Read Online The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring by David Michie - Free Book Online Page A

Finlay enjoyed his morning bottle of wine, when for the first time Mrs. Finlay looked at the shelf where I was grooming myself.
    Sensing I was being stared at, I looked directly at her.
    “Oh, good heavens!” Mrs. Finlay’s already fragile composure was threatened again. “Just like our little Sapphire.”
    Stepping toward me, she reached out to stroke my neck.
    I looked into her red-rimmed eyes and purred.
    “This is Rinpoche,” Serena told her, but Mrs. Finlay wasn’t listening. First one tear, then another began to roll down her cheek. Biting her lip to stem the flow, she stopped petting me and reached into her handbag for a tissue. But it was too much. Within moments she had let out a great sob of emotion. Serena put her arm around her and gently guided her to the banquette.
    For a while Mrs. Finlay wept quietly into her tissue. Serena gestured toward Kusali for a glass of water.
    “I’m sorry,” she apologized after a while. “I’m so …”
    Serena shushed her.
    “We had a little one, just like her,” Mrs. Finlay said, gesturing toward me. “It took me back. All those years ago in Scotland, Sapphire was so special to us. She used to sleep on our bed every night.” She gulped. “Things were different then.”
    A waiter arrived with a glass of water. Mrs. Finlay took a sip.
    “They are very special,” agreed Serena, glancing at me.
    But Mrs. Finlay wasn’t listening as she stared at the table while putting down the glass. She seemed transfixed. Until, that is, she somehow felt moved to confess, “Gordon—that’s my husband—is hating being here.” She said it as though unburdening herself of a terrible admission.
    Serena allowed a moment to pass before telling her, “That’s not an unusual reaction, you know. For Western visitors coming here, not sure what to expect, India can be a real shock.”
    Mrs. Finlay shook her head. “No, it’s not that. We both know India well.” For the first time she met Serena’s gaze. “Gordon has been here many times over the years. That’s why he chose it as the place to spend our first month of retirement. Only … it isn’t working.”
    She seemed to be drawing strength from Serena’s compassionate presence, her voice less broken as she continued. “He’s just had a big success, you see, selling a business after twenty-odd years building it up. Gordon’s a very hard-working man. Determined. You can’t begin to imagine the sacrifices he’s made. Years and years of eighteen-hour workdays. Missing out on vacations. Always having to leave birthday parties and dinners and family celebrations early. ‘It will all be worth it’—that’s what he’s always said. ‘I’ll retire early, and we’ll have the time of our lives.’ He always believed it. I did, too. It didn’t matter how much we had to give up. We’d be happy when …” She looked pensive for a while, then began again. “It was all right for the first couple of weeks. He was a changed man, free to do as he liked. But it didn’t last. Suddenly there were no calls or messages or meetings. No decisions to make. No one wanting to know what he thought. It was as if an elastic band that had been stretched to the limit suddenly let go.
    “When he was working so frenetically,” she went on, “the idea of all the time in the world seemed like heaven. Instead, he’s finding it a terrible burden. He didn’t bring his laptop with him. It was a part of his old life. But when he goes out in the mornings—he says for a walk—I’m sure he’s going to one of those Internet places.” Mrs. Finlay was looking at Serena, whose even expression gave not the slightest inkling that she knew Mrs. Finlay’s suspicions were correct.
    “And he drinks. He’s never been like that before—drinking during the day. I know it’s because he’s bored and miserable and doesn’t know what to do with himself. He said as much this morning before he left the hotel. I’ve never seen him so unhappy.”
    As she