Miss Buddha (53 page)

And the source of this miracle, well that
was the young girl with the black hair and blue eyes watching the
rising with what he deemed to be gentle, quiet amusement.

When he then was asked to sit on the expert
panel (their word, not his) commenting on the Clare Downes
interview with this very Miss Marten, he took that as a sign.
Something fundamental was going on, he felt the stirring. Up onto
the promenade deck.

And that is why he, after the storm around
her had settled down, found himself on the telephone with Ruth
Marten.

:

For the first time in years—he could in fact
not remember the last time this had happened to him; refreshing, is
what he thought—he found himself a little nervous. For this call
was of consequence, true consequence.

She came to the phone.

“This is Ruth,” she said.

“Miss Marten. This is Abbot White.”

“Yes?”

“
Do you know who I
am?”

“Yes, I do. I watched your commentary on my
interview.”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“What can I do for you Abbot?”

She did not seem to him friendly. She seemed
to him his equal. Her voice, though quite soft (like his own),
carried unmistakable authority.

“I should like to see you,” he said.

“Why?”

“I think I can be of help.”

“How can a Franciscan abbot be of help to a
young particle physicist?” she said. Still unfriendly, though
either amused or curious.

“I don’t think that’s the correct question,”
he answered.

“What would be the correct question?” she
said.

“How can a Franciscan abbot help a young
Buddha?” he said. “That would be the correct question.” And that
was apparently the right thing to say, for her voice donned a
friendlier note. And what it said was:

“I should like to see you, too.”

::
101:: (Pasadena)

Shortly after ten in the morning the
following day, the doorbell rang and Melissa went to answer it. And
there he was. A Catholic Ananda is how the old abbot struck
her.

“Come in, Abbot, please,” she said, holding
the door wide open.

“Timothy, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay, Timothy. Melissa,” she said, and held
out her hand.

“Melissa.”

She led him through to the living room where
Ruth and Ananda were waiting, both standing. The abbot introduced
himself two more times, insisting on “Timothy” all the way. Ruth
and Ananda reciprocated.

Melissa had tea and some fruit ready to go
and dashed off to the kitchen to fetch it. She returned to a quiet
living room, apparently waiting for her.

“Did an angel just cross the room?” she
asked.

The abbot laughed at that, quite
unexpectedly. “Oh,” he said. “Funny you should say that. My mother
used to say that whenever silence fell upon us, which was rare to
be sure.”

Ananda smiled, too. As did Ruth, who then
added, “I think she just returned, bearing tea.”

And so, what little ice there was found
itself broken.

“I have a confession to make,” said the
Abbot.

No one said anything, but the listening was
almost palpable.

The Abbot took another sip of the green tea,
then regarded the cup for quite a silent while. Then said, “I have
been a Catholic all my life, and a Franciscan for most of it, for
near enough sixty years. All, yes I think I can say that, all to
regain the clarity I experienced as a four-year-old boy in the
middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Yes,” he continued, “I have done much good,
and I have helped many. I have lived in the conviction that my path
has been the correct one, and that if only I could walk it with
more sincerity, more truly, more deeply, then I would finally enter
into light.”

He paused here and helped himself to some
more tea. Then he recounted his horizon experience on the deck of
the Mauretania, leaving his young Ireland for the unknown
America.

“I knew God then,” he said to end the story.
Then he said it again.

The he looked directly at Ruth. “Am I
incorrect in assuming that you, in fact, did raise that chair? That
you performed that miracle?”

“Not a bit,” said Ruth.

“I thought not,” said the Abbot. Then, after
another brief silence, looking down at his hands and then back at
Ruth, he asked, “Do you know the way back to God?”

“Your God?” said Ruth.

“Is there more than one?” said the
Abbot.

“No,” said Ruth.

“Is there a way back?” said the Abbot.

“I know the way back to the stillness you
described,” said Ruth. “If that is what you mean by God.”

“That is what I mean by God,” he
replied.

What struck Melissa the most and deepest
about this exchange was that her sixteen-year-old daughter and the
ancient—and he was truly ancient—abbot treated each other as equals
in every respect, age included. Truth be told, she had a hard time
trusting her perception, but then she reminded herself, again, who
her daughter was and that took the edge of the wonder. But it
remained a wonder.

“You are who you say you are?” said the
Abbot.

“Who do I say I am?” said Ruth.

“The Tathagata,” said the Abbot.

Melissa saw Ananda’s eyes startle, then fix
upon the Abbot. And it was in fact Ananda who spoken next, “the
Tathagata?”

The Abbot turned to him, “Yes.”

Ananda turned to Ruth, who smiled in turn.
“Yes, Timothy. I am Tathagata. Sooner back than planned.”

The Abbot nodded. Then said, “Pardon me for
saying so, but I think—and don’t take me wrong, I know you had your
reasons—but it seems to me that you’ve made a bit of a mess of
it.”

“My thoughts, precisely,” said Ananda.

“How so?” said Ruth.

“You are the Buddha, back here for a
reason,” said the Abbot.

“Yes,” said Ruth.

“Miracles have their places,” said the
Abbot. “That was not one of them.”

“It was not meant as a miracle,” said Ruth.
“I just got unforgivably annoyed with the man, and wanted to put
him in his place.”

“And so you did,” said the Abbot. “He hasn’t
been heard from since.”

“Actually,” said Ruth. “He called the other
day.”

“He did?”

“To apologize.”

“For what?” The Abbot sincerely curious.

“For doubting me, is what he said.”

“Seriously?”

“Indeed.”

“Well,” said the Abbot. “Wonders seem to
never cease.”

“It was a bit of a surprise,” agreed
Ruth.

“Still, what you did created more agitation
than clarity. It was not, well, to speak your tongue, it was not
very skillful.”

“Well put. And you are absolutely right. It
was a very stupid thing to do. Really stupid.”

Ananda nodded his agreement. Ruth turned to
him, and watched the slowly bobbing head for a breath or two.
“Nobody’s asked you,” she said, though more in jest than
anything.

Then the Abbot asked, “Can I be of
help?”

“To be honest,” said Ruth.
“I don’t know. I
have
made a mess of things, that’s obvious. Even though the media
have accepted the official account, the Fairweather
explanation—which is probably for the best, of course—still, I have
managed to muddy my waters. And as time will blur memory and erase
details, I fear people will remember me not as innocent bystander
but simply as murky part of that scandal.”

The Abbot considered that. “Yes,” he said.
“I can see that.”

“And I think very few if any will take my
intimation about being the Buddha seriously. Perhaps that too was a
part of the hoax. I don’t know what they will think, but the waters
are muddied. Definitely.”

“Yes, they are,” he answered.

“I had hoped to stand on an elevated but
wholly credible platform—which is how I saw the successful EPROM
experiment—and speak from there. My voice would then carry, and
people would hear it and take it seriously. Now I fear that this
window of opportunity has not only passed, but that it now lies in
a thousand pieces.”

“Apt,” said Ananda.

The Abbot nodded, “Yes, apt.”

“So,” said Ruth. “How can you help? I don’t
know. But I’m wide open to suggestions. In other words, what do I
do now?”

Another angel entered, lingered, then left
the room. Finally, the Abbot spoke:

“It is a matters of credentials, then? Your
approach. Of respectable, believable credentials?”

“Yes,” said Ruth.

“Why did you choose this way? As opposed, I
guess, to being yourself?”

“The Buddha Gotama?”

“Yes.”

“A tree told me,” said Ruth.

“I don’t follow.”

And so Ruth told the Abbot about the old
Bristlecone.

The Abbot, a little puzzled at first, then
began to nod. He understood. And then, once Ruth had finished the
story, said, “Good advice.”

“I thought so.”

“Science.” said the Abbot.

“And religion,” said Ruth. “I want to marry
them.”

The Abbot was weighing his word-options,
that is how it struck Melissa. Then he said:

“So it is with authority that you want to
address the world.”

“Yes, from strength. With the authority of
science,” said Ruth.

“You’ve certainly gained scientific
recognition,” said the Abbot. “Perhaps you now need to gain
religious recognition.”

“What do you mean?” said Melissa.

The Abbot set out to summarize, as much for
himself as for others. Again, this was Melissa’s impression. “I
think we have to face the fact that few will take a
sixteen-year-old girl seriously, especially on matters of life and
death, the essential matters. Most sixteen-year-olds are still in
high school, trying to find their own feet, and have no business
instructing others about theirs. That would be the general
consensus.”

“Yes,” said Ruth. “I agree.”

“You are, and remain, a recognized genius in
scientific circles, I don’t think the Alvarez incident has
tarnished you in this respect. And your plan was to widen that
recognition, then build on that, on those credentials, to make your
voice not only heard—not an easy thing these days—but
believed.”

Ruth was nodding, yes, that had been her
plan.

“In view of what has happened, I fear as you
do that those credentials will no longer hold up for the man on the
street. You will not be heard.”

And now looking straight at Ruth again, he
added, “At this point you have no place to stand, do you?”

“That sums it up nicely,” said Ruth.

“You mentioned religious recognition.” said
Melissa.

The Abbot may or may not have heard this,
but looked at Melissa as he continued:

“She must not give up,” he said. “She is too
important.”

Then looking back at Ruth: “You are a light,
Miss Marten. You must not give up.”

“I’m not about to,” said Ruth.

“You must be recognized,” he added, as if
Ruth had not spoken.

“How?” said Ruth and Ananda both, and with a
voice so single that they all laughed.

Then the Abbot asked, “Who can recognize you
for who you are?”

“Ananda does. Melissa and Julian do.”

“No, I mean broadly. Religiously. Who can
provide you a platform? Who, in the Buddhist world can recognize,
and vouch for you?”

“I
see
,” said Melissa, and
did.

“That’s a thought,” said Ananda.

“Who is the most prominent Buddhist in the
world, today? And would he, or she, recognize you for who you are?”
asked the Abbot.

“The Dalai Lama would have recognized me,”
said Ruth. “But, as you know, he recently passed.”

“And they have yet to find the next,” said
the Abbot.

“Still looking,” confirmed Ananda.

“Who else?” said the Abbot.

“There is someone at the Mahavihara
Monastery in Sri Lanka,” said Ruth.

The Abbot looked from Ruth to Ananda to
Ruth. “How do you know?” he said. Then quickly added, “Sorry. I
didn’t mean.”

“A feeling,” said Ruth. Not unkindly.

“Who?” said Ananda.

“Bhante is his name,” said Ruth. “The
Venerable Bhante Mahathera. He doesn’t know me yet, but I know that
he will recognize me were we to meet.”

“Do you think he can shore up your
platform?” said the Abbot.

“Perhaps,” said Ruth. “Yes, perhaps he can.”
Then said, “Do you want to come?”

“Come where?”

“To Sri Lanka,” said Ruth.

“Oh, I see. No, I’m afraid I couldn’t do
that. Too much to see to here in Los Angeles, still. You’d think
I’d be out on the scrap heap by now, but still they come to me for
far too many things. But,” he added, then paused. “If I may make a
suggestion.”

“Sure.”

“Perhaps it would help your cause to invite
that reporter along?”

“Clare Downes?” said Melissa, feeling sure
that’s who he meant.

“Yes, that who I mean,” said the Abbot.

“That’s an idea,” said Melissa. Both Ananda
and Ruth agreed.

:

Clare Downes saw there was a story in the
trip and encountered only token resistance from her producer who,
while she felt a little uneasy about letting her star reporter out
of her sight for a full week, soon could see the story as well.
Yes, time and money well spent. Documenting international Buddhist
acceptance of Ruth as the Buddha. Yes, quite a story indeed.

And yes, of course she could bring Lars.

And yes, finally, the station would pay for
all of them.

::
102 :: (Sri Lanka)

The temperature at Bandaranaike International
Airport in Colombo put the unseasonably warm Los Angeles they had
left behind to shame. And the humidity, my Lord. Clare asked Lars
if the equipment would actually work okay here. He sniffed the air,
as if testing it for something, and nodded, “Sure. Not quite under
water yet.”