Dinner with Buddha (33 page)

Tasha shook her head and a tear went sliding over one cheekbone. She squeezed my hand, once, and said, “Yiddish, Ila told me it was. They talk to each other in Yiddish, Dad! And Shelsa mostly understands. How weird is that!”

Forty-three

Yiddish.

Tash told me she'd agreed to meet Rinpoche and Shelsa for an hour of meditation and she asked if I wanted to join them and I said what I needed just then was some thinking time, not some nonthinking time, and she said she was glad I hadn't lost my sense of humor, and I said that would be the last thing to go, and I hugged her warmly and watched her walk off along the Vegas strip. I watched her, in fact, until she'd crossed the busy road and disappeared into a building on the other side, and then I headed off in the opposite direction and wandered aimlessly. Away from the main drag the city had a somewhat—and I emphasize this
somewhat—
more normal feel to it. There were shops selling things and offering services that ordinary people actually needed. There were ordinary-looking places to eat. One occasionally saw a small child.

After a while, walking and walking without any destination in mind, with the harsh afternoon light beginning to fade toward evening, I found myself tracing back over the route of my life. The North Dakota childhood with its wealth of open spaces and dearth of familial warmth; the sometimes confused, often happy liberation of college life; and then Jeannie: the first passion, our years of young love and semi-poverty in New York City, the start of real careers, her pregnancy, the risky decision to buy a house we couldn't afford and become suburbanites; the tremendous joy and amazing exertion of having young children. Then some financial security, travel, teenagers, meals, arguments, celebrations, a settled and marvelously satisfying family life with good kids, a good marriage, good health, good work. And then her illness and death and the general unraveling. I went over it and over it again, searching for some clue that would make any kind of lasting sense, some identifiable pattern that could guide me out of the strange realm into which I seemed to have stumbled. What, exactly, was the point of it all?

I thought about how much my life had changed since Rinpoche appeared in it. The things I did now that I never would have done before meeting him. The very different angle from which I looked at the world. The kinds of thoughts I held on to and the kinds of thoughts I dismissed. It seemed clear to me that, from almost the first week of our acquaintance, I'd let him have more influence over me and my family than any other single person or event in my fifty-two years. The fact was that I'd either been saved or brainwashed by a bald man in a gold-trimmed robe. My sister, my daughter, my son, and my precious niece—we'd either been saved or brainwashed.

But which was it? And how could a child understand a language she'd never heard and warm her body, outdoors, in a North Dakota winter, by meditating? And how could Seese and people like Joe John see the future and past—however imperfectly? And what caused the weird radiance around Ila Rinpoche? And was I a stream entrant or a man on the verge of insanity?

I walked and walked, back on the strip now, where the neon had not yet quite taken over from ordinary daylight. The gambling, the music, the shows, the food, the fun! Another kind of brainwashing, maybe, or maybe the real purpose of being alive: Enjoy what you could, while you could in the midst of this kettle of boiling pain. Don't be afraid of pleasure. Seize the day!

I was passing by the Venetian again and so, thinking of Jeannie and our Venice trip, I walked in and went along beneath a fake sky, past the fake canal with its pretend gondoliers. In a food court I decided, after a moment's indecision and with a twinge of guilt, to order a cappuccino and a chocolate-covered brownie, paying something like twelve dollars for the privilege. I carried my illicit little feast over to a plastic table and sat there alone. Took a sip. Had a bite, chewed, swallowed. The sugar left a sourish film on my tongue. I took another bite to get rid of it. Same result. In a posture of defeat I leaned against the back of the chair and looked around me at the glittering surfaces, the shine and polish, the crowds of tourists wandering, wandering, buying, looking, searching, it seemed to me, for some elusive lasting joy, the fulfillment of the promise this rich, rich nation had made to them. I sent Anthony a text: “How was practice today? What's the story with the Yanks this year?” I waited for several minutes. No answer. I looked down at the remains of the brownie, then abandoned it there, and went out into the last of the light and headed back along a side street I'd strolled an hour earlier. The old-fashioned, vintage, real American barber shop was still open, if barely, one of two barbers finishing up with the day's final customer, his colleague washing combs and razors and lining up bottles of cologne. “Am I too late?” I asked, and the second barber, African American, about my age and height, blessed with a gracious manner, simply gestured toward the empty chair then snapped open a clean sheet and swung it around under my chin with a practiced ease.

“What can we do for you tonight, my friend?” he asked, and it was like a song, his voice. He seemed gracious, generous, delighted to be alive. In his eyes I thought I saw something of what I'd seen in Ila Rinpoche's eyes, an odd mix of full attention and complete detachment, as if he were a great actor playing a beloved role. A barber in this life, king in another, female Rinpoche in a third. “What's your pleasure?” he asked.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a five count and said, “A shave, please.” And then, after one last moment of hesitation, “Not my face . . . my head.”

“That's the new look nowadays,” the man said delightedly, reaching for the electric clippers. “Lots of guys going for that look. Down to the skin, yes?”

“Exactly. Can you do that?”

“Not a problem,” he said. “Not a problem at all, my friend.”

And I watched him in the mirror as he set to work.

Acknowledgments

First thanks, as always, to my wife, Amanda, for her patience, advice, and support, and for loving the road as much as I do. Thanks to our wonderful daughters, who have made our three adventures with Otto and Rinpoche so much fun, and who've contributed valuable suggestions to the stories. My thanks to everyone at Algonquin Books for their efforts on my behalf.
Though I've never meant these novels as manuals on Buddhism, and though I've taken some liberties with the tenets of that faith, I do try to keep Rinpoche somewhere in the general territory of Buddhist thought, and my friend the Zen monk
Allyn Field has been helpful in that regard. Peter Sarno, who publishes my monthly newsletter and a number of my other books, has been a loyal friend and a continual inspiration. I'd also like to express my gratitude to people who help in less specific ways, simply by virtue of their ongoing friendship and encouragement. In no particular order: Craig Nova, Tim Murphy, Jessica Lipnack, Peter Howe, Bob Baker, Suzanne Strempek Shea, Tommy Shea, Frank Ward, Vivian Leskes, Arlo Kahn, Matthew Quick, Bill McGee, Neal Smith, Rob Phipps, Lianne Moccia, Peggy Moss, John Beebe, Cynthia Goodyear, Joe and Susan Merullo, Peter Grudin, Dana Wilson, David Weber, Bob Braile, Bob and Martha Patrick, Sarah Stearns, Tom Mottur and Jen Stearns, Anne and Gary Pardun, Joel Thomas-Adams, Jessica Patrick, Chiemi Karasawa, Ed Shanahan, Cecilia Galante, Davis Bates, Sally Mixsell, Tony Pelusi, Wick Sloane, Randy DeTrinis, Jan Hryniewicz, Renee Gold, Art and Pat Spencer, Steve and Theresa Merullo, Ken Merullo, Eileen Merullo, Gene and Terri Aucella, Joanie Pratt, Derek Campbell, Deborah Schifter, Dan Davies, Dean Crawford, John and Maria Recco, Mike Murphy, Rich and Sue Clarendon, Charlie Johnson, Bill Fields, Lee Hope Betcher, Meg Montagnino Jarrett, John DiNatale, Alex Gonzalez-Mir, Sterling Watson, Mary Remmel Wohlleb, Marty Wohl, Steve Weiner, Ed Desrochers, the late John Aucella, the late Peter Greer, the late Joe McGinniss, and the late Robert Stone. All of them offered a good word or more at various times in the writing of this book, and I remain grateful for that community of good will. 

ROLAND MERULLO is the author of a dozen novels, including
Breakfast with Buddha, Golfing with God, Lunch with Buddha,
and
The Vatican Waltz,
as well as several works of nonfiction. He lives with his wife and children in Massachusetts. His website is
www.rolandmerullo.com
. (Author photo by Amanda S. Merullo.)

Visit us at 
Algonquin.com
to step inside the world of Algonquin Books. You can discover our stellar books and authors on our newly revamped website that features

Book Excerpts
Downloadable Discussion Guides
Author Interviews
Original Author Essays
And More!

Follow us on 
twitter.com/AlgonquinBooks

Like us on 
facebook.com/AlgonquinBooks

Follow us on 
AlgonquinBooks.tumblr.com