Nara’s News

Once a week the Ulaanbaatar Post would be published and for a dollar I could gather up all the world’s news in English, on six crisp sheets of paper.

My Tuesday morning ritual involved me buying the Post, heading to Nara’s for coffee and studying every word of every item.  The situation in Palestine.  50 words.  The US elections.  50 words.  The copper mine crisis in the Gobi.  50 words.  The Beijing Olympics.  50 words.

My favourite headline in the paper was “when is New Year’s Eve?”  Question Mark.  There was a dispute between the elder monks in Mongolia about the date and time of the new lunar sighting to mark the start of the new year.  The Chinese were already going with late February early March, but some people, my friend Nara for example, disagreed.

“That’s not the correct date for the new year” she stated “it must be sooner”.

I checked with my diary where there it clearly stated that the new moon would appear again on 10 February.  Who needed monks to discuss?  I had the answer because it was written in my stationery.

Nara didn’t like this at all.

“Everything is so directive with you” she complained “you can’t timetable the moon.  How can you know that your printed book is real?  We have to wait for the monks”.  She didn’t finish her coffee, but poured it out as often she did when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Then we went to the market.  We both wanted to buy some meat and vegetables, but when we arrived one of the stalls had over a hundred small hand painted orange wooden stools for sale.  The ones you see in every ger and home in Mongolia and I wanted one for my own room.  They were standing there proudly like Ghengis Khan warriors only this time being sold for 5 dollars a piece.  Nara thought I was crazy to buy one, but I laughed and made the purchase and said we should stop for milky tea on our way home.  She liked that idea.  I knew she didn’t like the coffee.

As I was ordering the tea, Nara said “I think I’m going to Seattle”.

“When?”

“In the fall”.

And all my movements stopped.  I pretended to be happy for her and lied about my excitement about her visas, plans and ideas for her new life.  Her news, her moons, her wonder.  But all I could really think about was my life in Mongolia and about all the people coming and going and staying and leaving and how my Tuesday mornings, new years, moons and lives would be altered by her moving.  For a moment I longed for a fixed thing.  Something set in stone or stationery, something that I could rely on, trust or believe in.

We drank our tea.  She had waited 8 years for her visa to come through and I looked at my hand painted orange wooden stool and thought about my life without her.  I never learned to wait.  I always jumped again ahead of myself into other predicaments and never allowed new moons to show themselves and arrive when they felt the need.

I should have.