“Still, someone must have taught you.”
“When I was young, I did study Kosen’s calligraphy for a while. That’s all, though. But I’ll do a piece anytime someone asks me.” The abbot laughs again. “Now, could you let us have a look at that Tankei?”
At last the damask bag is removed. All eyes go to the ink stone that emerges. It’s roughly twice as thick as a normal stone, about two and a half inches. The five-inch width and eight-and-a-half-inch length are fairly standard. The lid is polished pine bark that still retains its scaly texture, and on it in red lacquer are written two characters in an unknown hand.
“Now, this lid,” the old gentleman begins, “this lid is no ordinary lid. As you can observe, there’s no question that it’s pine bark. Nevertheless . . .”
His eyes are on me as he speaks. As an artist, I’m unable to summon much admiration for a pine bark lid, no matter what its provenance and story, so I say, “A pine lid is a little inelegant, surely?”
The old gentleman holds up his hands in horrified remonstrance. “Well, if it’s merely a common pine lid, I do agree, but this one—this one was made with Sanyo’s own hands, from pine stripped from the tree in his very own garden while he was in Hiroshima.”
Well then, I think to myself, Sanyo was a vulgar fellow, it seems. Rather daringly, I remark, “If he made it himself, he could get away with making it look a bit clumsier, I think. It seems to me he needn’t have gone to the trouble of polishing up the rough patches to make them shine like that.”
The abbot laughs heartily in instant agreement. “True enough,” he says. “It’s a cheap-looking lid.” The young man turns his eyes pityingly to the old gentleman, who rather crossly takes the lid off and puts it aside. Now at last the ink stone itself is revealed.
If there is one thing particularly striking to the eye about this ink stone, it is the craftsman’s carving on its surface. In the center a round area of stone about the size of a pocket watch has been left standing flush with the height of the edges, and it is carved into the shape of a spider’s back. Eight legs go curving out in all directions, the foot of each consisting of one of the stone’s characteristic “shrike spots.” The ninth spot is visible in the center of the spider’s back, a yellow stain like a trickle of juice. The remaining area around the spider’s body and legs is carved back to a hollow about an inch deep. Surely this deep trench is not where the ink is intended to be ground? Two whole quarts of water would not fill it. I imagine one must dip a little silver ladle into an elegant water pot, trickle a drop onto the spider’s back, and apply the ink stick there to create a precious pool of ink. Otherwise, though it is an ink stone in name, the object would be nothing more than a simple ornament for the desk.
“Just look at the texture of it, look at those spots!” The old gentleman almost drools with delight as he speaks.
Indeed, the color’s beauty increases the more you gaze. If you breathed on that cold, lustrous surface, your warm breath might instantly freeze there, leaving a puff of cloudiness. The most astonishing thing is the color of the shrike spots. They are not so much spots as subtle shifts in color where the spot emerges from the surrounding stone, a transition so gradual that the eye finds it almost impossible to locate the point at which the deceptive moment of change occurs. Metaphorically, it’s like gazing into a translucent plum-colored bean cake, at a bean that lies embedded deep within. These shrike spots are so precious that the presence even of one or two is highly prized. There would be almost no examples of a stone with nine. What’s more, the nine are distributed equidistantly over the surface, so apparently systematically that the effect could well be mistaken for a human artifact—a masterpiece of nature indeed.
“It’s certainly a splendid thing,” I say, passing it to the young man beside me. “It’s not just pleasing to the eye, it’s delightful to touch as well.”
“Would you understand such matters, Kyūichi?” the old man inquires with a smile.
“I’ve no idea,” Kyuichi blurts out, ducking the question with a rather desperate air. He puts the ink stone down in front of him and gazes at it, then picks it up and hands it back to me, perhaps acknowledging that it’s too fine for his ignorant eyes. I run my hands over it carefully one more time before returning it reverently to the abbot. He rests it delicately on the palm of his hand till he’s finished examining it; then, apparently not yet sated, he picks up the edge of his gray cotton sleeve, rubs it fiercely over the spider’s back, and gazes in admiration at the resultant luster.
“The color really is marvelous, isn’t it? Have you ever used this?” asks the abbot.
“No, I scarcely ever get the urge to actually use it. It’s just as I bought it.”
“Yes, I can understand that. This would be considered rare even over in China, I should think, wouldn’t it?”
“Quite so.”
“I’d like one of these myself, I must say,” the abbot remarks. “Maybe I’ll ask Kyuichi for one. How about it, Kyuichi, could you buy me one?”
Kyuichi gives a chuckle. “I could well be dead before I get a chance to find you your ink stone.”
“Yes, indeed. An ink stone will be the last thing you have on your mind, eh? Speaking of which, when do you set off?”
“I’m going in two or three days.”
“See him off as far as Yoshida, won’t you, Mr. Shioda?” says the abbot.
“Well, I’m an old man, and normally I wouldn’t bother these days, but it may be the last time we meet, who knows, so I’m planning to go along and say farewell, in fact.”
“There’s no need to do that, Uncle.”
So he’s the old gentleman’s nephew. Yes, I can see the resemblance between them now.
“Oh, go on,” urges the abbot. “Do let him see you off. It would be quite simple if you went down the river by boat. Isn’t that so, Mr. Shioda?”
“Yes, it’s not easy over the mountains, but if we went around the long way by boat . . .”
The young man no longer objects to the offer; he simply remains silent.
“Are you going over to China?” I venture.
“Yes.”
This monosyllable isn’t an entirely satisfactory response, but there seems no need to delve further, so I hold my tongue. Glancing at the papered window, I register that the shadow of the aspidistra has shifted.
“Fact is,” Mr. Shioda breaks in on his nephew’s behalf, “with this war, you know . . . He enlisted as a volunteer, so he got called up to go.” And so from him I learn the fate of this young man, who is destined to leave for the Manchurian front in a matter of days. I’ve been mistaken to assume that in this little village in the spring, so like a dream or a poem, life is a matter only of the singing birds, the falling blossoms, and the bubbling springs. The real world has crossed mountains and seas and is bearing down even on this isolated village, whose inhabitants have doubtless lived here in peace down the long stretch of years ever since they fled as defeated warriors from the great clan wars of the twelfth century. Perhaps a millionth part of the blood that will dye the wide Manchurian plains will gush from this young man’s arteries, or seethe forth at the point of the long sword that hangs at his waist. Yet here this young man sits, beside an artist for whom the sole value of human life lies in dreaming. If I listen carefully, I can even hear the beating of his heart, so close are we. And perhaps even now, within that beat reverberates the beating of the great tide that is sweeping across the hundreds of miles of that far battlefield. Fate has for a brief and unexpected moment brought us together in this room, but beyond that it speaks no more.
CHAPTER 9
“Are you studying?” she inquires. I’ve returned to my room and am reading one of the books I brought along, strapped to my tripod on the journey over the mountain.
“Do come in. I don’t mind in the least.”
She steps boldly in, with no hint of hesitation. A well-formed neck emerges above the kimono collar, vivid against its somber hue. This contrast first strikes my eye as she sea
ts herself before me.
“Is that a Western book? It must be about something very difficult.”
“Oh, hardly.”
“Well, what’s it about, then?”
“Yes, well, actually, I don’t really understand it myself.”
She laughs. “That’s why you’re studying, is it?”
“I’m not studying. All I’ve done is open it in front of me on the desk and start dipping into it.”
“Is it interesting to read like that?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why?”
“Because with novels and suchlike, this is the most entertaining way to read.”
“You’re rather strange, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I am a little.”
“What’s wrong with reading from the beginning?”
“If you say you have to start at the beginning, that means you have to read to the end.”
“What a funny reason! Why shouldn’t you read to the end?”
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it, of course. I do it too, if I want to know about the story.”
“What do you read if it isn’t the story? Is there anything else to read?”
There speaks a woman, I think to myself. I decide to test her a little.
“Do you like novels?”
“Me?” she says abruptly. Then she adds rather evasively, “Yes, well . . .” Not very much, it seems.
“You’re not clear whether you like them or not, then?”
“Whether I read a novel or not is neither here nor there to me.” She gives the distinct impression that she takes no account of their existence.
“In that case, why should it matter whether you read it from the beginning, or from the end, or just dip into it in a desultory way? I don’t see why you should consider my way of reading so strange.”
“But you and I are different.”
“In what way?” I ask, gazing into her eyes. This is the moment for the test, I think, but her gaze doesn’t so much as falter.
She gives a quick laugh. “Don’t you understand?”
“But you must have read quite a lot when you were young,” I say, abandoning my single line of attack and attempting a rearguard action.
“I like to believe I’m still young, you know. Really, you are pathetic.” My arrow has gone wide again. There’s no relaxing in this game.
Finally pulling myself together, I manage to retort, “It shows you’re already past your youth, to be able to say that in front of a man.”
“Well, you’re far from young yourself, to be able to make that remark. Is it still so fascinating, for a man of your age, all this talk of being head over heels and heels over head, and having pimples, and such adolescent stuff?”
“It is, yes, and it always will be.”
“My, my! So that’s how you come to be an artist, then.”
“Absolutely. It’s because I’m an artist that I don’t need to read a novel from cover to cover. On the other hand, wherever I choose to dip in is interesting for me. Talking to you is interesting too. In fact, it’s so interesting that I’d like to talk to you every day while I’m staying here. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind falling in love with you. That would make it even more interesting. But we wouldn’t need to marry, no matter how in love with you I was. A world where falling in love requires marrying is a world where novels require reading from beginning to end.”
“That means that an artist is someone who falls in love unemotionally.”
“No, it’s not un-emotional. My way of falling in love is non-emotional. The way I read novels is nonemotional too, which is why the story doesn’t matter. I find it interesting just to open up the book at random, like this, like pulling one of those paper oracles out of the box at a shrine, see, and read whatever meets my eye.”
“Yes, that does look like an interesting thing to do. Well then, tell me a little about the place you’re reading now. I’d like to know what intriguing things emerge.”
“It’s not something one should talk about. Same with a painting—the worth of the thing disappears completely if you talk about it, doesn’t it?”
She laughs. “Well then, read it to me.”
“In English?”
“No, in Japanese.”
“It’s tough to have to read English in Japanese.”
“What’s the problem? It’s a fine nonemotional thing to do, after all.”
This could be fun, I decide, and proceed to do as she asks, falteringly translating aloud the words on the page. If there were ever a “nonemotional” way of reading, this is it, and she too, of course, will be hearing it with a “nonemotional” ear.
“‘The woman emanated tenderness. It flowed from her voice, her eyes, her skin. Did she accept this man’s help to lead her to the boat’s stern in order that she might view Venice in the dusk, or was it to send this electricity coursing through his veins?’ This is just a rough translation, you understand, because I’m reading nonemotionally. I may skip a bit here and there.”1
“That’s perfectly all right. I won’t even mind if you add something wherever you feel inclined.”
“‘The woman leaned beside the man at the railing of the boat. The space between the two was narrower than that of a ribbon fluttering in the breeze. Together they bade farewell to Venice. The palace of the Doges glowed a soft red, like a second sunset, and faded from view.’”
“What’s a Doge?”
“It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s the name of the people who used to rule Venice long ago. They ruled for generations; I’m not sure how many. Their palace still stands there.”
“So who are this man and woman?”
“I’ve no more idea than you do. That’s why it’s interesting. It doesn’t matter what relationship they’ve had till now. The interest lies in the scene before us at this moment, their being here together—just like you and me.”
“You think so? They seem to be in a boat, don’t they?”
“In a boat, on a hill, what does it matter? You just take it as it’s written. Once you start asking why, it all turns into detective work.”
She gives a laugh. “All right then, I won’t ask.”
“The usual novels are all invented by detectives. There’s nothing nonemotional about them—they’re utterly boring.”
“Well then, let’s hear the next bit of your nonemotional story. What happens now?”
“‘Venice continued to sink from sight, until it became nothing more than a faint smudge of line against the sky. The line broke now into a series of points. Here and there, round pillars stood out against the opal sky. At last, the topmost belltower sank from sight. It is gone, said the woman. The heart of this woman bidding farewell to Venice was free as the wind. Yet the now hidden city still held her heart in a painful grip, and she knew she must return there. The man and the woman fixed their gaze on the dark bay. The stars multiplied above them. The gently rocking sea was flecked with foam. The man took the woman’s hand, and it felt to him as if he held a singing bowstring.’”
“This doesn’t sound very nonemotional.”
“Oh no, you can hear it as nonemotional if you care to. But if you don’t like it, we can skip a bit.”
“No, I’m quite happy.”
“I’m even happier than you are. Now where was I? Er . . . this part is somewhat trickier. I’m not sure I can . . . no, this is too difficult.”
“Leave it out if it’s hard to read.”
“Yes, I won’t bother too much. ‘This one night, the woman said. One night? he cried. Heartless to speak of a single night. There must be many.’”
“Does the woman say this, or the man?”
“The man does. She doesn’t want to go back to Venice, see, so he’s comforting her. ‘The man lay there on the midnight deck, his head pillowed on a coil of rigging rope; that moment in his memory, the instant like a single drop of hot blood when he had grasped her hand, now swayed in him like a vast wave. Gazing up into
the black sky, he determined that come what may he must save her from the abyss of a forced marriage. With this decision, he closed his eyes.’”
“What about the woman?”
“‘The woman seemed as one lost and oblivious to where she strayed. Like one stolen and borne up into thin air, only a strange infinity . . .’ The rest is a bit difficult. I can’t make sense of the phrasing. ‘A strange infinity’ . . . surely there’s a verb here somewhere?”
“Why should you need a verb? That’s enough on its own, isn’t it?”
“Eh?”
There is a sudden deep rumble, and all the trees on the nearby mountain moan and rustle. Our eyes turn to each other instinctively, and at this moment the camellia in the little vase on the desk trembles. “An earthquake!” she cries softly, shifting from her knees and leaning forward against the desk where I sit. Our bodies brush each other as they shake. With a high-pitched clatter of wings, a pheasant bursts out of the thicket close by.
“Wasn’t that a pheasant?” I say, looking out of the window.
“Where?” she inquires, leaning her pliant body against mine. Our faces are almost close enough to touch. The soft breath that emerges from her delicate nostrils brushes my mustache.
“Nonemotional, remember!” she says sternly as she swiftly straightens herself.
“Of course,” I promptly reply.
In the aftermath of the little earthquake, the startled water in the hollow of the garden rock continues to sway gently to and fro; the shock has risen up through the water in a swelling wave that does not break the surface, creating instead a fine lacework pattern of tiny ripples in irregular curves. Were it to exist, the expression “tranquil motion” would describe this perfectly. The wild cherry tree that steeps its calm reflection there wavers in the rocking water, stretching and shrinking, curving and twisting; yet I am fascinated to observe that however its shape changes, it still preserves the unmistakable form of a cherry tree.
What an enchanting sight—so beautiful and shifting. This is how motion should be.
“If we humans could only move in that way, we could move all we liked, couldn’t we?” she says.
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