The Last Tea Bowl Thief

by Jonelle Patrick

  He regards her thoughtfully.

  “However you did it, thank you. Have you eaten?” he asks, before turning onto the street.

  She thinks about the two bottles of green tea she’d drunk on the train, but she has too many butterflies in her stomach to eat now.

  “I’m fine. Maybe we’ll have time for lunch afterward, before I catch my train back to Tokyo. Are we going straight to the temple?”

  “No, we’re headed to the kiln. I’ve arranged with the Hayashi family to conduct the ceremony where my ancestor was supposed to perform it.”

  Robin settles in for the drive, wondering aloud what the town had looked like the last time Hikitoru had passed this way. Uchida tells her that it now sprawls considerably closer to the kiln than in Yakibō’s day, but as they pass through the outskirts, he points out a few landmarks that have been there since the potter’s time. The noodle shop where she’d wolfed down her lunch on that first day had begun as an itinerant vendor’s cart, back in Edo times. The rice fields by the riverbank had been under cultivation by the same family since before Yakibō was born.

  He clicks on the turn signal and Robin spots the track she’d walked, just a week ago. So much has changed in such a short time. The trees are now misted in green, the brown sticks poking from the bamboo have burst into bouquets of purple azaleas, and the twin tire tracks are now lined with a riot of yellow daffodils on either side.

  They bump slowly up the rutted lane. At the top, Uchida sets the parking brake and the little car rocks as they climb out. Robin stands holding Hikitoru while the priest rummages in the back seat.

  “Would you mind carrying this?” he asks, handing her a shopping bag from the local sweets maker. He emerges with his cane and three bulging carrying cloths, not bothering to lock the car before they make their way to the house.

  Mamoru and his mother must have been watching from the front window, because they’re already standing in the doorway with welcoming bows. Mamoru has dressed in his Hanshin Tigers jersey for the occasion, and Mrs. Hayashi is looking prettier and less harried without smears of sunscreen all over her face. The puppy can be heard whining behind a distant door, as the little girl toddles into view. Her hair bow is slightly awry, but her company-is-coming pinafore is still unsullied.

  Pleasantries are exchanged over tea. Robin has to muster every ounce of patience she possesses, wondering how Uchida can fail to feel as itchy as she does. The priest presents the sweets he brought, with a murmured deprecation of their worth, and shows no haste as they are opened and sampled—the mother showing her appreciation of the local rice cakes with compliments on his choice of maker, the children wolfing down more than they’d have been allowed if there hadn’t been guests. The priest even accepts a third tea refill as the children run off to play, asking how Mr. Hayashi’s newest tanuki figures are faring in the marketplace.

  Finally, he hands his teacup back to Mamoru’s mother, and while she clears the table, he unties the smallest blue carrying cloth. Inside are a bamboo whisk, an elegant carved case containing an L-shaped scoop, and a plain lacquerware tea caddy, gleaming with the patina of regular use.

  Robin smiles. Why hadn’t she guessed that the ritual Yakibō had requested would be a tea ceremony? No wonder it couldn’t be performed without Hikitoru.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Uchida says to Mamoru’s mother, “some hot water, please? And a bowl? Doesn’t have to be fancy.”

  The priest carefully wipes each utensil with a soft cloth and lines them up on the table while she fetches an iron teapot, beautifully wrought with a dragonfly design. As she sets it on a trivet at the priest’s right hand, a ghost of steam curls up from its spout. She hands the priest a mixing bowl, which he places on the floor by his side.

  Without another word, Uchida unwraps Hikitoru and sets it on the table. Mrs. Hayashi lets out a soft sigh, and Robin feels a shiver of anticipation, seeing it for the first time in the role it was designed for.

  The priest closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and exhales. They settle into the silence, allowing it to separate the ceremonial from the everyday. Then he opens his eyes, pours a splash of hot water into Hikitoru to warm it, swirls it, and dumps it into the mixing bowl. Pulling a folded handkerchief from his robe, he dries the tea bowl and measures out a scoop of vibrant green powder. Tips it in, adds a brief pour of hot water.

  Robin is enjoying his skill at whipping it to a froth with the delicate bamboo whisk until she remembers what comes next. And panics. What if he offers the tea bowl to her? How is she supposed to hold it? How is she supposed to drink it? She knows there’s a right way, but can’t remember what it is. The only tea ceremony she’s ever been to was a “cultural experience” performed for the foreigners studying the objects from Jakkō-in’s treasure house by an elegant woman in a museum-worthy kimono. Robin had tried to experience the serenity that’s supposed to flow from practicing the ancient art, but all she really felt was clumsy and ignorant. The organizer had assured them that nobody expected foreign students to know how to do things the right way, but it was painfully clear that there was a right way.

  Now she’s desperately trying to remember the details. This might be one of the defining moments of her life. She doesn’t want to blow it.

  Uchida sets down the whisk and holds up the bowl. With a gentle smile, he hands it to their hostess.

  Whew.

  As Mrs. Hayashi takes it between her hands, her face lights up. She examines the tea bowl, then looks over its rim at the priest, eyes shining.

  “It’s extraordinary.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” He beams.

  Bees buzz outside the open window, crows call and answer, the children’s voices rise and fall as they play in the room next door. Mamoru’s mother turns the tea bowl three times, admiring the swashes of glaze and the artful drips, noting its fine points with the practiced eye of someone who breathes kiln smoke every day.

  “It’s astonishing that something this beautiful was made by a blind man,” she remarks, before setting its delicate rim to her lips. Closing her eyes, she takes a long, appreciative sip. Turns it, takes another from a different spot, does it once more. Then she gazes into Hikitoru’s emptied depths with a satisfied smile and passes the bowl back to the priest.

  He cleans it, repeats the ritual, offers it to Robin.

  This time, she’s ready. As she takes Hikitoru between her palms, she understands: nobody can fully appreciate a tea bowl until they use it as intended. With tea inside, it’s warm, almost alive. The bright green matcha shimmers like a jewel in its red clay and ash-glazed setting.

  She turns it full circle, marveling at how every splash and spatter of molten ash tells the story of its birth in the kiln. She lifts it to her lips, and the tea swirls into her mouth with an intensity that makes her feel more alive than she’s ever felt. Turn, sip. Turn, sip. The shape of the rim fits her mouth like a lover’s kiss. Saburo himself might have drunk tea from this bowl! Yakibō too. Happiness flowers and sparkles within her as the experience connects her with them across the centuries. When she finally lowers Hikitoru to take a last look at the green pool of crackled glaze at the bottom, it shines like a memory of the tea, a dream caught in amber.

  She raises her eyes to meet Uchida’s, and the corners of his crinkle, enjoying her moment of revelation. She hadn’t expected to be moved by the ceremony—had, in fact, been looking forward to its conclusion, so she could study the all-important document—but now she wishes this sublime feeling could stretch on and on.

  But it can’t. Uchida is waiting. Reluctantly, she hands Hikitoru back.

  “Well,” he says, breaking the spell. “I believe old Hikitoru was happy to be used again, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And thank you,” Mrs. Hayashi bows low over the table. “Forgive me for saying so, but I’m glad it wasn’t found until now, so I could drink from it, just once in my life.”

  The priest returns her bow, then he rinses the tea bowl and wipes it dry, as if he
were washing nothing more precious than the lunch dishes. He cleans the rest of the utensils with the same casual, unhurried movements, then reboxes Hikitoru, stowing everything back in the carrying cloths. Heaving himself upright with his cane, he thanks Mrs. Hayashi for allowing him to fulfill his nine-times-greatgrandfather’s vow. Looping the two unopened parcels over his other arm, he asks Robin to hand him Hikitoru.

  “That’s okay,” she says. “You’ve got your hands full. I can carry it.”

  He smiles.

  “No, why don’t you wait here and enjoy another cup of tea? I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Back? From where?”

  “There’s one more thing I need to do before my obligation is satisfied.” He gently takes the tea bowl from her. “It shouldn’t take long. The sutra is short.”

  Mamoru’s mother leads the priest out through the kitchen and Robin trails them as far as the back door, gnawing at her lip as the solitary figure stomps off toward the woods. She turns to Mamoru’s mother.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think Uchida-bōsan understands how nervous this makes me. Hikitoru is on loan from the company I work for, and I’m responsible for it. I know it’s important for him to chant his sutras, but I’m not supposed to let it out of my sight. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  She slips out the door before Mrs. Hayashi can object, and strides up into the woods after the priest.

  He’s not hard to follow, having no reason to muffle the crunching and swishing of his passage through the knee-high bamboo encroaching on the path. Robin stays back far enough to make sure that the rustling of her own passage doesn’t reach his ears, but when he unexpectedly halts before the hollow gingko where she and Mamoru paid their respects, she turns to stone where she stands, hoping he won’t turn around. Uchida merely bows his head, though, giving the old gods their due, then continues on his way. He slows as he enters the clearing where Mamoru found the pottery shards, and sets his burdens on the ground by the flat boulder. He opens the pumpkin-sized one, revealing the carved wooden drum that’s struck to punctuate the chanting of the sutras.

  Then he unties the smaller bundle, unwinding the hand towel that’s wrapped around the contents. A glazed clay bowl disappears into the former sumo wrestler’s ham-sized fist. Robin hastily ducks behind a venerable pine as he doubles back, limping to the bank of the nearby stream. Hopping a little and stretching his stiff leg out to the side, he braces himself and dips water from the racing rivulet. Some sloshes out as he maneuvers to stand, but there’s still enough to pour over the boulder in the clearing, leaving its pale granite surface wet and gleaming. Then he sets the dipping bowl on the moss and unpacks Hikitoru.

  He arranges the tea bowl front and center on the glistening rock, then picks up the drum. Drawing himself up to his full height, he stands for a long moment, still and silent as an ancient cedar. The tree limbs overhead dance with the wind, casting coins of light all around him as he composes himself before beginning the chant.

  Tock.

  The single drumbeat echoes through the forest and dies away. Then the Sutra of True Faith rings out in Uchida’s deep and sonorous voice. Rising and falling, rising and falling, the hypnotic cadence fills the space between the trees. Robin has been resisting the urge to celebrate until everything is said and done, but as the verses build toward the moment when the last barrier to her shining new future falls away, she can no longer suppress a surge of joy.

  Tock.

  Arm still raised, Uchida stands there like a statue, allowing the final beat to fade into the forest.

  A bird twitters in the distance as he lowers the drum and picks up Hikitoru. As he holds it between his hands and raises it like a chalice, Robin feels an almost-physical connection between herself, the priest, the tea bowl, the universe—

  Then he hurls it.

  Clay explodes against granite, shattering the silence. Time seems to slow as Robin watches shards of the priceless cultural treasure bounce off the rock and arc through the air in all directions, into the bushes, onto the moss.

  She doesn’t hear herself scream, but Uchida spins around, startled.

  “Swann-san?”

  “No!” she wails, flailing toward him through the bracken. “No!”

  Falling to her knees, she snatches up one of the pieces. Sharp corners, raw edges. Bright ochre clay, like the margins of a wound. She can’t believe what her eyes are telling her, but she’s holding the truth in her hands.

  Hikitoru is gone.

  Destroyed.

  And not just the tea bowl. Her career. Her future. Her life. “Why?” She raises her stricken face to Uchida. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t.” He shakes his head sadly. “You’d have stopped me.”

  “Yes! I would have!” She takes a ragged breath. “Why?”

  “Because that’s what Yakibō made my ancestor promise to do for him,” the priest replies, “so his spirit could escape the cycle of rebirth. The desire to get back the tea bowl that had been stolen from him was his last remaining attachment to this world. And breaking Hikitoru—the tea bowl he made to represent that ‘attachment’—was his final wish.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t—” Tears brim and overflow, twin tracks burning down her cheeks.

  It can’t be returned to the safe now. She’ll be accused. Arrested. She and Nori Okuda will be locked away until they are old women. She doubles over, weeping.

  Uchida moves around her quietly, rummaging in the bushes, picking up the pieces of what used to be Hikitoru.

  When the ugly sounds being ripped from her chest finally quiet and she’s able to open her swollen eyes a slit, seven fragments are lined up before her on the moss.

  “The breaks are clean,” says Uchida in the compassionate voice he must use with the bereaved. “Now that Yakibō’s spirit has been released, I believe the tea bowl can be mended. I know an artist who still knows how to do it the old way, with gold.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, in a dull voice. “By then, I’ll be in jail.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll ‘be in jail’?” He frowns. “I know you’re upset, but it’s not a crime to break a tea bowl.”

  “It is if it’s stolen.”

  “Stolen? What are you talking about? For the first time in hundreds ofyears, it’s not stolen. It’s back where it belongs, and has fulfilled the purpose it was made for. It was never truly owned by that temple in Tokyo, and that’s the truth. I thought you believed me.”

  “I do.” She hangs her head. “But my boss didn’t. She wanted more proof. So, I . . . I borrowed it. Without permission. I thought that as long as I put it back in the safe before anyone missed it, you could perform your ceremony. After you did what you needed to do, you could show me your ancestor’s document and I’d use it to convince my boss that Hikitoru should be returned to you. Then I could study it and write my paper, and everyone would be happy. But I never thought . . .”

  The blood drains from Uchida’s face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” His despair now mirrors her own. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have . . .”

  He sits down hard on the boulder that had served as both altar and instrument of execution, burying his face in his hands.

  Robin slumps on the moss, heartsick and spent. A lone cuckoo calls. The drone of a distant airplane grows louder, recedes. A breeze stirs the ferns. The small sounds of the forest emerge around them, then abruptly fall silent as Uchida grabs his cane and rises to his feet.

  “How many people know what Hikitoru looked like?” he asks.

  Without waiting for an answer, he scoops up the dipping bowl, limps across the clearing to stand before her.

  She climbs to her feet and he passes her the bowl. The familiar shape settles into her palms and for a moment, she thinks this was all a bad dream. He hasn’t destroyed Hikitoru after all.

  But there are more “dragonfly eyes” in this one’s unglazed clay, and although the dipping bow
l too settles into her hands as if made for them, it’s ever so slightly rounder. It’s not Hikitoru.

  But it is another Yakibō tea bowl. She stares at it in disbelief.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From my nine-times-great-grandfather. Remember how I told you that nothing survived the next firing after Yakibō died? My ancestor suggested to Hattsan that they try to fulfill the vow by substituting a different piece of Yakibō’s pottery for the missing Hikitoru, and that’s when he learned about the rejects. The apprentice told him that Yakibō made many tea bowls before he chose the one to represent his ‘attachment.’ After he narrowed the candidates down to three, he offered the others to the gods and waited a while before breaking them, in case they wanted him to choose a different one. The apprentice led my ancestor to the kami-sama’s hollow tree, and they found two tea bowls stacked inside. They broke one in the failed exorcism. That,” he nods at the one in her hands, “is the other.”

  Robin looks down at the tea bowl, shocked. This was a reject?

  “I know it’s not the one that the potter chose to be Hikitoru,” Uchida says. “But it could have been. I was thinking that maybe . . .” He purses his lips, struggling to overcome his discomfort with deception, “you could substitute this one instead. It’s not like you’d be trying to pass off a fake. It really is a Yakibō tea bowl, and I believe it was made to represent the same ‘attachment’ as Hikitoru. That’s all your boss cares about, right?” He peers anxiously into her face, searching for a sign of hope.

  Robin shifts into an island of sunlight, holding the exquisite tea bowl that Uchida had used as a humble water dipper. It does have the same shape, the same delicate walls. It’s made from the same red-ochre clay, studded with the same tiny chips of white feldspar. If she tests a new sample, swaps out the photos she took on Friday for shots of this one, alters the description to fit . . .

  Her shoulders sag. Who is she trying to kid? Eriko Hashimoto is an expert in Japanese ceramics and she knows exactly what the real Hikitoru looked like. The swashes of glaze, the constellations of imperfections in the clay. Her boss won’t be fooled, not for a second. It’s kind of Uchida to try to help, but unfortunately, the substitution will never—