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kind-looking one’s forehead became her third eye? What if the pretty one relaxed her face muscles just a little bit? She might even show her lovely dimples. What if…
    Then suddenly I saw a long, red scar. My heart almost jumped to my throat. The nun was moving behind a heavy man in the third row, and I could only see a third of her face. When I noticed her hands, my heart turned over. Parts of fingers were missing from each hand. Who was she? My heart knocked hard against my ribs as I turned away from the disturbing sight to think.
    The bell chimed again, signaling the end of lunch. I looked at my bowl and plate; they were still full. Hastily, I scraped mouthfuls of rice and vegetables into my mouth, then swallowed them with big gulps of water. I choked and coughed. A nun turned to look at me. But her hands had five fingers. My eyes swept across the hall; the scarred nun was gone.
    I placed my chopsticks on top of my bowl, and seeing the mess I had left, my heart sank.
    My eyes wandered back to Michael Fuller. Ah, he was also looking at me, smiling. Before I decided whether to smile back, a monk struck the bell a second time, signifying that lunch was finished.
    I went straight back to the dormitory to rest before the meditation session, still feeling disconcerted about the scarred nun. After a while my thoughts suddenly connected. Could she be Wong Dai Nam, a nun friend in Paris? Not likely, for Dai Nam had left the Sangha, the Buddhist order. There had been no word of her since she had disappeared into China three years before.

5
    Depending on Emptiness
    A fter the lunch break, I went back to the Meditation Hall for the lecture and meditation sessions. Inside, men, women, and children sat on brown meditation cushions, waiting silently or squirming to find a comfortable position. Participants continued to stream in; their cloth slippers scraping softly on the clean tiles sounded like leaves rustling in an empty courtyard.
    A few minutes later, the nun with the twitching eye stepped forward onto the platform before the altar and tapped lightly on the microphone. Waiting until the vibration subsided, she cleared her throat and announced the venerable nun Yi Kong from the Golden Lotus Temple as the special guest speaker of the retreat.
    The audience stirred.
    My heart thumped to hear the familiar yet distant name Yi Kong, Depending on Emptiness. She was one of the reasons I came all the way to this temple to join the retreat—after I’d learned that she would be here to lecture on Buddhist Dharma. My head turned with the congregation’s to see Yi Kong stride in measured steps to the platform in front of the altar. Her chin was raised, her bald head glistened, her robe trailed behind. She looked like a hairless Guan Yin walking on earth.
    Yi Kong was the bald scalp and pretty face I’d glimpsed from the bottom of the well when I was thirteen. At that time she had been a wandering nun who, on her way to visit the Golden Lotus Temple, learned of a girl trapped in a well and went there to throw down Guan Yin’s blessing. Yet our friendship didn’t develop until two years later, after she had taken residency in the nunnery.
    Now Yi Kong still looked handsome as she marched toward the altar. Mother would certainly have been disappointed to see her on TV now, for she had put on some weight, and she didn’t look as detached with the extra pounds.
    Yi Kong lit incense and led the audience in three deep bows to the three large gilded Buddhas on the altar. Then she seated herself on a cushion and arranged her legs into the full lotus position. With her long, elegant fingers, she drew the gold brocade shawl into a pleasing curve across her tangerine-colored robe and began: “Honorable guests of faith…”
    I stared at her intense face and concentrated on the rich inflection of her voice. Yi Kong’s eyes glowed in the mellow light of the room. I couldn’t see whether the corners of her eyes had grown wrinkled, but her speech