see the world within themselves. Yamashita had us focus instead on the world around us, believing that the experience of the flashing strike of an opponent’s sword, a moment white hot with urgency, made you one with everything.
Over the years, I had come to experience some of what Yamashita had promised. It was a revelation that was as breathtaking as it was terrifying. And it held a fascination of its own. By the time you were capable of the insight he sought for you, Yamashita’s training had changed you in subtle ways. It wasn’t just skill or endurance. It was an appalling realization that you were most alive listening to the whirr of the blade’s edge as it razored through the air toward you.
I didn’t think I really fit in too well at the Dharma House. It was another place where I was present, but not connected. We were all walking paths toward the same goal, of course. But my path winds through some rough territory and it leaves marks. Perhaps that intimidates people. Some of Changpa’s more advanced students knew about me. I could see their troubled facial expressions when they thought I wasn’t aware of the scrutiny. They murmured occasionally to each other about me as well. Maybe all that meditation had made them more sensitive to inner states and they sensed my turmoil. More likely, they’d read the stories about me in the papers. Occasionally, I’d catch them looking at my hands, as if there would still be blood on them.
I log the books in and out of the reading room, trying not to let them bug me, enjoying the quiet. I’m grateful for the work. Or maybe it’s that I like the fact that the flow of ki is slowed here, the air so thick with prayer that little can intrude. Sometimes I need a break from the dojo. In the Dharma House’s reading room, the work was monotonous, but your hands stayed clean.
The reading room is tucked away toward the back of the first floor, but you can still hear quite a bit of the comings and goings in the building. People are in and out all day to attend classes or prayer sessions and to use the meditation room. At night, there is even the group of archers training in the Japanese art of kyudo on the lower level, the beauty of the art enhanced by a woman named Sarah Klein.
The sound of footsteps was clear and sharp on the wood floor of the hallway leading back to the reading room. In the Dharma House, people tend to walk softly in a reverent shuffle. It’s the combination of sandals and noodly muscles that does it. But whoever was coming my way was striding, not shuffling, down the hall. I looked up, curious to see who it was.
I thought I was out of place.
He wore what I later learned was the new blue Army service uniform. His black shoes were so highly polished they looked as if they were wet. The left chest of his jacket was crowded with ribbons. They didn’t mean much to me, but I did recognize jump wings and a Combat Infantryman’s Badge pinned to the top of the display. In his military splendor, he looked as out of place in that room as I felt. Their monks wear colored robes, but other than that American Buddhists are a pretty subdued group when it comes to clothing.
“Hello Dr. Burke,” the soldier said to me. He had a pleasant voice, which was a bit of a surprise. I’m a victim of childhood stereotypes created by B movies. I expected him to sound like Aldo Ray.
I stood up from the desk and watched him approach. He wore the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel. His hair was flecked with gray and freshly cut—you could see the white line of skin around the edges of his hairline. His eyes were brown and he had the look of someone who spent a lot of time outside. His cheeks had been scoured by the wind and the skin around his eyes was seamed from squinting into the sun. He smiled as he extended a hand and the lines at the corner of his eyes became creases. “I’m Randall Baker.”
“Hello, Colonel,” I said, shaking his hand. “Art told me that you might drop by.”
He took a step back and looked at me, as if trying to mesh what he’d been told about me with my appearance. Then he glanced around at the reading room. “My understanding is that you’re working until three today.” He looked at his watch—a stainless steel affair with a black face and luminous dial. When I was a kid, we called them skin diver watches. Every man of action had one. “If you’re free, I was wondering whether you’d like to come with me.”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “Where to?”
“A martial arts demonstration,” Baker said.
“Right up my alley,” I told him.
Baker had a car waiting on the street. It was a late model Chevy sedan with white government plates. It looked like it had just been washed. My tax dollars at work. A sergeant opened the back door for us without a word and then got in behind the wheel. We took off.
“This is Sergeant Hanrahan,” Baker told me.
“Hi,” I told the back of Hanrahan’s head.
“Pleasure, sir,” the driver said. But he didn’t turn around. Hanrahan’s hair was cut so close as to be almost invisible. He had a neck, thick with muscle, that bunched up where it met the base of his skull. He kept his hat on in the car.
The Saturday afternoon traffic was manageable. Hanrahan took us up the East Side to the 59th Street Bridge and into Queens.
I looked at Baker.
“You’ve been told a little bit about me, Dr. Burke?” he asked, and then continued before I could answer. “I’m involved with the development of unarmed combat systems for the Army. There’s a big martial arts tournament at a local high school today. As part of our recruitment activities, a demo team is going to be participating.” He looked out the window at the passing cars, the buildings. You got the impression that he was a man who watched things carefully. Then he turned to look at me. “I thought it would be a nice way for us to meet and for you to see some of what I’ve been up to.”
The expression on his face was pleasant enough, but I felt that he didn’t really expect a response. I didn’t give one. People like Baker don’t do things on a whim. It may have been true that he wanted me to watch his people perform. But I knew that Baker wanted to watch me. This wasn’t just an excursion on a Saturday afternoon. We were on our way to a contest, and I was the one being judged.
I sat back in the seat and relaxed. I’ve spent more than a decade with a teacher who could probably show Baker a thing or two. I’m used to being tested. It happens every time I walk into Yamashita’s dojo.
The high school was a big box. The brick was an ugly mustard yellow that told me it was built sometime in the early ’60s. The windows were covered with metal grilles. The halls were washed in fluorescent light and lined with metal lockers. It smelled like a school—the air had an aroma shaped by equal parts disinfectant, paper, and resentment. And the gym was full of people.
We walked in and made our way to the recruitment table, draped with a black and gold banner that simply proclaimed “A Force of One.” There were two sergeants there, wearing the same sort of distinctive blue uniform as Baker.
“I thought the Army wore green,” I offered. There hadn’t been much in the way of small talk up until now.
“The Army’s always had blue dress uniforms,” Baker stated, “as well as white and green ones. Class A’s were green, but command has decided to simplify things and they’re phasing the other out in favor of the blue version.”
A steady flow of kids fingered brochures tentatively while the soldiers went into their recruitment pitch. You could see parents hovering in the background, some apprehensive, others encouraging.
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