“That old rascal! He gave me some milk laced with a sleeping potion. Let’s go find him! I’ll teach him a lesson!”
“No. Hold on there! I don’t know what to think about it. It is strange that he was ejaculating just as I came back to life. He may have been doing it in order to revive me. Let us leave him in peace. Everything happened because it had to be that way. I regret nothing. This experience has freed me. I will never be the same.
“The teachings of my blessed father were the boat that helped me cross the river. Now that I am on the other side, it would be stupid to try to continue to live in that boat. The past is dead, and you are part of that past. Let us agree that our adventure has come to an end. I will disappear for a time. One day, I will write you. . From now on, let us not speak to each other.”
Thus we continued, like mutes. We mingled with a group of tourists and took a bus to Mexico City. We sat far apart on the bus. When we arrived in the city, we did not even say good-bye.
I never saw her again. A few years later, an envelope arrived with a Bali postmark. It contained a short note and a photograph: “Me with Ivanna, my daughter. I don’t know whether her father is you or don Prudencio.”
10. Master to Disciple, Disciple to Master, Disciple to Disciple, Master to Master
Suddenly, this man sensed that the plain had turned in a complete circle. The sky and its clouds seemed to lie at his feet.
SILVER KANE, UN COLLAR DE PIEL DE SERPIENTE
(A SNAKESKIN COLLAR)
“Above the place where his head had been, a small cloud of blood floated. . The blood seemed to have a life of its own.”
SILVER KANE, CON PERMISO DEL MUERTO
(WITH THE DEAD MAN'S PERMISSION)
Ten years later, disguised as a film and theater director, I returned to Mexico. I had been invited to give a lecture in a theater of the University of Mexico. On its facade, nineteen huge letters proclaimed it as the TEATRO JULIO CASTILLO. I realized that this talk represented the closure of a cycle of my life.
Julio Castillo, the same young man who had asked me years ago to teach him about lighting (not spiritual light), had gone on to become the director of many successful plays but had died at the peak of his fame. His legacy to the world of theater was so important that the autonomous University of Mexico had named its largest theater after him. In my own homage to Julio Castillo, I tore up the notes I had prepared and decided to repeat the same mistake I had made with him years ago — but this time deliberately. They wanted me to talk about cinematography, but I was going to talk to them about spiritual enlightenment and my experiences with koans.
In front of the thousand young people who filled the hall, I proposed this: “I am going to give you some riddles to solve. When you’ve finished offering all your solutions and exhausted your inspiration, I’ll offer you mine.”
With great perplexity they listened to me clap my hands and ask: “That is the sound of two hands clapping. What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
After considerable laughter, the responses came: snapping your fingers, slapping your forehead, holding out one hand and making the sound of a fart, and so forth. When they had finished and declared their inspiration exhausted, I had them each lift their right hand, as if about to swear an oath. Then I lifted my own and said what I had learned many years before from Ejo Takata.
“The sound of my one hand is the same as the sound of your one hand.”
This elicited enthusiastic applause. Inspired by this appreciative audience, I began to invent koans and offer solutions.
“Why do mountains have rocks?. . Mountains don’t have rocks. The rocks are the mountain. . Why is the mouth under the eyes?. . Because the mouth is for kissing the earth and the eyes are for kissing the sky. . Why can’t I stop thinking?. . I don’t think — the thoughts think me.”
Carried away by their enthusiasm, I even stepped down from the stage and began to mingle with the audience. Suddenly, I saw that their eyes were no longer on me but were fixed on the stage, which was at my back. Something was happening there.
When I turned around and looked, I felt as if I was in a dream. Ejo Takata, dressed in a monk’s robe was seated in meditation position, grinning at me.
It had been ten years since I’d seen him, but he looked the same as ever — generous spirit, ageless face, anchored to the ground, head pushing at the sky!
He jumped right into our game, holding his wooden kyosaku in a threatening gesture. (On one side of this stick the characters say: “I can teach you nothing. Teach yourself.” On the other side is written: “The plant flowers in the spring.”)
“What is the sound of an empty mind?” he asked me.
“The same sound as the voice that asks,” I answered without hesitation.
Ejo shouted a joyous “Kwatzu!. . Where does a thought spring from, and what is it?”
“Ideas have no owners. They are in the world, seeds of action.”
He began fanning himself. I realized I had fallen into the old intellectual trap. I prostrated myself three times before the master (sensei), and I recited one of his own proverbs: “A boat can find support on the water. The water can overturn the boat.” And I awaited the next question.
“When the mind is empty, what does it see?”
“Everything but itself.”
“Kwatzu! When a thought springs forth, where does it come from?”
“Tell me where it is going, and I’ll tell you where it comes from.”
“Kwatzu! If you see that a thought is excessive and artificial, do you think that there also exists a natural thought?”
“The farmer waits for rain; the traveler waits for good weather.”
“Kwatzu! What does your birthday mean to you?”
“There is no birth or death.”
He made a sign for me to come on stage. I climbed up and kneeled before him and touched the floor three times with my head.
He lifted me up with a smile. Holding the kyosaku in a horizontal position, he offered it to me. My hands were burning and my feet were freezing. Never had I expected to receive such an honor. Without thinking about what I was doing, I took the stick as in a dream and held it against my breast.
The students began to applaud. I had to acknowledge this with a bow, but as I was doing so, Ejo took advantage of the moment to disappear. After a minute of confusion, I ran outside to try to find him.
By chance, several cars were waiting in line to leave the parking lot. I saw Ejo in one of them, a beat-up old car with an Indian-looking driver. When he saw me, he rolled down the window. I held out the kyosaku to him, crying, “I don’t deserve this! You yourself once told me: ‘If you have the stick, I will give it to you. If you don’t have it, I’ll take it away from you.’ You must give your stick to someone who already has it. And I do not have it! I demand you take it!”
Ejo lowered the window farther. Instead of taking the kyosaku, he threw his fan in my face and rolled up the window again. The car started moving. I ran after it as fast as I could, but I could not catch up. Breathless, I stood there and began to fan myself. On the paper of the fan was written: “Chapultepec Forest. The usual place, same time, tomorrow.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Deep down, I had always aspired to become a master basking in the veneration of hundreds of disciples. Not only that, but I wanted to be able to sit cross-legged for endless hours in a zendo, a smiling Buddha until I died. I also knew this was an unattainable goal. I knew only too well my shameful weakness, my flawed successes, my ignorance like that of a microbe in the infinite cosmos.