‘You will not.’
‘I might. Masha wants all the guests there for it. It only takes half an hour.’
Lars sighed. He could refuse on principle, but it was such a first-world, privileged principle he couldn’t be bothered. He was awake now anyway.
He sat up and held out his hand for his dressing-gown. He slept naked. He could have just leapt from the bed in all his glory to make the point that this was what happened when you woke your sleeping guests in the middle of the night, but he was too well-mannered. Delilah averted her eyes as he threw back the sheet, although he didn’t miss the quick downward flick. She was only human.
‘Don’t forget the silence,’ she said as she stepped into the corridor.
‘How could I forget the beautiful noble silence?’ said Lars.
She put her finger to her lips.
*
It was a clear night, the stars were out in force and a perfect half-moon illuminated the garden with silvery light. The balmy air was a soft caress against his skin after the hot day. It was, he had to admit, all very pleasant.
Nine yoga mats had been placed in a circle and guests wearing the Tranquillum House dressing-gowns lay with their heads facing the centre of the circle, where their striking leader Masha sat cross-legged on the grass.
Lars saw there was only one empty mat. He was the last guest to arrive. He wondered if he’d made the most fuss about being dragged from his bed. He never ceased to be amazed by the obedience of people at these places. They allowed themselves to be dipped in mud, wrapped in plastic, starved and deprived, pricked and prodded, all in the name of ‘transformation’.
Of course, Lars did too, but he was prepared to draw the line when necessary. For example, he drew the line at enemas. Also, he did not want to ever, ever discuss his bowel movements.
Delilah led Lars to a mat in between the lady who got the giggles when Lars said ‘Gesundheit!’ earlier and the giant lump of a man who had complained about his contraband being confiscated.
There was something familiar about the big guy with the contraband. It had been hard not to stare at him through dinner. Lars couldn’t shake the irritating feeling that he knew him from somewhere, but he couldn’t work out where.
Was he one of the husbands? If he was one of the husbands, would he recognise Lars and come after him, like that time he was boarding a plane and a guy in the economy line saw Lars and went nuts? He’d shouted, ‘YOU! You’re the reason I’m flying cattle class!’ Lars had taken extra pleasure in his Perrier-Jouët on that flight (and walked briskly off the plane towards the priority queue at customs). The big guy didn’t look like one of the husbands, but Lars knew he knew him from somewhere.
He wasn’t good with faces. Ray was great with them. Every time they started a new series Lars would sit up on the couch, point at the screen and say, ‘Her! We know her! How do we know her?’ Ray normally had it within seconds: ‘Breaking Bad. The girlfriend. Walt let her die. Now shut up.’ It was a real skill. On the rare occasions that Lars worked it out before Ray he got very excited and demanded high fives.
Lars lay down on the mat between the big guy and the giggling lady. She reminded Lars of one of Renoir’s women – small-faced and round-eyed with curly hair piled on top of her head; creamy-skinned, plump and bosomy, possibly a little vacuous – but he thought they would probably get on. She looked like a fellow hedonist.
‘Namaste,’ said Masha. ‘Thank you for leaving your beds for tonight’s starlight meditation. I am grateful to you for your flexibility, for opening your hearts and minds to new experiences. I am proud of you.’
She was proud of them. How condescending. She didn’t even know them! They were her clients. They were paying for this. And yet Lars felt a sense of satisfaction in the garden, as if everyone wanted Masha to be proud of them.
‘The retreat you are about to undertake combines ancient Eastern healing wisdom and herbal treatments with the latest cutting-edge advances in Western medicine. I want you to know that although I am not a practising Buddhist, I have incorporated certain Buddhist philosophies into our practices here.’
Yeah, yeah, East meets West, never heard that before, thought Lars.
‘This won’t take very long. I’m not going to say much. The stars will do the talking for me. Isn’t it funny how we forget to look up at the stars? We scurry about like ants in our day-to-day lives and look, just look, what’s up above our heads! All your life you look down. It’s time to look up, to see the stars!’
Lars looked at the sky emblazoned with stars.
The big guy on his left gave a chesty cough. So did the busty blonde on his right. Jesus. He should be wearing some sort of sanitation mask. If he came back from this thing with a cold, he wouldn’t be happy.
Masha said, ‘Some of you may have heard of the word koan. A koan is a paradox or puzzle that Zen Buddhists use during meditation to help them on their quest towards enlightenment. The most famous one is this: What is the sound of one hand clapping?’
Oh Lord. The website had given the impression that this place leaned more towards luxury wellness. Lars had a daily yoga and meditation practice, but he preferred his health retreats to avoid too much embarrassing cultural appropriation.
‘While you look at the stars tonight I want you to reflect on two koans. The first one is this: Out of nowhere the mind comes forth.’ Masha paused. ‘And the second: Show me your original face, the one you had before your parents were born.’
Lars heard the big guy next to him make a wheezy exhalation that caused him to start rolling about coughing.
‘Do not struggle to find answers or solutions,’ said Masha. ‘This is not a quiz, my people!’ She chuckled a little.
The woman really was quite a strange mix of charismatic leader and enthusiastic nerd. One moment a guru, the next the newly appointed CEO of a telecommunications company.