Free Deshi by John Donohue Page A

element of intimidation.
    But you could see that this guy liked to use his bulk that way. He was dressed all in black; an affectation that I vaguely associated with show biz or the art world. The dark clothes hid the musculature, but you could see the hint of power in the neck that swelled from his stylish little turtleneck. The guy was a people-handler. He seemed an odd companion for the Rinpoche.
    We got to the head of the line.
    “Hi,” I said, giving the man my card. “I’m Dr. Burke. My guest and I should be on the list of invitees.”
    He took the card and didn’t look at it. He looked down at his clipboard, flicking back and forth among the pages. His face took on a hard look. “No. Uh-uh. I don’t see it.”
    I glanced at Yamashita. My job as his student is to pave the way for him. He is, after all, my sensei. It was embarrassing to have this sort of snag pop up. But I stayed calm.
    “Sure, I understand,” I told the man guarding the door. “Arrangements were made through the Office of Special Events.” I could see that none of this made the slightest impact.
    The man shook his head. “Yeah, well look. I don’t know about that.” You could see him make his final decision: it was like watching a shade roll down behind his eyes. His hard look got harder. “I’m gonna have to ask you to move along, now.”
    “Maybe we should talk to your supervisor…” I offered. “I’m sure the head of security can clear this up.”
    The man moved closer to us, trying to use his body to reinforce his request. Yamashita watched dispassionately, like a scientist viewing an interesting, yet routine, experiment performed by a colleague. But he didn’t budge. And I got the subtle message: this problem was mine to deal with.
    “I’m telling you once,” the guard said tightly. “You’re not on the list. You don’t get in. Now beat it.”
    You could sense the shove coming. It was in the way his tone of voice began to cycle upward. A slight adjustment of his feet. I think his nostrils even flared slightly. In Yamashita Sensei’s dojo we call it telegraphing. So I wasn’t surprised when he tried to move me.
    He shoved, and I could see his eyes narrow with anger when I stayed rooted to the spot. It’s a pretty basic skill, once you get the hang of it. Without balance, my teacher says, nothing can be achieved. The naive think he’s waxing philosophical. In reality, he thinks fighters should avoid falling down.
    “I want you out of here,” the big man hissed at me. He was getting ready to do something else. This was not the place for a shoving match. And I got the sense my friend here was getting ready to take things to the next level. It worried me. Not in terms of the physical stuff. But I could see the headlines in the paper: Museum Mayhem: Martial Artist Crashes Party .
    “Is there a problem?” a woman’s voice asked from the room beyond the door. I got the initial impression of an attractive, fit form with dark hair. She had a list on a clipboard, too. But I was mostly focused on the guy at the door. The man glared at me as I went through my explanation again to her. Presented my card. She looked at an index card clipped to her papers, and then put a hand on the arm of my wrestling partner. “It’s OK. They were a late addition to the list.” She said it in a calming way. But it was a firm tone, and not apologetic. The guard looked at us with resentment, but he stood aside. You could tell that deep down he wanted another go at me. And part of me was annoyed enough to oblige. For the first time, my teacher spoke. “Come, Burke. Let us go in.” It was a mild command, but an order nonetheless.
    “I’m sorry, Dr. Burke,” the woman said as she started to lead us inside.
    “There have been some changes in Changpa Rinpoche’s arrangements. Different staff…” She smiled.
    I smiled back at her and gestured for Yamashita to go in ahead of me. The man in black looked at us like we were reptiles.
    I waited