Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  “The many causes and effects that make up life are like ripples on the water. In a storm—that is, in the middle of a raucous City Council meeting—the waters are too agitated for any ripple to be discerned.

  “To see—and to understand—these fine ripples, the waters must calm, the surface must still. It is on the mirror of the placid lake that these fine ripples may be detected. Samadhi is the way to still the waters.

  “Anapanasati is the way not only to gain Samadhi, but to view and decode life’s many fine details.

  “The Buddha Gotama said that he or she who is concentrated sees things as they truly are. Anapanasati is the way to see things in the light of truth.

  “Anapanasati is the way to the deathless, to Nirvana.”

  Here Ruth fell quiet, and remained so for over a minute. Then she bowed gently to her audience, turned, and walked off stage.

  :

  As he listened, George Roth did his utmost to reconcile what he heard.

  There was no mistaking her words. And they, despite his professional aversion to the topic, made sense to him. He knew all about the Chicago City Council. He knew the shouting each other down across the conference room table. He also knew the stillness under starry sky when the entire committee seemed to have agreed to pull in the same direction, to see and find the same thing. For didn’t his very secret rest right there, in the unification of mind? In the amazing concentration that allowed him to spot that minute variation in pattern that spoke supernova.

  Yes, she made a lot of sense, this young Ruth Marten. So, how could she be public enemy number one, or something not too far from that if Phil Anderson, and the holy chain of command, was to be believed? This is what Agent Roth tried to reconcile.

  And things refused to fall into place. The pattern he had been looking for, the disturbances he had expected: the clear agitation that could seep into a group unseen, to then flower into baby violence and to then mature into a real threat if not checked, this pattern was nowhere to be found.

  He had assumed that this agitation would be noticeable to him, that he would find and gather proof of this young woman’s sedition if only he listened hard enough, perceived deeply enough, focused on this like he would focus by his telescope at night.

  He did perceive deeply enough, he was sure of it, but he saw no agitation, only a calm, receptive gratefulness among the audience.

  And speaking of reception, there were times he could have sworn that the young lady’s voice not only entered through his ears but through his mind, as if whispered from within, stunning the city council to absolute silence, stunning himself into goose bumps.

  He had done his homework. He knew her credentials. A prodigy if there ever was one, and one with strong Buddhist leanings. But don’t be fooled: she’s a prodigy bent on sedition, this is what Phil Anderson had stressed, and his marching orders were to gather the evidence, document something actionable, something that would allow them to step in and stop this potential avalanche before it started its rush down the mountain for real.

  But try as he might, Agent Roth could see nothing pernicious in her words, in what they evoked in him and in those around him. He could see nothing but good here. Even the voice that seemed to spring from within was not a threat to anything, it was as welcome as a kiss. A friendly whisper that spoke of possibilities he had not even conceived of yet, but which he nevertheless knew, just knew, were worthwhile to pursue.

  Yes, she had the audience spellbound. But that had more to do with the subject, and the obvious interest in it, than witchcraft (which, in effect, was what he had been ordered to ferret out and persecute).

  He let his reconciliation run its course, which it did. And in the end, the columns did add up.

  Phil Anderson, however, would not like the answer.

  :

  As the house lights rose the hall came alive with listeners again realizing where they were and then setting out to leave. Ananda, Melissa, Kristina, and Julian followed suit.

  Before they could join the slow—and surprisingly silent—river of audience drifting toward the exits, however, the very smiley student appeared again, tapped Melissa on the arm and said, “Would you come with me, please.”

  The four of them gladly turned and followed the young woman backstage, where they soon found themselves seated in a small, quite comfortable lounge along with Ruth, who was sipping spring water from a bottle.

  “What do you think, Ananda?” she said.

  “Well presented,” he said. “You had their ear.”

  “I’d say,” Kristina said, with a smile. “Eating. Out of your hand.”

  Julian nodded, agreeing. Melissa seemed non-committal, as if something weighed on her.

  “You don’t agree?” said Ruth to her mother.

  “It’s not that I don’t agree,” said Melissa. “But it’s all going so fast, again. I’m just worried that it might run away from us.”

  “We did agree,” began Ruth.

  “Yes, I know.” Said Melissa. “And I’m not contesting anything. Just a little worried, that’s all. A mother’s prerogative,” she added.

  “Have you settled on which book to recommend?” said Ananda.

  “Rosenberg’s Breath by Breath may be the most accessible,” she answered.

  “And there is Buddhadasa Bhikkhu’s Mindfulness with Breathing,” said Ananda.

  “And there is that,” agreed Ruth.

  “I like Rosenberg’s book,” said Kristina.

  “You’ve read it?” said Ruth, a little surprised. Then she checked herself, “Well, of course you have.”

  “I’m more than curious,” said Kristina.

  “I shall teach you,” said Ruth.

  When Julian moved to speak, Ruth said, “Oh, and you, too, Julian. I will teach you.”

  Julian smiled and nodded. Then said, “Is there anything to this FBI business?”

  Ananda and Ruth exchanged a brief glance. “Apparently,” said Ruth.

  “A little more than apparently,” said Ananda. “There is definite interest.”

  “Good or bad?” asked Julian, though he did know.

  “Never good, I don’t think. Not from those quarters,” said Ruth.

  “And you wonder why I worry,” said Melissa.

  :

  Julian and Kristina had shared a ride to USC, and after taking leave of Ruth, her mother, and her great-great uncle—as Kristina now thought of Ananda—they made their way across the vast parking lot to Julian’s new car (a Honda hybrid that he had insisted on driving, boys forever being boys when it came to their cars).

  Kristina and Ruth had remained close over the years, though of course not seeing each other as much once Ruth left Pasadena Polytechnic, and even less once she transferred from Cal Tech and Julian to USC.

  Of anyone, Kristina had probably suffered the most during the Federico Alvarez spectacle—vicariously agonizing over what she (rightly) perceived as a threat to Ruth’s mission.

  And of anyone, Kristina had probably been the happiest to see the adverse media attention move off and onto some other spectacle in due course.

  She was, if not a frequent guest, definitely not a stranger to the Marten household, and they talked occasionally over the phone as well. Kristina had been pleasantly surprised, and very happy, to receive the invitation to this USC lecture.

  They reached Julian’s shiny car and he clicked his remote to unlock the doors, then stepped around to open the passenger door for Kristina.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” she said.

  “My pleasure,” said Julian in the same mock-polite tone.

  Once out of the lot and on their way, Julian said, “It’s quite amazing that we know her.”

  “Remember, you have me to thank for that.”

  “Oh, I remember,” said Julian.

  “But I agree, it’s a little unreal, isn’t it?” said Kristina.

  Then neither said anything—each alone with their reflections—until they were through downtown and w
inding their way on the still too narrow 110 toward Pasadena, when Kristina said, “There really is something to this FBI business.”

  Whether a question or a statement, he wasn’t sure, still, Julian answered:

  “I believe so. The LA Times usually gets things right, and it seems very par for the course.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I believe that Ruth, and the stir she’s creating online with her lectures, is—unintentionally, I’m sure—treading on some toes.”

  “What kind of toes?”

  “The kind of toes that like to protect their bottom lines.”

  “What interests are threatened by seeing the truth?” said Kristina after a moment of silence.

  “Well, you tell me,” said Julian.

  Another silence yielded: “Pharmaceuticals. That’s who.”

  Julian nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  :: 113 :: (Los Angeles)

  Later that day, agent Roth—with a lump of something cold and hard in his stomach, for he did not look forward to this—knocked on Phil Anderson’s door. Hearing his boss on the phone, he waited a few quick breaths, and knocked again.

  His boss shouted a muffled “Yes” through the closed door. Roth entered. Anderson, standing, was still on the phone, listening with a pained grimace. He waved at Roth to sit down, which he did. The tightness in his stomach refused to yield, and he speculated—with good reason—that his boss was talking to his own superiors about the very thing Roth was there to discuss.

  “Of course,” said Anderson to the other end of the line. “Of course.”

  Then, “Okay. Yes. Okay.” And hung up. He looked at the re-cradled handset for several seconds as if to recall exactly where he had seen such a thing before. Then he shook his head, may even have shivered a little, sat down, and turned to Roth.

  “I need some good news.”

  “You mean bad news,” said Roth.

  “You know what I mean,” said Anderson.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So?”

  “Is she a public menace? A threat to the social order?”

  “Well, we know she is,” said his boss.

  Roth planted his mental feet firmly on the ground: “I must beg to differ.”

  “You what?”

  “Listen, Phil. She is not a threat to the public. Not in my opinion anyway.”

  Anderson drew breath to answer, but Roth rushed to fill the silence. “It’s true that she is a mesmerizing lecturer. No doubt about that. She had the audience at very rapt attention; all eyes and ears on her. You could hear the proverbial pin drop. But that does not make her a danger to society.”

  Anderson drew breath again, and this time Roth stayed silent.

  “That was Callahan on the phone,” his boss said. “A more furious than usual Callahan. And why was he furious this time? He was furious because he had just been chewed out by Washington, and apparently so it goes all the way to the top. And I mean the very top. It has been determined that the girl is a menace.”

  “A menace to whom?”

  “Are you in a position to ask that question, George?”

  “Well, Phil…”

  “Don’t you ‘Well, Phil’ me, George. I am not in a position to ask that question. The word is… No, let me rephrase that. Our marching orders are that the girl is a threat to the stability of our society. No,” and Anderson held up a hand, “I don’t know who, precisely, determined this but Callahan’s ass is apparently smarting from being chewed all afternoon.”

  “So, what you’re saying,” said Roth, “is that the Big Pharma lobby is all over Washington and shaking every tree it can find.”

  “Something like that,” agreed Anderson. “Callahan mentioned that the Pharma lobby seems to have doubled or tripled in size overnight, and they are indeed all over Washington clamoring for us to do something about this girl.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, it’s a federal problem.”

  “For Big Pharma.” It was not a question.

  “Listen George, we don’t have many options here. In fact, we don’t have any. This girl has to be stopped. Simple as that.”

  Roth did not know how to respond to that. He knew how the chain of command worked, the “It is not for us to question why” principle of the thing, but you had to draw the line somewhere. He had seen it with his own eyes, heard it with his own ears: the Marten girl was not a threat, quite the opposite. She was a source of calm. She should not be stopped. Especially not because Big Pharma sales are dipping as a result of her lectures.

  He shook his head, then shifted in his chair. “You know, Phil. This doesn’t sit right with me. We’ve had men on her for a couple of weeks now, around the clock. Nothing. There’s nothing there, Phil.”

  “That is not an option.”

  “But it’s the truth.”

  “I like you George. You’re a good man. You’re a good agent. But in this case you either toe the party line, or you’re off the case.”

  “The party line being?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you, George?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Find something to charge her with. Something that’ll hold up in court.”

  “There’s nothing there, Phil.”

  “Then make something.”

  “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

  “Probably.”

  “No, Phil. No way.”

  Phil Anderson looked at his agent for so long that Roth fleetingly wondered whether he had fallen asleep, his open, unblinking eyes notwithstanding.

  Finally, his boss spoke again: “You’re off the case.”

  “Phil.”

  Anderson shook his head now, then held up a hand. “You leave me zero options, George. You’re off the case.”

  Roth, perceiver of patterns extraordinaire, sensed the deeper and, to him, very ugly wrongness that his boss personified. The girl, well-intended and obviously sincere, a much needed positive in a negative world, posed a threat to corporate profit. That was the simply stated bottom line. And those who stood to lose would not permit that. Simple as that. And those who stood to lose also had the largest and most vicious army of lobbyists that money could buy. Now on a mission.

  He rose, nodded in the general direction of Anderson, and left the office.

  :

  Though he had known precisely what to do the moment Anderson presented him his ultimatum, Roth still wanted to think it over, he wanted to sense it through like he would sense his celestial patterns.

  Back at his desk (he was shaking a little, he noticed) he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His pulse was racing. He could hear his heart so well it might as well have moved up into his head. He tried to focus. Then tried again.

  He willed his heart back in place. Opened his eyes and took in the office. Tried again to focus, and this time succeeded: Ruth Marten’s speech. Her voice. Entering, certainly, through his ears. But—and this was his true focus—also evolving, blooming was the word that came to mind, up from within.

  Blooming up and out of internal silence. Had he imagined that? Re-listening and re-seeing, he paid scrupulous attention to those moments, those flowering moment, and there she was. Clearly in his ear, and as clearly, resonating with more than just voice, within. She spoke to him from within. He no longer doubted this, for he heard this with the same sense of feeling, of knowing, that he studied the night skies, with some faculty science has yet to pinpoint.

  He shuddered, then smiled to himself and straightened in his chair. He reached for and pulled his computer keyboard toward him. Then he opened up his office program and began composing his resignation letter.

  :

  “You’ve been invited to Germany,” said Ananda, looking up from his Mortimer screen.

  Ruth looked over at him. Melissa, in the doorway about to head for the kitchen, stopped and turned, interested as well.

  Ananda looked down again, and read from the r
eport, “The Humboldt University of Berlin has extended a formal invitation to the University of Southern California for famed USC lecturer Ruth Marten to address faculty, students and guests at the famous German university.”

  “Nobody has said anything about that,” said Ruth.

  “Germany,” said Melissa.

  “The invitation was extended today via telephone to your department at USC,” said Ananda, paraphrasing the report.

  “Would you want to go?” said Melissa.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Ruth. “What do you think, Ananda?”

  He didn’t much like travel these days, but could see no real objection to going, so he offered a noncommittal echo, “I don’t see why not.”

  :: 114 :: (Los Angeles)

  The following Monday saw an onslaught of press and television reports warning about the dangers of Ruth Marten’s seductive lectures.

  “Recently, the phenomenon of Miss Marten’s pop-philosophy has swelled from the quirkily amusing to the seductively dangerous,” began a leader in the Los Angeles Times, which had now apparently changed its editorial tune. The leader then went on to say, “The college student—these days, as always, precariously balanced between revolt against and soon-to-join the responsibilities of adulthood—seems an easy, and gullible target for Miss Marten’s groundless promises of universal peace.

  “This morning, the American Psychiatric Association issued a strongly worded warning against, as they put it, ‘this burgeoning Kool-Aid Phenomenon,’ referring to the Jonestown tragedy of 1978 where over 900 followers of Jim Jones literally drank his offered solution to all earthly problems and paid the ultimate price for doing so.

  “By now Miss Marten has seduced the ears and minds of thousands if not millions of young people, and it is now high time that those responsible for these students, be it parents, or teachers, or the authorities, realize the dangers facing perhaps a whole generation, and take decisive action against this well-planned and executed fraud.”

  Many other papers as well as television stations chimed in with similar messages in what appeared to be the well-coordinated and orchestrated effort it actually was.