Forty signs of rain - Kim Stanley Robinson [3]
Anna moved closer, dismissing her small regret for the loss of the travel agency. New occupants, fogging the air with incense, chanting or blowing their hearts out: it was interesting.
In the midst of the celebrants stood an old man, his brown face a maze of deep wrinkles. He smiled, and Anna saw that the wrinkles mapped a lifetime of smiling that smile. He raised his right hand, and the music came to a ragged end in a hyperbass note that fluttered Anna’s stomach.
The old man stepped free of the group and bowed to the four walls of the atrium, his hands held together before him. He dipped his chin and sang, his chant as low as any of the horns, and split into two notes, with a resonant head tone distinctly audible over the deep clear bass, all very surprising coming out of such a slight man. Singing thus, he walked to the doorway of the travel agency and there touched the doorjambs on each side, exclaiming something sharp each time.
“Rig yal ba! Chos min gon pa!”
The others all exclaimed “Jetsun Gyatso!”
The old man bowed to them.
And then they all cried “Om!” and filed into the little office space, the brassmen angling their long horns to make it in the door.
A young monk came back out. He took a small rectangular card from the loose sleeve of his robe, pulled some protective backing from sticky strips on the back of the card, and affixed it carefully to the window next to the door. Then he retreated inside.
Anna approached the window. The little sign said
EMBASSY OF KHEMBALUNG
An embassy! And a country she had never heard of, not that that was particularly surprising, new countries were popping up all the time, they were one of the UN’s favorite dispute-settlement strategies. Perhaps a deal had been cut in some troubled part of Asia, and this Khembalung created as a result.
But no matter where they were from, this was a strange place for an embassy. It was very far from Massachusetts Avenue’s ambassadorial stretch of unlikely architecture, unfamiliar flags, and expensive landscaping; far from Georgetown, Dupont Circle, Adams-Morgan, Foggy Bottom, East Capitol Hill, or any of the other likely haunts for locating a respectable embassy. Not just Arlington, but the NSF building no less!
Maybe it was a scientific country.
Pleased at the thought, pleased to have something new in the building, Anna approached closer still. She tried to read some small print she saw at the bottom of the new sign.
The young man who had put out the sign reappeared. He had a round face, a shaved head, and a quick little mouth, like Betty Boop’s. His expressive black eyes met hers directly.
“Can I help you?” he said, in what sounded to her like an Indian accent.
“Yes,” Anna said. “I saw your arrival ceremony, and I was just curious. I was wondering where you all come from.”
“Thank you for your interest,” the youth said politely, ducking his head and smiling. “We are from Khembalung.”
“Yes, I saw that, but…”
“Ah. Our country is an island nation. We are living in the Bay of Bengal, near the mouth of the Ganges.”
“I see,” Anna said, surprised; she had thought they would be from somewhere in the Himalayas. “I hadn’t heard of it.”
“It is not a big island. Nation status has been a recent development, you could say. Only now are we establishing a representation.”
“Good idea. Although, to tell the truth, I’m surprised to see an embassy in here. I didn’t think of this as being the right kind of space.”
“We chose it very carefully,” the young monk said.
They regarded each other.
“Well,” Anna said, “very interesting. Good luck moving in. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Thank you.” Again he nodded.
Anna did the same and took her leave.
But as she turned to go, something caused her to look back. The young monk still stood there in the doorway, looking across at the pizza place, his face marked by a tiny grimace of distress.
Anna recognized the expression at once. When her older son Nick was born she had stayed home with