Miss Buddha (27 page)

The children looked a
little uneasy, and uneasier still once they spotted a
teacher
in their
midst.

The hostess did her best to engage and jolly
the place up, but things felt a little strained, and Ruth, that
mysterious child, seemed aware of that and a little at loss as to
how to behave.

She spoke to the children, inviting them to
come along, she had something to show them, apparently. Two
accepted, but the third moved closer to her mother, and shook her
head. A few minutes later Ruth was back, the pair in tow, no less
uncertain for whatever Ruth had shown them.

A party, Kristina decided, that tried so
hard to be one, but didn’t know how to.

Melissa, apparently reaching the same
conclusion after a while, fell back on protocol: “Cake,” she
announced cheerfully, and disappeared into the kitchen, soon to
return with a gorgeous cake with ten burning candles. Someone other
than Melissa started the song, and Kristina joined in, “Happy
birthday to you, happy birthday dear Ru-uth, happy birthday to
you.”

One deep breath and precise exhalation
later, and the ten candles painted ten thin streaks of smoke into
the air. “A wish,” someone said. “Yes, a wish,” someone else
agreed. Ruth, obliging, closed her eyes and apparently wished for
something.

Presents were opened and thanks were given.
The dour man (Ruth’s father, Kristina decided), left for just a
moment, then returned with a very large package, beautifully
wrapped.

“Here you go, honey,” he said. “Happy
birthday.” His lawyer friend (wife?) smiled and echoed the happy
birthday.

Ruth did not rip the paper from the large
present in expected frenzy, but somewhat expertly removed it, to
expose the bicycle box. “A bicycle,” she said. “Thanks,
Charles.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” said Charles’s wife
(Kristina had spotted the rings). “I hope you like it,” said her
husband.

“I do,” said Ruth. “I will.”

More cake was served. Soda paper cups were
refilled. And then the mothers and the baby sitter realized what
time it was and with best of wishes and thanks (and you’re
welcomes) drifted out of the house and away.

The father and his wife also looked at their
watches and decided things were over. Ruth was very polite to this
couple, and thanked them again, assuring them that she would “get
good use” of their present. Just the thing she would say.

And then only Kristina, the “uncle” Ananda,
Melissa and Ruth remained. Melissa, discovering that Kristina had
not left, seemed a little unsure as to why. Ruth seemed quite happy
about it though, and Ananda smiled to himself.

“Mrs. Medina,” said Melissa. But didn’t add,
“You’re still here.”

“I brought you something else,” said
Kristina to Ruth, retrieved it from her handbag, and then held it
out for Ruth to take.

“A Mortimer,” said Ruth, more impressed than
surprised as she accepted the gift.

“Oh, my,” said Melissa. “These things are a
fortune.”

“Not for teachers,” said Kristina, which was
only partially true. Even with a generous educational discount, the
Mortimer did not come cheap. And neither should it. Introduced in
2015 and perfected within the next two years, it was the first
holographic, hand-held (it was hardly larger than paperback book)
encyclopedic research tool the world had ever seen. Its content
beautifully researched and presented (as well as constantly and
automatically updated), the Mortimer soon became standard equipment
for any serious student in just about any field, at least for those
who could afford it.

“A Mortimer,” Ruth repeated.

Even her uncle stood up to get a closer
look. “A Mark III,” he said. Also impressed.

“He has one,” Ruth explained to
Kristina.

“A Mark I,” he said, almost
apologetically.

“There is no way,” began Melissa, but a
little too late. Kristina had already handed it to Ruth, who showed
no signs of letting go, severing all strings. No going back on
this.

“You shouldn’t have,” Melissa said
again.

“A present to match the student,” said
Kristina.

When Melissa didn’t seem to understand,
Kristina said, “Do you have a moment?”

When Melissa didn’t understand, Kristina
added, “Just a brief word.”

“Sure,” and smiled and gave Kristina her
full attention. But she made no sign of moving, so Kristina
said:

“Somewhere private?”

“Oh, sure,” now realizing the extent of the
original request. “Of course.”

Kristina followed her host into the Kitchen,
where Melissa cleared the table sufficiently for them to sit down
by it. “Coffee?” she asked.

“That would be nice,” said Kristina.

It had started to rain outside. Not heavily,
but hard enough that, here in the stillness of the kitchen, she
noticed the soft drumming on the roof.

“Have you lived here long?” she asked.

Melissa, by the stove, arranging the coffee,
turned to face her. “Yes. From before Ruth was born.”

“It’s a lovely house.”

“That it is. A bit big for us though.”

Then silence returned, a thousand rain drums
in tow. Melissa brought two white coffee mugs down from a cupboard,
then poured fresh coffee. “Milk? Sugar?” she asked.

Kristina shook her head. “No, thanks. This
is fine.” Nodding at her cup.

Melissa sat down and looked right at
Kristina. “What do you want to talk about?” She said. Then added,
“Ruth, I gather.”

“Yes.”

“Everything’s fine, I hope.”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

Melissa sat quietly, waiting for more.
Sipped her coffee.

“Do you tutor her in any subjects?” Kristina
asked after considering for a while how best to put things. It
wasn’t really what she wanted to ask, but at least it was headed in
the right direction.

“What do you mean?”

“Reading? Writing? History?”

Melissa tensed ever so slightly, all alert
now, though still smiling.

“History?”

“Yes. Or religion.”

“No,” said Melissa. “No, we don’t.”

When Kristina, rather than speaking watched
the steam curl and rise from the coffee-surface, Melissa said, “Why
do you ask?” The obvious question.

There was, however, no obvious, or easy
answer. It was a feeling, a notion, but she was good at notions,
and from years of experience had learned to trust them. But how to
put it?

Well, she might as well just say it. “She
knows more about Giordano Bruno than I do.”

:

Their conversation had started innocently
enough. Just before the holiday break, Kristina had given her
children an impromptu history lecture on Rome, brought about by a
stray question concerning the pope and where he lived, and what was
his job anyway?

The little lecture included a snapshot of
ancient Rome, Christianity, and the centuries between then and now.
There had been many popes, she told them, all with names ending in
roman numerals. This surprised some of the children, who for some
reason thought there had ever been just the one. And all through
this, her precocious self, Ruth had sat very still, eyes clear and
steady fixed on her teacher, nodding now and then as if in
agreement.

Kristina again had the little terrifying
notion that this child knew more about what she was teaching then
Kristina did. As if she approved of what she was hearing, ratifying
veracity.

Then, better than halfway up the centuries,
Ruth raised her hand.

“Yes, Ruth.”

“Did they burn people?”

“Burn people?”

Most of the class seemed unsure of what
precisely had been asked, and some, clearly, had a problem
reconciling fire and people.

“Yes,” said Ruth.

“They don’t burn people,” said Agnes, a
little offended it seemed.

“Sure they do,” said Ruth.

“It has happened,” said Kristina as
diplomatically as possible.

“No way,” said Agnes.

Ruth was about to say something, but
Kristina shook her head at her, and Ruth said nothing.

“Why would they burn people?” asked
Thomas.

“When they disagree with them,” said
Ruth.

“What?” said Thomas.

“What?” said Kristina.

“They call them heretics,” said Ruth.

What could she do? The child was absolutely
right. They did call them heretics, and they did burn them. But how
on earth would she know?

“Yes,” she said to the whole class. “Yes,
they sometimes burned those that disagreed, at the stake. And yes,
they called them heretics.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Agnes, still
offended at the thought.

“Wow,” said Thomas.

Kristina quickly drew her little discourse
to a close, and managed to arrive at the present, with its current
pope, just before the bell.

As the class filed out, Kristina asked Ruth
to stay.

She did. When they were alone in the room,
Kristina, by the way of a feeler said, “You must read a lot.”

“Some,” agreed Ruth. Meant, Kristina was
almost certain, as an understatement.

“Heretics?” she said.

“And saints,” said Ruth.

“This,” how was she going to put this? “This
interests you?”

“I find it fascinating,” said the child.

“What? Anything in particular?”

“Bruno,” she said.

“Bruno?”

“Giordano Bruno. He was a good man. They
burned him anyway.”

Kristina had heard of him, of course, but
not in any great detail. “Giordano Bruno?”

“They kept him in the Nona
Tower for years and years. Then they dragged him on top of a donkey
to
Campo dei Fiori, and set a match to him.
Well, not a match, they didn’t have matches then.”

Kristina was too stunned to reply for the
better part of a minute. And not once did the child blink.

Later that evening, Kristina looked him up
on her Mortimer: Giordano Bruno. And yes, indeed, he had been kept
in the Nona Tower for “years and years” as Ruth had put it, and
yes, indeed, they had finally dragged him to the Campo dei Fiori on
top of an ass, and set him alight.

Kristina had put her Mortimer aside in a
wonder bordering on chill.

:

“Bruno?” said Melissa.

“You’ve heard of him,” suggested
Kristina.

“She has mentioned him.”

“Ruth has?”

“Yes.” Then Melissa added, “She reads a
lot.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Yes,” Melissa confirmed, partially to
herself, “she reads a lot.”

“Where did she find this? In which book?
History? Religion?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Melissa.

“Could we ask her?”

And here, again, Melissa Marten seemed to
tense up, as if veering too closely to some internal precipice.
Finally, “Sure. Why not.”

“I don’t remember,” said Ruth looking from
Kristina to her mother and back to Kristina.

“She doesn’t remember,” said Melissa, as if
translating.

“Big book or small book? Online,
perhaps?”

“She doesn’t use the computers much.”

“I don’t remember,” said Ruth with such
finality that Kristina decided not to pursue it. Instead, she said
to Melissa, watching the back of Ruth recede into the hallway,
“She’s a very precocious child.”

“I know,” said Melissa.

“Have you had her tested?”

“Tested for what?”

“IQ, aptitude. I’d wager she’d score
well.”

“I’d wager the same,” said Melissa.

“So, you haven’t?”

“No.”

“Would you consider it?”

Melissa took another sip, and considered the
cup for a while, then her hands, then the rain outside. “Why?” she
finally said.

“I have taught children her age for many
years, Mrs. Marten, and I have never come across anyone like
her.”

“Melissa
, please,” said
Melissa.

“Thank you, of course. And please call me
Kristina.”

Melissa nodded and smiled softly. Then asked
again, “But why have her tested? What difference would it
make?”

“I think she might be a
prodigy. I really do.
Bright
does not even begin to describe her. The word,
actually, that comes to my mind more often than not is
ancient
,” said
Kristina.

Again, Melissa seemed to teeter on some
brink.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t see the
point.”

“It’s just a thought,” said Kristina. “A
suggestion. Nothing more.”

Melissa nodded again, yes, yes, she could
see that, and appreciated it, don’t get her wrong.

Then she said, “Thanks so much for the
Mortimer. You really shouldn’t have.”

“A gift to match the student.”

“Ananda has one. Well, Ruth told you
that.”

“Yes.”

“She loves it, I can tell.”

Kristina nodded. Running out of things to
say. Still seeing Melissa Marten on some sort of wire, performing a
balance. Just a notion, but she was good at notions.

::
64 :: (Pasadena)

Melissa closed the door after Kristina
Medina. She had offered to lend her an umbrella to see her dry to
her car, but Ruth’s teacher had declined. What’s a little rain? The
last she saw of her was the colorful skirt (or was it skirts,
Melissa wasn’t sure) ripple in the little winds and the brightly
colored shawl flutter through the rain down the street. She didn’t
look back. Melissa wondered fleetingly how old the woman was.

She found Ananda and Ruth comparing
Mortimers in the living room; observed them not noticing her for a
while. Try this, said Ananda, and Ruth did. And try that. She did.
Ananda impressed, even a little jealous, perhaps.

Melissa sat down, still teetering a little,
still a little unsure how much of a leak their secret had sprung,
if any.