Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [67]
We stop between my building and the bank and furtively cut a few stalks of “pig food.” I have noticed that many of the foreign teachers, even those that would not normally smoke it, take advantage of the wild marijuana that grows so luxuriantly everywhere. I dry the leaves in a frying pan while Leon chums together onions and Druk tomato sauce for the pizza. We stay up late drinking warm Golden Eagle beer and smoking the marijuana. Leon is certain that he will extend his contract and is already thinking of where he would like to be posted next. “Somewhere off the road,” he says. “I know it’s too early, but do you think you might extend?”
“I can’t,” I say. “There’s Robert, for one thing ...”
I am worried about my relationship with Robert. I miss him, but our letters only seem to emphasize the distance between us. They have become monologues, except for a few lines tacked on at the beginning or the end: I hope you got over your stomach trouble, I hope you did well on that last essay, be careful with the water there, your new car sounds lovely. I do not write that a car now sounds like a terrible indulgence in a city with buses, trains, trams and a subway system, or that the condominium Robert raved about sounds like an expensive prison. And I have a feeling he does not write how inexplicable he finds the stories in my letters. “It’s like we’re on two different planets,” I say.
“Well, in a way, you are,” Leon says.
I stare glumly at my bottle of beer. “I’m supposed to go home at Christmas,” I say. “Maybe he can come back with me for a visit after.” There’s that odd word again, Christmas. Home has a strange ring to it now, too.
Too many bottles of beer later, I sweep the rest of the “pig food” into a Ziploc bag. “Leave the mess,” I tell Leon, who is stacking up plates and pineapple rinds, and go crashing off to bed.
Someone knocks loudly at the door a few hours later. I lie in bed in the grey morning light, fully resolved to ignore the knocking. Go away, go away, I think, it’s too early to be bringing me vegetables or a bleeding limb. I’m not getting up, go away. The knocking grows thunderous. I march to the door in my nightshirt and yank furiously at the bolts.
“What?” I say. “What!”
The headmaster steps back, looking disconcerted. “Uh, Miss Jamie, this is the new principal of Sherubtse College,” he says, gesturing to the heavyset man beside him. He has a broad, genial face, and is wearing a richly embroidered orange-and-yellow gho. “He would like to talk to you....”
I apologize profusely for keeping them waiting, for my rudeness, for my nightshirt, for everything in general, and lead them into the sitting room, where Leon is sitting up in his sleeping bag, blinking. He leaps to his feet as I dash off to put on a kira. When I come back, the headmaster and the Sherubtse principal are sitting at the table while Leon clears away the empty beer bottles and dirty plates. He goes off to the kitchen to make tea, and the college principal explains that he has just been appointed to replace Father Larue. One of the English lecturers is leaving this month, he says, and he has heard from someone that I have a master’s degree in English. Would I be interested in the job?
“Father Larue thought that I was too young,” I say lamely.
“I know,” he says, shaking his head. “I say, if someone has the right qualifications, what does age matter? It’s like saying that someone is too short for the job. No, no, we aren’t worried about your age.”
Leon brings in the tea, and we notice at the same time the Ziploc bag in the middle of the table. He has thoughtfully cleared away the pizza remains and pineapple rinds for this impromptu job interview, but has forgotten the bag of pot. Our eyes meet and I can see that he is on the verge of an explosion. He bites his lip and looks away, his shoulders shaking with