Zen Attitude

by Sujata Massey

  “You threw away something old?” I still didn’t know what the object was, but I was upset enough to pull the quilt away from Angus’s face.

  He rolled away from me on the futon and spoke into the pillow. “I know you don’t want me smoking in the flat, but you moved out, and Hugh didn’t seem to care.”

  “Whatever. Just tell me what happened to the paper—”

  “I smoked it.”

  I tried to sort out his bizarre statement. “You mean you cut up the paper to make cigarettes?”

  “There’s some left over. It was a very long roll of paper.”

  “Please show me.”

  Angus eased up from the futon, revealing himself in his briefs. I didn’t care about that kind of thing anymore. I watched him reach a long, bony arm up to the top of the bookcases, knocking off a long, heavy poster tube. I knew it well; it contained my degree from Berkeley, which I still hadn’t gotten around to framing. He popped the lid off the tube and pulled out a thick roll of paper. I could see immediately how brutally hacked off one end was, but said nothing. He handed me the scroll and I unfurled it, using Hugh’s heavy law books to weigh down each end.

  “See, I told you it’s just scribbling. It looks like someone was testing out his paintbrush,” Angus muttered.

  The writing in question looked like a waterfall to me; flowing cascades of script going in vertical lines across the eight-foot series of joined papers dyed in soft shades of yellow, red, and indigo, and stamped occasionally with gold chrysanthemums. Ornate papers like this were typical of the early seventeenth-century Momoyama period, and the calligrapher had probably been an aristocrat, not a monk. I looked more closely at the writing done in the famously illegible, but beautiful, sosho style. I could make out the characters for “river” and “mountain.” The writer had even sketched in a drawing of Mt. Fuji. Could it be a travel journal?

  “What was on the section you cut off? Do you remember?” I asked Angus.

  “I dunno. Now that you’ve got it all unrolled, it looks like something real. Damn, I screwed up again.” Angus sounded heartbroken.

  “At least you told me the scroll existed.” I sighed. “Do you have any of the cigarettes left?”

  “Mmm. I think so. Would that help? “When I nodded, he went back into the diploma tube and removed five fat cigarettes. “I smoked three already, sorry about that. I’ll unroll these for you.”

  Within a minute, he had five slightly curled pieces of pale blue paper ready for my inspection. I patched them to form the last line of text. There was a tiny smudge of scarlet ink on one of the pieces, probably the edge of the artist’s seal. The rest, I guessed, had been smoked.

  “Is it something you can glue together? What does it say?”

  “I’ll have to do a little bit of studying. It’s too bad the scroll didn’t come in its original box. That would have had the artist’s name, a description of the contents, and the time it was drawn.” I already knew where I was going: the Tokyo National Museum Research Center. But I wasn’t carrying the scroll—it was far too valuable. I’d take some photographs of it instead.

  I walked around the scroll with my Polaroid camera, snapping close-ups of everything.

  Angus burst into a babble of questions. “Is it worth something?”

  “I’ll say. A scroll from this period sold for forty thousand dollars in San Francisco last year.”

  “I reckon it hadn’t been mucked up by anyone, though. I’m sorry, Rei.”

  It was the first time he’d ever apologized for anything. Feeling moved, I said, “My mother told me it sold even though it had mold around the edges and insect damage. So there’s still hope. And as far as your apology goes—well, you were a genius to take the scroll out of the tansu. I’m sure that’s what the burglars were looking for.”

  “Really?” He brightened. “Where should we hide it now?”

  “I want it out of the apartment. In fact, I’m taking it right now to my safe-deposit box at the bank.”

  “Radical. Do you want me to escort you there? For safety’s sake and all that?”

  “I thought you needed sleep,” I reminded him.

  “What’s forty winks compared to forty grand?”

  Chapter 23

  An hour later the scroll was safely in the vault at Sanwa Bank and I was trying to convince Angus it was all right to leave me alone. We were standing out-side Café Almond at Roppongi Crossing, the ninety-five-degree afternoon made even hotter by a young punk revving up his parked motorcycle so it blew out great gusts of exhaust.

  “Don’t go yet,” Angus insisted. “Come back to the flat and make me lunch. Save me from Winnie’s leftover roast beef.” Angus made a gagging sound.

  “You don’t care about me, just your stomach. It’s absolutely insulting.” I looked at my watch.

  “What’s worse? Think about how you blew my brother off. He’s not used to that from anyone excepting myself.”

  “Angus, I appreciate your concern but you should remember how you were screaming at me one week ago.”

  “If I shoved off, would you move back in with my brother?”

  I touched his thin shoulder. “You’re not the problem, it’s Hugh and me. But we aren’t fighting anymore. We came to a peaceful resolution.”

  Angus looked dubious. “So where are you sleeping tonight?”

  “I’ll start renting a room. Since you sold my wood-block prints, I can afford it.”

  “It can’t be in a good part of the city.” Angus frowned, and I thought with a jolt how much he sounded like his brother.

  “Listen, I have to do my research at the Tokyo National Museum first, so I’ll figure out the apartment later. I’ll call you with the address once I check in.”

  “Do that. Even if my bro doesn’t want your number, I do. Just for the record.”

  When we parted at Roppongi Station, I had the strangest feeling that I wouldn’t see Angus again. I stood for a minute and watched him cruise down Roppongi-dori, his earphones on, tapping out a rhythm as he walked. Dancing to his own music, the beat of some indecipherable drummer.

  The Tokyo National Museum was located in Ueno Park, the same place where Nao Sakai had met his death in Jun’s Windom. I walked up the steps where Mohsen had helped me and into the park, past fountains spewing deliciously cool water and toward the beautiful Beaux Arts structure that was the museum’s flagship building. I had to stop at the ticket kiosk to ask about the research center; I’d never been there, but it would be the best place to start a massive research project, given that the museum only had a fraction of its treasures on display.

  I walked behind the main building and found the utilitarian-looking research center. Inside, I was told by a young woman librarian wearing a white lab coat to leave all my possessions in the coin locker, then come back and sign in.

  I pulled out my photographs. “I would like to look at scrolls similar to this.”

  “Who is the artist?”

  “I have no idea. I’m thinking it might be Momoyama, early seventeenth century.”

  The head librarian’s nostrils flared slightly, as if she had caught a whiff of something good. “Do you personally own this scroll?”

  “Yes. It’s a recent purchase.” I didn’t think the scroll could be considered the property of the Ideta family. Not when Nomu Ideta’s sister Haru had given the tansu to Mr. Sakai, who in turn had sold it to me. But had Haru known about the scroll hidden underneath the false bottom? I doubted it, and that made me a little uneasy as I followed the librarian into a sea of filing cabinets.

  “Will you need help reading Japanese?”

  I nodded, feeling the embarrassment that always swept over me when I had to admit that I was nearly illiterate. Paradoxically, this made the librarian a little friendlier. She had an excuse to supervise my movements. She studied my close-up photographs with a magnifying glass for a while, then said, “This is a record of someone’s travels from Tokyo to Kamakura. It’s really quite interesting, because it m
ixes his impressions of various landscapes along with some haiku. This part here is about the coolness of mist.”

  “Really? The calligraphy looks like mist, the way it fades so gently.” I caught her enthusiasm.

  “It’s too bad about the name seal being missing. All I can suggest is you look through these books for similarities. If you find an artist that looks similar, I can research more deeply. Then we can cross-check the calligraphy style and perhaps come up with an idea of the artist’s identity.”

  There had been thousands of artists at work during the Momoyama period; the works of fewer than a hundred had survived. I fell into a trance as I went through page after page of calligraphy. I was so lost in the process that I jumped when the librarian told me the museum was closing.

  “I just have two more books to look through. Couldn’t I stay a few more minutes?”

  “Just while I tidy up. I’m afraid that after that, I’m going to have to close the research room.”

  Studying calligraphy is something that can’t be rushed. With no artist’s stamp to help me, I had to rely on studying brush stroke technique, the spacing between words, and subtle things, like the way the artist had chosen to symbolically fade the kanji character for “mist.” I had almost written the whole thing off as a mystery that could not be solved when I came upon a catalog with a photograph of a scroll telling the story of a diplomat’s travels from Kyoto to Tokyo. It was dated as early seventeenth century. All this I could tell because the catalog was blessedly in English; it had been printed to celebrate an exhibition that traveled from the Tokyo National Museum to New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1975.

  “Karasumaru Mitsuhiro,” I said as the librarian approached me again. “What do you know about him?”

  “From the Momoyama period? He was born an aristocrat and didn’t really have to work, but he developed dual careers as a diplomat and poet. I could tell you more, but we really need to close the library.”

  “Which gallery within the main building holds the Mitsuhiro collection?” I would come back the following morning.

  “Currently the Mitsuhiros are part of a traveling exhibition that is at the Louvre in Paris. What a shame!”

  Bad luck was my life story. “Could I borrow this catalog, then? I’ve got a hunch. . . .”

  “I’m sorry. This is not a lending library.” She paused. “If you’re looking for information about Mitsuhiro, I know a place that has one of his works in storage. We’ve borrowed it in the past.”

  “Which museum is that?” I slipped my photos back into their envelope.

  “It’s not a museum, but Horin-ji, a Zen temple in Kamakura. You can take the JR Yokosuka Line south; it takes about one hour—”

  “I know the place,” I croaked. I was so dazed by this new connection to Horin-ji that I forgot to retrieve my luggage from the coin locker. I didn’t realize my mistake until I was at Ueno Station. I hurried back, but now it was thirty minutes past closing time, and the research center was locked. I wouldn’t be able to get in until 9 A.M. the next morning. I had some money in the pocket of my denim miniskirt, but that was it.

  There was no point in worrying about something that could be retrieved the next day. I sat down near the fountains and tried to recall the details of my visit to Nomu and Haru Ideta’s house in Denen-Chofu. Mr. Ideta had asked me whether his scroll was safe. I’d assumed he was talking about a scroll I’d seen hanging on the wall that had been ruined by a crude tape repair. He had been trying to tell me his scroll was perfect, but we had been cut off by his sister Haru’s reappearance. And a few days later, he was dead.

  There was no guarantee my scroll was really a Mitsuhiro. I craved the chance to examine it next to a certified original. Despite my fears of the Mihoris, I would have to go back to Horin-ji.

  It wasn’t safe for me to go alone. But I couldn’t possibly ask Hugh or Angus to accompany me; they would stick out horribly. I needed to travel with an ally who had had the kind of face that would blend in with the Zen enthusiasts crowding the morning prayer sessions. Someone old, Japanese, and well-mannered. Someone like Mr. Ishida, who was probably just closing up shop and getting ready for a quiet evening at home.

  “So this is the way people eat noodles now? It’s much too fast for me.” Mr. Ishida glowered at the flurries of white somen noodles rushing past us in the trendy little restaurant where I’d taken him for dinner.

  We were seated side by side at a long, oval bar with an automated river of chilled water flowing down its center. The goal was to use chopsticks to snatch noodles from the current to the safety of your own plate. After that, you added vegetable garnishes and dredged the little bundle in soy dipping sauce. I had brought Mr. Ishida here because he liked vegetarian noodle dishes, but I’d overlooked how the open-water conveyer belt would tax his hand-eye coordination.

  “Yes, they must have it on high speed or something. It’s not usually this fast,” I fibbed, using the tops of my chopsticks to spear him a large portion. He grunted his thanks, and after saying itadakimasu, the grace before eating, we both dug in.

  The hunger I hadn’t felt in the morning had returned, along with elation. I’d made some good calls in my antiques career, but a Mitsuhiro scroll was the last thing I’d expected to own. After scrutinizing my photographs, Mr. Ishida had confirmed my suspicion that a bank vault was the proper resting ground for the scroll. After polishing off his noodles and calling for more green tea, he told me that if the artist proved to be Mitsuhiro, the scroll, even damaged, was worth upward of three hundred thousand dollars. If Angus hadn’t cut off the artists’ seal, the scroll would have been priceless.

  “You will be able to buy out my store, Shimurasan,” Mr. Ishida was saying. “Not this year, but when I retire in the next century. That is, if the government allows you to keep the scroll.”

  “What do you mean? The scroll was in the tansu, which I bought fair and square. The receipt is in my name. That should be enough!”

  “As you know, items designated Important Cultural Property are not allowed to leave the country, and you, of course, are a foreigner. If you own the scroll, you may never be able to take it from Japan.”

  “I don’t plan to leave Japan.”

  Mr. Ishida held up a cautionary hand. “If you have an official appraisal of this scroll and it is brought to the attention of the Ministry of Culture, the government will insist on contacting the former owner of the scroll to ensure it was actually offered for sale. If Miss Haru Ideta says she did not know the scroll was hidden in the bottom of the tansu, you may be forced to return it.”

  If the scroll really were an Important Cultural Property, I finally had a motive to offer Lieutenant Hata for the apartment burglary and two murders. But I needed to establish the scroll’s value before I went to him.

  “If we could look at pictures of my scroll next to a real Mitsuhiro scroll, do you think you could write an appraisal for me?”

  “Of course. But I believe the Tokyo National Museum’s collection is currently in France.”

  “The research center librarian told me there is a Mitsuhiro scroll at Horin-ji. Getting to it could be difficult, but I think it would be worthwhile.”

  “Is that so? I did not know there also was secular art in their archives. I find that interesting.”

  “Certainly! The problem is the monks might not allow us access to the scrolls. Treasures like that are probably available for viewing only at certain times of the year. I’m not sure how we should ask to see them. I don’t dare to sneak in.”

  “We could present ourselves as religious pilgrims,” Mr. Ishida said. “Pray first, and afterward express a humble wish to view the scroll. I will do the talking, and if anyone asks about you, I will tell them you are my granddaughter.”

  “Do you think that will work? Two people at the temple know me: Abbot Mihori, and Akemi’s cousin, who is going to take his place.”

  Mr. Ishida’s eyes gleamed. “We could disguise ourselves wearing Zen robes borrowe
d from my vintage textile collection. Because they are old robes, we will appear as poor but extremely religious people. It will be perfect.”

  Perfect—if everyone could overlook my lousy endurance when it came to the half-lotus position. At least I’d perfected my Zen table manners.

  “Shimura-san, are you in harmony with me? Will you obey me to the slightest sign?”

  “I promise,” I said, thinking that if Hugh ever found out I’d unconditionally agreed to obey a man, he would have jumped out of his skin. I couldn’t believe what I was saying, either.

  Mr. Ishida insisted on putting me up for the night on a spare futon we managed to cram between the vintage kimono display and a collection of old samurai swords. That night I had a disturbing dream that I had been impregnated by the artist Mitsuhiro, but instead of giving birth to a baby I laid a plastic egg that cracked open to reveal a baby snake. I was moaning when Mr. Ishida shook me awake.

  Two-thirty in the morning, and time to get on the freeway. Mr. Ishida rose at this hour regularly to drive to country auctions. For me, it was more of a struggle. I barely had time to rinse my face and pull a Zen robe over the crumpled dress I’d slept in and would have to wear to work at Yoko Maeda’s shop in the afternoon. Mr. Ishida had thoroughly embraced the idea of disguise and searched his store to come up with a priest’s black robe, straw sandals, and a wooden walking staff, looking like a priest from an antique wood-block print illustration. I worried the look was too dramatic, but he assured me that given this priestly appearance, whoever was in charge of the library at Horin-ji would be compelled to honor his wishes.

  “Of course, priests shave their heads, and I have a little hair,” Mr. Ishida said, running his hand through the few wisps clinging to his head.

  “Oh, probably no one will notice it,” I said, but could have cut out my tongue when I saw his face. He was in his seventies, but he was still proud.

  Even without traffic, I thought, we’d be lucky to reach Kamakura in an hour and fifteen minutes. But Mr. Ishida surprised me by proving himself a senior Mario Andretti. We raced from the Shuto Expressway to the Yokohama-Yokosuka toll road faster than I’d ever done it before. It was only when we arrived in Kamakura that we ran into our first problem: parking. Damn Nana Mihori’s parking restrictions, I thought as we drove past all the No STOPPING signs on the road outside Horin-ji.