Tim Parks - The Server

Can you complain that people haven’t come looking for you, when you told them not to? Maybe you can. Nine months is a long time for a retreat. I think if a man cared, or a parent, they’d surely come looking. How many retreats can there be in the UK? I don’t reckon it would take the police more than an afternoon to find me. Or maybe people did come looking and some idiot in the office checked through the student list and said, no, there was no Elisabeth Marriot among the meditators, not realizing that I was Beth, the server.

No, I can’t turn my phone on, I thought, walking back up the path beside my diarist. I still had that feeling of calm, but the phone was too big a step. Geoff was striding out pretty purposefully. He had a real day-ten, back-to-business walk. As we passed the meditation hall, I said, ‘Sorry, there’s Mi Nu, I need a word with her.’ And I ran.

She was wearing jeans and a loose black cotton sweater. Hair in a ponytail. She was any ordinary Asian woman. That was another day-ten thing. When the silence is broken, the leaders suddenly seem very ordinary.

‘Mi Nu, I’m sorry.’

She turned.

‘I mean about last night.’

She let her head fall to one side. ‘Everything is fine, Beth.’

‘Lisa,’ I said. ‘I’ve decided to call myself Lisa.’

She looked puzzled.

‘Remember you said about changing names? It’s sort of Beth, but not Beth, if you see what I mean.’

‘Ah.’ I don’t think she did see. ‘So, you’ve decided to leave us.’

‘No, no.’

I wanted her to say something but she was silent.

‘Actually, I was thinking how useful these last few days have been. My equanimity. I’m definitely getting calmer. Another month and …’

And what?

‘You can always leave and then come back, you know, if you want to.’

I shook my head.

‘The Dasgupta Institute will always be here. You’ll always be welcome.’

‘But I wasn’t thinking of leaving.’

If they were going to kick me out, they’d have to say so. Mi Nu put her hands together in farewell. ‘Let Dhamma be your guide, Lisa.’

She turned to walk to her bungalow.

I wanted to follow. I wanted to run after her and ask to see her room in daylight. Those faces high up on the wall. I wanted her to tell me whether they were throwing me out or not. I wanted to tell her how important it was to have her as a friend. But I needed to run after my diarist too. It would be good to open my locker with him there. I’d feel safer. Was I really going to do that at last? The key was in the side pocket of my backpack. But why did all the Dasgupta people want me to leave? They had withdrawn completely from the world — Mi Nu, the Harpers, Paul, Livia — they’d given up on sex, given up everything. Why were they so determined to chuck me back into things? As if I didn’t deserve to be with them. I wasn’t pure enough. Or maybe they saw me as a threat. I threatened Mrs Harper because she was attracted to me.

I began to laugh. More likely they were trying to be kind. Mi Nu was telling me to leave for my sake. The way Jonathan always used to say, ‘You’re too young for me, Betsy M. Too young for a failed old fartist.’

I got my key but Geoff wasn’t in the locker room. Two younger guys were checking football results on an iPhone. Then I remembered there’d be my purse as well. With photos and debit card and cash. Not much. And my passport. Elisabeth Jane Marriot. ‘You look like a genie out of a bottle,’ Jonathan said. My hair was so wild, big teeth and pop-eyed.

I was getting shivery. I crouched down, pushed the key in the lock and stopped. Hadn’t I promised myself I would only get my stuff when I could do it calmly, when the messages on the phone, the photos in the purse, the stupid amulet, the earrings, meant nothing any more? Only open your locker when you’re liberated, I used to tell myself. So why now?

Because you are calm, a voice said. You are liberated. Lisa’s voice.

The locker was on the bottom row. I squatted down, turned the key and opened the door.

The Pocus demo. I’d forgotten that. Safe Crash . And a bottle of Chanel I’d ripped off from Mum before the trip to France.

Then I was on automatic pilot. In a moment I was in the kitchen plugging the charger into the socket for the grinder, turning the phone on. What was the pin? I’d forgotten. Think. Jonathan’s age and Carl’s. 5229. Pin accepted. Credit? £1.78. I called Mum.

‘Elisabeth! Heavens!’

‘Hi, Mum.’

Silence.

‘Mum?’

‘Sorry, love, I’m in traffic, it’s tricky. Where are you? I’ve been so worried.’

‘Oh, I’m OK. I’m not far away. At a Buddhist place.’

‘Buddhist? You haven’t turned Buddhist.’

‘Sort of yes and no.’

‘Oh.’

What should I say?

‘Has Dad been in touch?’ she asked.

‘What? How could he?’

‘You don’t know, then?’

‘What?’

Ralph slammed a trolley of dirty plates through the swing doors and started to stack them in the sink. I retreated towards the service door, pressing the receiver to my ear.

‘Your father left home, Elisabeth. Just before Christmas. Sorry, I’ll have to pull over. Hang on.’

When she came back on the line she was crying. Dad had left. After thirty-one years. She’d never imagined it could hurt so much.

‘I feel such a failure, Elisabeth. I’m such a terrible failure.’

‘I’ll come at once,’ I said.

‘No no, don’t do that, love.’

‘I’ll come tonight.’

‘No, Elisabeth. Please.’ She’d found a handkerchief. ‘It’s sweet of you, but I don’t want you changing your plans for our troubles. Or rather mine. I’m sure your father’s having a fine old time of it. He—’

‘I’ll be back tonight, Mum.’

IT WAS AFTER six thirty, less than half an hour before the last evening discourse, the one where Dasgupta tells you if there’s anything you find hard to believe in his philosophy you can leave it out and accept the rest, like the boy who would only drink his mother’s soup without the nice crunchy bits, the spicy seeds, the little dumplings. ‘If you can’t believe in reincarnation, leave it out, doesn’t matter, if you can’t believe in sankhara s, leave them out. Maybe later you’ll realize what a lovely flavour these nutty bits add, what sense they make. But for the moment all that matters is the practice. Observe sensation, develop equanimity. Keep sila , the Five Precepts, work on your samādhi , explore the field of paññā . Only the practice matters, nothing else. An hour in the morning and an hour in the evening, followed by ten minutes’ metta . Observe sensation last thing before falling asleep and observe it again first thing on waking. Continuity is the key to success, my friends. Equanimity is purity and purity is liberation.’

Suddenly I thought, If I hear Dasgupta’s voice say this stuff one more time, I’ll go crazy. I walked straight over to Dormitory A on the men’s side, kicked off my shoes and hurried down the corridor. I pushed open his door.

All strictly forbidden.

He was on the bed in his underpants, speaking on the phone. Fresh from the shower.

I leaned against the door and watched. He looked at me, did an eyebrow-raising routine, pressed the phone harder to his ear.

Then the gong began. The ten-minute warning. You could hear it struck somewhere near the bathrooms, then again, getting nearer, in Dormitory B.

‘For a while, yes,’ he was saying. ‘Because the situation is too ugly. You know that yourself … I’ll file for bankruptcy … Where I’ll be is my own business, isn’t it? … Susie is an adult, Linda, she doesn’t need us, she doesn’t want us to be fussing about her.’