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Bunji Lama, presently occupying a body known as Squirrelly Chicane."
The Dalai Lama blinked. Members of his retinue craned their shaved heads
forward as if seeing her for the first time.
"Is this the selfsame Squirrelly Chicane who was in Brass Honeysuckle?" asked
one.
Lobsang looked to Squirrelly, at a loss for words.
"Say yes," Squirrelly murmured.
"The answer is yes," said Lobsang.
The stony faces of the regents of the Dalai Lama broke out into smiles of
recognition. "It is Squirrelly Chicane!"
They began crowding around.
"Is Richard Gere well?" one asked.
"He's doing great," Squirrelly said, laughing. "Chants every day."
"What tidings from the lotus land of the West?" asked another.
Through it all the Dalai Lama stood impassive behind his mirror aviator
glasses.
"He's not budging," Squirrelly whispered to Lobsang.
"He is stubborn," Lobsang advised.
"Yeah? Well, I know just how to break the ice. Here, hold this," said
Squirrelly passing her dorje to Lobsang. Snapping her fingers once, she
accepted a silk wrapped package from Kula. Untying the drawstring, she brought
to light the gleaming Academy Award she had won for Medium Esteem.
"Check this out," she crowed.
"It is the icon of the long-lost Bunji Lama!" the regents gasped.
And to the astonishment of all, except Squirrelly Chicane, the Dalai Lama
lifted his prayerful hands to his forehead and bowed not once, but five times
low and deep.
"May I have your autograph, enlightened one?" he asked humbly.
After that it went swimmingly, Squirrelly thought. They retired to the Dalai
Lama's personal quarters, where the regents shut the doors and they drank
tea-thankfully without rancid butter-sitting face-to-face on cushions. The
Dalai Lama admired Squirrelly's Oscar while she got a good look at his Nobel
Peace Prize.
"Strange are the ways in which the Wheel of Destiny turns," said the Dalai
Lama.
"I saw this coming, you know. I'm a Taurus. They have the best karma."
"Now that you are recognized as the Bunji Lama, what will you do?"
"Liberate Tibet. That's what I'm here for," said Squirrelly, admiring the
Nobel. "How hard is it to earn one of these things, anyway?"
The Dalai Lama hesitated over his bowl of tea. "Why do you ask, Bunji?"
"One of these would look great over my mantel between my Oscar and Golden
Globe. By the way, may I call you Delhi?"
" 'Dalai.' It means 'ocean.' My title means 'ocean of wisdom.' And yes, you
may call me that if it is your desire."
"That reminds me. Let's dish, lama to lama!" Squirrelly leaned forward. "When
we feel the urge, what do we lamas do?"
"We do nothing. To sublimate the lower urges is our purpose in this life."
"Exactly how long have you been sublimating?" Squirrelly wondered.
"All my lives."
"Okaaay. Tell me, if you couldn't free your people after forty years, how'd
you snare this baby?"
"I earned the Nobel by keeping the peace. For my way is the way of
nonviolence. Is that not your way, Bunji?"
"I've always been nonviolent. Not that it's been easy. Sometimes I wanna give
my little brother such a smack."
"I am pleased to hear this. Aggression is not the answer to the problem of
Tibet, for the Chinese are many, and Tibetans few and poor."
"Don't sweat the Chinese. I've handled them before."
"These words gladden my heart. For I am the last Dalai Lama. It has so been
prophesied. After me there will be no more, and my people are beside
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themselves at the prospect. But now that the Bunji has returned, hope will
spring anew. Perhaps in two or even three decades, Tibet will breathe the
sweet air of freedom once more."
Squirrelly squinted under her fleece-lined lama's cap. "Two or three decades?
I figure it'll take two or three weeks."
"Weeks?"
"Sure," Squirrelly said, ticking off her plans on her saffron-nailed fingers.
"Two or three weeks to liberate Tibet. Maybe another week or so for a goodwill
tour of the major villages. Six months to write the book. And three to film."
"Film?"
Squirrelly flung her arms wide as if to encompass the entire world. "Won't
this make a great movie? Internationally famous American actress plucked from
cosmic obscurity to liberate a downtrodden people. Talk about high concept!"
"I fail to follow your thinking, Bunji Rinpoche."
"Oh, I love it when people call me that. Listen, you have a really photogenic
face. Wanna play yourself?"
"Play?"
"I may end up doing Lamb of Light as a musical, though. Like Evita. How good
are your pipes?"
"But you are the Bunji. It is your destiny to rule Tibet-if the Chinese do not
assassinate you first."
"They already tried that," Squirrelly said dismissively. "Now that I have the
First Lady on my side, I'm protected. If anything happens to me, she'd have
them nuked."
"You would not encourage a nuclear attack on China?"
"Not me. By that time I'll be well into my next life and as long as I didn't
come back as a Chinese citizen, I probably wouldn't care."
A knock came at the door. The Dalai Lama perked up.
"Ah, it is dinner. We will eat and talk more. Enter."
Servants entered, bearing fragrant foods on silver trays.
Kula and Lobsang hovered nearby.
Squirrelly tasted the air. "Smells scrumptious. What is all this stuff?"
"That is tsampa."
"Looks like Maypo. What about this soup?"
"That is thukpa-noodle soup. Very tasty."
"Tibetan pasta? I love it!"
"Do not eat yet."
"Why not? Do we say some kind of Buddhist grace first?"
"We must await the food taster."
"Food taster?"
"It is a precaution in case of poison."
"Who would try to poison you? You're so sweet."
"You," said the Dalai Lama without rancor.
"Hey, give a gal a break. I'm a fellow Buddhist, after all."
The food taster came in, bowed to each of them, and, under the watchful eyes
of Lobsang Drom, Kula and the Dalai Lama's retinue, and the horrified eyes of
Squirrelly Chicane, lifted each bowl in turn and slurped up generous
portions.
"Don't you feed this guy?" Squirrelly asked.
"He is kept in a state of perpetual famishment," the Dalai Lama explained, "so
that he will not balk at the task before him."
After he had tasted everything, the food taster sat down and everyone looked
expectant.
Squirrelly squinted at him. "What are we waiting for, this poor guy to die?"
"Yes," said Kula.
"Oh. How long does that usually take?"
"If the food has cooled and he still breathes, the food is unpoisoned."
"Oooh, I hate cold food."
"As the Bunji Lama, it is your sacred duty to renounce the temptations of the
material world," Lobsang intoned.
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"Hot food isn't a temptation, but a necessity," said Squirrelly, dipping a
surreptitious finger into her tsampa. Maybe she could sneak a taste while
everybody was waiting for the food taster to keel over.
Squirrelly had her tsampa-smeared finger tucked up under her chin and was
about to go for it when the food taster turned a sickly green and keeled left.
He began breathing in a labored fashion. This lasted not very long at all.
Just until the death rattle.
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