Читать книгу Tengu - John Donohue - Страница 13

6 SMOKE

Yamashita says we’re surrounded by subtle vibrations—the energy the Japanese call ki that fills the world like an electric charge. If you’re adept, you can feel it buzzing in your head and playing along your skin. I’ve seen my sensei, a being alive to an invisible world, stop in mid-technique and let his eyes gaze inward as the surge of ki washes over him. And I’ve felt it, too, but not as intensely. The experience of ki is tactile and aural and inexplicable, all at the same time. But it’s elusive: for many of us, the sensitivity comes and goes. It’s just as well. Everyone needs a break.

I sat in a corner desk in the reading room of the Dharma House, logging in books. The air is still here. Not much aggressive energy. There was the low level hum of chanting from a distant meditation room. The scent of old incense drifted through the air, soft, diffuse and almost undetectable. For me, the press of ki is a thing most often associated with danger. And the Dharma House is a refuge of sorts, so I was off my guard.

A wealthy and eccentric Manhattan socialite had created the place as a center for the study of Tibetan Buddhism. I knew the head lama, a remarkable teacher and mystic named Changpa. Not too long ago, we had shared an experience that still troubled him—even holy men have nightmares. He had given me a job when the university let me go, letting me serve as a type of librarian for the center’s expanding reading room. It was a good deal for all concerned: Changpa was able to follow the Buddha’s admonition to be compassionate. I got to pay my rent.

Those who came to the Dharma House were different from the people I worked with in the dojo. Here, they were often fragile and frightened: thin, pale young men with scraggly beards; women with wet, wide eyes and drab, formless clothes. Changpa stretched his arms out in welcome to them and there was an almost chemical reaction when he did so. The tension in their shoulders melted away, their faces grew calm, and their movements less jerky. It was an amazing thing to see: the spectacle of human unfolding under the guidance of a master teacher. It was part of what I enjoyed about working there.

I was a seeker, too, but of a different sort. If Changpa was like a soft breeze, a nurturing wind to his disciples, my teacher Yamashita was like a furnace. He forged the human spirit through hard effort and remorseless training. Changpa turned his pupils’ eyes inward, the better to 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 59^th 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.

“How’s the fishing at something like this?” I asked the Colonel.

He smiled. “In the all-volunteer service, recruitment is always a challenge. But we offer young people something that they don’t seem to be able to find in civilian life . . . ” his voice took on a reflective tone for a moment. Then he snapped back to his usual crisp, efficiency. “We do fine, Dr. Burke.”

The two recruiters stiffened to attention when Baker approached. Baker waved them back to their conversations with the kids.

There was a spot at the bottom row center of the gym bleachers reserved for us. The four soldiers sitting there shot to attention when Baker approached. He went through the same wave routine and said, “As you were.” He didn’t introduce me and they didn’t ask who I was. But you could see them take a peek at me out of the corner of their eyes after I sat down.

The soldiers on the bench were young and fit looking, with broad chests and narrow waists. They were wearing the new camouflage trousers known as ARPAT, Army Combat Uniform Pattern, and boots. They had on black T-shirts whose V-neck and sleeves were piped in gold. Their heads were shaved and they looked like a pack of attack dogs. They seemed impassive enough, but I’d have bet inside they were quivering with eagerness.

I was sandwiched in between the Colonel and Hanrahan. I looked at the driver and nodded at the crowd in black shirts. “This the demo team, Sergeant?”

“Yes sir,” he replied. He was a very serious young man. He had hands the size of shovels, with big broad fingers. Is that why he was a driver? I looked at his tunic and saw that he had jump wings like Baker, another one with a helicopter in the middle, and a third that looked like a flaming torch. His uniform’s left sleeve had small patches at the shoulder. One said “Ranger,” another “Special Forces.” Hanrahan didn’t say much, but he obviously had many skills—sort of an Army renaissance man.

A fuzzy introduction boomed out of the PA system and I turned to watch the demonstration.

It had been organized by a group of Korean martial arts schools in the area. The Koreans have been tremendously successful in propagating their version of karate in the U.S. Part of the success is due to the no-nonsense nature of their arts. Part of it’s because they’re shrewd businessmen.

The Japanese sensei tend to look down on their Korean counterparts, and the feeling is mutual. There’s not much love lost between the two peoples. The Imperial Japanese government instituted a brutal colonization of Korea, and Korean resentment still smolders. The Koreans had been influenced by modern Japanese martial arts before the 1940s, but over the years had given them their own distinctive flavor. Part of it was driven by innovation, part by resentful nationalism.

In any event, Korean empty-hand systems were built on a foundation that was at least partially Japanese, although the Koreans work hard at denying it. They have tons of different systems—tae kwon do, kang duk kwon, mu duk kwon, tang soo do—but when you watch them in action, it’s Korean karate. The stances differ a bit from the Japanese, there are minor stylistic variations, and they tend to use a lot more kicks. But it’s karate, one way or the other.

Athletically, it’s pretty impressive. All that kicking requires a tremendous amount of energy. The young men and women who performed that day were strong and supple, and possessed tremendous physical ability. Their uniforms were very similar to the traditional Japanese gi, although some had black piping along the collars and sleeve ends. Other participants had opted for a more sporty pullover top with similar piping.

They wore a rainbow of belt colors. Some had little stripes on the belt ends as well. The Koreans had learned that Americans loved the whole belt system, with its graphic representation of advancement. As a result, some schools had a seemingly endless series of belts or stripes that could be earned. The black belts tended to be embroidered with name and rank spelled out in gold thread. They wore patches and flags on their sleeves. Some outfits looked more like billboards than uniforms, which, in some ways I suppose, they were.

Yamashita doesn’t use belt colors for rank. You need black belts in a few systems just to get in the door of his training hall. The uniforms we wear are all the same: plain, deep blue, and utilitarian. My teacher isn’t interested in advertising, or in making you feel important. As far as he’s concerned, you earn respect through competence, and that’s something revealed through movement, not fashion.

Groups of students demonstrated the kata-like routines they called hyung. I recognized a few of them as being similar to the Japanese Heian series. A less charitable observer would have said they were copied, but I’m a font of tolerance. The movements were crisp and hard, the control at a very good level.

There was a lot of board breaking. The Korean styles are big for this. Twelve-inch squares of pine, an inch thick, were snapped in two in various ways: knife hand technique, back hand, lunge punch, front and side kicks, elbows. The crowd loved it. One of the junior instructors broke two different sets of boards held on both sides of him with a double flying side kick. I got tired just watching it.

There was a brief intermission, then the Army demonstration team was introduced to enthusiastic applause.

Hanrahan strode up to the microphone and gave a brief introduction.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Staff Sergeant Robert Hanrahan, part of the demonstration team for the United States Army’s Martial Arts Program. It’s a pleasure to be with you today and see so many of these fine athletes.” There was more polite applause.

“The Army Martial Arts Program is composed of techniques such as strikes, throws, and holds that are meant to assist the soldier to close with and defeat his enemy. More than that, it’s also a system designed to instill every aspect of the warrior spirit in each trooper.

“This close combat program was revamped in 1996 with the input of leading martial artists. It’s undergone continuing refinement and today includes combat-tested martial arts skills and close-combat training techniques that are combined with core Army values and leadership training.”

You could hear the crowd growing a bit restless with the explanations. They were an action-oriented group. If Hanrahan’s canned commentary got much longer, he’d lose them.

But this was obviously a well-practiced routine. While Hanrahan spoke, the demo squad was setting up floor mats behind him. They finished just as he wrapped up. “It’s our pleasure to be able to show you some of the more physical aspects of the art here today, part of the skills we’re proud to display as soldiers in the United States Army.”

Basically, it was a good, solid demonstration of effective self-defense. There were no frills. They were obviously a fit bunch, and they were pulling their blows, but they went through a series of attack and defense vignettes that showcased their ability to break out of choke holds, immobilize various strikes, and bludgeon an attacker into a helpless heap. They used their boots a lot and I didn’t blame them. The basics were a meld of judo and karate-like techniques combined with the more ruthless propensity for target areas typically banned in martial arts schools that worried about the cost of liability insurance.

I watched closely. After Micky and Art had told me about Baker, I took some time to try to find out what I could about what the Army was up to. There were some short video clips on a Web site, as well as text outlining the history of the system, but there’s no substitute for watching people who train in a particular style move for an extended period of time.

The soldiers finished their demonstration, put away the mats and then sat back down with us on the bleachers. They weren’t even winded.

Then the regular activities resumed and things wound their way down. For a finale, the local Korean headmaster set up a circle of hapless students. Some held boards, others bricks. Their teacher smashed his way through them all, a tough, wiry dynamo. Then, while the debris of shattered wood and brick still littered the floor, the headmaster was blindfolded and a student was placed in front of him with an apple set atop his head. The old teacher crouched down as if winding his muscles up, cocked his head briefly, then launched into the air, executing a spinning back-kick that smashed the apple off his student’s head to the wild applause of the crowd.

In the car, Baker asked me what I thought. I reflected for a minute, remembering the sight of the hapless student standing stock still, balancing the apple, and squinting in anticipation as his teacher launched himself into the air. “I think,” I told Baker, “that sometimes the measure of a really good teacher is what they can get their students to do for them.”

“You sound like you speak from experience, Dr. Burke,” he said. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know,” I told him.

“So? Do you have any comments? About the troopers.”

I shrugged. “Seemed pretty solid stuff. But I’d probably need to see a greater variety of attack scenarios to really evaluate it.”

Baker nodded at that. “We routinely have various experts do that sort of thing for us . . . look for areas we can improve on.”

“How’s it worked out?” I asked.

Baker made a shaking motion with his hand. “Sometimes it works, sometimes . . . ” He looked up at the stolid driver in the seat in front of us. “Remember that last guy, Hanrahan?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Hanrahan asked.

“Sure,” the Colonel said.

“What a cluster-fuck,” he told me, looking briefly over his shoulder.

“I know that the Special Forces did an experiment with some aikido training a few years back,” I said. “It was like two groups of people speaking completely different languages.”

“Before my time,” Baker said. “But I read the book.”

“Me too,” I said. “It was good comic relief.”

Baker smiled. “I hear positive things about you, Burke, but I want to make sure you ‘get’ what we’re all about . . . ”

“Locate, close with, and destroy the enemy,” Hanrahan said. It was the kind of thing he didn’t say at high school recruiting events. The parents would swoon.

“What did you think of the tae kwon do today?” the colonel prompted.

I shrugged. “They sure can jump.”

“That’s it? You’re not impressed with their skill?” His eyes had an intentness about them that I hadn’t seen before. And, ever so faintly, I got the tingling sense of an energy field pushing against me.

I waved a hand. “I don’t know. They’re impressive athletes, but fighting? It’s so much smoke.” I thought about the time Yamashita had squared off against a student of ninjutsu. The guy could do handsprings across the room. Yamashita had told us ahead of time that such techniques were mostly designed to throw you off balance because they were unexpected. If, however, you weren’t flustered . . .

During the match, the ninja had tried to leap across the room. Yamashita simply waded in and caught him by the throat in mid-cartwheel.

“But didn’t you see that last technique?” Baker pressed. “The blindfold?” He sounded incredulous, but the eyes were still watchful. I noticed the subtle twitch of Hanrahan’s neck muscles and knew that he was listening carefully as well.

“Baker,” I said wearily, “it’s a good stunt. It takes a lot of practice. But in the long run, you know what?” I paused.

“What, Burke?”

“I don’t train to fight fruit. And I bet you don’t either.”

The Colonel sat back in the seat and smiled. “What do you think, Hanrahan?”

“He’ll do,” the sergeant said.