No Smoking

August 1984, Florence. Around 10 p.m., on the Ponte Vecchio, I walk up to a dark, slender, bearded man who is leaning against a wall, smoking. He is dressed from head to toe in loose red clothing. I have seen persons dressed like this all over Europe, and I want to find out what's up.

“Pardon me,” I ask him, “Um, I’ve seen people dressed like you all over the place. May I ask, um, why?”

“Sure.” He says. “We’re followers of Sri Rajneesh. He’s a great man. He’s our guru.”

“So, uh, what’s involved in, um, following him?”

“Well, we seek enlightenment. We meditate… And we live a simple life. Like, we’re forbidden from drinking alcohol, or having intercourse, or smoking.”

My eyes focus on the tip of his cigarette, and my brain hiccups. “But,” I say, naïve American that I am, “you’re smoking now.”

He looks me right in the eyes, infinitely cool, completely sincere. “No. I’m not.” And takes a drag.

I don’t remember how we part.

I do remember the aerial photograph, a few years later, of Sri Rajneesh’s 72 Rolls Royces, gifts of his non-smoking followers, parked in a muddy field in Oregon.