picked up that heavy book, the lingering emotion in her heart made her feel a little weary and weighed down, and she let out an involuntary sigh.
The “Demon King” heard her sigh — his body actually gave a faint tremor, his “heart” leaning toward her, though he did not look at her. Yet Wu Aizhen immediately sensed a trace of barely perceptible alarm in the “Demon King’s” eyes. All of this was the insight that comes with proficiency in Chan samadhi. The young woman was ordering food, using Japanese, English, and Chinese all at once. From how she addressed him, Wu Aizhen knew she was the “Demon King’s” daughter. And from his native Japanese replies, she gathered that father and daughter were Japanese. The “Demon King’s” Chinese appeared quite good; when his daughter could not express something clearly, he would supplement it in a low, warm baritone. Though his Mandarin pronunciation was not entirely accurate, it was pleasant to hear. When the beautiful Tibetan girl joked with him, the “Demon King” also smiled — a smile that looked remarkably innocent, childlike, even a little bashful. This expression took Wu Aizhen by surprise. Had she misjudged him?
The owner of the Tibetan restaurant, Brother Nima, had returned. The owner was a busy man who rarely showed his face at the restaurant. But Wu Aizhen had already chatted with him twice and given him some Pu’er tea she had brought from City A. Brother Nima had considerable attainment in Tibetan Buddhist cultivation and realization and enjoyed discussing the Dharma with Wu Aizhen.
The moment he entered and saw Wu Aizhen, he greeted her warmly. He quickly made a round to the back kitchen, then came out carrying a pot of freshly brewed butter tea and set it on Wu Aizhen’s table.
“Have you had lunch?” Brother Nima asked.
“I ate breakfast at ten-thirty. I don’t feel like eating yet.”
“Then let’s have tea together. I haven’t seen you in a long time.” As Brother Nima said this, his dark face held sparkling, utterly sincere eyes.
“Mm! It’s been over ten days, hasn’t it? What have you been busy with these days?”
“Ah! I took some friends from Guangdong who were businessmen to a Tibetan mastiff base to look at mastiffs. They wanted to buy, but they were too expensive, and the breed wasn’t pure. The road was bad, the car broke down halfway, and we nearly couldn’t make it back.”
“With the Bodhisattva protecting you, how could that happen?”
“Ha ha, yes, the Bodhisattva protects, the Bodhisattva protects.” Brother Nima drank a few mouthfuls of tea, and a rosy flush rose on his somewhat weathered face.
“Bring some dried beef and toothpick lamb,” Brother Nima called to the waitress, and he glanced at the “Demon King” at the next table. The “Demon King” nodded with a polite smile. Brother Nima greeted him warmly — the kind of warmth that seemed to say, as long as we exchange smiles, we’re all one family, all good friends.
The waitress brought a plate of dried beef and a plate of toothpick lamb. Brother Nima picked up a piece of lamb with his hand and put it in his mouth, urging Wu Aizhen all the while: “Eat, eat. It’s really good.” Wu Aizhen chose a small piece of dried beef and chewed it slowly; it looked rather hard for her to swallow.
The “Demon King” finished his meal, stood up, and strolled around the restaurant. He seemed drawn to a “Tibetan knife” hanging on the wall, and he asked the waitress whether he could take it down to admire.
As soon as Brother Nima saw someone taking an interest in his treasure, he immediately set down his teacup, hastily wiped his hands with a napkin, and strode over in a few quick steps, taking the Tibetan knife off the wall without hesitation. From its appearance, the scabbard and hilt were inlaid with turquoise and silver edging — it looked quite refined and opulent. When drawn, the blade had a slight curve at the tip, a bit of rust, and was not especially sharp, but the knife had real heft. It was hard to tell what steel it was made of.
Brother Nima said proudly that this was a family heirloom left to him by his grandfather. This knife had been used to kill a leopard. Wu Aizhen had once heard Brother Nima tell how his family had once been prominent in the Tibetan region — his ancestors were among the great families of Tibet. But few of the heirlooms passed down to him remained, and this knife was one of them.
“It seems this knife has also killed a few people,” Brother Nima said to the “Demon King” in a mysterious whisper — though Wu Aizhen was sure everyone in the restaurant could hear him. But most of the customers had already finished eating and left; only a young couple in the corner was drinking tea and gazing out the glass window, as if admiring the scenery outside, showing no interest in their conversation.
“Oh!” The “Demon King” feigned being stirred by his words and laughed excitedly.
“You know what?” Brother Nima’s interest was thoroughly kindled. “This knife used to hang in my bedroom. They say this kind of knife can ward off evil. But sometimes in the middle of the night this knife would give a ‘clang’ — made me jump. Maybe spirits or demons really did come around. And I’d often have nightmares, dreaming of killing people, all bloody.” As Brother Nima described it, those dreams still seemed vivid in his mind, leaving him shaken.
The “Demon King’s” smile deepened. His gaze wandered, tenderly looking at the drawn blade. He took it from Brother Nima’s hands and gently, repeatedly stroked the rusted edge, even tapping it lightly with his finger. His manner was like a father stroking a sleeping infant, softly knocking at his beloved child’s door, afraid of disturbing him.
“Will you sell it?” the “Demon King” asked.
“Sell?” Brother Nima was taken aback. “This was left to me by my grandfather. If I sold an ancestor’s possession, wouldn’t I be an unworthy descendant who squandered the family inheritance!”
This reply nearly made Wu Aizhen burst out laughing.
“Besides, you’re Japanese.” This remark caught Wu Aizhen off guard.
“You have ethnic prejudice,” the “Demon King” said, still smiling.
“Not at all. My grandfather was suppressed by the People’s Liberation Army. I was only two years old then. When I was little, my mother cursed the Communist Party. But I don’t curse them, and I don’t hate the Han people either. My wife died young. I have a son studying at university in Beijing, and in the future I plan to send him abroad to study. That’s the blessing the Communist Party has brought to Tibetans. The Japanese killed Chinese people back then, but that was also your ancestors’ doing — you can’t pin it on this generation. I can let it go.”
“I’ll pay you more than it’s worth,” the “Demon King” said.
“What would I do with money? I’m well-off now. I’m even planning to open another Tibetan restaurant in Lhasa. I live alone now; my son doesn’t need much money from me. I have more than enough to spend.” As he spoke, Nima hung the treasured knife back on the wall.
The “Demon King” smiled magnanimously, said no more, and turned back to his seat. Nima returned to sit across from Wu Aizhen but struck up a warm conversation with the “Demon King.” He asked about Japanese customs and local culture, and described the Bon faith that had once flourished in the Linzhi area, as well as the legends of how, when Buddhism first entered Tibet, Guru Rinpoche had dueled in spiritual power with the Bon leaders and subdued the various mountain gods and lake gods of the Tibetan region. The “Demon King’s” daughter was fascinated by all of this and begged her father to stay a few more days. The “Demon King” looked at his daughter tenderly, neither agreeing to nor rejecting her request.
Toward the end of the conversation, the “Demon King’s” daughter actually said, “My Tibetan friend, you’re really amazing! You’re so delightful and so wise. Could you take us to see the places you’ve mentioned? I still have so many questions I want to ask you. I’m studying the history of world religions at university, and I came to Tibet this time to gather material on the history of Tibetan Buddhism for my graduation thesis. Please help me. I love listening to you talk so much.”
When the Japanese girl said this, although her language was halting and her pronunciation off, that devoutness, that polite body language, the craving and admiration shining from her eyes, along with the orchid-sweet tone peculiar to a girl in the bloom of youth—it would have been unbearable for anyone to refuse. Sure enough, Brother Nima’s face reddened, and swept up by the girl’s flattery, he felt a little giddy and agreed at once to take her to see those places the next day. Who knew whether his car was fixed or could even manage a full day of driving.
Watching Brother Nima’s flustered expression, Wu Aizhen couldn’t help bursting out laughing.
Nima immediately felt ill at ease and promptly invited Wu Aizhen to come along. This caught Wu Aizhen off guard; for a moment she didn’t know what to do.
Nima’s bright eyes looked at her earnestly, his face full of embarrassment and innocence, as if he were seeking her rescue. The young woman said in her not-quite-standard Mandarin, “I beg you too, big sister, please help me.”
Only the “Demon King” remained expressionless, his gaze studying her with a hint of scrutiny, as if he were turning something over in his mind, a little agitated.
Wu Aizhen’s heart clenched under his stare. Instead, she immediately agreed to Nima’s invitation. She felt as if she had a duty to protect Nima. Perhaps on the surface she could do nothing and would even need Brother Nima’s care. They agreed to meet in front of the restaurant tomorrow morning at five-thirty.
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