The Unforgiving Minute: A Soldier's Education Page 18

  We began that stage of an Oxford relationship some called “intellidating,” a probing of IQs every bit as romantic as it sounded. I gave her books to read about West Point and the Army, and she didn’t recoil. In fact, Meena gave me my own reading list: a primer on Hinduism, a history book about Indian independence, and a novel set in Mumbai. I wasn’t sure whose culture was more foreign, but it didn’t matter.

  I dove into Indian culture headfirst (or heartfirst, to be more accurate). We started at the movies. “Bollywood,” Bombay’s ambitiously nicknamed film industry, produces far more “fil-ums” than the United States. Given the epic length (three hours or longer) and enormous casts of these films, this was impressive, especially considering the elaborate choreography of the ten song and dance routines sprinkled through a typical Bollywood film. Suddenly, the hero would start dancing on a moving train or the scene would cut to the Alps where a couple danced in fields of edelweiss. It was like watching The Sound of Music mashed up with Saturday Night Fever. The key difference, at least to a twenty-two-year-old like me, was the absence of any display of affection. Every time two characters moved toward an embrace, the scene cut to a sweeping Himalayan panorama, a Victorian prudishness that rivaled West Point’s.

  Meena taught me my first Hindi lessons. Hindi was no joke; it had its own unrecognizable alphabet, including four different sounds for “T.” I spent weeks like a grade school student tracing the letters in my notebook. Meena would patiently point out where I had joined two letters inappropriately. For practice, I wrote the lyrics to Bollywood songs. My favorite, from a love story set in the turbulent period of India’s independence struggle, described a young man falling in love.

  When I saw this girl, she seemed to me like . . .

  a blooming rose

  a poet’s dream

  a candle burning in the temple

  a dancing feather

  like a slowly growing feeling of intoxication.

  Language also gave me a window into Indian habits. There were three ways to say “thank you,” but kal could mean either “yesterday” or “tomorrow.” Apparently, excessive gratitude went hand in hand with a flexible concept of time. Communicating in Hindi was more than translation; it also involved body language. Shaking one’s head could mean either yes or no. It depended on the angle of the head shake.

  Meena watched me row, and I went to see her practice martial arts. I knew I had met my match. She was smart enough to earn a Ph.D. in economics by age twenty-four, yet humble enough to entertain my questions. She could break boards with a fist in the afternoon and wear a ball gown with grace in the evening. She was as intense as any Ranger but could disarm me with just one slightly crooked smile. Romantic poetry I couldn’t understand as a Plebe now made sense.

  Susi, the gourmet British chef, wine connoisseur, and wife of Major Nagl, visited Oxford in April. Meena joined us for afternoon tea at the Grand Café, a small refuge of baroque glass and gold leaf elegance along High Street. As Susi recounted my encounter with the dessert pears during our cooking lessons, Meena laughed and I shrank in embarrassment. When Meena shared my failed attempt to whip cream, the two laughed together at my expense. After Meena left to go back to work, Susi put down her tea and smiled coyly.

  “Oh, I like Meena. She’s perfectly wonderful.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Craig. She’s a keeper.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “I can’t wait to tell John. Bravo!”

  Soon after, I invited Meena to the Rhodes Ball, confident in Susi’s seal of approval. My jaw dropped when I saw Meena gliding toward me in a long red dress with spaghetti straps, trailing a red silk scarf behind her. Under the scarf was a gold necklace filigreed in an Indian design.

  “I like your necklace.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  The cocktail hour was on the lawn outside Rhodes House, an imposing mansion of windows and stone. A saxophonist set the mood while waiters passed out champagne. The setting sun cast everyone in warm gold as they floated by in gowns and tuxes, drifting back into the nineteenth century. Inside, we entered a dark library set with fine silver and linen. Tiny flames flickered from candelabras. As we ate our meal, a harpist played in the background. After dinner we were ushered onto the lawn for dessert under the stars. A fire juggler, stilt performer, and unicyclist entertained while we ate ice cream and sipped cordials. Later, as we swayed to jazz in the ballroom, I held Meena close and moved my hand to the curve above her hip. My hand fit perfectly. As the night ended and we gathered outside to walk home, I told Meena I loved her.

  “You don’t mean that,” she said, averting her eyes.

  “I do.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m not.”

  The next day I found Meena outside Lincoln’s gate and told her again, this time in Hindi.

  “Main tumse pyaar karta huun.”

  “How’d you learn that?” she asked, sounding more interested in my Hindi than its translation.

  THE BELLS ON CHRIST Church’s Tom Tower ring every night at exactly 9:05. Up until the nineteenth century, English cities had set their clocks according to their distance from the Royal Observatory at Greenwich. Oxford, one degree west of Greenwich, had set its clocks five minutes slow. I had also come to adopt Oxford Standard Time. Time had become a currency to spend, not, as it had been at West Point, a resource to hoard. Some nights I dispensed with my watch altogether and allowed my course to be guided by the chiming bells echoing from Tom Tower like a chorus of brass bullfrogs. An evening spent wandering through Oxford’s cobblestone lanes, accompanied only by the whispers of stone gargoyles, was never wasted time. Walking arm in arm with Meena, it seemed at times as if my heart beat as loudly as the bells. But although every rational argument strained against a relationship with an ambitious, peace-loving Indian who had never seen a rifle or combat boots, reason had little defense against Oxford’s charms.

  On my twenty-third birthday, Meena gave me a book. At nearly fifteen hundred pages, A Suitable Boy was an intimidating gift. Its length suggested that we would be together long enough to discuss my reaction. Inside the cover Meena left a cryptic inscription:I can think of no better book to entertain you with insight into the

  world of arranged marriages, family politics, and religious conflict that

  comprises Indian culture. Suffice it to say, it won’t answer the question

  of whether you are a suitable boy. Sorry.

  Love, Meena

  14

  Beyond the Cloister

  For years and years I have dreamed of the wonders of the

  Turkish bath; for years and years I have promised myself that

  I would yet enjoy one. Many and many a time, in fancy, I

  have . . . passed through a weird and complicated system of

  pulling and hauling, and drenching and scrubbing . . . and,

  finally, swathed in soft fabrics, been . . . lulled by sensuous

  odors from unseen censers, by the gentle influence of the

  narghili’s Persian tobacco, and by the music of fountains that

  counterfeited the pattering of summer rain.

  MARK TWAIN, Innocents Abroad

  TRAVEL IS THE GREATEST TEACHER. WHILE AT OXFORD I was eager to visit as many of the world’s classrooms as I could, stopping only when I had filled my passport or emptied my bank account. Unlike West Point, when six days of leave was generous, Oxford breaks up a year-long vacation with just three eight-week terms. By my calculation, I had roughly forty weeks of available time to hop around the globe before my return to the Army. With a lieutenant’s salary and a host of willing travel partners, I traveled as far as I could away from Oxford, especially after I lost faith in any “sunny spell” breaking through the “dull and damp.”

  My classmate Rob, the tax expert comedian, planned our first trip outside Europe, a three-week journey through Malaysia and Thailand with Dave Adesnik, anot
her Rhodes classmate. Southeast Asia introduced me to chaos. No sooner had we cleared customs at the airport outside Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, than a crush of tourist touts assaulted us, hawking tours and hotels. We parted the throng and headed outside with touts following in our wake. The taxi we chose at random from a honking horde outside the terminal charged a small fortune to dodge through traffic at perilous speeds, all the while blasting bad pop music. As we alighted in Chinatown, I nearly hacked up a lung trying to breathe. It was like sucking on an exhaust pipe. I considered returning to the airport and flying to a nice beach somewhere, but the taxi had already picked up new prey.

  Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia, offered me my first glimpse of Islam. On the ceiling of our hotel room was an arrow pointing to Mecca. Everywhere we walked, we were within earshot of the Muslim call to prayer. Within minutes of the muezzin’s call, the streets emptied as the faithful said their prayers. Faith interacted with globalization in unanticipated ways. Take the “Ramadan Special” offered at Dunkin’ Donuts. For the equivalent of $1.30, they offered six doughnuts and a cup of coffee (but only before sunrise and after sunset). While we wandered past Gucci handbags and Sony electronics for sale at the mall, every television broadcast the Friday prayer services.

  Rob suggested a visit to the Masjid Negara, Malaysia’s national mosque. We were soon following the faithful through a warren of alleys. Merchants sang the praises of their particular prayer mats. Eager salesmen sold audio-cassettes of popular sermons out of open suitcases. It was like the parking lot at a concert. We took off our sneakers, buried them in our backpacks, and followed the crowd into a mosque larger than any cathedral I had visited before. The guidebook told us it had the capacity for fifteen thousand people, big enough to hold half the population of my hometown. The three of us, two Jews and a Catholic, wandered into the main prayer hall, an expanse of prostrated supplicants broken only by vertical columns. I had never been in a mosque before. I looked around at what must have been a thousand men in the room. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture, just row after row of men kneeling and touching their foreheads to the floor. The air inside was cool and clean, a contrast with the choking pollution outside. This was refuge. Over our heads, the roof soared above the congregation in a fantastic shape like the inside of an open umbrella. Later, in Afghanistan, I would observe the same geometrical precision in religious art. Somehow, the interlocking triangles and stars helped the process of spiritual deliberation. We stood transfixed and drew our own inspiration from the architecture.

  Unfortunately, a vocal Malaysian in a white tunic and crocheted hat interrupted our contemplation. He frowned, gesticulated wildly with his arms, and shook his head. In response, we smiled contritely, bowed, and then struggled against the current of prayer-goers in order to leave the alleys surrounding the mosque.

  After a week in Malaysia we worked our way north toward Thailand. On the resort island of Pulau Penang, we stayed in a cheap hotel recommended by the guidebook. When we woke up to catch a five o’clock bus to the border, we found the front doors locked, bolted, chained, and blocked by a couch. The manager, a sidearm tucked into his pants, let us through. A second later the bolt slid back in the door.

  “So much for trusting a guidebook,” I said as we looked more closely at our neighborhood. Motor scooters and cars occasionally stopped at the building across the street. Sometimes money and packages were exchanged. Sometimes a woman would get out. Sometimes a woman would get in.

  “Drugs and prostitution?” offered Rob.

  Considering that Malaysia had the death penalty for drug trafficking, this realization left us eager to leave, and quickly. An SUV pulled up and asked if “we needed anything.”

  “Just waiting for a bus.” Rob smiled.

  He must have decided we were too stupid to cause any problems and drove off. Ten drug deals later, the “bus” arrived. In point of fact, it was an antique Volkswagen van that compressed fifteen people, three sacks of rice, and several crates of dried beans. There were no seatbelts and no air-conditioning. As we pulled away with a lurch, the driver took a swig from his hip flask. I hoped it was cough medicine and not whiskey. I have had more comfortable journeys walking through swamps.

  After a week learning to scuba-dive in the islands, we caught a flight to Chiang Mai, a city in northern Thailand known for its Buddhist temples. After the severe formality of Malaysia’s mosques, Thailand’s temples were almost playful. Giant stupas stood like golden ice cream cones turned upside down. The roof eaves fluted at the end into fanciful curves, silhouettes of temple dancers, and dragon wings. Small signs, poorly translated into English, offered pilgrims practical advice such as OUT OF DEBT, OUT OF SAD. One temple in Bangkok left a more cryptic notice at the gate: IT IS FORBIDDEN TO ENTER A WOMAN EVEN A FOREIGNER IF DRESSED AS A MAN. Nearly every other temple welcomed tourists eagerly, a distinct difference from our experience in Kuala Lumpur. After forgetting to wear long pants to one temple, a saffron-robed monk smiled and handed me a pair of bright blue pants. They seemed tailored for a fat midget, and I doubted I looked any more sanctified than I had in my khaki shorts.

  When a teenage monk approached, I anticipated being ejected from the grounds. Instead, he told us he wanted to practice his English. Soon the rest of his friends surrounded us. Their English was as good as our Thai, mostly stock greetings and questions such as “Where are you from?” But after we got them talking about their training and lives at the temple, they opened up.

  “We like basketball and American football.”

  “My favorite team is the San Antonio Spurs.”

  “I like Hulk Hogan.”

  They had also watched a fair number of American films. That explained why so many of their questions were about girls.

  “Do you have girlfriends?” they asked.

  “No,” we replied sadly. At this point I had only just begun my wooing offensive.

  “That is okay,” they assured us.

  When a blond woman walked past, one monk leaned over and asked, “Do you think she is beautiful?” I nodded. He wanted to learn good English pickup lines, and we obliged him. The monks scribbled one of Dave’s favorites in their notebooks, something like “Heaven just called and told me they’re missing an angel.” I didn’t divulge my necklace tactic, though.

  “What do you call a man who dresses like a lady?” another monk asked.

  “Drag queen,” we replied.

  “Dry clean?”

  “No, drag queen,” we said again, guessing that volume correlated with comprehension.

  They repeated it over and over again to make sure they had it right. We spent more than an hour with them, enough time to ensure several headaches for their English teacher. A few days later we flew south to Bangkok.

  Bangkok combined Chiang Mai’s temple culture with the soul of an Asian metropolis. The clash of civilizations was even more apparent here than in Kuala Lumpur. Slums, temples, and gleaming skyscrapers competed for a skyline obscured by such heavy smog that taxi drivers wore surgical masks. This was the fault line of globalization. One night while we toured a ritzy part of town, an elephant walked past sporting a blinking taillight suspended from its tail. Monks browsed pop music albums. Stalls selling shredded papaya and wonton soup competed against Baskin-Robbins, Pizza Hut, and Schlotzky’s Deli. One woman who had parked her ox-driven cart on the street came back with a bucket of chicken from KFC. Televisions beamed American sitcoms and a Thai replication of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. My favorite was an original Superman cartoon with a slightly altered introduction. Instead of fighting for “truth, justice, and the American way,” the Thai Superman fought for “truth, justice,” and a second of muted silence. Little did I know that negotiating this collision of East and West would soon become both a professional and a personal imperative.

  OVER THE FOLLOWING MONTHS I would take a dozen such trips with other friends, searching for the rich texture no history book could deliver. Unfortunately, Meena’s research kept h
er tied to Oxford except for occasional weekend excursions to London and Edinburgh. Each time I returned with a journal filled with new adventures and a small present for Meena. My first gift, predictably, was a crystal necklace from Prague.

  When I flew out of Heathrow on these trips, I left looking for a sepia-toned past. With Brandon I watched Giza’s pyramids in the moonlight, climbed into Petra’s crescent canyon, and listened to the Friday prayers at Jerusalem’s Wailing Wall. With Matt and Hayden in Istanbul, I explored the magnificent Hagia Sophia. For a thousand years it had stood as the largest edifice in Christianity before being converted to the principal mosque for the Ottoman Empire. I craned my neck for nearly an hour examining its mosaics. A million squares of color, an entire kaleidoscope of devotion, shone brilliantly, even in afternoon shadow. An icon of Mary seemed to hover in the dome. Enormous black pendants hung down, embossed with Koranic calligraphy in shimmering gold.