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<strong>Buddhas</strong> <strong>and</strong> <strong>Bikinis</strong> 4<br />
was topless, her breasts obscured with the fluttering pages of Albert Camus’ The Plague.<br />
Even more remarkable, she was singing softly in the most melodious voice, her<br />
words floating to my ears, ♫ ‛One thought <strong>and</strong> a thous<strong>and</strong> worlds come into being.’<br />
So overwhelmed by the sight, I steadily walked toward her, <strong>and</strong> as my shadow<br />
crossed her face, she turned, held her h<strong>and</strong> to her eyes <strong>and</strong> squinted.<br />
‛Can I help you?’ she asked.<br />
I smiled then nodded, falling to my knees into the s<strong>and</strong> beside her.<br />
‛Hi,’ I said. ‛My name is Ari.’<br />
After a few moments, during which she looked at me with incredible disbelief, she<br />
rested the book against her chest.<br />
‛How nice.’<br />
‛Are there any rats?’ I asked.<br />
She frowned, incredulous, ‛No.’<br />
‛So the books not about rats?’<br />
I already knew there were no rats in The Plague. I had read the book twice because<br />
I didn’t get it the first time <strong>and</strong> didn’t enjoy it the second time. Existentialism, even when<br />
explained by Camus, <strong>and</strong> backed by evidential proof of Darwinian evolution, still smacked<br />
of simplicity to anyone with an enquiring mind. Call me a romantic, but this serendipitous<br />
meeting with Hiroshi, which would forever alter my underst<strong>and</strong>ing of life, had as much<br />
chance of happening as the pieces of a 747 jet assembling themselves in a tornado. My<br />
God didn’t play dice. I went with Bergson; immediate experience <strong>and</strong> intuition are more<br />
potent than science at underst<strong>and</strong>ing reality. Bergson came from a musical family, <strong>and</strong><br />
Charles Darwin was tone deaf; my defence rests.<br />
She returned to her book.<br />
‛It’s a serious question,’ I reiterated.<br />
‛No,’ she chuckled, removing her Fedora to reveal a shorn head. ‛No rats.’<br />
I admired the sunlight glistening off her dome-shaped skull.<br />
She stroked her scalp as if she knew my next question, ‛I’m a nun or should I say<br />
was a nun, but hey I realise now there’s no buddha. I only ended up falling in love with<br />
Rinpoche, head monk at Karuna. Hey,’ she continued, with a rebuking smile on her face,<br />
‛don’t laugh at me you look like you couldn’t give a shit anyway!’<br />
‛You’re weird, but it suits you. The hair, I mean, or lack of it.’<br />
‛What happened to your eye?’ she enquired.<br />
‛Karate.’
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