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checking for my response, he continued, “I’m in charge of the ashram. Whichever devotees wish to stay here, do.”
    “And last night?”
    “Only I slept here.”
    I made a note of that. “And earlier that evening?”
    Fallon sank smoothly to the pillow, motioning me to one opposite. I declined.
    “I got here about six o’clock,” he said. And watching for my reaction, he added, “I’m a teller at the Bank of America.”
    When I smothered my surprise, he continued. “Some time in the middle of last night’s session, around ten o’clock, I had a follower, a man—I don’t know his name. Ours is a very loose organization, if you can call it even that. People come and go. I keep no records. It’s not like we’re tax exempt, or for that matter, that there’s anything to tax.”
    “About the man?”
    “He was very upset. He kept moving around, fidgeting. He was nowhere near calm enough even to follow the chant.”
    “And?”
    “After a few minutes he left. That’s unusual. Most times the chant is so powerful that it overwhelms any problem.”
    “Mr. Fallon, what happened after this man left?”
    “Nothing. It was only his reaction that was strange. He hadn’t been gone too long when the Kirtan ended.”
    “Kirtan?”
    “Chanting, like the tape of the Tibetan monks you heard.”
    “That was chanting!” I said before I could stop myself. It had sounded more like a herd of sea lions.
    Fallon’s mouth slid into a smile that showed no trace of censure, but his tone was serious as he said, “Tantric chants—Cho-ga. The chants, the incense, the decor—it’s all aimed at overwhelming the senses. Our goal is to overload the circuits of our sensual responses and be left with only the interior awareness. The chant is very powerful. You get caught up in it, you become it, it becomes you.” He paused, looked directly at me and said, “Perhaps you would enjoy coming? Any time.”
    “Thank you,” I said, sitting down on a pillow. The air was clearer down here.
    Glancing around the room, I could easily see how Fallon created his effect. Every foot of wall and floor clamored for attention: pictures fighting candles fighting statues, incense burners and brass bells. On the floor one pillow was brighter, busier, more intricately designed than the next.
    Focusing with relief on Fallon’s simple white cotton shirt, I said, “I need to know about your downstairs neighbor.”
    “What about her?”
    “Did you see much of her?”
    His angular face squirmed into a very different smile. “I should say yes and no.”
    “Mr. Fallon?”
    “If you mean do we talk much, the answer is no. She is, however, in the habit of sunbathing nude, so if that’s what you mean, I’ve seen all there is.”
    “And she doesn’t mind?”
    “Apparently not. She lies out there every free moment during an entire week of every month. She’s one of those olive-skinned women, and by the end of the week she has an all-over tan that any surfer would be proud of.” He leaned back, and I didn’t have to ask what picture was in his mind. “Doing that monthly can’t be any good for her skin, but you’d never know it to look at her.”
    “You never go out or talk to her, or anything?” I asked in a tone of disbelief.
    “Alas, I do have to keep my distance. I may be a Sri but I’m not a eunuch and hers is definitely not a body you’d kick out of bed. But I’ve moved the ashram eight times in the last year and a half, and I can’t jeopardize this living arrangement for the benefit of my physical drives. Not everyone wants to live downstairs from chanters. And landlords rarely side with us when the neighbors complain.”
    “Hasn’t Anne complained?”
    “No. Before I moved in, I explained what we did, how we lived, how removed we were from other people, and she had no complaint. She’s had none since. The perfect neighbor.”
    “Does she go out much?”
    “She seems to keep regular work hours. She leaves at the time our