9. Mt. Fuji from Naborito
I am fond of this print: the torii of a Shinto shrine are visible above the sea at low tide, and people dig clams amid the sunken ruins. Fuji of course is visible through the torii. Were it a Christian church beneath the waves puns involving the Clam of God would be running through my mind. Geography saves, however.
And reality differs entirely. I cannot locate the place.
I am in the area and Fuji properly situated, but the torii must be long gone and I have no way of knowing whether there is a sunken temple out there.
I am seated on a hillside looking across the water and I am suddenly not just tired but exhausted. I have come far and fast these past several days, and it seems that my exertions have all caught up with me. I will sit here and watch the sea and the sky. At least my shadow, the man in black, has been nowhere visible since the beach at Tagonoura. A young cat chases a moth at the foot of my hill, leaping into the air, white-gloved paws flashing. The moth gains altitude, escapes in a gust of wind. The cat sits for several moments, big eyes staring after it.
I make my way to a declivity I had spotted earlier, where I might be free of the wind. There I lay my pack and cast my bedroll, my poncho beneath it. After removing my shoes I get inside quickly. I seem to have taken a bit of a chill and my limbs are very heavy. I would have been willing to pay to sleep indoors tonight but I am too tired to seek shelter.
I lie here and watch the lights come on in the darkening sky. As usual in cases of extreme fatigue, sleep does not come to me easily. Is this legitimate tiredness or a symptom of something else? I do not wish to take medication merely as a precaution, though, so I try thinking of nothing for a time. This does not work. I am overcome with the desire for a cup of hot tea. In its absence I swallow a jigger of brandy, which warms my insides for a time.
Still, sleep eludes me and I decide to tell myself a story as I did when I was very young and wanted to make the world turn into dream.
So … Upon a time during the troubles following the death of the Retired Emperor Sutoku a number of itinerant monks of various persuasions came this way, having met upon the road, traveling to seek respite from the wars, earthquakes, and whirlwinds which so disturbed the land. They hoped to found a religious community and pursue the meditative life in quiet and tranquillity. They came upon what appeared to be a deserted Shinto shrine near the seaside, and there they camped for the night, wondering what plague or misfortune might have carried off its attendants. The place was in good repair and no evidence of violence was to be seen. They discussed then the possibility of making this their retreat, of themselves becoming the shrine’s attendants. They grew enthusiastic with the idea and spent much of the night talking over these plans. In the morning, however, an ancient priest appeared from within the shrine, as if to commence a day’s duties. The monks asked him the story of the place, and he informed them that once there had been others to assist him in his duties but that they had long ago been taken by the sea during a storm, while about their peculiar devotions one night upon the shore. And no, it was not really a Shinto shrine, though in outward appearance it seemed such. It was actually the temple of a far older religion of which he could well be the last devotee. They were welcome, however, to join him here and learn of it if they so wished. The monks discussed it quickly among themselves and decided that since it was a pleasant-seeming place, it might be well to stay and hear whatever teaching the old man possessed. So they became residents at the strange shrine. The place troubled several of them considerably at first, for at night they seemed to hear the calling of musical voices in the waves and upon the sea wind. And on occasion it seemed as if they could hear the old priest’s voice responding to these calls. One night one of them followed the sounds and saw the old man standing upon the beach, his arms upraised. The monk hid himself and later fell asleep in a crevice in the rocks. When he awoke, a full moon stood high in the heavens and the old
24 VIEWS OF MT. FUJI, BY HOKUSAI
man was gone. The monk went down to the place where he had stood and there saw many marks in the sand, all of them the prints of webbed feet. Shaken, the monk returned and recited his experience to his fellows. They spent weeks thereafter trying to catch a glimpse of the old man’s feet, which were always wrapped and bound. They did not succeed, but after a time it seemed to matter less and less. His teachings influenced them slowly but steadily. They began to assist him in his rituals to the Old Ones, and they learned the name of this promontory and its shrine. It was the last above-sea remnant of a large sunken island, which he assured them rose on certain wondrous occasions to reveal a lost city inhabited by the servants of his masters. The name of the place was R’lyeh and they would be happy to go there one day. By then it seemed a good idea, for they had noticed a certain thickening and extension of the skin between their fingers and toes, the digits themselves becoming sturdier and more elongated. By then, too, they were participating in all of the rites, which grew progressively abominable. At length, after a particularly gory ritual, the old priest’s promise was fulfilled in reverse. Instead of the island rising, the promontory sank to join it, bearing the shrine and all of the monks along with it. So their abominations are primarily aquatic now. But once every century or so the whole island does indeed rise up for a night, and troops of them make their way ashore seeking victims. And of course, tonight is the night… .
A delicious feeling of drowsiness has finally come over me with this telling, based upon some of my favorite bedtime stories. My eyes are closed. I float on a cotton-filled raft … I—
A sound! Above me! Toward the sea. Something moving my way. Slowly, then quickly.
Adrenaline sends a circuit of fire through my limbs.
I extend my hand carefully, quietly, and take hold of my staff.
Waiting. Why now, when I am weakened? Must danger always approach at the worst moment?
There is a thump as it strikes the ground beside me, and I let out the breath I have been holding.
It is the cat, little more than a kitten, which I had observed earlier. Purring, it approaches. I reach out and stroke it. It rubs against me. After a time I take it into the bag. It curls up at my side, still purring, warm. It is good to have something that trusts you and wants to be near you. I call the cat R’lyeh. Just for one night.
10. Mt. Fuji from Ejiri
I took the bus back this way. I was too tired to hike. I have taken my medicine as I probably should have been doing all along. Still, it could be several days before it brings me some relief, and this frightens me. I cannot really afford such a condition. I am not certain what I will do, save that I must go on.
The print is deceptive, for a part of its force lies in the effects of a heavy wind. Its skies are gray, Fuji is dim in the background, the people on the road and the two trees beside it all suffer from the wind’s buffeting. The trees bend, the people clutch at their garments, there is a hat high in the air and some poor scribe or author has had his manuscript snatched skyward to flee from him across the land (reminding me of an old cartoon—Editor to Author: “A funny thing happened to your manuscript during the St. Patrick’s Day Parade”). The scene which confronts me is less active at a meteorological level. The sky is indeed overcast but there is no wind, Fuji is darker, more clearly delineated than in the print, there are no struggling pedestrians in sight. There are many more trees near at hand. I stand near a small grove, in fact. There are some structures in the distance which are not present in the picture.
I lean heavily upon my staff. Live a little, die a little. I have reached my tenth station and I still do not know whether Fuji is giving me strength or taking it from me. Both, perhaps.
I head off into the wood, my face touched by a few raindrops as I go. There are no signs posted and no one seems to be about. I work my way back from the road, coming at last to a small clear area containing a few rocks and boulders. It will do as a campsite. I want nothing more than to spend the day resting.
I so
on have a small fire going, my tiny teapot poised on rocks above it. A distant roll of thunder adds variety to my discomfort, but so far the rain has held off. The ground is damp, however. I spread my poncho and sit upon it while I wait. I hone a knife and put it away. I eat some biscuits and study a map. I suppose I should feel some satisfaction, in that things are proceeding somewhat as I intended. I wish that I could, but I do not.
An unspecified insect which has been making buzzing noises somewhere behind me ceases its buzzing. I hear a twig snap a moment later. My hand snakes out to fall upon my staff.
“Don’t,” says a voice at my back.
I turn my head. He is standing eight or ten feet from me, the man in black, earring in place, his right hand in his jacket pocket. And it looks as if there is more than his hand in there, pointed at me.
I remove my hand from my staff and he advances. With the side of his foot he sends the staff partway across the clearing, out of my reach. Then he removes his hand from his pocket, leaving behind whatever it held. He circles slowly to the other side of the fire, staring at me the while.
He seats himself upon a boulder, lets his hands rest upon his knees.
“Man?” he asks then.
I do not respond to my name, but stare back. The light of Kokuzo’s dream-sword flashes in my mind, pointing at him, and I hear the god speaking his name only not quite.
“Kotuzov!” I say then.
The man in black smiles, showing that the teeth I had broken once long ago are now neatly capped.
“I was not so certain of you at first either,” he says.
Plastic surgery has removed at least a decade from his face, along with a lot of weathering and several scars. He is different about the eyes and cheeks, also. And his nose is smaller. It is a considerable improvement over the last time we met.
“Your water is boiling,” he says then. “Are you going to offer me a cup of tea?”
“Of course,” I reply, reaching for my pack, where I keep an extra cup.
“Slowly.”
“Certainly.”
I locate the cup, I rinse them both lightly with hot water, I prepare the tea.
“No, don’t pass it to me,” he says, and he reaches forward and takes the cup from where I had filled it.
I suppress a desire to smile.
“Would you have a lump of sugar?” he asks.
“Sorry.”
He sighs and reaches into his other pocket, from which he withdraws a small flask.
“Vodka? In tea?”
“Don’t be silly. My tastes have changed. It’s Wild Turkey liqueur, a wonderful sweetener. Would you care for some?”
“Let me smell it.”
There is a certain sweetness to the aroma.
“All right,” I say, and he laces our tea with it.
We taste the tea. Not bad.
“How long has it been?” he asks.
“Fourteen years—almost fifteen,” I tell him. “Back in the eighties.”
“Yes.”
He rubs his jaw. “I’d heard you’d retired.”
“You heard right. It was about a year after our last-encounter.”
“Turkey—yes. You married a man from your Code Section.”
I nod.
“You were widowed three or four years later. Daughter born after your husband’s death. Returned to the States. Settled in the country. That’s all I know.”
“That’s all there is.”
He takes another drink of tea.
“Why did you come back here?”
“Personal reasons. Partly sentimental.”
“Under a false identity?”
“Yes. It involves my husband’s family. I don’t want them to know I’m here.”
“Interesting. You mean that they would watch arrivals as closely as we have?”
“I didn’t know you watched arrivals here.”
“Right now we do.”
“You’ve lost me. I don’t know what’s going on.”
There is another roll of thunder. A few more drops spatter about us.
“I would like to believe that you are really retired,” he says. “I’m getting near that point myself, you know.”
“I have no reason to be back in business. I inherited a decent amount, enough to take care of me and my daughter.”
He nods.
“If I had such an inducement I would not be in the field,” he says. “I would rather sit home and read, play chess, eat and drink regularly. But you must admit it is quite a coincidence your being here when the future success of several nations is being decided.”
I shake my head.
“I’ve been out of touch with a lot of things.”
“The Osaka Oil Conference. It begins two weeks from Wednesday. You were planning perhaps to visit Osaka at about that time?”
“I will not be going to Osaka.”
“A courier then. Someone from there will meet you, a simple tourist, at some point in your travels, to convey—”
“My God! Do you think everything’s a conspiracy, Boris? I am just taking care of some personal problems and visiting some places that mean something to me. The conference doesn’t.”
“All right.” He finishes his tea and puts the cup aside. “You know that we know you are here. A word to the Japanese authorities that you are traveling under false papers and they will kick you out. That would be simplest. No real harm done and one agent nullified. Only it would be a shame to spoil your trip if you are indeed only a tourist… .”
A rotten thought passes through my mind as I see where this is leading, and I know that my thought is far rottener than his. It is something I learned from a strange old woman I once worked with who did not look like an old woman.
I finish my tea and raise my eyes. He is smiling.
“I will make us some more tea,” I say.
I see that the top button of my shirt comes undone while I am bent partly away from him. Then I lean forward with his cup and take a deep breath.
“You would consider not reporting me to the authorities?”
“I might,” he says. “I think your story is probably true. And even if it is not, you would not take the risk of transporting anything now that I know about you.”
“I really want to finish this trip,” I say, blinking a few extra times. “I would do anything not to be sent back now.”
He takes hold of my hand.
“I am glad you said that, Maryushka,” he replies. “I am lonely, and you are still a fine-looking woman.”
“You think so?”
“I always thought so, even that day you bashed in my teeth.”
“Sorry about that. It was strictly business, you know.”
His hand moves to my shoulder.
“Of course. They looked better when they were fixed than they had before, anyway.”
He moves over and sits beside me.
“I have dreamed of doing this many times,” he tells me, as he unfastens the rest of the buttons on my shirt and unbuckles my belt.
He rubs my belly softly. It is not an unpleasant feeling. It has been a long time.
Soon we are fully undressed. He takes his time, and when he is ready I welcome him between my legs. All right, Boris. I give the ride, you take the fall. I could almost feel a little guilty about it. You are gentler than I’d thought you would be. I commence the proper breathing pattern, deep and slow. I focus my attention on my hara and his, only inches away. I feel our energies, dreamlike and warm, moving. Soon, I direct their flow. He feels it only as pleasure, perhaps more draining than usual. When he has done, though …
“You said you had some problem?” he inquires in that masculine coital magnanimity generally forgotten a few minutes afterward. “If it is something I could help you with, I have a few days off, here and there. I like you, Maryushka.”
“It’s something I have to do myself. Thanks anyway.”
I continue the process.
Later, as I dress myself, he lies
there looking up at me.
“I must be getting old, Maryushka,” he reflects. “You have tired me. I feel I could sleep for a week.”
“That sounds about right,” I say. “A week and you should be feeling fine again.”
“I do not understand …”
“You’ve been working too hard, I’m sure. That conference …”
He nods.
“You are probably right. You are not really involved … ?”
“I am really not involved.”
“Good.”
I clean the pot and my cups. I restore them to my pack.
“Would you be so kind as to move, Boris dear? I’ll be needing the poncho very soon, I think.”
“Of course.”
He rises slowly and passes it to me. He begins dressing. His breathing is heavy.
“Where are you going from here?”
“Mishima-goe,” I say, “for another view of my mountain.”
He shakes his head. He finishes dressing and seats himself on the ground, his back against a treetrunk. He finds his flask and takes a swallow. He extends it then.
“Would you care for some?”
“Thank you, no. I must be on my way.”
I retrieve my staff. When I look at him again, he smiles faintly, ruefully.
“You take a lot out of a man, Maryushka.”
“I had to,” I say.
I move off. I will hike twenty miles today, I am certain. The rain begins to descend before I am out of the grove; leaves rustle like the wings of bats.
11. Mt. Fuji from Mishima-goe
Sunlight. Clean air. The print shows a big cryptameria tree, Fuji looming behind it, crowned with smoke. There is no smoke today, but I have located a big cryptameria and positioned myself so that it cuts Fuji’s shoulder to the left of the cone. There are a few clouds, not so popcorny as Hokusai’s smoke (he shrugs at this), and they will have to do.
My stolen ki still sustains me, though the medication is working now beneath it. Like a transplanted organ, my body will soon reject the borrowed energy. By then, though, the drugs should be covering for me.
In the meantime, the scene and the print are close to each other. It is a lovely spring day. Birds are singing, butterflies stitch the air in zigzag patterns; I can almost hear the growth of plants beneath the soil. The world smells fresh and new. I am no longer being followed. Hello to life again.
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