were made through the Office of Special Events.” I could see that none of this made the slightest impact.
The man shook his head. “Yeah, well look. I don’t know about that.” You could see him make his final decision: it was like watching a shade roll down behind his eyes. His hard look got harder. “I’m gonna have to ask you to move along, now.”
“Maybe we should talk to your supervisor…” I offered. “I’m sure the head of security can clear this up.”
The man moved closer to us, trying to use his body to reinforce his request. Yamashita watched dispassionately, like a scientist viewing an interesting, yet routine, experiment performed by a colleague. But he didn’t budge. And I got the subtle message: this problem was mine to deal with.
“I’m telling you once,” the guard said tightly. “You’re not on the list. You don’t get in. Now beat it.”
You could sense the shove coming. It was in the way his tone of voice began to cycle upward. A slight adjustment of his feet. I think his nostrils even flared slightly. In Yamashita Sensei’s dojo we call it telegraphing. So I wasn’t surprised when he tried to move me.
He shoved, and I could see his eyes narrow with anger when I stayed rooted to the spot. It’s a pretty basic skill, once you get the hang of it. Without balance, my teacher says, nothing can be achieved. The naive think he’s waxing philosophical. In reality, he thinks fighters should avoid falling down.
“I want you out of here,” the big man hissed at me. He was getting ready to do something else. This was not the place for a shoving match. And I got the sense my friend here was getting ready to take things to the next level. It worried me. Not in terms of the physical stuff. But I could see the headlines in the paper: Museum Mayhem: Martial Artist Crashes Party.
“Is there a problem?” a woman’s voice asked from the room beyond the door. I got the initial impression of an attractive, fit form with dark hair. She had a list on a clipboard, too. But I was mostly focused on the guy at the door. The man glared at me as I went through my explanation again to her. Presented my card. She looked at an index card clipped to her papers, and then put a hand on the arm of my wrestling partner. “It’s OK. They were a late addition to the list.” She said it in a calming way. But it was a firm tone, and not apologetic. The guard looked at us with resentment, but he stood aside. You could tell that deep down he wanted another go at me. And part of me was annoyed enough to oblige. For the first time, my teacher spoke. “Come, Burke. Let us go in.” It was a mild command, but an order nonetheless.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Burke,” the woman said as she started to lead us inside.
“There have been some changes in Changpa Rinpoche’s arrangements. Different staff…” She smiled.
I smiled back at her and gestured for Yamashita to go in ahead of me. The man in black looked at us like we were reptiles.
I waited until she was out of earshot. “You think I’m hard to move,” I murmured to the guard as I passed him, “you ought to try the Japanese guy.” I grinned wickedly and entered the reception.
Yamashita and I made our way through the crowd with the woman who had brought us in.
“I’m so sorry about the fuss,” she apologized again. She had dark brown, almost black hair that danced around her shoulders, and white teeth that glittered when she smiled.
“Is he with the museum?” I asked, nodding toward the man at the door who’d tried to bounce us.
“Oh, no.” Again, the glitter of teeth. “Changpa Rinpoche prefers things simple, but his security advisors sometimes bring on added people for some events.”
“Uh-huh ,”I nodded. “Is that where you come in…”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She paused and turned to face us. “I’m Sarah Klein.” Her hair swung around and a few fine strands brushed across her forehead. She pushed them back absent-mindedly. Then laughed. “And no, I’m not part of the security. I spend some time at the Dharma Center in Manhattan and I volunteered to help out tonight.”
We introduced ourselves. I watched with amusement as Yamashita gingerly shook hands with her. He doesn’t like to do it, but he is invariably polite to non-students, especially if he likes you. I got the feeling he liked Sarah.
The action gave me a minute to look at her more carefully. She wasn’t a small woman, but she had a lithe, graceful way about her. She looked fit. Mid-thirties, maybe. A good face, heart-shaped, with a lean jawline and brown eyes. She had the look of an adult about her—someone who knew enough about herself and the world to be relatively comfortable in it.
“Are you a Buddhist, Ms. Klein?” Yamashita asked. I was right. He did like her. Otherwise he never would have made the effort at conversation.
The flash of a smile. “Well, no. I study archery at the Center.”
“Tibetan archery?” I asked.
“Oh, No.” She hesitated for a second. “Actually it’s a meditative form of archery from Japan called kyudo.” She shrugged. “The Buddhists say there are lots of paths in life. These days, mine seems to include arrows.”
“How interesting.” My teacher smiled. I smiled, too. This was a woman I could grow to like.
Then she seemed to remember herself. “But you want to meet the Rinpoche, don’t you? And here I am, keeping you from him.” She gestured us toward the crowd and went off in another direction.
“A kyudoka, Burke,” Yamashita said to me.
“You don’t see one of those every day,” I admitted.
“She is attractive.” My teacher eyed me speculatively, but I said nothing. “She has good presence,” he continued. “I liked her.” Yamashita moved toward the Rinpoche, going slowly so I could worm my way through the crowd and stay next to him. “I had heard of this group practicing the Way of the Bow,” he said as an aside. “It would be interesting to visit them…”
In general, I don’t enjoy receptions of this type, so I distract myself by using them to train. I study people in motion: their patterns of movement and focus. At these events, there are typically a few spots where people concentrated their energies. It gave you a clue as to who was present and what was happening. I try to see how good I am at figuring this out by sensing the patterns.
You discount activity at the bar and food areas, of course. That’s a given. People cling to these sites like limpets, trying to look sophisticated while simultaneously consuming as much free stuff as possible. That night, there were a few other zones of activity I picked up on. The Real Estate Tycoon was there, natty and yet somehow feral at the same time. Various flunkies hovered nervously around him. He was trying to appear subdued in honor of his guest. It was obviously a strain—as you looked at him, you got the impression of a seething instability.
There was another major center of activity around Changpa Rinpoche himself, of course. He was hemmed in by the curious, by gushing student-Buddhists, and members of the museum’s PR department. But he didn’t seem overwhelmed. The Rinpoche was not a small man, and he had a certain presence. Even people who didn’t consciously sense anything spiritual
