A Single Eye Read Online Free PDF Page B

having to watch what I said—“I started out intent on escaping, but soon it was the escape itself that was the kick. Figuring out how to do it, and then doing it. There were times I got out and walked back in the front door just so John would make it harder for me. John’s a big-time control guy, so making it hard was what he liked to do. When I was older I’d sneak out, across the roof—”
    â€œJohn couldn’t cut the roof off, huh?”
    â€œJust what I told him!” I caught Leo’s eye and we laughed. “Then I’d go to the movies, not for the show but to watch the stunts. For me, second unit directors were like football stars were for Dad and my brothers. And when we got a VCR with slo-mo I was in heaven. I was also a huge bore in family gatherings. Well, you can probably imagine by now.”
    Leo was still smiling.
    I sat, enjoying our easy connection. I busied myself looking at him, at the dashboard, at my luggage, as if we were floating along in the Bay rather than driving between gigantic trees.
    After a bit, I said, “You were going to tell me about Garson-roshi.”
    â€œFirst tell me about your teacher in New York.”
    My family, my job, and now my teacher: Leo was stalling. I didn’t want to think what that meant. And it was hard to pass up the chance to coo about Yamana-roshi.
    â€œYamana-roshi came to New York because his American students insisted they could never keep up their Zen practice at home without him. That was thirty years ago. Yamana-roshi was forty-five years old. He spoke about six words of English. His students hadn’t given a thought to how to support him. He lived in a tiny studio that doubled as the zendo, got mugged four times in his first two months, survived on rice for years. After morning zazen, when his students went to work, he was alone till evening zazen, day after day. In Japan he had a temple in his ancestral village. Its picture is on his wall. Once, he had a chance to go back there—five or six years ago—that was before I knew him—but something happened to keep him here. Now he’s too old to travel.”
    Yamana-roshi! I squeezed my eyes shut against the flood of longing. I felt as if I had walked into exile just like he had. I had to swallow before I could speak again, and then the words came more slowly. “He’s still in the zendo every morning, still gives each of us dokusan every week, and even though he has never mastered how to hail a cab, he can see into our hearts.”
    Leo’s face stiffened. I couldn’t read his expression enough to figure if he was annoyed, or something else.
    â€œWas I telling you more than you wanted to know? I guess I went on a bit long. It’s just that I, well, I have such respect for Yamana-roshi. And, well, love. But I’m sure you feel the same about your roshi here.”
    He didn’t respond at all, just kept staring ahead with the same glazed expression. I thought he muttered six years ago to himself but I couldn’t be sure.
    Then he said, “The roshi here . . . Okay, I’ll tell you about him, but it won’t be the same kind of story, not by a long shot. You may be sorry you came.”
    My stomach clutched.
    â€œThe general take, early on, was that the roshi had ‘a lot of promise.’ He was one of those rare Westerners who could sit in full lotus easily. Never moved. He gave off the air of seriousness. He had a good memory. He could quote obscure Buddhist scriptures. Promise. Lots of promise. So they sent him to Japan to study. More promise. A certain type of personality does well in Japan. In the monastery there, sitting in full lotus for long periods won him a certain acceptance. He learned to be contained. And he learned to drink. Alcoholism wasn’t uncommon among Japanese masters. In their controlled environment, on the monastery grounds, it was quite manageable. Just a different type of