Karma Read Free Page A

knife into his chest as the lid of the box snapped back. I didn’t know why Padmasvana would kill himself, but motive would wait.
    To the print man I said, “Yes.” He reached toward it.
    “Cease!” Chupa-da yelled.
    The room turned silent once more.
    “Do not touch the Tsali-deho.”
    “You mean this box?”
    “The Tsali-deho. Only Padmasvana can open the Tsali-deho.” He stepped between us and the box, his hands shaking visibly. All the emotion he had been trying so hard to control up to now seemed ready to burst out.
    Pausing for a moment to show we were not about to grab for the box, I said, “What is inside the Sally, uh—” I pointed to it.
    Chupa-da bowed his head. Clasping his shaking hands together, he said, “The Tsali-deho holds holy incense. Padmasvana frees the incense at the finish of his blessing. It is very holy.”
    “Is that all that’s inside?” A few sticks of incense would hardly fill the box. There would have been plenty of room for the knife. The box was the only place the knife could have been.
    “Only incense is inside,” Chupa-da said. “Incense is very important. In Bhutan, Padmasvana used it to keep away evil spirits. But here”—he glanced sharply at the audience—“here people do not believe in spirits. People believe only what their eyes see. They think they are as gods. What they choose to believe—only that exists. Here Padmasvana used the holy incense to end his blessing. A symbol, Westerners say. We allow that.”
    “I understand,” I said, choosing my words carefully. I could feel the growing tension in the room. “But I have to see the inside of the box.”
    “No!”
    “It is possible the knife could have been in there.”
    “No!”
    Chupa-da’s voice had risen to a shout. The audience gasped. Braga moved away, seeming to shrug off the dispute as unworthy of his attention.
    I called him back. I needed his intervention. The last thing I wanted was an international incident, an accusation that a Berkeley police officer had violated a Bhutanese temple.
    “Braga,” I said, and a note of appeal was in my voice, “I have to check the box. I won’t disturb the incense, but I must see it.”
    Braga looked from me to Chupa-da and back, his face tense. “Look, I, uh—”
    “Women cannot touch the Tsali-deho!” Chupa-da yelled.
    Distractedly, Braga ran a hand over his hair. He glanced at the audience and back to the box. “It has to be opened,” I said.
    Braga’s hand moved toward it, but he stopped halfway. “Only Padmasvana’s most trusted disciple may exercise that duty.”
    As one, the audience inhaled.
    Pointedly, I stared at Braga.
    “No, Officer, I can’t open it. I am not a disciple. I am an associate.” His voice rose as he made the distinction.
    Without looking, I knew every eye in the house was on us.
    “It has to be opened,” I repeated.
    To Chupa-da, Braga said, “Naturally I am not as well versed as you are in the laws of Buddhism, though”—his voice grew louder—“I am not ignorant. There are laws that govern normal circumstances in Bhutan, but here in America”—he shifted, facing the audience—“circumstances change. There may be nothing written in the holy books to cover these circumstances, but Padmasvana would have expected you to do what is necessary.”
    When the smaller man made no move, Braga said, “Padmasvana would have expected it.”
    The fans hummed, the prayer wheels whirled. The audience held its breath. Chupa-da stood motionless. Then, facing the box, he extended his hand slowly and, with one move, jerked open the lid. As the box clattered to the floor, I jumped back. The audience gasped. Sticks of incense tumbled out and Chupa-da fell to his knees, feverishly gathering them up.
    I stared down at him. The box would have to be checked, of course, but from the number of incense sticks that had been crammed inside, no one could have fitted in a knife, too.
    Sighing I leaned back against one of the two chairs,