As If Simply Stepping Over a Puddle

Inside the office, racks of brochures sprout haphazardly from the floor. Mun slips through the crowd and makes his way toward a desk. A woman sits in an office chair chewing gum, a map of Mongolia taped up on the wall behind her, yellow pushpins dotting areas of interest. A foreign couple sits in front of the woman’s desk, a guidebook open on the man’s lap. The woman picks up the phone and converses in Mongolian. From time to time she turns and speaks to the couple in some other language unknown to me though several foreigners in the room seem to speak it, each of them almost two meters tall, even the women.

Everywhere is chaos. People stand with backpacks, people in chairs, on sofas. Many stand fanning themselves with pamphlets detailing different attractions. Mun grabs a piece of candy from a dish on the woman’s desk and unwraps it, pops it in his mouth. In the crush, I try to make myself as small as possible. There are so many languages being spoken I feel like the whole world is crammed in this one room.

The woman holds a hand over the mouthpiece and speaks to Mun. You’re late, she says, snapping her gum. From her tone and demeanor, I gather this must be Tuul.

I’m right on time, he says, never taking his earbuds out. I watch as he begins folding the candy wrapper into something origami-style, maybe a bird or a flower.

Tuul hands him a clipboard. Round up your group and get going, she says. The itinerary’s there.

Mun looks it over. You expect me to hightail it all the way from the stadium out to Hui Doloon Khutag by three, he says.

You’re supposed to be the best, says Tuul, grinning. She goes back to the phone.

The foreign man sitting before her begins to say something. It is obvious he is complaining. The woman holds up her hand. To me it sounds as if she is speaking sharply with him, but maybe this is just the way people in the capital talk, or perhaps this is how foreigners treat one another all the time. The man shakes his head, but he doesn’t get up from his chair.

Oh, and don’t forget I put a hold on the 66 for three weeks, Mun says.

For what? The way Tuul transitions between languages, as if simply stepping over a puddle.

Remember? Mun says. Private tour. He winks at me.

No way, says Tuul, swiveling in her chair toward a computer. I don’t care about the car, she adds, it’s you I can’t lose.

Relax, says Mun, I’m not going. Ganzorig’s driving. At the name, Tuul shakes her head. I wonder what’s wrong with Ganzorig. I can sense that Mun also has reservations about him. You see my brother over there, Mun asks, pointing to me. I am standing by a bookshelf filled with notebooks in which past customers share written reviews. Says Martin K. of California, Tuul is the best, but get out of UB into the countryside as soon as you can. I see Tuul fix her eyes on me. I put my palms together and give a small bow.

Tuul gives me a quick bow in return. She looks startled to see a monk in her office. I notice a small prayer wheel sitting on her desk. Where’s this private tour headed, she asks. Even though we are identical twins, I can tell she doesn’t believe we are related. Mun with his scruffy beard, his hair in two shiny braids, the abomination tattooed on his arm, and me with my shaved head, my scarlet robe.

Top-secret Buddha mission, Mun says.

Some specifics would be nice, she says.

Mun ignores this. Three, he says.

One, she counters.

Mun keeps fiddling with the candy wrapper. Come on, he says. Two weeks.

I’ll give you twelve days maximum.

Shit, my brother thinks in English, but he looks at her and grins. Great, two weeks with Ganzorig it is, he says. Tuul sighs but doesn’t contradict him.

The western expletive echoes in my mind. Right thought, right speech, right deeds. It is sufficient to rest in the unabsolute unceased, I think, filling both my mind and my brother’s with this calming mantra. My twin glares at me. A few western tourists stop what they are doing and look around with puzzled expressions. They are probably wondering what this sudden tingling is they sense in the air.

I feel my brother internally stiffen though he doesn’t let it show. Fourteen days to drive across the country and back. For a moment I get a flash of his thoughts. Ganzorig is Tuul’s nephew, which is why she keeps him on despite his proclivity to hit every sinkhole, get stuck in every river. In a land with few highways, two weeks means little to no sleep and no room for mistakes.

Mun lays the candy wrapper on Tuul’s desk and grabs another handful of sweets. Already he is walking out the door with the clipboard. As I follow him out, I glance at the small offering he leaves on her desk, the candy wrapper expertly folded. I look again even though I see it forming in his mind as he brings it to life in his hands. Who is this being who resembles my brother but is not my brother? The thing winks at me as I hurry out the door. A tiny silver penis as delicate and beautiful as an origami crane.