The Soloist (24 page)

My problem was that I knew I could never really see her as a companion. I felt like a prude for thinking in such grand terms, but I couldn’t help it. If I had felt that there was even a remote chance of our having a long-term relationship, it would have satisfied my conscience—but there was no chance at all. I was not going to become seriously involved
with a twice-married woman with a daughter in military school who liked music I couldn’t stand. Although I enjoyed her company and enjoyed talking with her, most of that enjoyment came out of my intense physical attraction to her. I knew that once the novelty of her beauty wore off and we got to know each other better, we would have less and less to say to each other.

On the other hand, Maria-Teresa was bored with her life and had a right to enjoy herself; if sleeping with me would please her, and me, why should I prevent it from happening? I’d denied myself so many opportunities over the years by thinking fifty steps ahead, but had never bothered to really wonder if any of those women truly cared if I ever concertized again or would have insisted that I offer them marriage after a few dates.

My mother used to tell me what schmucks men were because they would take a girl out but then never call her again. She would tell me how girls would sit by the phones waiting for the phone call that never came while their hearts slowly broke. It was awful to contemplate. Unfortunately, this might have something to do with why I was so inexperienced with women; I rarely dared ask anyone out because I felt so strongly obliged to take them out a second, third and fourth time. But the few times I did so, out of politeness rather than sincere interest, it was much worse when I stopped calling because by then the woman had assumed I was serious about her. It almost seemed that it had to be marriage or nothing; otherwise you caused someone to suffer in the worst way by making her think she wasn’t good enough to inspire love. You can’t make it up to someone once you’ve done that.

The other, less abstract problem for me had always been
that I felt unable to make my carnal intentions clear. I could talk fairly easily with a woman, could even come to know her quite well, but at the point where I had to tell her I was attracted to her, or touch her in more than just a friendly way, I turned to ice. I always felt acutely self-conscious then; it seemed to me that I might as well just unzip my pants, point downward and say, “Would you mind if we included this in our plans?”

I felt I could only make that transition if it happened gradually, if I knew it was a mutual decision. I didn’t want to shock or disgust anyone, and I certainly didn’t want to be let down under such circumstances. I’d much rather be turned down in a restaurant or on a doorstep than while sitting on a sofa with my hand up someone’s shirt. The right opportunity never came to cross that boundary. There was friendship, the exchange of ideas, art appreciation and the enjoyment of good food and wine … and then, it seemed, there were genitals. I never got to that part, even with Naomi. In other words, I was a coward.

Meeting Maria-Teresa threw me into turmoil. She didn’t appear to have any indecision about crossing boundaries. She’d been married twice and had a kid; I knew I could count on her not to burst into tears after having sex, or to seem shocked if I tried to unbutton her shirt. But what if I made a fool of myself because of my inexperience? I was a virgin, after all, and not just in the purely sexual sense; if it showed, wouldn’t it seem ludicrous to someone like her, who’d had so much life experience? The thought of being ridiculed or held in contempt by her terrified me. Even if I could make love to her successfully, what if she became attached to me? What would I say to her? Would she accuse me of continuing
the relationship just so I could see what it felt like to have intercourse with her? Which of course was the truth.

But what if she only wanted to see what it felt like to have intercourse with me? Why did I have to assume she was burdened with the same cloying myths about sexuality that I carried around with me, the myths that weld sex to the notion of virtue? Maybe she simply liked sex, and didn’t think it necessarily had to lead to anything else. If so, I’d be a jackass to call the whole thing off—I would be denying both of us the chance to enjoy ourselves, and it would be purely out of fear.

Needless to say, my attempts to carve out a decision only unearthed deeper layers of conflict. At last I resigned myself to having dinner with her without a plan and to see what happened.

The last witness, Mr. Tokku Hayashi, was a Japanese American man who looked to be in his early sixties.

He had silver-gray hair combed neatly back, wore a modest gray suit and shoes polished to military standards. He was a commercial architect, but had also completed four terms as director of the Los Angeles Japanese Buddhist Association, and had published a book and several articles about Zen in English.

Mr. Graham began by asking if he had known Kazuo Okakura, the murdered founder of the Los Angeles Zen Foundation.

“Yes. I first met him ten years ago, just after he came to this country.”

“In your opinion, was he qualified to teach Zen Buddhism?”

The witness nodded and answered in a clear, pleasant voice, “Yes. Mr. Okakura was qualified.”

“Mr. Hayashi, the defense is arguing that Mr. Okakura, by assigning the puzzle about killing the Buddha, provoked Philip Weber to violence—that supposedly, Zen approves of and even encourages impulsive, irrational behavior, so Philip
Weber shouldn’t be held responsible if Zen drove him to commit murder. Would you care to comment on that argument?”

The old gentleman cleared his throat politely and agreed to do his best, but said that it was never easy to determine where religious experience ends and delusion begins. His unaffected manner reminded me of von Kempen, who could, without any trace of contrivance, lend dignity to even the most ordinary situations. Just the way he entered a room put other people on their best behavior.

Mr. Hayashi began by explaining that Zen was not a religion, in the sense of worshiping a god or supreme being, but was more a kind of therapy for people who worried too much. He said that for the purposes of simplicity all those worries could be represented by one question, which he phrased as Why don’t I feel free?

He paused to take a drink of water from the glass on the witness stand. He was the first witness to take advantage of this convenience; the others had looked at the glass or moved it around in front of them, but had all seemed too nervous to drink from it.

“Let’s say,” Mr. Hayashi continued, “that a fish is happily swimming along in the ocean and doesn’t have any worries beyond finding things to eat. One day somebody tells the fish, ‘You know what? The ocean is only so big, and you are trapped in it. You can’t live outside the ocean, so you will never be free.’ Suddenly the fish feels constrained, and resents his fate. He’s trapped forever, after all.

“Now let’s talk about human beings. Most people resent the fact that they cannot always do what they like. Some days even the most privileged of us feel we have no freedom at all. Zen is like medicine for that kind of thinking. Zen tells you,
Yes, you are limited by society and by your body and mind, but so what? Within those limitations you can find endless variety and opportunities.”

Then the witness quoted Gandhi, who apparently once said, “Satisfaction lies in the effort, not in the attainment.” Mr. Hayashi told us that Zen meditation was an exercise for people who wanted to learn how to make a greater effort in their ordinary moments, as opposed to only their extreme moments. He said that the entire purpose of Zen was to get you in the habit of paying attention and feeling more involved in your ordinary life, with all its limitations and shortcomings.

“But, Mr. Hayashi,” the prosecutor asked, “what about the puzzle? To most of us, I’m afraid, it’s difficult to imagine how that puzzle would make someone more involved in ordinary life.”

The witness paused to adjust his sitting position, as if giving testimony were a physical activity that required good posture and sound placement on the chair. “First of all, are we all familiar with the story in the Bible where Jesus said that if your eye offends you, you should pluck it out? Do Christians take that literally and tear their eyes out if they see something ugly? Not that I know of. I think the phrase means that if you feel an impulse or desire that you know is wrong, you should make an effort to put that evil desire out of your mind.

“The koan about killing the Buddha is not too different from that. If you are always daydreaming about how nice it would be to be an enlightened Buddha, and how everyone would look up to you then, that is exactly the kind of silly thinking that prevents you from appreciating yourself fully just as you are. You’d be like that poor fish wondering what
it would be like to swim in a bigger ocean, and in the process missing out on what is right in front of him. If you think, I’m just an ordinary man, I’m nothing like a Buddha, I’ll never experience what a Buddha experiences, the koan tells you to banish those thoughts right away. Kill this imaginary Buddha, this fantasy of enlightenment! Turn your attention right back to reality, to the present moment, to constructive action. Who are you right now? What are you doing? Think about that. This is the meaning of ‘If you meet the Buddha in the road, kill him.’ ”

When it was her turn to cross-examine, Ms. Doppelt approached the stand slowly. She seemed unmistakably wary of the gentle witness.

“Mr. Hayashi, don’t you think it’s possible that a person with a severe mental illness could take the advice of Zen—to accept yourself as you are—and interpret this to mean that he should pay more attention to, say, those strange voices in his head?”

“I suppose it could, yes. In fact, I can even think of an example of that happening.”

“Can you?” The defense attorney looked hopeful for the first time since Mr. Hayashi had taken the stand. Meanwhile, the prosecutor looked unhappy. He leaned forward, rested his chin on his palm and tapped his pencil on his desk rapidly. He appeared to be trying to make eye contact with the witness, but Mr. Hayashi, true to his principles, was giving the defense attorney his full, undivided attention.

“Yes, it happened when I was still a young monk living in Japan. A student who had some kind of nervous breakdown decided to burn down a Zen temple with himself in it. He did burn the temple, but changed his mind about suicide at the
last minute and survived. He said at his trial that he was inspired by a koan about a monk who burned a wooden statue of the Buddha to keep warm on a cold night.”

Ms. Doppelt looked enthusiastic now. “Let me ask you, then, Mr. Hayashi, if you willingly admit that a young man in Japan, because of his mental illness, was inspired by a Zen story to commit a crime, why do you feel that Mr. Weber could not have done the same? Why do you believe he must have been sane?”

“Did I ever say that?” the old man asked, looking genuinely puzzled. Mr. Graham winced.

“Well,” Ms. Doppelt said, “I can only assume that the prosecutor put you on the stand to support his position that Mr. Weber was sane when he committed the crime. Am I mistaken about that?”

If Mr. Hayashi felt at all uncomfortable, it didn’t show. “I’m not sure, Ms. Doppelt,” he said graciously. “It was my understanding that I was to answer questions about Zen Buddhism. I don’t believe I’m qualified to judge Mr. Weber’s state of mind.”

“I see. So you acknowledge, then, that Mr. Weber could have been pushed into a psychotic episode by the activities of the Zen retreat?”

“Yes, of course. Personally I hope that is the case. Then there might be some hope that if his illness can be treated, Mr. Weber could live to benefit society one day rather than to burden it.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Hayashi. Thank you very much.”

Maria-Teresa got to the restaurant before I did. It was in Pasadena, where she wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone she knew. She’d ordered a martini for me already, and the waiter brought it when I sat down.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a beautiful restaurant,” she said happily. She’d nearly finished a beer, and her cheeks were starting to glow a faint pink. “I have to ask you something,” she went on.