This was futile. He needed to get away from her — for her own safety. The subway rolled into 59th Street, halted with a groan, and the doors slid open. At the last moment, making a sudden decision, Gideon twisted free and ran out. He stopped and turned to apologize again, but the doors slammed shut, and he had a glimpse of her devastated face through the window as the train pulled out of the station.
“I promise I’ll call you!” he cried, but it was too late and the train was gone.
47
Gideon drove moodily through the midafternoon Jersey traffic. He’d crossed over through the Holland Tunnel, then pointed the rented Chevy northward through the old, tired urban tangle, one town blending seamlessly with another: Kearny, North Arlington, Rutherford, Lodi. The streets all looked the same—narrow, busy, dense with three- and four-story brick buildings, their shopfronts dingy, heavy clusters of telephone wires hanging claustrophobically overhead. Now and then, through the urban accretion, he could catch glimpses of what had once been a downtown: the marquee of a movie theater, now disused; the plate-glass window of an erstwhile soda joint. Fifty or sixty years ago, these places had been separate little towns, bright and sparkling, full of bobby soxers and guys with derbies and ducktails. Now they were just ghostly pentimentos beneath an endless procession of salumerias, mercados, discount stores, and cell phone shops.
He crossed into Bergen County, passing through another half a dozen sad-looking towns. There were much faster ways to reach his destination, of course, but Gideon wanted to lose himself for a while in a mindless act such as driving. He was full of uncomfortable and unwelcome emotions: agitation at discovering Nodding Crane, shame and embarrassment at his treatment of Orchid. He told himself it was for her own good, for her protection; that she was better off not getting involved with a man who had a year to live. It didn’t make him feel any better. He had used her, used her cynically.
As he drove farther north, toward the New York State line, the cramped streets grew broader and leafier, and the traffic eased. Residences became grander and farther apart. He glanced down at the sheet of paper he’d placed on the passenger seat. Biyu Liang, Bergen Dafa Center, Old Tappan, he’d scrawled on it. With the attendance records unwittingly supplied by Van Rensselaer, it had been a trivial undertaking to single out the Asian boy who’d been at JFK — Jie Liang — and from there to learn the identity of his mother. He didn’t know what a Dafa Center was, but that was the woman’s place of employment — and his destination.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into what to his surprise appeared to be an old estate: not huge, but well manicured, a large puddingstone mansion, a separate garage, and an adjoining gatehouse, the whole now converted into a small campus of sorts. A sign set back from the road read BERGEN DAFA CENTER.
Gideon parked his car in the lot beside the main building and trotted up the steps to the twin doors, decorated with wrought-iron filigree. He stepped through into an ornate front hall that had been converted into a reception area. A tasteful sign on one wall read: FALUN GONG EXERCISES 3–5 WEEKDAYS, TEACHINGS WEEKNIGHTS 7–10. It was flanked by other signs covered with symbols and Chinese ideographs.
A young Asian woman was seated behind a desk. She smiled as he approached.
“May I help you?” she asked in unaccented English.
Gideon smiled back. “I’d like to speak with Biyu Liang, please.”
“She’s conducting a session at the moment,” the woman said, extending her hand toward an open door through which Gideon could hear a mixture of music and speech.
“Thank you, I’ll wait for her to finish.”
“Feel free to observe.”
Gideon stepped past her and into a spacious room of Zen-like simplicity. A woman was leading a group of people in a series of slow exercises, all of them moving gently in unison to the hypnotic sound of five-tone music, tinkling bells, and percussion. The woman was apparently giving instructions in melodious Mandarin. He looked at her carefully. She was younger than the woman in the airport had been, but resembled her enough that he concluded the woman in the video had probably been the child’s grandmother.
Gideon waited for the session to end. As he did so, he was increasingly struck by what he was seeing; there was something ineffable in the movements, something beautiful, almost universal. Falun Gong, he mused. He had heard of it, vaguely, and recalled it was some form of Buddhist practice from China. Clearly, he needed to learn more.
The session continued for another ten minutes. As the group dispersed, chatting quietly, Gideon remained standing at the entrance, waiting. The woman who had been leading the session noticed him and came over. She was small with what could only be described as a round, shining face.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes.” Gideon gave her a big smile. “My name’s Gideon Crew, and my son, Tyler, is entering Throckmorton Academy in the fall — we’ve just moved here from New Mexico. He’s going to be in your son Jie’s class.”
“How nice,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.” They shook hands and she introduced herself.
“He’s adopted,” Gideon continued, “from Korea. We just wanted to make sure he’d feel at home — he’s still having some difficulty with English — which is why my wife and I were pleased to learn there would be other Asian children in the class. It’s hard to come into a new school in a new place. That’s why I was hoping to meet you and a few of the other parents.”
“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 connect you to the deepest and most profound truths of the universe — and in this way you eventually find the path of return to your true self.”
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.”