there was something in this fellow’s bearing that reminded me more of a long-haul truck driver than a peaceful monk. True, his head was shaved, but he wasn’t smiling. He was two or three inches shorter than my sister and built like a middle linebacker, with a wide rough face that could have belonged to a man of thirty-five or a man of sixty. It was almost as if he were a combination of all his predecessors: part yoga master, part biker, with a glint in his eyes like that slimy orchestra guy.
