The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring (20 page)

After the initial flurry of excitement, interest in the spice packs showed no signs of abating. The delicious results they delivered almost guaranteed that as soon as people used one pack they would want to order another. Perhaps several. In every flavor. Far from being a one-off or a fad, the spice packs grew in popularity as each week brought new customers through the door of the café and reorders online.

It was over an end-of-the-day hot chocolate that Sam made his extraordinary revelation. “How is it going with Bhadrak?” he asked Serena. A teenage nephew of the chefs, Bhadrak had been hired part-time for the sole purpose of making up spice sachets under the watchful eyes of his uncles, when the task had grown too big for them.

“Seems to be working out well,” Serena said. “He’s slow, very slow, but meticulous. I’d rather have that than the other.”

“Quality control,” agreed Sam.

“His uncles have put the fear of God into him on that score,” said Serena.

“Which particular god?” Sam asked.

“All of them!” she said, chuckling. Despite having been brought up in India, Serena still found the variety of deities quite bewildering.

“I was having some fun with a spreadsheet …” Sam nodded to some papers on the table between them.

“
Such
a Sam line, that!”

“Really, I think even
you
will find this interesting,” he protested. “Over the past week I discovered a new trend in the spice packs. In retrospect, I suppose it was predictable, but I didn’t see it coming.”

Serena raised her eyebrows.

“Referred customers. And I’m not just talking local residents. We’ve been taking orders from friends of people who’ve visited the café. In one case, a delicatessen in Portland, Oregon, ordered twenty packs of every kind.”

“Bhadrak
will
be kept busy,” said Serena.

Sam realized that Serena still wasn’t seeing what was so apparent to him. “I think it could go beyond that. All this interest after just one Indian banquet and with no online promotion. We don’t even have spice packs among the items listed on our website.”

“Probably just a flash in the pan,” said Serena, shrugging. “In a couple of months the novelty will wear off and …”

“Or it could go the other way.” The new, bolder Sam had no trouble voicing a counterargument. “The second banquet could build on the momentum of the first. You could include a spice pack for each diner, first one free. Even more people would try and buy.” Picking up the papers on the table, he pulled out a page of projections and handed it to Serena.

“Look what happens if sales follow the same pattern as after the first banquet.”

“What’s this on the left?” Serena asked, pointing to one of the graphs.

“Sales in US dollars.”

Serena looked surprised. “And the red?” She indicated a line that angled upward sharply.

“That’s based on a conservative projection of what will happen if we promote the spice packs to everyone on the database.”

“Amazing!” Serena’s eyes widened.

“I haven’t even factored in anything else that may happen. Like if you were to get some publicity. Online promotion. Perhaps repeat orders from that deli in Portland or others like it.”

Serena sat up straighter on the sofa. “These figures …” She was shaking her head in amazement.

“
Now
can you see why I said it was fun?” he joked.

She nodded, flashing a smile.

“More than just fun,” Sam amended. “The great thing about this is that it gets us into repeat business. Tourists will visit the café two or three times at most. They may buy a couple of books or gifts, and they’re done. But what you’ve created gives them the opportunity to, quite literally, keep tasting their holiday again and again.”

“Keeps the relationship going,” added Serena.

“Exactly!” Sam’s eyes were gleaming. “And more than that, look at the numbers.”

“I can see. With that kind of volume we’d need a lot more than a part-time Bhadrak and some visits to the market. I’d need to find a source to guarantee our spice supply.”

“Problems worth solving,” said Sam, urging her to flip to the final page, which showed revenues for the café and bookstore, plus projected revenue for the spice packs. “Just check out the bottom line.”

“Wow!” She stared at the figures.

After a pause, he told her, “It’s a whole new business, Serena.”

For a long while they both studied the figures, Serena aglow with the possibilities. Then her expression turned serious. “Have you heard from Franc about the accounts?” she asked.

The question held more significance than it seemed. Because of all that Franc was going through around his father’s death, Serena and Sam had decided not to make a big deal out of the first Indian banquet. But they had shown it as a separate line item in the accounts they sent Franc each month, along with a brief explanation of each item. The separate line for the banquet showed a record high take on a night when the café was usually shut. And they had asked him, “Do you like?”

Seeing her expression, Sam shook his head no.

“Until we hear …”

Sam gathered the papers and put them in a pile on the coffee table. “I guess,” he said.

For a while the two of them sat stroking their
sem chen
friends, the two dogs grinding their heads into the cushions with pleasure, while I signaled my contentment with a more genteel purr.

“Speaking of food,” mused Serena after a while, “I heard some interesting things today about nutrition and self-control.” She described the visit from the disciplinarian of Namgyal Monastery.

“I wonder if it’s the same for these little ones,” she said, looking at the dogs and me. “I’m guessing that nutrition may have an effect on how they’re feeling at any particular moment of the day.”

Sam glanced up momentarily, searching through his encyclopedic memory. “I remember reading somewhere that the ideal diet for an adult cat is about fourteen mice-size portions a day.”

“Fourteen?!” exclaimed Serena.

Sam shrugged. “Once you get rid of the fur and bone, the average mouse isn’t very caloric.”

“I guess not,” Serena conceded.

“There probably are parallels with human nutrition. All animals need the right balance of water, protein, and vitamins.”

“Amazing to think how much our moods are affected by the food we eat,” mused Serena.

“Happiness is chemistry,” said Sam.

Serena looked dubious. “Maybe not exclusively. But the chemistry has to be there.”

“A factor.”

“An
important
factor,” she amended.

“Oh, little Rinpoche,” she said, leaning over and kissing my head effusively. “I so hope you’re a chemically content little Snow Lion!”

Yes, I thought. After a mouse-size portion of lactose-free milk, I most certainly was. And along with the tasty meals I had eaten today—Mrs. Trinci’s delicious goulash being the unquestioned highlight—I had also come to a surprising insight about happiness, one that might otherwise have remained a deep mystery.

I had discovered the reason why on a perfectly delightful morning I could suddenly feel testy and bored. The reason, dear reader, is
food.
For humans, a low-glucose diet appears to be the best way to ward off feelings of ennui and disgruntlement, and the possibility of denying parole-seekers their liberty. As for us felines, what could set the world right more reliably than a tasty mouse-size snack?

It was two days later when Sam summoned Serena over from the café area.

As she approached she saw him sitting grim-faced at his computer. “Just heard from Franc about the accounts,” he told her.

She didn’t need to look at the screen to guess the outcome. But when she did, she saw Franc’s response to their question
Do you like?
At the bottom of the page, in large capitals he had written, “I DON’T LIKE!” He had even underlined the words for added emphasis.

Sam was shaking his head. “I just don’t get it.”

“I’m not completely surprised,” said Serena, stepping back from the computer. “Franc’s vision for the café has always been a Western oasis, an enclave removed from the world outside.”

“Even when our customers are voting big-time with their wallets?”

Serena shrugged, but there was no mistaking the disappointment on her face. All thought of future Indian banquets, spice packs, and online promotions vanished in an instant. And with it came a sense of foreboding about what lay ahead for the Himalaya Book Café: we were heading into uncharted waters.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

There can be few things more disagreeable than discovering a man with a face like a monkey parked in the seat of a much-loved friend.

Well, perhaps there are one or two things more disagreeable, such as being chased up a high wall by a pair of slavering retrievers or discovering that you were a dog in a previous life. Still, you can understand my dismay the morning I sidled into the executive assistants’ office, roughly a week before the Dalai Lama was due home, and instead of finding the desk chair opposite Tenzin empty, it was occupied by a small, gnarled monk. I was so shocked when I saw his wizened face that I almost fell over backward. He had a tiny mouth, buckteeth, and no chin at all. His expression seemed fixed in a grimace.

I asked myself if this was actually happening, or if I was having one of those crazy, fitful, predawn dreams. But no, everything else was just as it should be. Tenzin was calmly writing a letter to the president of France. From across the courtyard came the sound of chanting monks. The scent of roast coffee intermingled with Nag Champa incense was wafting down the corridor. It was just another day at the office—except for this strange apparition.

Tenzin greeted me with his usual formality. “Good morning, HHC.”

I took a few steps in his direction and then glanced over my shoulder.

“The Dalai Lama’s Cat,” he explained to the other man. “She likes sitting on our filing cabinet.”

The monk grunted in acknowledgment, flashing only the briefest of looks in my direction, before continuing to work at Chogyal’s computer.

I am, dear reader, used to many different reactions to my appearance, from being pursued by the hounds of the hell realms to being prostrated before by the Namgyal monks. What I am
not
accustomed to is being ignored. Crouching for a moment, I launched myself into the air, landing with an unsteady thud on Chogyal’s desk.
Well,
I thought,
Venerable Monkey Face can’t ignore me now.

But he did! There was an initial moment of disbelief as he stared at my sumptuously fluffy and—to most people—irresistible form perched on an ancient text. Then he abruptly turned back to his computer screen as if by pretending this wasn’t actually happening, he could make it go away.

I was getting far more attention from Tenzin, who was following my movements with his usual diplomatic inscrutability. But I knew him well enough to realize that a lot was going on behind that poker face. If I wasn’t mistaken, he seemed to find my unscheduled appearance quite amusing.

After long minutes during which the monk continued to ignore me, his eyes glued to the screen as though his life depended on it, I realized there was nothing to be gained by sitting on his desk. Instead, I ambled over to Tenzin’s desk, taking care to leave a paw mark on the elegant engraved stationery from the Élysée Palace that was lying there before sweeping my bushy tail across his wrist. That was my way of saying, “Come, come, dear Tenzin, you know and I know that something here isn’t as it should be.” Then I hopped up on the filing cabinet behind him and after the most cursory wash behind the ears, settled down for my morning nap.