Gideon’s Sword

“I’ll talk to Jie about your boy. Jie’s very kind and I know he’ll make a special effort to be friends with your son right away.”

Gideon felt embarrassed. “Thank you, I know that will make a real difference.” He moved to leave but then, as if on impulse, he turned back. “I’m sorry if this is a bother. I couldn’t help but watch what was going on here while I was waiting to speak with you. I was struck by it, the music, the movements. What is it, exactly?”

Her face lit up. “We are practitioners of Falun Gong — or, more properly, Falun Dafa.”

“I’m very curious, and…well, I thought it was quite beautiful. What’s it for? Physical conditioning?”

“That’s only a small part. It’s a total system of mind and body cultivation, a way to recapture your original, true self.”

“Is it a religion?”

“Oh no. It’s a new form of science. Although it does involve Buddhist and Taoist principles. You might call it a spiritual and mental path, as opposed to a religion.”

“I’d like to learn more.”

She responded warmly, with a well-rehearsed description. “Dafa practitioners are guided by universal principles: truthfulness, compassion, and restraint. We strive continuously to harmonize ourselves with these, through a series of five simple exercises and meditation. Over time, the exercises will transform your body and mind and co

This was clearly a topic dear to her heart. But in an odd way, Gideon found himself genuinely impressed. There might actually be something to this; he had felt it just listening and watching the movements. “Is it open to anyone?”

“Of course. We welcome everyone. As you saw, we have all kinds of practitioners, from every walk of life and background — in fact, here most of our practitioners are Westerners. Would you like to join a session?”

“I would. Is it expensive?”

She laughed. “You can come, listen, do the exercises as long as you like. Most of our English-language sessions are in the evenings. If in the future you feel it is helping you, then of course we would welcome support for the center. But there are no fees.”

“Does it originate in China?”

At this, the woman hesitated “It’s co

This would be an extremely interesting thread to follow up on. But right now he had to find the older woman—​the grandmother. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he said. “I’ll certainly join a session. Now, getting back to the school: they mentioned Jie had a grandmother he’s very close to.”

“That might be my mother. She’s the founder of the Bergen Dafa Center.”

“Ah. May I meet her?”

Even as he asked it, he realized he had pushed a little too far. Her face lost a bit of its ope

Gideon smiled. “Since they’re so close…and she takes him to school…well, I just thought it would be good to meet. But of course it’s not at all necessary…”

Now he realized he had made another mistake. The woman’s expression grew a little chilly. “She never takes him to Throckmorton. I’m surprised the school even knows of her.” A pause. “I wonder how you know of her?”

Sink me, Gideon thought ruefully. He should have shut up while he was ahead. “They mentioned her at the school…Perhaps Jie’s talked about her?”

Her face softened just a bit. “Yes. I imagine he would.”

“I don’t want to take up your time any longer,” said Gideon, backing off and giving her an i

Mollified, she fetched him a brochure. “Here’s the schedule of introductory sessions. I hope to see you soon. And I’ll tell Jie about your son Tyler. Maybe we can have him over for a playdate before school begins in the fall.”

“That would be most kind,” said Gideon, with a final farewell smile.

48

Orchid stepped out of the 51st Street deli and marched quickly down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue, opening the pack of cigarettes she’d just purchased and tossing the wrapper into the trash. Instead of going back to her apartment, she’d just walked the streets, her mind whirling. She was furious and determined. Gideon was just awful, a real bastard, but at the same time he was in desperate trouble. She realized that now. He needed help — and she would help him. She would save him from whatever was chasing him, tormenting him, driving him to do all these bizarre things.

But how? How could she help?

Swinging around the corner, she charged up Park Avenue. The uniformed doorman at the Waldorf opened the door for her as she swept in. She paused in the stupendous lobby, breathing hard. Finally getting herself under control, she went up to the reception desk and used the fake names they had registered under. “Has Mr. Tell returned? I’m Mrs. Tell.”

“I’ll ring the room.” The receptionist placed the call, but no one answered.

“I’ll wait in the lobby for him,” she said. He’d have to be back sometime — all his stuff was still here. She opened the pack of cigarettes and shook one out, stuck it between her lips.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tell, we don’t allow smoking in the lobby.”

“I know, I know, I’m going outside.” She lit the cigarette on the way out, just to spite them. On the sidewalk in front of the hotel she paced back and forth, smoking furiously. When the cigarette was done she threw the butt on the sidewalk in front of the doorman, fished another out of her purse, and lit it. She could hear the faint sound of guitar music from that bum in front of Saint Bart’s. To kill time, she crossed the street to listen.

The man, dressed in a thin shapeless trench coat, strummed on his guitar and sang. He was sitting cross-legged, plucking the strings with his fingerpicks. His case lay open beside him, and a number of crumpled bills lay within it.

Meet me Jesus meet me

Meet me in the middle of the air

If these wings should fail me Lord

Won’t you meet me with another pair

This guy was pretty damn good. She couldn’t see his face — it was bowed over his old guitar and he wore a brown fedora — but she could hear his voice, kind of gravelly, full of sorrow and the hard life. She could identify with that. It made her feel sad and happy at the same time. On impulse, she reached into her bag, pulled out a dollar bill, dropped it in the case.

He nodded, not interrupting his music.

Jesus go

Jesus go

Jesus go

The last mournful chord sounded and the song was over. He laid the guitar aside and raised his head.

She was surprised to see he was Asian, and young, quite handsome, his face lacking the usual signs of alcoholism or drug addiction, his eyes clear and deep. In fact, despite the shabby outfit, her own street instincts told her he wasn’t a street person at all — probably a serious musician. The raggedy clothes and filthy old fedora were for show.

“Hey, you’re pretty good, you know that?” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“I’m a disciple of the Blues,” he said. “I live the Blues.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I feel that way myself.”

He gazed at her until she began to flush. He then began to collect the pile of money from his guitar case, stuffed it in his pocket, and put away his guitar. “Done for the day,” he said. “I’m going to grab a cup of tea at the Starbucks around the corner. Would you care to accompany me?”

Would you care to accompany me? This guy was a student at Juilliard, probably, out here paying his dues, living the life. Yes, that had to be it. His formal way of asking pleased her, and she liked his semi-undercover shtick. Part of her was still mad at Gideon. She hoped he would see them together; that would teach him a lesson.