Motherless Brooklyn

“I’m not really who you should talk to but I can tell you what they’ll say. It’s not about getting centered, or, you know, stress reduction. A lot of people-Americans, I mean-have that idea. But it’s really a religious discipline, and not easy at all. Do you know about zazen?”

“Tell me.”

“It’ll make your back hurt a lot. That’s one thing.” She rolled her eyes at me, already commiserating.

“You mean meditation.”

“Zazen, it’s called. Or sitting. It sounds like nothing, but it’s the heart of Zen practice. I’m not very good at it.”

I recalled the Quakers who’d adopted Tony, and their brick meetinghouse across eight lanes of traffic from St. Vincent’s. Sunday mornings we could look through their tall windows and see them gathered in silence on hard benches. “What’s to be good at?” I said.

“You have no idea. Breathing, for starters. And thinking, except it’s not supposed to be thinking.”

“Thinking about not thinking?”

“Not thinking about it. One Mind, they call it. Like realizing that everything has Buddha nature, the flag and the wind are the same thing, that sort of stuff.”

I wasn’t exactly following her, but One Mind seemed an honorable goal, albeit positively chimerical. “Could we-could I sit with you sometime? Or is it done alone?”

“Both. But here at the Zendo thereߣs regular sessions.” She lifted her cup of tea with both hands, steaming her glasses instantly. “Anyone can come. And you’re really lucky if you stick around today. Some important monks from Japan are in town to see the Zendo, and one of them is going to talk this evening, after zazen.”

Important monks, imported rugs, unimportant ducks-jabber was building up in the ocean of my brain like flotsam, and soon a wave would toss it ashore. “So it’s run out of Japan,” I said. “And now they’re checking up on you-like the Pope coming in from Rome.”

“Not exactly. Roshi set the Zendo up on his own. Zen isn’t centralized. There are different teachers, and sometimes they move around.”

“But Roshi did come here from Japan.” From the name I pictured a wizened old man, a little bigger than Yoda in Return of the Jedi.

“No, Roshi’s American. He used to have an American name.”

“Which was?”

“I don’t know. Roshi just basically means teacher, but that’s the only name he has anymore.”

I sipped my scalding tea. “Does anyone else use this building for anything?”

“Anything like what?”

“Killing me!-sorry. Just anything besides sitting.”

“You can’t shout like that in here,” she said.

“Well, if-kissing me!-something strange was going on, say if Roshi were in some kind of trouble, would you know about it?” I twisted my neck-if I could I would have tied it in a knot, like the top of a plastic garbage bag. “Eating me!”

“I guess I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was oddly blasé, sipping her tea and watching me over the top of the cup. I recalled the legends of Zen masters slapping and kicking students to induce sudden realizations. Perhaps that practice was common here in the Zendo, and so she’d inured herself to outbursts, abrupt outlandish gestures.

“Forget it,” I said. “Listen: Have you had any visitors lately?” I was thinking of Tony, who’d ostensibly called on the Zendo after our conference at L &L. “Anyone come sniffing around here last night?”

She only looked puzzled, and faintly annoyed. “No.”

I considered pushing it, describing Tony to her, then decided he must have visited unseen, at least by Kimmery. Instead I asked, “Is there anybody in the building right now?”

“Well, Roshi lives on the top floor.”

“He’s up there now?” I said, startled.

“Sure. He’s in sesshin-it’s like an extended retreat-because of these monks. He took a vow of silence, so it’s been a little quiet around here.”

“Do you live here?”

“No. I’m cleaning up for morning zazen. The other students will show up in an hour. They’re out doing work service now. That’s how the Zendo can afford to pay the rent here. Wallace is downstairs already, but that’s basically it.”

“Wallace?” I was distracted by the tea leaves in my cup settling gradually into a mound at the bottom, like astronauts on a planet with barely any gravity.

“He’s like this old hippie who hardly ever does anything but sit. I think his legs must be made of plastic or something. We went past him on the way up.”

“Where? In the room with the mats?”

“Uh-huh. He’s like a piece of furniture, easy to miss.”

“Biggish, you mean?”

“Not so big. I meant still, he sits still.” She whispered, “I always wonder if he’s dead.”

“But he’s not a really big person.”

“You wouldn’t say that.”

I plunged two fingers into my cup, needing to unsettle the floating leaves again, force them to resume their dance. If the girl saw me do it she didn’t say anything.