Miss Buddha (46 page)

That question settled around the table like
a heavy mist. It had no immediate or good answer.

Finally, Ruth suggested, “I didn’t know
about it.”

“He set this up without you knowing?” said
Julian.

“Yes. I was as surprised as anybody,” said
Ruth.

“If you didn’t know anything about it. How
do you know it was Alvarez’s stunt?”

“He told me,” Ruth answered.

“When?”

“Just before we left, he pulled me aside and
apologized.”

“You know that’s an out and out lie,” said
Ananda.

“I know that.”

“What if he denies this?”

“I doubt that he will.”

“On what grounds?”

“He’s been dead quiet so far,” said Ruth. “I
think he is too embarrassed or frightened or both.”

“You’re the one who should apologize to
him,” said Melissa.

“I know,” said Ruth.

“I’m not sure this will fly,” said
Ananda.

“I’m open to suggestions,” said Ruth.

“Don’t forget,” began Ananda.

“I know, I know,” said Ruth, raising her
hands in apology.

Ananda straightened in his chair and
frowned. “Do not forget to apologize to him,” completing what he
meant to say.

“If you admit to rising the chair,” said
Julian. “Hell will continue to break loose. If you admit to knowing
about the hoax, one and all with question both your motive and your
sanity, Cal Tech probably first among them. If you wash your hands
of the whole deal—what I would term a lie of both convenience and
necessity—no one can blame you, or discredit you.”

“I think Federico Alvarez will still dispute
this,” said Melissa.

“Or he may not,” said Ananda, having
considered further. “The man is nothing if not concerned about his
reputation, and as it stands right now, if this really did happen,
he looks nothing but the outplayed, and taught-a-lesson fool. I
don’t think he likes that. I think he’d much rather be the author
of this spectacle,” looking over at Julian to acknowledge where
that word had originated. “Much rather the author of it than its
victim.”

“Good point,” said Melissa.

“Good point,” said Ruth.

Julian nodded in agreement. The way to
go.

“So,” said Ruth. “It’s a hoax. I had nothing
to do with it. I was as surprised as any of you. In fact, I’m still
quite upset about it, since this spectacle,” also looking over at
Julian, “has made very little of the experiment and my paper that I
came on the program to discuss.”

They all looked at each other, waiting for
objections, elaborations, anything else. No one spoke.

“Let’s do it then,” said Ruth.

:

They decided that only Ruth and Melissa
would face the reporters.

Melissa took a long look at the throng of
people with cameras and microphones that seemed to huddle against
the gloomy May air and actually felt a little sorry for them. At
least she and the others were warm inside.

She looked up briefly at the overcast sky
and confirmed another misty, dripping day that was good for the
lawn—which quite a few feet were treading on right now—but not so
good for the mood.

When they stepped out onto the porch the
police sprang to life and prevented the media crowd from
approaching too closely—also stepping on the lawn, Melissa noticed.
Oh, well.

Unlike the movie version of the agitated
media posse, each yelling their questions and demands for comments
that none really could hear, this crowd was dead silent, and wholly
focused on Ruth, who must have emanated the appearance of about to
make a statement—which, of course, was precisely what she was about
to do.

Ruth surveyed the gathering, frowned at the
one or two spotlights that had sprung up in the gloomy dawn, then
drew breath and said, “You can all go home.”

She paused to study the silent reporters
again, each holding up a microphone tilted in her direction. Then
smiled and shook her head in what appeared to be amazement. “You
look cold. You shouldn’t be out here freezing. It might even start
to rain soon.”

When no one responded, Ruth changed gears
and in a stronger voice more or less proclaimed, “I want to confirm
what some of you already suspect, that the rising was a hoax. Let
me repeat that, the rising was a hoax.

“I am not happy to have been part of it, but
Mr. Alvarez saw it fit to play me as much of a fool as he
played all of you and everybody else.

“I don’t know how he did it, for—from where
I was sitting, and I had a good view—it certainly looked
convincing, but I assume that this was his idea of a practical
joke. Maybe this was his way of mocking the last line of my paper,
to somewhat playfully express his disbelief of my allusion to the
Buddha. Perhaps this was an attempt to throw attention off the
subject we were supposed to discuss, the verified and validated
result of the Cal Tech EPROM experiment—which, sadly, seems to have
fallen by the wayside in the ruckus of all this.

“The person whose house you should camp
outside is not ours, but Federico Alvarez’s. So, if you wouldn’t
mind, would you please pack up all of your stuff—the neighbors
would like that, too—and head on over to wherever he lives. We
would all appreciate that very much.

“Any questions?”

Oh, yes, there were questions. The first, or
loudest:

“How do you know this?”

“Alvarez told me. He apologized, then told
me.”

The next loudest: “Several of the crew on
the show swear, on camera, that it was not a hoax.”

“They must have been paid handsomely by
Mr. Alvarez to say precisely that,” said Melissa.

The same reporter: “We have examined the
footage, Ms. Marten. Thoroughly. There is no sign whatever of a
hoax, no traces of lines or thread. Do you have any suggestions how
Alvarez did this, if indeed he did?”

“I’m as clueless as you are,” said Ruth. But
then added, “Magnets, perhaps. Iron in the chair, a strong, finely
directed electrical magnet above. Have you examined that
possibility?”

The reporters looked at each other, this had
apparently not crossed media minds yet.

“Can you prove his?” From the middle of the
pack.

“Of course not. As I said, I haven’t a clue.
I don’t know how Alvarez pulled this off. That was just a
suggestion.”

“You did not look very surprised on camera,
Ms. Marten.” Someone else.

“I rarely look very surprised,” answered
Ruth.

“If the chair next to me rose in the air of
its own free will, I would be very surprised,” the same someone.
“Shocked, in fact.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t
surprised, I said I rarely
look
surprised.”

“Why, if this was Alvarez’s stunt, would he
do this?”

“My guess is for the ratings,” said
Melissa.

“Ratings,” confirmed Ruth, nodding. “What
else does Mr. Alvarez live for?”

Melissa didn’t catch the next question (from
someone in the back) for her attention was caught by a waving hand,
closer and to her left, and realized that the hand belonged to
Clare Downes, her favorite television personality. She was
surprised to see her there, among the pack, but on second thought,
why should she not be there, this was a story she would be
interested in, surely.

“I have no idea,” answered Ruth to the
question Melissa hadn’t heard.

“Yes,” Melissa said, pointing to Clare
Downes, acknowledging the waving hand and inviting the
question.

“Are you truly the Maitreya, Ruth?”

The question struck Melissa as free of any
trace of sarcasm or cynicism. Clare Downes meant this as a
question; she was truly curious.

“Why do you ask?” said Ruth.

“I don’t know, but I always pictured the
Maitreya as a man.” Again, this was said in all earnestness, as far
as Melissa could tell.

“I would have thought the true Maitreya
would be neither man nor woman,” said Ruth.

“Yes,” said Clare Downes. “You have a point.
But back to the question, though, if you don’t mind. You say in
your paper—in fact, you end your paper with a statement that really
cannot be taken any other way. Is that what you mean? How you
intended it to be taken?”

Melissa was unsure whether this was indeed
the right forum for this and looking over at Ruth, who met her look
straight on, she saw that she was of the same mind.

Ruth looked back at Clare Downes and said,
“I’m getting cold, and you guys are not getting any warmer. You’re
far too many to invite in, or I would. But,” and here she turned to
Melissa and said under her breath, “I recognize her, what’s her
name?”

“Clare Downes,” Melissa whispered back.

“But you, Clare, if you want, are invited
in.”

This brought an almost threatening protest
groan from the crowd, something that pulled the police officers to
stricter attention and alert. One of them looked back at Melissa.
“Yes,” she said. “Miss Downes can come through.”

The officer pointed, nodded, then waved her
through. Her cameraman made to follow.

“Not him,” said Ruth, meaning the
cameraman.

“Really?” said Clare Downes.

“Really,” said Ruth.

Clare turned to her cameraman and said
something. He nodded, and turned while Clare continued to make her
way for the porch. Again, the mutter of protest spoke of the
unfairness of it all, but with the police line holding firm nothing
more came of that, and once Clare Downes had entered the house, and
Melissa closed the door behind them, the rest of the reporters and
their cameramen seemed to decide that nothing would be gained by
lingering, so they began to pack up and head back to the studio
with whatever footage they had, or perhaps heading over to Federico
Alvarez’s house.

Just as the sun decided to break through the
gloomy overhead.

::
94 :: (Pasadena)

Clare Downes could easily qualify as poster
child for the all-American girl. Sincere to a fault—some would go
so far (actually, many did) as to call her naïve, but they would be
wrong—and stunningly good looking, she quickly became the viewer
darling in Minnesota, where she began her career, as well as in Los
Angeles, once KCRI managed to lure her out there.

With a sister who had just taken first
steps, and with a brother yet to come, she was born during a
Minneapolis snow storm to Craig and Ellen Downes.

Craig Downes was—and still
is—a well-known, and much respected, architect, at least as far as
Minnesota goes. Ellen Downes still owns and runs a prestigious
Minneapolis art gallery—
The
Canvas
, a local gem that she inherited from
her mother Berit, and made it her life’s mission to run and expand;
that and raising three great kids.

Clare probably got her voracious reading
habit from her mom, who never seemed to tire of informing one and
all that television numbed you into a zombie state more effectively
than anything she could name. It killed any sense of participation
and creativity, she’d add. Then she’d turn around, holding her book
high, like a banner or a flag, and disappear into what she insisted
on calling the library to read.

Still, the last word to
come to mind if you’d run into her as a teenager would be “brainy.”
She was so vivacious that she literally sparkled. And so beautiful
that her main complaint at the time was that “there were boys
everywhere, could someone
please
do something.”

She finally settled on a boyfriend who
spelled his name Marq, and who could probably bench-press a
horse—more for protection than anything else, she once confided to
her sister—and so was safely escorted through high school by this
very nice man who’d agreed that there was no question about sex
until they were married, if that were to happen. Indeed, he was
happy enough just to be seen with her. A good arrangement. And he
also enjoyed the kissing.

Her life took a major turn during the summer
of her twentieth year. She and her sister were on a two-week hike
in the Canadian Rockies when it happened.

To be perfectly honest, she had smoked pot a
couple of days before, and she had not slept for about 48 hours (as
an experiment), when it happened. But in her view, neither of these
circumstances had any bearing on the realness, or the significance,
of her experience—neither detracted one iota from the genuine
event.

Three days earlier they had set up camp just
above the tree line, that was the evening that she also smoked pot.
Not too much, but enough to enable her to put her finger on
precisely how come she decided not to sleep.

Either she had read about it, or she’d heard
it said (she could not decide which), but apparently, if you can
stay up for forty-eight hours or more, and still stay alert, your
thoughts slow down to where you can trace them like lasers through
darkness.

Perhaps it was leaning back against her
backpack and looking up at the stars at this altitude, into a sky
that even treated her to a meteor or two slicing across the dusty
dark in quick arcs; perhaps it was this that made her curious as to
whether there was some truth to that staying awake thing.

Britt, her sister, was rolling another joint
when Clare asked her, “Do you think it’s true that you can see and
trace your thoughts like streaks of lasers through blackness if you
don’t sleep for a few days?”

Britt licked the paper and finalized her
creation before she looked over at Clare, searchingly, and said,
“Lasers?”

“Yes, like strands of light through dark
space.”

“Thoughts?”

“Yes. Like lasers.”

“Who said that?”

“I don’t remember. I may have read it
somewhere.”

“I bet you did.”

“Seriously.”

Britt lit the joint and filled her lungs
with the sweet smoke. Still holding it in she offered the joint to
Clare. “No, I’m fine,” she said. “Fine for now.”