Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  A brief pause, then: “Lust is the bricks and the mortar, the locks and the chains. Lust, and its gratification, is what makes this prison of ours appear so wonderful.

  “For even when shown a way out, even when taken by the hand by an experienced and truthful guide, the many would rather suffer the long waiting for the brief explosion of lust and its blooming than leave this wonderful prison behind.

  “To quote Thomas Jefferson in a letter to John Adams. It was dated June the 1st, 1822: ‘The cocks of the hen yard kill one another; bears, bulls, rams do the same, and the horse, in his wild state, kills all the young males until when he’s worn down with age and war, some youth kills him.’

  “Why do these animals kill each other? They kill each other out of lust, out of jealousy, out of that truly hard-to-comprehend and take-a-good-look-at urge to procreate, which urge—in the final analysis, when confronted head on—is mostly mental anticipation, the wish, the yearning for some drop or two of the promised sensation.

  “The natural historian has coined this behavior, this compulsion, ‘natural selection,’ and sees it as the way nature selects the strongest to pass on his genes, which—or so the theory goes—makes for a stronger species, better equipped to survive this dog-eat-dog existence. But this theory simply attempts to explain, to rationalize, and does not try to understand the almost inconceivable force and power of the urge itself, an urge that we, as humans, certainly possess as well.

  “Someone said, I don’t remember where, that the average male thinks about sex at least once every ten minutes. Perhaps that is an exaggeration, but perhaps not.”

  Here she paused. Perhaps for effect, perhaps to gather her thoughts, to decide where to go next.

  “The Buddha once said that you—as body and mind—already possess everything you need to attain full liberation. That is certainly true. All the clues are there, all the traces of how you came to love your prison are there. You only have to look to discover and see them for yourself.

  “But this looking, this clearly seeing, requires unsullied and unified attention, and if most of your attention is devoted to procreation, and all the pleasures and worries that go along with that—and it sometimes seems that most of the things we do has to do with those pleasures and worries—you’ll never be in a position actually to look, actually to see.

  “I am going to go out on a limb here and mentioned that the Buddha once called sex the destruction of the bridge to Nirvana. He referred to it as the one craving that could not be refined to serve the path to holiness. He pointed out that whereas other cravings can all be sublimated to support the path, the sexual compulsion is so strong that we cannot master it, it will, like an unbreakable spell, enslave us if we allow it entry, if we fall under it.

  “And how do we fall under its spell? We go too near.

  “We allow the smallest of fractures in our armor, we let our guard down even the tiniest of fractions to allow a single drop of that urge to enter, for that drop will fester and explode into growth that will not be stilled until you claw your way to relieve the tension, until you crest on the sensation we call sexual release.

  “Yes, I am aware that this is possibly not what you came here today to hear. Yes, I am aware that the sexual drive, and all its many, many, many sub-drives, if you will, make up—if you study it closely—the better part of our lives. Am I then telling you not to live?

  “No, I am not telling you that. But I am telling you not to be quite so human.”

  Here, she paused and surveyed the small ocean of upturned faces. There were people everywhere she looked, on the lawn and square they were standing shoulder to shoulder. Many were leaning out of buildings, others had climbed the trees. The sun had now broken through and reflected off the many lenses trained on her, recording every word. So unlike the discourses delivered so long ago, where only the small lake of saffron-covered monks would be faced in her direction.

  The spread of faces maintained their silence, clearly waiting for more. A little stunned perhaps, shocked a few, both amused and bemused others. Well, that came with the territory.

  “I know that we treasure our humanness. I know that we have treasured it for so long that it has become an integral part of us, this veneration for all things human.

  “And over the last century sexuality has become a major study. Not in terms of how to subjugate it, mind you, but how to live with it, how to survive as its slave.

  “By the way, I am not advocating the destruction of the species. I am not saying to shun sex altogether and forever, which, of course, would have that as an inevitable result. No, I am pointing out that intuitively man, through the ages, and in most of his religions, have known to shun sex in order to achieve spiritual purity or fulfillment. He has recognized that the power of this drive was, and is, too great, too dangerous, to take on directly, at least in our current state of spiritual weakness.

  “Lust is, as I said, primarily a mental phenomenon. It is the constant anticipation of those few seconds of sexual release that—quite irrationally if you ponder it for a while—seem to make all the work, all the dating, all the fighting, all the killing of younger horses, all the myriad of things that make up the courting ritual worth their while.

  “But do face it, please. The release of sexual tension we call orgasm is only a matter of a few seconds, a matter of a few seconds that some will toil and suffer through uninterrupted weeks, months, or even years to achieve.

  “Talk about impermanence.”

  Each word, as it left one of the many surrounding speakers in perfect German fidelity, seemed to stun the crowed into a fascination deeper still. It was hard to tell whether this was due to the unexpected message, whether it was due to the spellbinding clarity of the voice, or to the startling contrast between the beauty of the dark-haired speaker and the words she spoke.

  At this pause you could hear the birds returning to their business, apparently having lost interest in the subject. The wind, too—things to do now, places to go—had resurrected as well, but the audience remained dead silent, awaiting her next words, which were:

  “I am not saying that sex as an activity or as a sensation is inherently bad or harmful. It is a natural phenomenon here on Earth. Neither good nor bad. It simply is.

  “But I am saying that its danger lies in its attraction, for it attracts, seizes, and holds captive so much of your attention that you have none—or nowhere near enough—at your disposal to look, to see, to discern the truth of our situation.

  “It puts blinders on us, blinders that we love to call ours and that we love to wear.

  “And as for value…”

  The next moment was to be debated widely over the next several days. All the videos shown on television and liberally posted on the Internet show Ruth Marten standing up, leaning slightly into the microphones, surveying the crowd as she addresses it, now brushing a small river of hair out of her face with her left hand as she says the word “value” and in the next frame, the next moment, she lies flat on the stage, gazing out at the crowd as if trying to find the source of the bullet that missed her. Then she points to a building beyond the crowd. Then she is covered by security guards.

  But there is no falling down.

  In none of the records of the event, is there a falling down.

  There is a standing up, there is a lying flat, there is no falling motion, nor any time in which that motion could have—should have—occurred. Standing up, lying flat. That’s it. As if the falling had been edited out, not only out of the record, but out of the actual occurrence.

  Most of the commentary, and most of the subsequent opinions, claim the footage simply had to have been edited. So easy these days, just snip a second or two out of the sequence, and this is exactly what you wind up with.

  But another chorus of voices, many of them belonging to professional television crews and editors, protested their innocence: they had not, repeat not, altered the videos in any way.

  Impossible, impossible, cried
commentators and public opinion both, impossible. Someone should do something about this incessant tampering with public perception. Impossible. So impossible, in fact, that in this wind-whipped sea of opinions Wolfgang Bauer was almost forgotten.

  :

  I felt rather than saw the steady, gloved finger curl around the trigger, easing it to its resting point halfway toward engagement. Then the deep breath and the slow exhale to signal that the practiced finger had set out to complete its journey for the kill.

  I had no choice, there was no time to fall, the bullet was already on its way and, I knew, with such precision that my head would explode the next instant. I had to do it.

  So, I un-stood where I was and re-lay on the floor of the stage. To the mortal eye this happens in the one same instant, in truth it happens in precisely two consecutive instants, in two consecutive nows.

  How long is a now? What width is the razor’s edge of the present?

  Let me say this: A fall from standing up behind the microphones to lying prostrate on the floor of the stage would span thousands of presents, many thousand nows. The bullet would arrive in only a handful of these same nows, I had no choice.

  So, in one of these immeasurably small nows I stood, in the very next I lay on the stage floor. I un-stood, I re-lay. Not very human, but I can do these things.

  This—I realized as I tried to determine the location of the shooter, then did, then pointed to—would be a hard event to explain, tens, hundreds of video cameras recording it.

  Roth had given me fair warning, and I quietly thanked him for that. Now, here came the security guards and many others crowding onto the stage to discover that I am still very much alive, and to, yes, cover me up with their far too late and much too bulky presence.

  :

  Wolfgang Bauer was possibly the perfect prospect.

  Loyal to a fault. Sharpshooter by trade. And a good one at that, perhaps the best they had. An appointment to the security detail of the Ruth Marten event was easily arranged by a superior several rungs up the ladder.

  And he was in financial trouble. Not well documented, but they had ways of determining these things.

  Four days before the event he was asked to appear in his lieutenant’s office at precisely three o’clock, which was, precisely, when he arrived. To find not only his lieutenant but also two men he did not know personally, but did know by reputation. And there was a third man he had never seen before. It was this third man who spoke. Wolfgang could not place his accent, possibly Swiss.

  “Mr. Bauer,” said the man. “Would you like to receive a three-year bonus?”

  Wolfgang looked from one to the other of the four men in the room that now felt a bit small to him.

  “What does it mean, sir, if you don’t mind me asking, three-year bonus?”

  “How much do you make a year, Mr. Bauer?”

  Wolfgang looked over at his lieutenant, who nodded, yes, answer the man.

  “Sixty-two thousand euros, sir.”

  “Then a three-year bonus would mean one hundred eighty-six thousand euros.” Then the man added, “Tax free.”

  Again Wolfgang looked at his lieutenant, was this for real? Really happening?

  As if discerning the question his lieutenant nodded, Yes Wolfgang, this is happening.

  “Would I like to make that much money?” he asked of the man he now definitely thought of as the Swiss.

  “That’s the question.”

  “Yes, sir. I would.”

  “All right then. We are going to ask you to perform a task for us. In four days’ time. You are to ask no questions about why, only about how. Would that be acceptable to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Swiss looked at the two men who flanked him, they both nodded. Go ahead.

  “Are you familiar with Ruth Marten?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She will be here in Berlin in four days’ time.”

  “Yes, at the Humboldt University. I have read about it.”

  “You will be assigned to the security detail for that event, and once the lecture begins you will make your way to a pre-designated spot with a clear line to the stage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And from there—it will be inside a remote building—as soon as you can take the shot, you will kill her.”

  He had not seen this coming, but once he did he realized he should have seen it. He should have seen it at one hundred eighty-six thousand euros.

  He looked over at his lieutenant again, who said and did nothing. All up to him now.

  Wolfgang Bauer was not stupid. He knew that Ruth Marten was making serious waves, not only in her native America but the world over. Rocking many boats. And he could see how some elements in his country, or any country for that matter, wouldn’t mind that she went away. He was asked to facilitate this. For a three-year bonus. It would save his house, and with it also his marriage, he was quite sure of that.

  And this was, obviously, officially sanctioned. Those two top brass were here, and his boss for heaven’s sake. Which is why he said:

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right then. Your lieutenant will give you the details of this assignment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nods all around, and the three men left the room, which again regained its normal size.

  “Wolfgang,” said his lieutenant. “At ease.”

  Wolfgang Bauer shifted his weight, but did not relax.

  “Take a seat,” said his lieutenant.

  “Yes, sir,” said Wolfgang Bauer, and did.

  “You will undoubtedly wonder why, but all I’m going to say about that—well, for heaven’s sake, all I know about that—is that we are doing the Americans a favor.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wolfgang Bauer.

  :

  They had selected a near perfect location for the task.

  A loosely curtained fourth-floor window. Ample room for a tripod to support his long-range rifle. The stage where Ruth Marten would address the crowd was a fraction over three hundred meters away, at a first floor level with the raised platform. A gentle, steady wind now from the west, shifting the curtains a little, making it impossible to see him from the outside, but affording him a perfect view. Under these conditions he would hit a tennis ball at twice the distance. He was that good, and he knew it.

  He checked his watch. Only twenty minutes now until she took the stage, give or take.

  He went through the sequence again: finalize calibrations to ensure accuracy of sight, await the signal—three rapid knocks on the door, most likely about fifteen or twenty minutes into the lecture (he had no idea what the criteria were for the final go-ahead, but this was not for him to query), make any last second re-calibration if conditions have changed, fire the shot, collect the bullet casing, withdraw into the room, dismantle the rifle and return it to its canvas bag, dismantle the tripod and return it to its canvas bag, scan the room to make sure no trace of his presence are left behind, leave by the back stairs, enter the gray van idling outside the back entrance through the tail doors which will stand slightly open, hand the two canvas bags to the guard in the back of the van, travel with him for approximately five minutes, exit the van and get in the light-blue Volkswagen with Stuttgart plates waiting there (the driver will have a green woolen cap), drive to unknown but safe location and lie low there until the wind dies down, a few weeks or so.

  End of mission.

  Collect three-year bonus, get on with life.

  Ten minutes to go.

  If anything the wind was dying down now. He checked his scope and adjusted it slightly, minutely, to compensate for the lighter wind. Not that he had to, even allowing for a fairly wide margin of error, at this distance and under these conditions he simply could not miss. Even so, perfection breeds perfection, that was his motto in these matters.

  He trained the rifle on the four stage microphones, cross-haired the second one from the right, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and flex
ed his trigger finger. Smooth. Piece of pie, as the Americans say, or was it cake?

  He wondered again why they wanted her dead so badly, the Americans. As instructed he had not asked any questions, but they had not forbidden him to wonder. He had watched some of her footage on the Internet. She was captivating, to say the least. Dangerously so, perhaps. He knew all about captivating speakers, it was part of his national heritage. Knew all about the dangers of such people, and perhaps that was why they were so eager to help the Americans. Eager enough to offer him a three-year bonus.

  Five minutes.

  He went through the sequence again, rapidly checking of each point.

  One minute. Or so.

  He took up his final position, trained the rifle on the spot where he anticipated the American girl’s face to be.

  The crowd outside suddenly sprung to roaring life, so suddenly and so loudly that it took Wolfgang a few moments to realize that they were applauding. And here she came. Smiling. Smiling. Her head in perfect focus. The best place for a bullet is the left eye. Even at this angle, from slightly above, the left eye would be best. He trained the crosshairs on the left eye and held it there. Smooth. Piece of pie.

  Now she waived at the crowd, no not waived really, she was asking them to stop applauding, but they didn’t get that, they just applauded more and louder. He checked his watch. Plus three minutes now. And finally, the swell of hand-thunder (which is what his father had called it) began to die down, and now they were quiet. She was really pretty, this Ruth Marten. There, the crosshairs precisely on the left eye. Keep them there. He checked the wind again, virtually down to nothing, should he adjust for that? No, no need. He retrained the sight on the left eye, held it there. Awaited the signal—which might be another fifteen minutes in coming. But that did not bother him. He was good at this. Good at focus, good at waiting.

  He was and wasn’t listening to what she was saying. The words flowed out across the square and lawn loudly and clearly but his English was not particularly good, and really, he needed to focus on the task at hand—her left eye—not on her words. She was really pretty though.