Three Deaths and a Tango: The Rose Series, #2

By William Zemsky

THREE DEATHE AND A TANGO - SYNOPSIS

For two years Philip Rose, trained in a Zen monastery and now a principal in an architectural firm, woke each morning to face the horror that his wife Susan was dying of breast cancer. When she does die in his arms there is nothing in the thirty years of loving her that prepared him for the vast, cavernous loneliness that engulfed him. With much of his life still to live, he realizes quickly there is no guide to what he must do next. He is alone and he on his own. The Tantra of Tango is a meditation on emerging from this grief.

A friend of his wife nags Philip into taking tango lessons. "This is what Susan would have wanted," she tells him. At night he begins to attend classes. The sheer physical activity of the dance provides the first small relief from his grief. His body loves the distraction.

Engaged by a lawyer friend, Bert Stein as an architectural expert in a lawsuit over the death of a child killed by falling ice, Philip researches the unfortunate story of the child's death. He finds evidence of the greed he expected but also traces of massive money laundering.. He is confronted by the vast indifference of a society sinking deeper and deeper into criminality and delusion.

During the day Philip researches architectural misdeeds. At night he goes dancing. Argentine tango, notoriously addicting, sets its hook deep. Subbornness keeps Philip returning to the dance hall in spite of the humiliation and rejection he suffers Gradually, his skills improve. He begins each night to search for that one dance that will quiet the dogs of loneliness. Relationships bloom and fade like tango lyrics. He falls in love and is then rejected by the beautiful Emily Savage. He dallies with the wonderful dancer, Camela. Still, he is alone.

Then in one, unforgettable moment, during a single tanda of tango at a seedy dance venue in Sausalito, the threads of his Zen training, his experience as an architect, the web of tango and the dark secret of a love affair, produce an epiphany and change the trajectory of the lawsuit and the lives of the characters of this story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Zemsky
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223270355

William Zemsky

william Zemsky grew up in Berkeley Califirnia (to the extent that anyone ever grows up in Berkely), graduated from UC and eventually became an architect. He now lives in Portland Oregon where he paints watercolors, plays tennis, studies jazz guitar and cultivates a garden of herbs

Book preview

Chapter 1

Philip Rose sat in his living room. He spoke by phone with his architectural partner, Rick Underwater.

Rick, I’m okay, Philip tried to explain.  He had lost his wife to cancer.  I’m just working through things. 

It was a short conversation.  Rick offered condolences and Philip danced the dance of the bereaved. He had spent much of the last two years caring for Susan. He had been with her at every chemo session, radiation appointment, and visit to her oncologist. He shared with her the relentless bad news as the cancer spread.  For six months he had fed her, dressed her, and carried her to the bathroom when she could no longer walk. Now, there was nothing for him to do. Still, he knew he wasn’t ready to face work. He made his excuses. His partner mumbled his understanding. Philip set the phone down.

He checked his watch. It was December 8th, the first day of Zen’s Rohatsu Sesshin, the training period that commemorates the enlightenment of the historical Buddha. An image flashed in Philip’s mind of the Buddha taking his seat at the base of the Bodhi tree, vowing not to move until he understood his own life. Philip winced. He didn’t understand his life. He didn’t understand death. He ached with the loss of Susan. He rose, walked to his music room and set up his sitting cushion, found the inkin bell and the slender sticks of sandalwood incense. He unpacked the robes he had not used for 30 years and put on his rakutsu, the short bib he had been given by his teacher, Tanaka Roshi. For the next seven days, from early morning to late at night, he sat, his legs folded one on the other. He did Zen meditation. He did nothing. He could no longer formulate the question that churned inside of him. He could no longer find words that held real promise. He sat, he watched, and he waited. His body hurt; no longer supple, no longer accustomed to sitting. His concentration flagged. He fell asleep on his cushion only to be awakened rudely by the searing pain in his knees. But he sat. Gradually, his body yielded. The pain reached its peak. It was no longer getting worse. He spent hours following his breathing with his voiceless question quietly roaring and the pain lapping at the edges of awareness. Then the pain disappeared. He sat in the center with the pain held at bay by a column of his own concentration. Then the column disappeared. The gap was gone. What he wordlessly experienced was that his life as he knew it was gone. In the stillness that unfolded, Philip touched or was touched by this emptiness.  He was never sure which.  It felt like hunger.  It had always felt like hunger - Josu’s Mu.

When  questioned, Does a dog have Buddha nature? Zen master Josu had answered, Mu, which means void or nothingness. In the end the riddle has nothing to do with a dog or the Buddha but points to the emptiness that lies at the center of things. Words loped through Philip’s mind. "Why Mu? Why hunger? Why now?

TANTRA OF TANGO © 2013 William Zemsky

Chapter 2

Philip spent the month after sitting sesshin mostly alone, often walking the hills above his home for hours. His daughter flew up from LA to spend New Year and then returned to her family.  The following morning his iPhone rang, vibrating on the varnished top of his wood dresser.  The temperature in the room was brisk. He picked up small phone and read the screen: 8:45 January 3.  He didn’t recognize the caller’s number.  He put the phone to his ear and muttered, Rose.

Philip. Good morning. Happy New Year? The voice sounded distant and unfamiliar.  Philip struggled to recognize the caller.

Okay. Happy New Year. Philip answered in a flat voice. 

No, really Philip, how are you doing?  The speaker’s words hung for a moment. Then the light went on.

Oh. Bert. Yeah. I’m okay. Why?

Bert Stein laughed at Philip’s curtness. Bert was a lawyer and an old friend. Susan had been a partner in his law firm. Bert was family.

Listen, Philip, I know you’ve been through a lot so I’ll cut to the chase. I have a snow country case and I’d really like your help on it. Bert’s voice now said ‘lawyer’.

Philip, dragged back into the present, mumbled, Have you talked to Richard or anyone else at the firm?

Yes. I spoke with Richard. He told me I could reach you on your cell. Stein’s voice became serious. Philip. I don’t want someone from your firm. I want you. It’s a snow country case. I really need your expertise.

Lacking the energy to resist his friend, Philip agreed. Okay, okay. I’ll meet you.

When? Stein pressed.

All right, all right. Tomorrow.

Great! 10:00 am. I’ll have coffee.

Philip turned off the phone and sat in his bed probing this new intrusion into his solitude the way a tongue might explore a sore tooth. He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I will have to go back to work at some point."

Philip called his office.  "Richard, it’s me again.

Bert Stein just called and would like us to work on one of his cases."

Yes. He called here and I gave him your cell number.

I think I’d like to work on it myself. I mean I’m still not sure I’m ready to do architecture. This won’t involve a lot of people. It should be fairly simple. Maybe I’ll get back in the flow.

Great. I’ll have Margaret set up a project file. She’ll email you all the numbers. Let us know how it’s going. It would be kind of nice to see you.

Thanks Richard, I’ll get by as soon as I can. Philip ended the call and sat back against his pillows, staring out through the open window across Tiburon Bay.

Philip had agreed to meet friends for dinner that night at a Tapas Bar in Berkeley. He drove north towards the Richmond Bridge. Passing the Larkspur Landing with its lonely lines of slumbering ferryboats he was touched by memory the way one feels someone’s breath on one’s skin. Filled with an unbearable longing for his wife, an image of her seemed to settle in the passenger seat just beyond this screen of sight, just beyond his grasp. Driving alone along the nearly deserted road that skirts the back of San Quentin Prison with its guard towers and barbed wire fences, he cried out silently, the pain sharp. Then, a voice went off in his head:  "Let it pass through you." Trying to absorb the shock of what was happening, within a single beat of his heart, the overpowering and now persistent sense of Susan sitting next to him surged. He was not a superstitious person. He did not believe in ghosts. And yet, this was real.

His first thought, once the shock eased and Susan’s presence steadied, was, "Of course, these are Susan’s friends I’m meeting. She is looking forward to spending an evening with them."

He heard this thought. At that moment, there was nothing in the logic that disturbed him. It seemed natural, sitting in his car speeding across the meandering causeway that led to the bridge, that the reality of his day-to-day should bend to include Susan and her wishes. It felt like she was there in the car with him, that if he turned his head, he would see her sitting in the passenger seat. He half expected to feel her slip her hand under his leg as she often did when they drove together. Silently, within his own mind, he began to talk to her. She didn’t respond, but the sense of her abiding lasted until he was well onto the Erector Set section of the bridge. Then it passed without warning, the way it had come.

He found the restaurant, parked, walked to the corner and entered the brightly lit building. His friends stood in a group at the crowded bar – three couples; they had all known each other for years.

Like most Bay Area restaurants, the room was very loud. Hi Philip, Mo, a warm and elegant man from India who sold life insurance and dreamed of art, greeted him above the din. The others were all there:  Doug Horngrad, a lawyer and Keiko, his Japanese lover, Barbara, Mo’s earth mother wife, and Hannah and her banker husband, Chris. 

We’re just getting our table now, Mo put his arm around Philip’s shoulder to guide him. We have decided you will sit here. He gestured toward a long table with three place settings on each of the long sides and a single setting at the end. The thinking was immediately clear. The three couples would sit together and Philip, without a partner, would sit alone at the narrow end of the table.

"Am I contagious?" he wondered.  "Am I exiled?" 

While his friends chatted about the menu and debated about which wine to order, Philip tried to think if he knew another man who had lost his wife. "Oh yeah," he remembered. "Robert Grossman. His wife Sandy, a colleague of Susan’s, had died of Lou Gehrig’s. Philip, sitting at the end of the table, folding and refolding his napkin, remembered the last time he had seen Robert. It was at Sandy’s memorial. We have to stay in touch, he had told his friend, troubled by the sadness he saw pouring out of Robert’s eyes. But I never did," Philip realized. "I haven’t seen Robert since. I never even tried. At least these guys invited me."

They ate tapas:  Grilled boquerones of white anchovy, Jamon Iberia, octopus, oysters, bits of pork, pincho maruno with spicy lamb. They drank bottles of Tempranillo. Philip did not mention his experience of Susan’s presence along the San Quentin Curve to anyone. He never spoke her name, nor of the consuming loneliness. It was too painful. He said very little. When he did speak his friends looked at him blankly as if he spoke in a foreign language, or worse, spoke gibberish. The meal ended. They said goodnight without making plans to see each other again. 

On the way home, retracing his route past the deserted backside of San Quentin, Susan’s presence returned. This time he did not react so strongly. Perhaps it was the Tempranillo or, perhaps he was starting to get used to it. He allowed, without much thought, the impression to enter. The sense of her abiding came in, settled and then slipped away. It was when he passed in front of the Ferry Landing that he remembered that Susan, just before she got sick, was working on a case that took place somewhere around there. He remembered how over and over again she had driven the curve. 

"But why does this curve carry her memory for me?" he wondered. "Why this place and not another? Why doesn’t this happen when I drive past our old house, or at any of our old haunts? Why the San Quentin Curve?"

It was early evening. Dr. Ruby Vargas pushed back her dark brown hair back from her face. Stylishly dressed in layered shades of brown, orange and beige, she was 60 but looked to be in her 40s. She glanced at her watch. Her date was late. She had never really met the man. They had met on Match.com and had agreed to have coffee.

She sipped her latte and peeked at the ornamental clock that hung on the wall above the cashier. Without warning, she started. She felt her husband sit quietly beside her on the upholstered bench. But that was impossible. Her husband had been murdered three years ago. Still, she knew it was him – the sounds of his breathing, the way he moved. There was no doubt. She froze, afraid to look to her side, afraid to see his gentle eyes looking back at her. It was unbearable. Without really deciding anything, she rose from the table and walked through the door of the coffee shop, out into the mild winter day. She knew she was through with this nonsense. She was through with Match.com. She was sixty years old. She had a son. Maybe that was enough. Maybe she was supposed to spend the rest of her life alone.

Driving home, her mind floated across the surface of what had just happened.  Sensing her husband’s presence was not new. It had happened, even more so in the beginning. As a doctor, she knew this was quite normal. It was the timing that startled her. There was something troubling with memory appearing right then as she waited to meet another man.

For the first year after her husband was killed she had been numb with grief.  Then, for two years she buried herself in her work, not really admitting that she wanted to meet someone, although at some deeper recess she knew this had to be true. That’s what drove her to Match.com. That’s what Match.com’s about. The morning made her question all of that? 

"I am the queen of delayed gratification, she told herself, turning into her driveway. I can wait until it just happens." She brought her car to a stop. For a while she sat there, half wondering when she would sense her husband’s presence again. Her other half, like a well collecting deep waters, wondered where the new man was. What was he doing at that moment? What was he like?

A garbage truck, one of San Francisco Sanitary’s oldest, started up the Union hill. Its muffler crushed by a trip over a high curb, the roar of its straining engine and the rattle of its equipment filled the early morning with its urban racket.

Chapter 3

Philip crossed the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco and parked at the Union Square Garage. He walked down Stockton Street, already crowded with after-holiday sale shoppers, past Neiman Marcus and Macy’s. He turned left on O’Farrell. Bert Stein’s office was in a building at the end of the block on the third floor.

The receptionist smiled sadly in greeting and led Philip past Susan’s old office, past the clutch of paralegals, towards Bert’s office. Spotting Nancy Short, Susan’s paralegal, Philip stopped to say hello. Looking up and seeing Philip, Nancy stood, tears welling in her eyes, her hands twisting the edge of her blouse.

Oh Philip, I’m so sorry, she pleaded. Is there any thing I can do?

"What could she do?" he wondered.

I’m sorry, Nancy. I do really miss her. Philip apologized. Searching for something to say, somehow to change the subject, he remembered The San Quentin Curve case.

There is one thing. Do you remember that case Susan was working on? It had something to do with the road behind San Quentin. Could you let me see a copy of the file?

Nancy looked away from Philip as if she found it difficult to make eye contact. I’ll see what I can do, she spoke softly. 

The receptionist, eager to deliver Philip to her boss, tugged at Philip’s elbow. Philip

nodded to Nancy and continued towards the back of the office.

He entered the large, expensively furnished room lined with leather-bound law books.

Philip. Good morning. Bert spoke, rising from behind his enormous partner’s desk and circling to stand in front of his friend. It’s great to see you. We’ve all been worried. His voice trailed off.

Philip felt tears sting his eyes. He could not speak. He felt embarrassed.

"This is ridiculous," he thought standing there in the middle of Bert’s office.

Please, sit down, Stein gestured. I’ll get us some coffee,

Philip sat in a large, leather-upholstered chair facing Stein’s desk and tried to gain some control of his raging emotions. Stein returned a few moments later, a large ceramic cup in each hand. Steam from the hot coffee floated above the white mugs emblazoned with the name of Stein’s law firm, Stein, Wolf and Jefferies.  Philip blanched.  Wolf was Susan Wolf, the name his late wife had used as a lawyer.

How’s the architect business? Stein asked.

I haven’t worked for a few months, Philip confessed a little distracted. Not since ... you know, before Susan died.

Stein, reluctant to return to the difficult subject, pressed on, How about the ski resort you were working on in Wyoming?

Idaho, Philip corrected his friend automatically. Sun Valley. Stein nodded. The project finished nine months ago, Philip explained.

Oh yeah. Now I remember, Stein offered with a cheerfulness that sounded a little forced. Well, you’re still current with snow country design and I need an expert on a snow design lawsuit.

"This guy is really trying to help me, Philip thought. The least I can do is be polite. He took a long sip of coffee, exhaled, and looked over at Stein. So tell me, what’s this lawsuit about?"

It’s about a small boy killed by falling ice at a hotel in Tahoe. Bert Stein’s face turned grim. He handed Philip two photographs taken at the accident site and retold the grim story of the child’s death.  When he finished he looked up.  Philip nodded but said nothing.  He handed Stein back the photos. The two sat for while, each absorbed in their own thoughts.  Stein broke the silence:

The parents have sued. I’m representing one of the architects. There was serious concern in his voice. Philip couldn’t tell if the concern was for the boy that was killed or for the architect client that was surely going to take a beating. A repository has been set up at the Brown, Daily, McKitterich office, Philip. I’ll make arrangements for you to have access. 

Philip again nodded but didn’t speak. The two sat for a long moment, avoiding each other’s gaze.

Finally, Philip asked,  Who signed the Certificate of Merit? In order to sue an architect, a lawyer must find another licensed architect who will certify that he or she has reviewed the architect’s drawings and specifications and found there is probable cause.

They got that hack, Thomas Bottoms, to sign it, Stein replied. He’d sign a certificate against his own mother.

Philip knew from experience there was always some tension when you have one architect certifying against another. Complicating the matter, Philip knew Bottoms to be ambitious and without principal. In an earlier condominium case, Bottoms had railed in front of the jury claiming a non-sloping exterior structural deck was clearly below the Standard of Care for architects. Fortunately, Philip knew of a project where Bottoms was the architect and that project had non-sloping exterior structural decks. After Philip’s testimony, the attorney he was working for took Bottoms apart, showing the architect his own drawings and demanding to know if his design was below the Standard of Care. The incident completely undermined Bottoms’ credibility for the case. From that point on, Bottoms seriously disliked Philip.

So, Bottoms is the expert for the plaintiff? Philip said, beginning to warm to the idea of another bout with an old enemy.

That’s the strange thing, Stein shot back. Bottoms is the developer’s expert.

Who’s the developer’s lawyer?

Richard Goldman from the Bronson office. 

Then Richard Goldman, has kind of pissed in the pot, Philip observed. Everyone knows the plaintiff names the defendant.  The developer signing the Certificate of Merit complicates any attempt at a joint defense. Philip laughed and thought, "Back in the soup." 

Let’s go get some lunch, Stein offered. "There are some questions about your background I need to go over for your voir dire." Stein intended to declare Philip as his architectural expert and would have to justify Philip’s expertise to a judge.

The two left Stein’s building and walked north on Grant Street and east on Bush. They turned into the small alley, Claude Lane, and entered Gitane, a Spanish restaurant. Stein was recognized and they were quickly ushered to a booth toward the back against a long undulating wall covered with bits of broken, white ceramic tile.  There was something Gaudiesque about the swirl of the lighting fixtures and the ‘ceramica cassee’ wall.  A waiter brought two menus and hovered for a moment.

Roberto, I’ll have the usual, Stein announced without opening the menu. The usual turned out to be bistec con patatas bravas – steak and fries.

Philip, after glancing at the menu, asked the waiter, in perfect accent-less Spanish, "Yo quiero el pato, Senior."

"Como es que lo cocinamos?"

"Rosado, por favor."

"Y para beber, Senores?"

What do you think, Bert? This 2005 Monastrell looks pretty good. It’s Catalan.

Bert shrugged.

"Muy bien," Roberto declared and disappeared back into the kitchen. He returned almost immediately with the wine.

I forgot you speak Spanish, Stein remarked, sipping the deep red colored wine.

Yeah, I speak Spanish, Philip replied.

Come on Philip. How come you speak Spanish? Give me some background, Stein urged.

Well. I went to Spain when I was 19.

Spain? Architecture? I don’t get it.

Are you kidding? Spain had some of the greatest architects of the 20th Century.  You ever hear of Antonio Gaudi?

Bert shrugged again.

It was my junior year at Cal. I was sort of into organic architecture. You know, Sullivan, Frank Lloyd Wright, Bruce Geoff. I had grown up in Berkeley with Maybeck and Greene and Greene. I sensed a connection between Gaudi and his non-traditional forms and the local Bay Region architects I already loved. There was a program in Barcelona. I kind of wanted to get out of town, anyway. So, I called my dad.

What did your dad say?

He asked the same question you did. ‘What does Spain have to do with architecture?’

And what did you tell him?

I had the brochure that I got from the Spanish embassy and I read it to him. You know — the school would expand my horizons, increase my understanding of the Europeans and make me a better lover.

So, what happened?

When I told him I would get credit for the year toward my architecture degree, he bought it. Two weeks later I was on the S.S. France sailing from New York to Le Havre, heading to Barcelona. Philip stopped, touched by a memory. Something had happened in Spain.

Philip, it still doesn’t explain the Spanish, Bert offered, pouring a second glass of the Monastrell.

There is no explanation. I just learned Spanish,  Philip offered, recovering.

I’m sure the judge is going to be impressed, Stein offered sarcastically. What he really is going to focus on is your training to become an architect. Remind me. You graduated from Berkeley, right?

Fight. After 18 months I came back to Berkeley and finished my degree. Then I went out and got a job. For two years I drafted stairwells, window bucks and elevator shafts. In ’79, the economy tanked and I was laid off.

That’s not good, Stein offered.

Shit happens.

So what did you do?

I got interested in Zen.

The two had almost finished the bottle of wine. Bert sensed there was nothing more important to do that afternoon than drink and draw his friend out of his shell.

Go on.

"I was not the only one going through a crisis in 1979. There were a lot of us out of work. There was a lot marijuana and LSD around; there were a lot of alternative communities, including a bunch of Zen groups, all over the Bay Area. I had time on my hands. I looked around. I remember seeing the Tibetan Llama Trungpa chain smoke cigarettes and drink tumblers of vodka while generally insulting everyone in the room. 

"I went to sittings at the new Soto Zen Center in Japantown but was more impressed by the very large wood Synagogue building they sat in than the admonitions of Suzuki Roshi.

Why were you doing this? Bert broke in.

I don’t know, Phillip offered.  I was hungry for something. A memory of the interior of Sagrada Familia and an old woman kneeling in front of a massive bank of votive candles flashed in his mind.  He reached for his wine glass and drank and then continued his story.

Anyway, a friend suggested I try a Rinzai Zen group led by an Japanese Aikido teacher.  Philip shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘who can understand how this works.’ There was something about it that I liked so I began to sit with the group regularly. Eventually I met Tanaka Roshi.

What is this Roshi business? Bert asked. 

Roshi just means Zen Master. Philip’s face revealed no emotion.

Go on. What happened? Stein asked.

I met the Roshi. I was given an address here in the city. I walked into this condo and there was this Zen priest in a brown kimono sitting at a low table in front of a large plate glass window. He was powerfully built and had jet-black hair that seemed to explode out of his head. So I introduced myself.

A large group of tourists entered Gitane speaking in loud German voices. Roberto glided up to the table with a second basket of bread. "Todo es bueno, Senores?"

Bert nodded okay, pointed to the empty wine bottle and turned to Philip nodding to him to go on with his story.

"The Roshi turned toward me and said, ‘Tanaka.’ Suddenly I felt as if I were standing near a large wild, animal. A tiger. Something like that. The sense of animal energy was overpowering. I felt a strong impulse to run away. For some reason I didn’t.

"Many times afterward, I sat in a room with the Roshi when someone new was introduced. I would recognize the hesitation. The new person would recoil from the Roshi. A little smile would play at the edges of Roshi’s face and he would nod, almost imperceptibly. The moment of tension would pass with the new person now safely across the room, if not actually backing out of the door. The Roshi would later confide in me that he could tell from this initial meeting, how serious each person would train in Zen.

‘Most people come here thinking they want to know the truth,’ the Roshi had said.  ‘But, they can’t stand the heat. And they find that out without my doing anything. They come in here and then suddenly they discover they need to be somewhere else. It’s not so easy being here.’

Roberto appeared noiselessly with Bert’s steak, Philip’s duck, and a new bottle of the Monastrell. For a while the two friends concentrated on their meals. Then, at Bert’s prompting, Philip continued his story.

I sat next to the Roshi. It was a little weird.  For the first time in my life, I had this sense that I was in exactly the place I was supposed to be. Just before I got up to leave, the Roshi said in almost a whisper, ‘Philip, come and train with me.’ I was out of work. I had no idea what to do. This was the only clue. So I went to Hawaii. Philip picked up his wineglass. The color caught a sliver of the low restaurant lighting. The loud German tourists had quieted. Bert said nothing, mopping up the last juices of his steak with the few remaining fries.

Philip went on, I entered the monastery. I stayed three years. Then I came back to San Francisco.

That’s it? You came back? Bert’s voice tightened with growing curiosity.

Philip stared silently back at his friend.

Come on Philip. What happened? Were you enlightened? What does that even mean, to be fucking enlightened?

Is this something the judge is going to be interested in? Philip asked, a smile flickering at the edges of his mouth.

No Philip, the judge won’t give a shit. This is between you and me. What’s it like to be enlightened?

Philip looked over at Bert and shook his head gently to break the spell.

I stayed for three years and then I came back to San Francisco.

So that’s it? You spent three years in a monastery and then you came back?

Bert, the lawyer, unable to let his line of questioning drop completely, no longer exactly remembering the original question, shifted slightly. Well, did you learn anything?

Philip nodded toward the half empty bottle of wine. Bert poured the remaining two glasses. He paused.

Yeah, I did learn something, Philip said smiling. "One night, the Roshi called me to his rooms and told me to get ready. We were going out. I assumed he was going to meet someone and I was to serve as his driver.  A few minutes later he picked me up and drove us down into Honolulu. I didn’t recognize the neighborhood. It was an industrial area west of the downtown. We stopped in front of a whitewashed, singled story cinderblock building. I opened the car door and followed him into the softly lit interior.

"A very pretty, young Japanese woman in a light, summer kimono greeted us. She obviously knew the Roshi and led us to a back table.

"The Roshi and the waitress spoke Japanese for a while. The Roshi’s voice seemed to soften. I think he was actually flirting with the young woman, giving instructions on what food to bring. The woman turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Roshi looked at me.

‘What kind of sake do you like?’ he asked, smiling. I knew there was a tradition in Zen about drinking. Priests and monks swear never to eat meat or drink alcohol. At the same time, the last picture in the Ox Herding Paintings shows Hotei, a Zen monk, consorting with prostitutes. On his side are flasks of sake and meat. In the end there are no rules is Zen. That evening was to be a no-rule moment.

You mean you went drinking with this Roshi? Like you guys went out and tied one on?

"Yeah. Sort of. He asked me what kind of sake I liked. I had no idea. Then I remembered the sake I used to buy at the Japanese market here in the City. It was dry and I thought it was pretty good. So I told him, ‘Otokoyama.’

"Roshi’s smile faded. He shook his head. ‘Too much ego,’ he said gravely. ‘Tonight we drink Koshi no Kambei.’

"The waitress brought small plate after small plate of Japanese delicacies, mostly fish – fish parts and vegetables. Roshi coached me. He showed me exactly how to hold the small sake cup, how fast to drink, how to time the drink with each different dish:  after a bite of vibrant green uni,