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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
The naked truth
» Kahala
It was as if Bodhicita Guzman put a blindfold on her soul.
As if she could keep that innermost essence from observing what her body was doing with Fon Du.
As if she could keep that part chaste for Jey, and their eternal relationship.
As if she could keep her soul from peeking.
As if ...
Her soul peeked from behind the blindfold, saw the form of a beautiful young woman forcing herself to do all she could to protect her eternal love, Lama Jey Tsong Khapa.
Saw her bring a young Chinese man slowly to the edge of ecstasy.
Saw her relief when suddenly and quite unexpectedly, especially to him, he was unable to go any further.
Her essence rejoiced, bathed in light.
Fon Du, however, fell into a great darkness, into the place where a man is less a man, unable to perform as a man. He was 34, fit, had drank barely two glasses of wine with dinner -- there was no excuse for this. None, except suddenly Bodhicita's beauty, her nakedness, her allure suddenly seemed a taunt. So too was his nakedness, truth revealed.
In that dark place, a poison thought arose in his head: It's her fault. This had never happened to him with dozens of other women he'd had. But it was happening now with her. Maybe on some subconscious level he was fearful of what might happen if he popped the big question and she said yes. Maybe it was concern about how his Te-Wu superiors in Beijing would react to his marrying an American. Whatever the underlying reasons, one thing was clear: If she remained in his life, it could happen again. The poison was spreading.
So was the five-part, time-release mickey Bodhicita had slipped him. His last conscious thought after the fourth installment kicked in, the sleep enhancer, was that this was the last night Bodhicita slept here. Bodhicita didn't know that, of course. She was just glad when he rolled over and fell asleep, and mentally went over everything he'd told her under the influence of Viagra and sodium pentathol about Te-Wu's plans to kill Jey.
In the morning she awoke to an empty bed, dressed and found Fon Du in the kitchen, staring into the open refrigerator. The fifth and final stage had engaged, marijuana THC. Not only did he have the munchies, he was paranoid.
He looked up, wanted her gone.
"Doo Wop," he said, "will drive you home."
"It's not your fault," she said, playing her part to the end. "Call me."
Without a word Fon Du turned back to the fridge.
There would be no call. She was free. Bodhicita somehow stifled a smile and managed not to skip out to the waiting car.
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com