The Hemingway Files

by H. K. Bush

  His father, Goto Kenichi, was born in 1890 in Yamaguchi, and rose to prominence very early after World War I as an entrepreneur. He made his fortune in steel, chemicals, and machine tools, and established Goto Heavy Industries in 1924. This massive conglomerate went on from these original industries to diversify into all sorts of other businesses: banking, railways, and the Goto Department Stores.

  I had been seeing the Goto name all over Kobe, but for some reason it just never occurred to me that this was the family of old Professor Goto, staid member of my own faculty. He was the youngest of Goto Kenichi’s two sons. The first was Goto Tsukasa, born in 1917 and now the chief operating officer of the Goto Industries, was one of the three or four wealthiest men in Japan. Tsukasa was reared as his father’s successor, as is the custom in Japanese society for the firstborn, a sort of prince among the princes of the nouveau riche in the 1920s era. He was tall, handsome, cunning, and an outstanding athlete (baseball and kendo, Japanese sword fighting). Tsukasa graduated from Kyoto Imperial University, the most important school in western Japan, and after college, he served as a fighter pilot during the war, flying Zeroes over the Pacific. He shot down at least ten Allied planes, and luckily was never drafted into any kamikaze groups, due to his own serious injuries in a fire near the end of 1944. Coincidentally, Goto senior’s company made millions producing spare parts for Mitsubishi, the builders of the Zeroes that would ultimately be flown by his son.

  When his father died in 1969, Goto Tsukasa was his designated successor. The will specified that he take over the family business (his mother had been dead for over ten years). Not long after his father’s death, Tsukasa moved the company headquarters from Osaka to a much more fashionable area of Tokyo, and had been living in a large walled estate near Seijo in Setagaya-ku for over twenty years, enjoying his status as one of the world’s twenty most wealthy businessmen.

  The book’s chapter on the Goto dynasty (which I read standing up in the bookstore, a common tactic in Japan for which they even have a term: “tachiyomi,” roughly meaning “standing & reading”) shed much light on the family, but only made a few passing references to the second brother, Goto Haruki. He had chosen a quite different path from his older, more charismatic brother. Haruki had also been a pampered prince, but he was bookish, physically feeble, and quiet, and his interests led him ultimately to the far more solemn hallways of the world’s great universities. Born in 1920, he was too infirm healthwise to fight in World War II: his asthma and bad feet precluded his service. Instead he began his course of study at Kyoto Imperial University near the commencement of the war’s great expansion. It was the year before Pearl Harbor. From there, he went on to Harvard in 1948, having developed a passion for literature, particularly the American romanticism of the nineteenth century and the Transcendentalists of Concord, Massachusetts: Emerson, Thoreau, and their friend, Hawthorne (a closet Transcendentalist). Goto studied at the feet of the legendary Perry Miller, and was one of the first Japanese ever to receive a doctorate in American literature from an Ivy League university. He completed the PhD in American literary studies in 1955, focusing on the Emerson-Whitman connection. Next, he did a post-doc for three years at the Sorbonne in Paris, after which he returned to join the faculty at Kobe University in 1957, where he has been ever since.

  The book mentioned Goto Haruki’s own inheritance as “paltry,” hinting at the scandalous injustice of the father giving his oldest son the vast majority of the family fortune. Of course, a paltry percentage of $2.8 billion is nothing to sneeze at. I doubted if he had been forced to miss any meals, or cancel any subscriptions over the years. The author also suggested there had been a fair amount of tension within the family itself. A minor statement in the book puzzled me: “[The Goto family’s] war efforts were undertaken in support of the imperial court, for which the patriarch donated much of his treasure, and the services of his two sons. The older son became a decorated fighter pilot, while the younger son aided the imperial court by donating his highly polished skills as a creative writer.” This mysterious comment managed to sink its claws into my head, and I often wondered how Professor Goto’s “skills” might have been used.

  Japan’s Master Builders made me wonder why he had chosen to leave the family business, to pursue the path of a college professor. Of course, I knew that in Japan, professors enjoyed a much higher esteem in the public imagination than they do back home in America. It also seemed likely that there was some family rift, symbolized by the older brother’s move away from the older Kansai region to the more glamorous contemporary center of power, Tokyo. Meanwhile, his younger brother retained the old family property (the one I had already visited). Were the brothers still close? Did they still share good memories, or any sense of brotherhood?

  The book also made me wonder about the implications of my position in Japan, and the sources of my good fortune. I slowly realized, standing in that crowded bookstore, that my entire subsistence in Kobe was due to the financial magic of two of Japan’s Master Builders: the late, great Goto Kenichi and his cagy son, Tsukasa, engineers of the family billions. The Goto Fellowship, of which I was the latest beneficiary, was established due to the generosity of a family who made its billions by manufacturing cold rolled steel, nails and screws, muriatic acid, horizontal lathes, industrial furnaces, and copper tubing. Goto’s oldest son produced the structural components of industrial Japan; his younger son and I, meanwhile, made our careers by uncovering the structural components of literature, the works of the “master builders” of the west.

  Besides wandering the bookstores, O-bon allowed my first solo venture into the heartland of Japan before classes resumed. Armed with my trusty Japanese-English dictionary, I had already planned to head north to escape Kobe’s deadening humidity and heat. I’d contacted my old buddy Jim Daymon, and he’d given me clear and detailed directions to the temple where he had been living for some three years. After a very long train trip, it was more long hours on several buses to reach the remote section of the northern Japan Alps where the temple is located.

  I stayed the first night in the city of Matsumoto, which gave me a chance to visit the famous Matsumoto Castle. From its top, I enjoyed breathtaking views of the dark mountains of central Japan, into which I would venture the next day. I imagined that somewhere hidden among those peaks, my friend Jim was probably sitting, zazen-style, thinking deep thoughts, possibly even looking toward me and that imposing, feudal castle, as I looked toward him.

  The next morning I boarded a bus and headed up into those wild and jagged peaks toward the resort town called Kamikochi, which is one of the most scenic alpine valleys in Japan. That leg of the trip took an hour, and then I spent another hour walking some of the well-groomed trails around Kamikochi, mostly with old, retired Japanese men and women. At ten o’clock, it was time to complete the journey to the temple. As instructed, I found a taxi and gave Jim’s detailed directions—he had provided them in English and Japanese—to the driver. It took another half hour, winding up and up into the humid morning air. Finally the taxi-driver pointed toward a massive, red torii: a gateway into a sacred ground, comprised of two massive posts supporting a large connecting top. Think of a torii as an entranceway resembling a huge Greek letter Pi.

  To get to the temple itself, I had to walk a path that snaked its way upwards for yet another hour. It was probably only about two miles, but the vertical ascent must have been several hundred feet, if not a thousand, and it made for rough going, a true religious pilgrimage. I stopped to rest a couple of times, taking long swigs from my water bottle, wiping my brow. Insects buzzed around my head and ears. Every so often I encountered another, smaller torii gate to pass under, so that by the time I reached the top, I must have walked through a hundred of them. Clearly, Jim’s hideout was not for the faint of heart.

  Like its namesake temple located in Kyoto, the Ryoanji, which means “the temple of the peaceful dragon,” is blessed with an amazing zen-style rock garden on its grounds. As I entered
the area directly surrounding the temple, a bit sweaty from my climb, I noticed this garden, off to my left. Sitting on one of its large boulders was an old Japanese man in the humble robe of a Buddhist monk. His head was completely shaved, and he sat balanced and erect, in an almost perfect posture, looking out toward the south. I paused to watch him for a moment, during which time he did not move, and seemed not even to breathe. I hesitated to say anything since I didn’t want to disturb him, but finally I let out a very slim “sumi massen,” excuse me. When he turned to look at me, it was without surprise. Rather, he seemed to know I was there, and as if he expected me all along.

  He stood, saying ohayo-gozaimasu: “Good morning,” and bowing for a long moment. I did likewise. Then he said, “Springs-sensei desu-ka?”Are you Professor Springs? This surprised me even more, but it turned out that Jim had told his fellow monastics that a friend of his would be visiting, and that this was the approximate date of my arrival (actually, I was a day later than I had told Jim, having underestimated the long bus rides and my own stamina).

  “Hai, Springs desu. Hajimemashite.” Yes, I’m Springs. How do you do?

  Then he rushed toward me, grasped my hand with both of his, bowed again and again, smiling with great pleasure, and said, “Ubukata desu—Hajimemashite.” More bowing, now bordering on uncomfortable. “Chotto-matte, kudasai. English very poor.” And with that, he hurried away, in search of help, evidently.

  I was left standing in the gravel path, my old duffel bag beside me, wiping the sweat off my forehead, when, a few minutes later, Jim appeared. He was smiling as always, thinner than I remembered, and was also wearing the robes of the temple. And he was completely bald, the sun glinting off his shiny dome. No bows for him. He approached and took me off my feet with a long bear hug. “Jack, old pal! You made it, man. Yes! Welcome to Dharma heaven, buddy.”

  He picked up the bag and led me to the temple. On the porch just beyond were several of the other monks, whom he introduced. One of them was Watanabe, the guy in charge. “Just call him Watanabe-roshi, sort of like calling him reverend in English.” They all welcomed me with friendly smiles and an air of contemplation mixed with an earthy enjoyment of all things surrounding us.

  My first visit of three days on the top of that mountain, nearly 9,000 feet up, where the air gets a bit thin, was one of the highlights of my entire stay in Japan. Situated near, if not on the border of Nagano and Gifu Prefectures, Ryoan-ji temple enjoys a nearly panoramic view of the surrounding mountains. The view is oriented both eastward, back toward the Kanto plain, the “new” capitol Tokyo, the Pacific Ocean, and America beyond; and southwestward, toward the Kansai plain, the ancient capitol Kyoto, and beyond that my home in Kobe. From this perch high above the central mountains of Japan, one can thus look either way and meditate accordingly. In the distance loomed two of the most famous peaks of the Japan Alps: Hotaka-dake and Kita-dake. Ryoan-ji literally soars into the heights, and is the perfect location for thinking about both old and new.

  With the pair of binoculars my host provided the first evening, I could look down over 1,000 meters into the surrounding valleys and watch tiny automobiles slowly work their ways up and down the switchbacks. Birds of prey glided noiselessly through the gorges. Hot and humid in the valleys below, the air was pleasant at the temple, and there was always some sort of breeze, so the windows and the shoji door panels were left open during the days. At night, the air was a bit chilly, and I nestled down under the fresh futons, dreaming of sutras and satori.

  Jim was still the fun kibitzer, excellent story-telling poker player and all-around wise thinker that I remembered from our old days at Yale, where he studied the philosophy of religion and where we’d met playing pick-up basketball, another religious activity we shared. He described in amusing detail his adventures in the Rinzai school of zen, and introduced me to certain disciplines of the temple, such as measured breathing and meditation on zen koan, the riddles with no answers. His eyes would shine precociously as he told funny stories about Watanabe’s use of the keisaku, or “discipline stick,” a long, flat and flexible piece of wood used to hammer the shoulders of meditators who are losing focus or falling asleep.

  He also introduced me to the concept of kensho: seeing one’s true nature, or enlightenment; and he explained that, in the end, this was what zen was really all about. He said that the Rinzai master Hakuin had claimed to have eighteen major kensho and countless minor enlightenments. Jim said all this with a knowing glance, enough to make me wonder if he had seen his own, true nature. I guess I’m still seeking some level of kensho, and sometimes I’ve wondered if I should call this book Kensho.

  While there, I tried to mimic the routine of the group: we ate together, often in silence. One time during meditation, which I tried to embrace like the others, I actually did get whacked a few times by Watanabe’s keisaku. When bored, I could always take off on some of the paths leading even higher into the Japan Alps. And when we were alone together, Jim and I could talk about books or Japanese art (he was a self-taught expert), or just fool around and play gin or go, a Japanese board game he had learned to enjoy, which he taught me. I was terrible, but he was a patient teacher.

  On my final day, Jim showed me some of the treasures of the temple, which were kept hidden in a dark and cobwebby vault underneath the floors of one remote side room. I was sure he was breaking protocol by showing me the vault, and so I was all the more eager to see it. The most important of the treasures were several katana swords once used by samurai, an old mirror that needed a good cleaning, and a number of ancient scrolls, some of which were said to be of the sutras. Nobody really knew, in fact, since these relics had not been opened in many years, perhaps centuries, as far as anyone seemed to recall. The scrolls were venerated for the mysterious words they contained, words that nobody knew. “It is better that we not know,” Jim explained. “That way, I can imagine that they memorialize words of great power and healing. As such, the words grow in stature, and none of us can be disappointed.” He said all of this with no discernible irony, as innocently as a spring lamb. I loved watching him handle the scrolls gently and yet with great purpose, as if they might get up and walk away.

  Besides the scrolls and Jim’s koan-like elaboration, I was particularly struck by the intricacy of the carvings and other embellishments on two of the swords Jim allowed me to hold. “It’s so Japanese,” he’d said, “though many of the old people feel the attention to detail, the wonder, has been lost. The men from before the war think Japan has become crass and unfeeling—many older Japanese will tell you this—it’s a common view. The katana embodies the beauty of old Japan.” He looked me in the eye. “When people lose this sense of beauty, it’s very hard work to get it back, yes?”

  Together we admired the swords, which we held in both hands as if they were newborn babes. Then he put them both back in their cloth garments, stored them in their dusty cases, and together we lowered the cases back down into their hiding place.

  Later, on the bumpy bus ride back down the mountain toward the train station, I realized that Jim was now like one of those swords. Like them, it seemed to me, he was also hidden away, emblematic of another sort of life, one far away from the machinery and the commerce of the decadent modern world, searching for something above and beyond it. I could never really see myself in such a monastic setting, and could never see myself giving months or years to such an exercise the way Jim had. But in a way, the academic life of a scholar has its own disciplines and its own hiddenness. And so I was drawn back to Ryoanji, according to Jim’s earnest invitations. I told him, and Watanabe-roshi, that I would return, and I did—twice. Once a year later, again in the steamy weather of August, when I went directly and devoted fifteen days to the life of a Buddhist novice. And another brief, final visit just before I would get on the airplane and leave Japan once and for all.

  Obviously, when Jim elucidated his reverence for the katana swords and explained the contents of the old scrolls, it resonated wi
th Jack, as it did with me when I read the description of the contents of the temple’s treasure room. Scrolls containing hidden messages, unseen for centuries. Swords of rare beauty and craftsmanship, yet engineered for precise violence. They were metaphors of the rich detail of old Japan, signifying something precious and yet nearly lost, conveying a romance and a vigor that loses nothing in its exoticisms.

  As a literary critic, I am naturally drawn to metaphors such as these, hinting at the contrast of these precious commodities with the heavy industries described by the historian of the Goto clan. The silent winds high in the Japan Alps of a summer zen retreat, followed by the audacious return to contemporary urban life in Japan.

  I also now believe these sacred temple items also became symbolic of Jack’s subsequent quest. And of his “idea” of Japan— its meaning, its purpose in his life, its kensho, perhaps. Even here, he was foreshadowing the direction of his journey, I now realize. The clues are all there.

  CHAPTER 4

  The new term began promptly in mid-September. Teaching American literature in a Japanese university, I was discovering, was a task requiring great patience. My teaching was much less about the literature and much more about simple communication in the English language. In a class of thirty mostly female students, for example, maybe four or five would have decent conversational skills. So it turned out to be a lot of basic English conversation, even at an elite university like Kobe U. I would assign easy English reading: stories by Hemingway or Cather or O’Connor. Soon enough I figured out that only a few would even attempt the reading. Many sat in the back all semester, lifeless and silent, and worked on other things, or slept. Already, the romance was wearing thin, and I often found myself becoming drowsy, too. The teaching hours were not long, and I quickly decided it was OK to engage these students in conversation on almost any topic that we wished to pursue. We did sometimes discuss the readings, but we also talked about music, movies, sports, or whatever—in bored, convoluted English.