"I...er...seek the Master of Sinanju," Smith said in carefully enunciated English.
"His awesome magnificence is not here," the voice said, switching to formal but thick English.
"Is he expected?"
"He is not expected. Do you wish someone dispatched? Or a throne toppled?"
"Thank you, no, I will call later."
"Others give inferior service. Provide your telephone number, and the Master of Sinanju will return your call if you are found worthy of the honor."
"Thank you, no."
Switching lines again, Smith told Remo, "He is not expected in Sinanju. He must be in Tibet."
"Great," Remo groaned. "I don't know who to feel sorry for, the Tibetans or the Chinese."
"Remo," Smith said urgently, "it is imperative that Squirrelly Chicane not upset the balance of power in Tibet."
"Balance? It's a Chinese slave state. Where's the balance?"
"Here is the balance. Remo, Tibet is largely plateau. It is, in effect, the high ground of Asia. From there the Chinese look down upon India, which they consider an enemy. Tibet is a natural impassable barrier to the hostile forces beneath it. Also we know that the Chinese store some of their short-range missiles in the more inaccessible parts of Tibet. They consider the Tibetan question very sensitive and they are determined to hold on to it."
"So I see by the papers."
"Open revolt in Tibet could bring in Mongolia or India, which have religious ties to Tibet. If there is a new Sino-Indian conflict, Pakistan, China's ally and India's bitter enemy, will no doubt open up a second front. Pakistan is a nuclear power. You know what that means?"
"Yeah. Bye-bye, India. Damn."
"Leave for Tibet immediately, Remo."
"What happened to 'Tibet is none of our business'?"
"It wasn't and it isn't. But now that I know that the Master of Sinanju has triggered the chain of events now building toward crisis, it is our responsibility to interdict Squirrelly Chicane."
"What do you mean 'we,' white eyes?" Remo muttered.
Chapter 19
The night before she was to leave India for Tibet, the forty-seventh Bunji Lama could not sleep.
She tossed on her kang and dreamed wild dreams. This much the scriptures later recorded. What they failed to record was that chocolate-covered cherries as much as insomnia kept her from sleep.
She sat up, too enervated for rest, and with her perfect teeth-indicating her high state of spiritual evolution-she broke the outer chocolate shell and sucked the sweet nectar that was within.
From time to time she hummed to herself. Often she sang softly.
"I am the Buddha. The Buddha is me. I found myself under the bodhi tree. Don't cry for me, Pasadeeenaaa."
Outside the Dalai Lama's Dharamsala abode, the Tibetan exile community gathered around, spinning their tassled prayer wheels in their hands. Those who understood English translated for the others.
"The new Bunji Lama sings as sweetly as any woman," it was said.
"Move over, Evita," the Bunji was heard to sing.
This was not so easily translated, and became a point of much contention to Buddhist scholars in the next century.
"Bunji! Bunji!" they cried. "Give us your blessings, O Bunji!'
Squirrelly Chicane heard the calls, but did not understand the words. She did not need to understand. It was her public calling, her new public, and she could not ignore them.
Swathed in her saffron robes, her peaked lama's cap making her seem taller than her diminutive dancer's stature, she stepped out onto the great balcony where the Dalai Lama held his audiences.
She was blowing kisses to the wild approval of the crowd when Lobsang appeared at her side.
"What are they saying?" she asked.
"They wish only to drink in your wisdom, Buddha Sent," Lobsang said.
"I'll pontificate, you translate," Squirrelly said. Lifting her voice, she said, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life."
Lobsang recast the words into Tibetan and then Hindi.
"Squeeze the day!" Squirrelly added.
The crowd gasped. They began to prostrate themselves, throwing their bodies to the ground and bumping their foreheads on the dirt. It looked wonderfully aerobic.
"They are with you, Bunji," Lobsang said.
"Great! Tell them-oh, tell them life is just a bowl of cherries."
Lobsang translated. The prostrating abruptly ceased. Blinking, dubious eyes lifted toward the Bunji Lama.
"What's wrong?" Squirrelly asked.
"They do not understand cherries."
"What's to understand? A cherry is a cherry."
"They are poor and have never seen a cherry, much less eaten one."
"Then tell them life is a bowl of tsampa. "
After Lobsang translated this, a sea of foreheads began bumping the ground again.
"You know," Squirrelly said as she basked in the strenuous worship of her new public, "I can see an exercise video coming out of this-Bumping with the Bunji."