Miss Buddha (43 page)

And that’s what he liked, the hero part.
Worth a lot of cuts and bruises, the hero business.

Until one day when a kid
from Queens pulled a knife in the middle of a fight and all but cut
his right little finger off. His mom threw a fit (but only after
ascertaining that everything that could be done to rescue the
finger had been done, and successfully at that). His dad echoed her
sentiments, and he was made to swear—No, Federico,
really
swear—to stop
fighting.

He swore, and he kept his promise. He never
again fought—physically.

The truth is that he kept fighting, only the
venue had changed.

And that is how he got into broadcasting.
For he was both intelligent (though not scholarly so, Ivy Leagues
were not lining up scholarships or anything) and tenacious, and
after securing an office-boy job at one of the New York radio
stations—in a wild display of true talent for the job—he broke
through when, with the help of neighborhood connections (for he had
already at this time built up a strong credit side in the favors
ledger) he managed to obtain an interview with a rape victim that
no one else at the station, or any other station for that matter,
whether radio or television, could reach.

Hero again. And he liked it. No, loved it.
Lived for it. True calling.

To the credit of the owner of the station,
he did not wait for an opening, he simply created the job of
“Investigative Reporter” and gave it to Federico, who grabbed it,
ran with it, and shone.

And kept shining.

In 2010 he received an offer from television
station WNYW which he simply could not turn down. Out of loyalty,
he did check with his boss to see what he thought, and the old man
could not but agree, he had to make the move.

He worked at WNYW for nearly ten years
before moving out to Los Angeles where his now wife had grown up
and to where she wanted to return. KCAA jumped the fastest and
highest to secure his services and he has been their star reporter
ever since.

To be honest, perhaps his coverage over the
years has veered a little toward the sensational—some would even
say toward the tabloid, but to be frank Federico Alvarez does not
give a damn. His ratings continue to blow the competition out of
the water and so the figures on his paychecks (which his
street-wise contract negotiations tied to his ratings) keep
growing. Laughing all the way to the bank, as they say. Twice a
month.

And now, by wits and guts and by tapping his
store of favors owed, he had landed what he considered the
interview of the century and was busy preparing.

::
92 :: (Burbank)

Federico was reading Ruth Marten’s paper for
a fourth time; or was it a fifth, or a sixth time?, he had lost
count. He made yet another note in the margin, joining the score or
so already there, climbing up and down the margins in his careless
hand. He circled another point, underlined something else, checked
back to the beginning of the paper, read the opening paragraphs
again: “Nothing exists but life. Before the beginning there was
life. Or, perhaps better put, there was a stillness, a spaceless
and timeless nothing which nonetheless held the potential of
life.”

Before the beginning there was life. It
tasted of Bible. Not that he was particularly religious, but he
didn’t like it. Pretentious, is what he thought.

He put the paper down on the small desk
beside him, then leaned back into his leather armchair, his head
swirling a little with the magnitude of what the girl was
proposing.

Or
appeared
to propose.

For he could see it no other way: It was
fake. It had to be. A huge and elaborately disguised hoax, for no
matter how scientifically proven and ostensibly verified, it reeked
of the utterly impossible. And then to end things up by claiming,
which was what the girl was doing—wasn’t it?, that she is the
Buddha, or a Buddha, whichever.

The general media reaction was split just
about fifty-fifty.

Some papers reported the
paper and its subject as the “miracle experiment,” which was the
phrase used by quite a few stations as well. Others reported it as
one of the world’s most elaborate (and expensive) hoaxes, sharing
his view that this, this mystical mumbo jumbo, well, it
simply
could
not
be true. Nor could the girl be anything like a Buddha. Of course
not. Preposterous. The audacity.

Some of the smaller, and more radical
mid-west and southern stations saw the Buddha inference as quite
apt. The Buddha, after all, was nothing but an idol worshipped by a
bunch of heathens, and since the paper was nothing but lies, the
liar herself—they claimed—only confirmed it by this wild Buddha
innuendo.

He thought briefly of getting up and fixing
himself a drink, then thought better of it. It was too late, and he
needed to rise early, with a clear head. There remained many
strings to pull and he only had two more days to prepare. The
interview—which was to be live, the girl had insisted on that (and
this was just fine with him, thank you very much)—was scheduled for
eight o’clock Saturday night. KCAA had scrambled to rearrange the
programming to accommodate him and were now, even as he sat there,
he’d venture to guess, promoting the upcoming interview
(exclusively on KCAA here in Los Angeles, of course) every
commercial break.

He had two days to prove
the hoax, and all he had to go on was his guts, though they were
not entirely well-mustered behind him. Faint stirrings of
what ifs
refused to toe
the line.

Well, damn it. He reached for the paper and
continued to read, pen at the ready.

:

Apparently, one of Federico’s debtors knew
someone who knew someone who knew someone whose friend knew
Melissa’s mother Sylvia quite well, and that friend had convinced
Sylvia that Ruth Marten would benefit both financially and PR-wise
if she granted KCAA the first (exclusive) interview, and did not
give any other interviews before then.

Sylvia, not quite sure what to make of
Ruth’s paper—she had known the girl since she was a baby for
heaven’s sake, and to write such things—was nevertheless happy to
be of help by bringing such good tidings (the amount offered Ruth
for the interview was considerable), convincing Melissa that Ruth
simply must do this.

Melissa in turn convinced Ruth (if not
Ananda, but he felt he had to go along), then called her mother
back: “Yes, she’ll do it.”

And that is how Federico landed his
interview.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with this,”
said Ananda.

“For one,” said Melissa, setting out to
count on her fingers. “We need the money.”

Ruth looked from one to the other. She could
see it both ways. Ananda had a point, Federico Alvarez was neither
scientifically nor religiously oriented, but he had a fantastic
following and he had promised a wholly unbiased, informative
interview. And a handy sum to go along with that. And yes, they did
need the money.

“For two,” Melissa continued. “The man’s the
best-known television reporter in the country. Mom tells me they
will broadcast the interview not only in Los Angeles, but KCAA will
also provide a feed to every interested station in the
country—except local competitors, of course.”

“He’s a sensationalist, and I don’t trust
him,” said Ananda. “He’ll do anything for ratings, and I don’t
think he’ll give us an unbiased interview.”

“He said he would,” said Melissa.

“I know he did.”

“What can he do?” she said. “It’s not like
he can challenge the results of the experiment.”

“Oh, I’m sure he can. Others do.” Then
added, “I’m sure he will.”

“Well, I’m sure he won’t,” said Melissa.

They did not always see eye to eye on
matters, Ananda and Melissa, but they were always civil about that,
and their at times disparate views had never caused any bad blood
between them. They each acknowledged the other’s right to an
opinion and viewpoint, and were quite comfortable with that. This
held true now as well.

“I’ve done a quick survey of his career,”
said Ananda. “And lately, he’s made a living out of exposés, and
some of them quite brutal, in my opinion.”

“Ananda has a point,” said Ruth.

“What would you suggest, daughter of mine?”
Melissa asked her.

“You have a point, too,” she attempted,
diplomatically.

“I know I do.”

“What if he tries to ‘expose’ you?” said
Ananda, surrounding the word expose with fingered quotes.

“I’d like to see him try,” said Ruth.

“He promised an unbiased interview,”
repeated Melissa.

“Well,” said Ananda, “I still don’t trust
him. I think you need to be on your guard,” addressing Ruth.

“Always,” said Ruth.

:

To squeeze as large an audience as possible
into Studio C—the largest one on the lot—KCAA had removed ten
back-rows of seating to make standing room, which could accommodate
about four times as many as the number of seats. The remaining
seats were not as easily removable and were left in place. Even so,
they had to turn away what one reporter estimated to be at least
four thousand people. To say that the the producer was ecstatic
would be an understatement. Chances were they would break viewer
records with this. Virtually every independent station in the
country had subscribed to the feed, and even quite a few networks
affiliates (which they no doubt would catch hell for when
discovered by their respective mother ships).

Federico, still being worked on by make-up,
was silently rehearsing his line of questioning while watching Lela
put the final touches to his appearance. She was truly an artist:
he looked if not half his age, perhaps at least part-way there.
Lela could shave ten years with her magic. He nodded in approval at
his mirror-image—which nodded right back, but with a bit of a
frown.

“You okay?” said Lela.

“Fine. Yes. Fine.”

And he was. Just fine. He
knew where to go with this. The only cloudiness was the
strange
what if
that did not want to leave (and that seemed to frown at him):
what if the experiment and the paper were not fakes? But of course
they were, the whole deal: a setup. And he knew just how to get
this young lady to spill those very valuable beans on his show,
prime time, live and, for all intents and purposes, nationwide. It
was to be quite a night. His crowning achievement? Well, he didn’t
even want to
think
that, so as not to jinx it, but perhaps.

Someone just outside the make-up door was
shouting “Ten minutes” and louder than she had to. Lela stepped
back and took a final look at him in the mirror, pleased with
herself. “You’re done,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Good job. As
always.”

Two chairs. A small steel and glass-top
table between them. A crystal water carafe and two nice crystal
glasses on bamboo coasters. Nice touch.

As always, he sat down in the chair to the
right from the audience’s perspective. One of the sound guys
appeared behind him, and began to gear him up with the microphone
and earpiece.

He heard “Five minutes” from somewhere, and
here—guided by the producer—she came: the Ruth Marten.

A stunning Ruth Marten.

He hadn’t noticed this from her photos, but
those were some of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, framed by some
of the blackest hair he’d ever seen. Incongruous was the word. Or
contradictory.

A stunning combination, three others.

He rose and extended his hand, which she
took and shook. Nice dry hand, firm shake. She should be nervous,
but apparently was not.

“Mr. Alvarez,” she said.

“Oh, please. Federico.”

“Federico,” she said. She let go of his hand
and turned toward the audience, shielding her eyes against the
glare with her hand. You could hear the audience well enough, a
murmur, a rustle, a forest in the wind—picking up now that Ruth was
on stage—but it was hard to make out, except for the first few
rows.

He wanted to say something else, something
to give the impression of wanting to put her at ease, something
like, just pretend that we’re having a conversation in your living
room, but there seemed no need, or more correctly: no space, for
that. Instead he sat down again and let the soundman complete his
task. Another sound guy was adjusting Ruth’s microphone (which had
been fitted backstage) and tested for sound. Then he looked over to
the producer and gave a thumbs-up.

Someone said “Three
minutes,” and the murmur of audience-forest gathered even more. So
much, in fact, that one of the producer’s assistants,
crowd-control
was the
nickname, ran up and started to flash “Silence Please” on the
overhead electronic banner, which almost instantly had the desired
(and somewhat frightening) effect: the place grew
dead-quiet.

“Two minutes,” this over the monitors, and
was the producer’s voice.

“You ready?” he asked Ruth Marten.

“Of course,” she said.

“They’ve explained to you about the
commercial breaks?”

“Yes.”

“Comfortable?”

“Sure.”

“This is live, you know that?” There had to
be some way of rattling her, at least a little.

“Yes. That was the deal.”

Granted, the makeup would hide any sweat,
but after twenty some years he could tell when someone was flushing
under the makeup, and Ruth Marten was not.

The audience as forest was very much there,
you could tell—that many warm bodies and eager attentions could not
help forming a tangible presence—but made no sound.