“Oh, I see…and her child died of some sickness?”

“No, her child didn’t just die. Chan Lan had an abortion.”

Dai Nam’s face now transformed into something indescribable, like images frozen in a distant dream; the scar was inert, in hibernation. She spoke as if talking to herself. “The father was one of the Japanese sailors, so she had to end her pregnancy. Otherwise the child would just grow up to be an object of humiliation…” DaiNam’s voice trailed off and the uncomfortable silence returned.

Since Dai Nam had only been in this temple for a few months, I wondered how she knew all this about Chan Lan.

My friend’s face stirred as if awakened from a trance. She sipped her tea and again changed the subject. “I heard you’ve got your Ph.D.”

“Hmmm…not quite. I still have to go back to Paris for my oral defense. I think the Fragrant Spirit Temple made a mistake about the information…” I paused. “Were you also at the retreat?”

“Yes.”

“Then you saw me there?”

“Yes.”

“And you also saw me in the garden just now?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly I realized Dai Nam had been avoiding me all along, which explained my spotting the red scar several times in the Fragrant Spirit Temple without getting a clear view of her. Why was she hiding from me?

After a pause, I mustered all my courage. “Dai…Miao Rong Shifu…what happened…to your fingers?”

“I burned them off.”

“What?” I gasped and spilled my tea on the floor. “But why?”

“To show that I’m not attached, not even to my own body.” She stared intently at the stain on the glossy floor. “I also burned them as offerings to Buddha.”

“But…Miao Rong Shifu, did you really have to do that?”

“Yes. If you really want to show your devotion and detachment.”

I tried to feel her mind with mine, but was lost in its unreadable remoteness. I wanted to argue, but nothing came out when I parted my lips. I could not understand how someone could do this to her own body.

Isn’t the desire for detachment an attachment in itself?

Dai Nam continued calmly, “I didn’t feel terrible pain when I was burning them.”

“But how can that be possible?”

“I was in deep meditation. Anyway, I chose the pain as an ordeal.”

I thought to remind her of the first line of Confucius’s Ode to Filial Piety: “My body and hair are inherited from my father and mother; therefore, I would not harm nor damage them. This is the beginning of filial piety.” But looking at her emotionless face, I finally swallowed my words.

After a pause, I asked, “You did this here in this temple?”

“No, in China.”

I had been dying to know about her disappearance in China, but now had no courage to ask, fearing that another nightmare revelation would writhe out from her mouth to assault me.

Dai Nam stood abruptly from her chair. “Nice to see you again, Miss Du. Now I have to get ready for the temple meeting.”

Before, in Paris, she hadn’t called me Miss Du. I knew it was now meant to stretch a distance between us. Or, between her and what I knew of her past.

Feeling restless and uneasy after my meeting with Dai Nam, I went to the Meditation Hall to try to meditate, but snakes kept popping from every cranny of my mind, spitting out fiery tongues at me. I went to the library and tried to read, but all I could see in the words of the sutras was Dai Nam’s inscrutable face behind her thick-lensed glasses, challenging me with her nonattachment and her mutilated fingers.

Unable to relax, I decided to go back to the garden. Maybe Ah-po was still there, and I could find some relief in her cheerfulness.

But Ah-po, the old woman, was with someone else. So I stopped at the entrance to watch as a nun helped her walk back to the nursing home.

It was Dai Nam. She asked Chan Lan, “Great-Aunt, how are you feeling today?”

I was startled-so this old woman was Dai Nam’s comfort woman great-aunt, who’d helped her stay in Hong Kong. I moved behind a hibiscus hedge to stay out of sight.

Chan Lan smiled widely. “Very happy. I talked to a pretty girl. She’s thirty but still single. So I told her that’s no good, better get married soon and have children, many, many.”

She poked Dai Nam’s arm with her shriveled, clawlike fingers. “You too, grand niece, get married soon and have children! Many, many!”

I went softly to sit on a bench, to ponder the revelation and to gather my thoughts. However, stray thoughts sleepwalked through my mind, bringing me back to my encounter with Dai Nam in Paris five years before…

13. The Non-Nun Nun

I had first met Dai Nam in the library of L’Institut des Hautes Études Chinoises. It happened not long after I’d arrived in Paris when I went to the library to borrow a rare version of the Heart Sutra. When the librarian told me that someone had already checked it out, I became curious about this stranger who shared my interest not only in Buddhism, but also in rare texts. I asked the librarian to introduce us.

She arranged for us to meet in her office on a Saturday morning, a time when the library was mostly empty. Dai Nam was already there when I arrived. The first thing I noticed about her were her eyebrows-a weak and flattened Chinese character “eight,” as if executed when the calligrapher was depressed. Then, as I sat down opposite her, a shaft of sunlight entered through a tree-lined window to land on her face. My heart jumped. A large maroon scar, resembling a frightened baby snake, crawled down her right cheek. How had her face been ruined? What kind of accident could have caused this? A car crash? The result of some inexplicable karma? An act of revenge from a spurned love? It must have hurt terribly. As I was wondering how this had happened, suddenly my cheek flared with an itch as I watched the shadow of a many-branched twig, like a witch’s broom, sweep the blood-dark stripe. Dai Nam said, “Hello” in a raspy voice.

Our conversation didn’t last long; Dai Nam said that she had come to the library to study and did not have time to talk. When I suggested we meet another day in a café, she would set no definite time. I was curious to get to know her better, so when I ran into her again in the institute I suggested we meet at the Café de Flore on Boulevard Saint-Germain. This time she agreed.

Dai Nam had been in Paris longer than I, so I imagined she’d have been to this famous place before. It would be my first time. I hoped I’d have the luck to sit at the same table where Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to sit many decades ago!

Yet on Saturday evening when I arrived at the famous café, I felt disappointed. Except for the prices on the menu by the entrance, it didn’t look particularly special. Maybe it had been when Sartre and de Beauvoir set up literary shop here during World War II. Then I suddenly remembered my guidebook’s comment: “As with all historic cafés, beware of the prices!”

I took a seat on the front row of the terrace. It was one of those days in Paris when people looked as if merely breathing the Parisian air was the greatest blessing in life. Near me sat two giggling young Japanese women with expensive suits and handbags. Two French women lounged and smoked, hurrying sips of espresso amidst ceaseless talk.

I turned to look at the busy boulevard. A taxi pulled to a stop in front of me and spat out a veiled and gloved old woman in a hat and coat. After she’d paid the driver with her shaking hands, she began to wobble along with the support of a crooked cane. Three chattering young women in four-inch heels and miniskirts strode past her, almost knocking her over, but not noticing. The old woman raised her cane to swing at their bared backs. She missed, but was not discouraged. In the middle of the street, she kept waving her cane in threatening arcs and mouthing obscenities at the departing figures. Bravo, I almost shouted to her. Where did she get her strength? Surely not from her arthritic hands nor her crooked cane. Was it from jealousy aroused by the aura of youth and beauty that had once shone on her, but had now passed on to the girls? I was lost in this scene when Dai Nam’s voice rang like a broken bell in my ears. “Meng Ning.”