by Marele Day
She had seen a car, as long and black as an eel, peel off from the traffic into the parking area below the station. Beside the road, beyond the brick pathway for pedestrians and the row of decorative bushes trimmed into a neat hedge, the railway lines crisscrossed a few times then settled into distinctive tracks, one going to the end of the line, the other to the city.
The city would be like Boat Harbour only much bigger, grander. There’d be streets and cars and buildings as far as the eye could see. Shops where you could buy anything you wanted. Clothes like the ones in magazines.
A well-dressed couple entered the snack bar area. Lilli assumed that the long black car had delivered them. They had no luggage. Perhaps someone else was taking care of it. The man pulled the chair a little away from the table so that the woman could sit down. Lilli had never seen that before. On the island people mainly sat on the f loor, on the ground, on a rock. The woman positioned herself side-on to the picture windows, to the silent town outside. The man bent towards her, Lilli thought he was bowing, but he was asking her a question. She smiled and gave her answer. He walked to the snack bar.
The woman waited alone at the table. Her skin was the whitest Lilli had ever seen, with not the slightest blemish. Her lips had a mulberry-coloured sheen, the determined set to them softened by their fullness. Her eyelids fanned down then up again, a movement isolated from the stillness of the rest of the face. Her black hair was swept up and seemed to stay there of its own accord. She wore a coat of soft grey, with matching trousers. And gloves. Not thick knitted diving gloves but ones so fine they looked like a second skin. She did not look at the view, she appeared not to be looking at anything, just the air directly in front of her. Rather, she was a woman used to being looked at, admired, and she bore it patiently, with grace.
Lilli turned away, the picture of the woman etching itself into her mind. Lilli was dressed in her best clothes, her smart coat, but it seemed dowdy and old-fashioned by comparison. She looked at her hands, at her rough nails.
The man came back and placed a small tub of green tea ice-cream in front of his companion. She smiled enough for Lilli to see perfectly aligned teeth. She began to eat the ice-cream with a miniature spoon, without taking off her gloves. The man was handsome, a f leshy outdoor face, black hair sprinkled with grey, the sleek pelt of a forest animal, an ocelot, a mink.
He was wearing a charcoal suit and open-necked shirt. His hands were clean, the nails buffed. He poured beer from a small bottle into a glass. Though it was food and beverage from the snack bar, the same served to everyone, in the hands of these two it became a great delicacy. Their movements were careful and considered, as if this was the first time he had drunk beer, she had eaten ice-cream. He asked her how it was and she nodded yes, it was good.
Lilli kept stealing glances at them. They seemed unaware of her, unaware of anyone else, even of their surroundings. When the woman finished her ice-cream she dabbed at the corners of her lips with the paper napkin the man had brought for her. She was ready to leave. The man let her walk in front of him, his hand lightly at her elbow ushering her through the maze of tables and chairs.
Lilli watched them gliding down the escalator to the platform where the train for the city waited. She stood up. It was time to go. Lilli could be that woman, she could become whatever she wanted.
17
The sound of waves
Yugen was travelling in an ocean of mist. He breathed it in with the salt-tanged air, the smell of diesel, the booming of the engines as the ferry ploughed through this delicate landscape.
It was only the ferry out of Boat Harbour but he felt as if he were going to another country. He stood on the solidity of the deck, constantly reminded of the f luidity beneath. Yugen had to stand squarely, like a wrestler, his knees slightly bent, shock absorbers. There were subtle internal adjustments, his body constantly realigning, responding.
Five other passengers were on board—an elderly couple wearing small-brimmed holiday hats who were sitting inside, and three men were standing on the deck with the monk. Not actually with him. They made a group of their own. Two of them reminded Yugen of the young men at the temple lodgings—hair longer than usual, leather jackets. One was smoking. The third had short-cropped office hair, and although he wore a lightweight windcheater, the knot of a tie was visible. What joined them together was the photographic equipment at their feet, which they guarded like a hen with a clutch of eggs. There were aluminium boxes, a camera with an enormous lens. They nodded to Yugen then closed in on themselves.
‘Supposed to clear later.’
‘We can use the Polaroid lens with a blue filter.’
The smoking man f licked his spent cigarette butt into the mist.
By the time they reached the island it had cleared enough for Yugen to see the village—a cluster of small houses wedged into a steep rise above the harbour where the ferry released its passengers. The driver stayed at the helm while waiting locals loaded boxes with fishing cooperative stamped on the sides and lids, unaccompanied baggage for the return journey.
When they disembarked, the elderly couple walked straight to a large map of the island. As Yugen stood watching the couple discussing which path to take, what to see first, whether to go clockwise or anticlockwise, around the island or up and over, the camera crew walked past. He began to follow them, intrigued to see what they had come to the island to film.
They led him up a narrow street, past a white cat that arched its back as if being lifted by an invisible hoist. It settled down on a mat—its mat—in a doorway. The camera crew entered a house two doors further up, and were greeted by a man who was obviously expecting them.
Yugen could not very well go into the house without some explanation, so he went on decisively, as if to a particular destination of his own. He continued winding past cramped houses, having to skirt around front doorsteps, through narrow streets and alleys wide enough only for bicycles. The way was so steep it would be difficult to ride a bicycle anyway. Occasionally Yugen passed an old lady pushing a cart, in a bent position that had become permanent. He arrived at the other side of the village, marked by a low stone wall that contained the density of dwellings.
Yugen stepped over the waist-high barrier onto a road wide enough to take cars but empty of traffic. He followed the road out of the built-up area and into a forest. After a few metres he came to the gateway of a shrine. He bowed then entered, and sat on a stone in the relative cool of cypress. It was still the forest but here it had the appearance of a garden. Pine needles had been swept off the path, shrubs pruned. There was a subtle order to things.
He took the notebook out of his backpack, a random purchase that may equally have been batteries or rubber gloves. The choice was fortuitous. A notebook would be of more use to Yugen than batteries or rubber gloves. He could document his journey, describe the place he finally chose for Soshin, a record to take back to the monastery. His fingers rested lightly on the cover, which was marbled blue like a brooding storm and was firm enough to use as a support when writing. So far the pages of the notebook remained blank.
The monk watched the spiral fall of a leaf, listened to the tiny twitter of unseen birds. Despite the day being overcast, it was hot and humid. His forehead was beaded with sweat. He felt tiny droplets join together and begin the slide down his cheek. He wiped his face with a handkerchief to prevent sweat dropping onto the notebook.
Mid-morning. At the monastery his brother monks would be working in the garden, perhaps making tofu. Yugen tried to remember whether it was a tofu-making day. He’d lost track of the monastic calendar. He no longer even noticed the absence of gongs.
A murmur of voices through the trees then the tourist couple from the ferry appeared. They stopped when they saw the monk. The man was out of breath but his wife had enough to say: ‘Ah, so sorry to disturb you.’
‘You are not disturbing me,’ Yugen assured them. He had not realised how glad he would be to have company. ‘Very hot, isn’t
it?’
‘Yes,’ they agreed, ‘very hot.’ Then there was only the twitter of birds. It was Yugen’s turn but he did not know what to say next. He very much wanted them to stay, to continue conversing. He looked at the ground, searching for words among the scattering of leaves. The couple smiled and nodded, then moved out of the clearing. The monk stood up. Perhaps he could simply walk with them, without conversation.
The woman unzipped one of the pockets of her husband’s daypack and drew out a bottle of water from which they both drank. Yugen looked away, felt as if he were trespassing.
When they were out of sight Yugen too left the shrine, along a path of crunchy white sand. He came to a fork and followed a sign which said lighthouse 350m.
It was a steep path, with steps built into it. Yugen took the steps two at a time, rediscovering his familiar mountain stride, and before long found himself at the clearing where the lighthouse stood.
In the grey sky a hawk with fingered wings soared on invisible wind currents. It dipped and dived, like a bike rider weaving in and out of traffic, then soared upwards again. Its legs were feathered, like a pair of woolly trousers.
Proximity to the wild bird was itself worth the climb. Yugen saw clearly the arrangement of feathers on the underside of the wings. They resembled the ripples in water, fixed solidly. Perhaps if he were high above the world, he would see these patterns laid out on the land as well. He watched the bird sail out of view.
The white lighthouse was shorter than Yugen imagined a lighthouse should be, perhaps only ten metres high. Behind it was a concrete house. Like the lighthouse it was closed up, no longer used. Along the edge of the cliff was a post-and-rail fence made of some sort of durable synthetic material, painted to look like timber.
Yugen had almost passed out of the clearing before he saw a panel with a page of text unobtrusively attached to the fence, and beside it, an old black and white photo—of the lighthouse, and the house behind, with a neat little garden that was no longer there.
The text named the landmarks that could be seen across the water, described the way the wind whipped whirlpools in the straits connecting the gulf to the ocean.
It was part of a story, ‘The Sound of Waves’, about a young fisherman and a diving girl. Separately, both the boy and the girl came to visit the lighthouse keeper and his wife, up the ‘dangerously steep and winding’ path past Woman’s Slope. There was no mention of the steps, or the post-and-rail fence. The lighthouse keeper kept records of vessels passing through the channel, large cargo carriers travelling to major ports. Through his telescope he read the ship’s name, then recorded the time of sighting and direction headed so that those waiting on the cargo aboard could make preparations. A steamship company calendar hung on the wall; there were ashes in the sunken hearth of the sitting-room, a desk in the corner of the parlour.
Yugen walked back to the house. Its windows were shuttered so he couldn’t see in to know whether these things were still there—if they ever had been. Perhaps it had been furnished entirely out of the writer’s own imagination. Yugen theSeaBed tried to gain access to the back of the house but the way was blocked by a high wire fence.
He smelled the acrid smoke of a cigarette, heard men’s voices. The camera crew from the boat, discussing the angle of the shot.
Yugen came back into the middle of the clearing and said hello. They nodded then continued their conversation.
‘We’ll start with the lighthouse, then pan across to the peninsula.’ The director’s hand curved through the air like the f light path of a bird, demonstrating what the camera should do. The sky had brightened a little.
Yugen stood nearby, curious, wishing to be included. One of the men hauled the big camera up onto his shoulder.
‘Shoot the bird, shoot the bird,’ cried the director as the trousered eagle returned. It swooped and soared again, then its trajectory was hidden by a fuzz of foliage. ‘Did you get it?’
‘Too fast.’
‘Damn.’
All this went on as if Yugen had become invisible. The cameraman did the panning shot and a few other angles, including a long caress of the lighthouse itself from bottom to top. Then they packed up.
‘Are you making a documentary?’ the monk asked.
The crew seemed a bit more relaxed now that they had finished.
‘It’s a segment for Saturday Travel Corner.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Yugen as if he were familiar with the program.
‘We’re doing a story about this island.’
‘“The Sound Of Waves”?’
‘Yeah, you’ll hear waves crashing against rocks, a few seagulls squawking.’
The men seemed not to understand. ‘No, no, the fisherman and the sea woman. Over there, on the fence.’
The monk had meant his conversation to sound casual, light, but the men looked at him oddly. Embarrassment prickled his skin, oozed out of his pores. He could feel his composure drizzling away.
The television crew started down the stairs, back towards the village. Yugen set off briskly in the opposite direction, if for no other reason than to avoid them. He walked quickly, plunging through the undergrowth, but the embarrassment kept up with him. He had no idea where he was. In places the path was so overgrown that he lost sight of it altogether.
He was prickling all over—head, hands and feet—but it was no longer just with embarrassment. The monk had walked into a swarm of mosquitoes. They fell upon him, thronging as frenetically as the fish at the sea woman’s feed basket, jabbing their little spears into him.
He slapped at them but two hands weren’t enough to keep them away. His feet seemed to be their favourite hunting ground, especially the tender top part and his ankles. The monk crouched so that his robes covered his feet and put his arms across his head, trying to cover himself with the ample sleeves. Now they dive-bombed his hands and wrists. He wriggled his fingers trying to keep them away, his eyes and mouth squeezed shut. If only he could climb into the backpack with Soshin, zip it up tight.
How far he had come from the monastery, from the still point. There, if a mosquito buzzed around his head, he did not swipe at it. If its proboscis pierced his skin he did not resist. He was aware of it but detached. His mind was still.
He had to keep moving, that was his best protection. Up ahead the path forked. If Yugen took the descent and it led nowhere he’d have to climb back up again. At least on the ascending path the way back would be easier. Also, if it rose above the tree line the monk would have a panoramic view, be able to locate himself. He thought nostalgically of the dead tree on top of his mountain, the steadfast comfort of it.
Up he went. The sun had come out and was beating down on him. He was parched, but continued on, holding the notebook over his head, using it as a hat. If he was going to carry something it should have been water, like the couple at the shrine, not the stupid notebook. However it did provide a little shade.
Was his tiredness imagining the increasing steepness underfoot? No clear way ahead, just dense foliage—trees, shrubs and the parasitic vines covering them. The path was so overgrown that sometimes he had to move foliage aside to find it. Yugen did not feel optimistic.
Eventually he arrived at the path’s destination. He stared in disbelief. danger. keep out. power transmitter. He had made a pilgrimage to a power transmitter.
There was no view from here unless the monk climbed to the top of the metal structure that rose into the sky. A fence prevented entry into the enclosure. The tower was so prominent that Yugen couldn’t understand how he’d not seen it sooner.
A power transmitter.
Spasms of laughter rose up from his stomach, batch after batch that shook his body and set off a squawk of birds. Somehow he couldn’t stop the laughter from hurtling out of his mouth.
Eventually it subsided, giving way to comforting little sobs. Yugen found himself crouched on the ground, arms around the backpack, hanging onto it like it was a lifebuoy, exhausted.
Instea
d of transmitting power the looming tower seemed to be siphoning it off. How its metallic elegance mocked the gnarled imperfection of the dead tree on the monastery mountain. How the monk wished he were there.
When he walked along those mountain tracks, listened to the soft orchestra of the bamboo grove, spread out into the piped woody solitude, he knew that if he lingered too long, did not return for supper, was not present at morning sutras, he would be missed. Someone would come looking for him.
Here he was alone. No-one would miss him. No-one would come.
The monk tried to return to equanimity, taking in long draughts of air to make up for all the breath the laughter had pushed out of him.
He got up and walked around the fenced area. Perhaps on the other side there was a better view. No. Just more trees and foliage. He was not lost, he kept telling himself. He knew where he was—at the power transmitter. He went back to the path. It had gone. How could it have disappeared like that? He should have left something—his notebook, his backpack—to mark the place. Everything looked the same, the bushes and shrubbery all identical. How could he find his way without a path? He tried to visualise the map of the island. How stupid of him to have followed the men instead of looking more closely at the map like the old couple had done. danger. keep out. The bold red letters came at him like hungry carp, bigmouthed, intent on devouring him.
Then they turned into his brother monks, mouths open chanting, but instead of sutras they were shouting that he was dead, telling him to leave, that he was no longer part of their community.
They had cast him out.
The monk was stranded. He saw himself on the threshold of the Blue House, marooned in the disarray of shoes. Why hadn’t the abbot prepared him for the world, told him what it was like, that he would be stared at, viewed with suspicion? He was a sentient being, like the birds, the mosquitoes, the fish in the aquarium, the camera crew. Why was he made to feel different, shied away from, shunned, as if he were a ghost?