She experimented with moving her legs and fell into such a spasm of writhing, twisting, screaming anguish that Imelda, fearing for her mistress, immediately called for an ambulance.
THE PARAMEDICS rushed in, took one look and one of them said, "Back spasm."
The other, sniffing the air and seeing Squirrelly's dilated eyes, added, "High as a kite, too."
They brought in a spine board and tried to strap her to it. But Squirrelly only writhed and screamed more loudly.
The paramedics were trying to figure out what next to do when a resounding bell-like voice punctuated by heavy footfalls that shook the pine flooring announced, "I am Kula the Mongol, possessor of herpes in abundance, and I will slay any Christian who defiles the Bunji Lama with his unworthy hands."
The paramedics looked up, saw a hulking Asian brandishing a silver dagger and immediately backed away.
"We don't want any trouble, friend," one of them said.
"And if you stand away from that woman," a squeaky voice added, "there will be none."
The next person to enter was a little wisp of an Oriental wearing a kimono of scarlet silk. His serious gaze fell upon Squirrelly Chicane, half-strapped to the spine board. With a shriek, he fell upon the board and flung it aside.
"Western medicine!" he said derisively. "It is fortunate that we arrived in time, before they inserted foreign objects down the Bunji Lama's throat or removed her ears."
"They remove the ears of the sick here?" Lobsang said.
"Western doctors are quacks. They believe it is their right to remove any organ or appendage once they pronounce it to be infested with cancer."
"Oh, right," said Remo. "Ear cancer. That's a real killer."
And in the middle of this a dreamy voice called up from the floor, "Who's the Bunji Lamb?"
No one answered that question. Instead, Squirrelly Chicane found herself looking up into a sweet Asian face. It reminded her of the trusting faces she had seen in China years ago, when she had been there on a goodwill tour. To this day, people still criticized her for going and for praising the Chinese authorities after she had returned home. Republicans, mostly. They were so unenlightened.
"Who are you?" she asked the sweet, trustworthy face.
"I am the Master of Sinanju, and I have come to relieve you of your suffering."
"I think my chakras are out of whack, Mr. Sinatra."
Another Oriental face came into view. It looked worried.
"I am Lobsang Drom, of Tibet. You know of the chakras?"
"Yes, of course."
"You are Buddhist?"
"Yes," said the other Oriental.
"Baptist," Squirrelly offered.
"Bap-tist?"
"It is the American word for Buddhist," said the trustworthy-looking Oriental.
"Sounds about right to me," said Squirrelly, going with the flow.
"Can you heal her, Master?"
"Yes, can you heal me, Mr. Sinatra?" asked Squirrelly, who wondered if the old man was some distant cousin of Frank's.
Then the trustworthy Oriental reached behind her head with one hand and began manipulating her spine. Immediately, Squirrelly started feeling very warm in the area of her neck, and a sleepiness suffused her mind. She drifted off, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she could see her chakras-one set now-falling into line.
Her eyes snapped open suddenly, and she felt firm fingers withdraw from her neck.
"You may sit up now," said the old Oriental, standing up.
Squirrelly gathered her dancer's legs under her. They worked fine. She sat up. Her back responded without protest. There was no pain, no stiffness, no hesitancy.
"Chiropractic?" she asked, assuming a lotus position.
And the trustworthy old Oriental turned his head to spit into the roaring fire.
"Your humors were unbalanced," he said. "There was too much wind in your spine. I have released the bad wind."
Squirrelly blinked. She had never heard of wind in the spine. But it sounded really New Age, so it must be true. That was her personal philosophy in a nutshelclass="underline" if it sounded right, it was.
Squirrelly saw now there were four strangers in the room, not counting her maid and the two paramedics, who were packing up their spine board and first-aid equipment with sheepish expressions. They quietly slipped away.
Two were the Asians she had seen. The third was also an Asian. But different from the two. He looked like Conan the Hulk. The fourth man was white, very casually dressed, and had the biggest wrists Squirrelly had ever seen in her life.
There was something indefinably interesting about the way he moved. She couldn't take her eyes off him.
And the others couldn't take their eyes off her. Which was perfectly understandable, she decided. After all, wasn't she Squirrelly Chicane, toast of stage, screen, song and many lives?
Squirrelly bestowed upon them her most alluring smile.
"Let me guess, you're a delegation from the People's Republic, sent to convey greetings upon the occasion of my sixtieth birthday."
The faces of the three Asians fell, and the old one spit into the fireplace again.
"Wrong guess," muttered Squirrelly. "Okay, I'll bite. Who are you?"
"I am the Master of Sinanju, destined to be known as Chiun the Great, and I bring with me the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche and Kula the Mongol."
"Who's the hunk?"
Everyone scowled at that. Especially the hunk himself.
"A minor servant," said the sweet-faced Chiun.
"Trade you my maid for him"
"No deal," said the hunk with the wrists.
"You don't want to be my boy toy?" Squirrelly asked in a pouty voice.
"I'm a free agent."
"Enough!" cried the Master of Sinanju. "Memo, fetch the trunk of the former Bunji Lama."
And the white guy named Remo stepped from the room, moving, Squirrelly saw with pleasure, like a dancer. Better than Nureyev. With cuter buns, too.
While he was gone, the old Oriental said, in a voice that lost its squeakiness with each word, "O flamehaired one of many lives, we have journeyed far to bring you momentous tidings."
Squirrelly began singing, "Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. I hope the hunk is a Chippendale dancer, because he's built like a tree ...."
When no one joined in, she stopped. "Okay, this isn't about my birthday. So, tell a girl."
"An oracle has told us of your dwelling here in the land called Malibu," said Chiun, "and lo, it has spoken the truth. We have found you here."
"The Master of Sinanju speaks truly," said the Mongol, Kula.
"Truly, he has," added the Tibetan, Lobster. Or whatever his name was.
"I'm in the book," said Squirrelly.
"And now the time has come to test the veracity of the oracle's other revelation," said Chiun.
"An oracle has been talking about me? Behind my back?"
"The oracle has named you the next Bunji Lama."
"I never heard of the Bunji Lamb," said Squirrelly, "I did meet the Dehli Lamb at a party once. He was with Richard Gere. Any relation?"
This time it was the Tibetan who spit into the fireplace.
"When the Bunji Lama comes to the natural end of his life," he said, "it is his destiny to be reincarnated into the body of an infant born at the exact moment of his death. By certain secret signs is the next body recognized. In the case of the last Bunji Lama, he prophesied that the body fate had decreed for his next fleshly house would be born far from Tibet, and so he further prophesied the certain signs by which his regents could recognize him."
"This sounds really, really cosmic," said Squirrelly.
The Master of Sinanju proclaimed, "Behold, the white woman Squirrelly Chicane. Has she not red hair?"
"Yes."
"Truly."
"Not even dyed," said Squirrelly, patting her carroty shag.