by Nogami Yaeko
The fabric was buried in a black leather chest, mixed carelessly with calligraphy and old ink stones. They were only odd scraps of cloth, but they could be sewn into a protective bag for a chaire, a tea container. If the fabric was the right color, it matched the ceramic of the chaire as if it had been woven especially for it. It was too beautiful for words. Rikyū had a subtle sensitivity that allowed him to find beauty that was easily missed by ordinary people. It surprised Sōji every time.
The memories of Sakai merged with his fantasies about the market in Yumoto, producing the illusion that if he strolled through the streets he would see familiar faces from Sakai and even find the store with the Chinese man, whose wife’s face always looked untidy from sleep and whose crow always stayed perched on his shoulder. Sōji vividly recalled Rikyū walking into the filthy store. The owner had waved his hands and told Rikyū, “I’m no match for you,” bringing items from the dark corners of the store as if he begrudged selling them. Rikyū’s big round eyes had shone as he carefully picked up each item, examining them in turn with his left eye squinting.
All those memories filled Sōji’s heart. Though he could not have known it, many miles away Rikyū had moved from Sōunji Temple to his small recovery house, and had just received the letter from Oribe. At that moment, Rikyū was also remembering his disciple Sōji, who had suffered much hardship, and his way of making tea.
Soon, however, it was time for Sōji to go back home.
Genan was the third son of Hōjō Sōun, but when he became a Buddhist monk he had abandoned his family authority along with his warrior’s name, Nagatsuna. His second house was located in Yatsu, at the eastern end of the plain that offered a view of the Sakawa River. The small, simple dwelling reflected his lifestyle. The thatched roof over the front gate made it look like the gate to a Zen temple. That, too, reflected his lifestyle, as if he were still a monk viewing his life as an illusion. Since his wife had died many years ago, there was no mistress in the house, only a single maid. Genan was close to eighty, and since Hideyoshi’s attack had begun, he had lived in this house full-time.
When he was in the prime of his youth and his family’s fortunes were on the rise, Genan had worn a flashy Odawara hairstyle and the types of informal clothes worn by court nobles. He had been counted as the family’s best musician and Noh actor. The vestiges of that young man were there in his sturdy frame, which looked as if it could still support a suit of armor. Even though his face was wrinkled, he had clean-cut features.
When he took up the monastic life, he went to Sōunji Temple, the temple built with money willed by his father. He studied Zen under Iten Sōsei, the founder of the temple, who had come from Daitokuji Temple. No one knew why Genan chose to live like a monk. If he had possessed the ambition, he could have exercised power indirectly as the uncle of Ujimasa. Instead, he took up the lifestyle of a wandering monk, traveling freely without an attendant, though it was said that he had been wandering since he was young. Some people believed that he wanted to help the people who had nowhere else to turn, like the itinerant monk Samyōji Nyūdo, and others said that his purpose was to spy on public sentiment. The truth was that Genan had a monk’s love of the simple life, and he felt no need to reach for power. Still, the people of the town never forgot his noble background, and even in retirement they still respected him.
Now, however, he didn’t go out at all. He was afflicted with severe rheumatoid pain in his left leg, and the cane that he had formerly used only for traveling had become a necessity of everyday life. He couldn’t walk without it, even to cross the room or the hall. People could always tell where he was by the sound of that ivory-headed cane.
After lunch on the day that he received the message, Sōji went to Genan’s house. Genan used to practice the tea of the daisu, the old, formal Chinese style that had been popular in Kyōto in the past. After taking lessons with Sōji, he had asked Sōji to design something more modest than the bigger rooms where daisu tea was practiced. If the three-and-three-quarter-mat tearoom at Sōji’s house was like casual, comfortable clothing, Genan’s tearoom was like the best kimono, with thread twisted, dyed, and woven by women. Sōji was attached to Genan’s tearoom in the same way those women cherished the kimonos they made, believing they would never be able to create their equal. Not only had Sōji designed the room, but he was entrusted to supervise the acquisition of the tea utensils used there. He was quite proud of the Chinese bronze water clock, a product of trade with Ming China, stationed next to the main room. It kept time better than the ordinary clocks in most people’s houses.
Sōji finished his preparations well before two o’clock, the appointed time. Soon he heard the sound of his old master’s cane on the stepping stones of the tea garden. It was a slow walking pace with a regular rhythm. Just as the sound of wood chopping echoes from far away and enhances the tranquility of the deep mountains, the subtle sound of the cane resonated in the quiet corners of the garden. If there had been no sound, the garden would have been merely an empty space.
The sound paused a moment while Genan washed his hands at the stone basin outside. The kneeling entrance was opened. Genan abandoned his cane there and crawled into the tearoom, but he did not proceed to the guest position right away.
It wasn’t the pain in his leg that made him stop. The sharp eyes under Genan’s distinctive white, high eyebrows took a moment to enjoy the scroll in the alcove, a rare piece of calligraphy by a twelfth-century poet. Below, there was a small celadon incense burner emitting a faint stream of smoke. On the fire, a kettle that had been given the poetic name Flat Spider sang in a fresh, clear tone.
Genan finally moved to his spot. He sat in silence, watching and allowing the tea to speak for itself. Sōji’s style of making tea was simple and honest. He made tea the way that water runs chattering over a shallow riverbed. Like the pure mountain water, his tea did not seem to have one taste, but all tastes. Today he had used a Korean tea bowl, and though it was small the tea filled less than half of it. Genan drank the tea quietly, as if it was the most precious thing in the world. To offset the bitterness, Sōji had served sugared butterbur.
“I would like to have another cup of tea.” It was an unusual request. As Genan got older, he kept a strict watch on his diet, and he avoided almost all thick tea. Even when Sōji prepared thin tea for Genan, he was careful not to scoop too much of the powdered tea into the bowl. But today, even after enjoying his second bowl of tea, Genan did not move to trade places with Sōji so he could begin his tea lesson.
“My laziness is showing today, and my bad leg doesn’t want to move.” He smiled as he made his excuse, and tilted his long neck. “When did I stop practicing tea?”
“The last time I came here was the twenty-second of April,” Sōji responded with confidence. Generally speaking, stammerers have difficulty speaking when they are nervous, and Sōji was the same. Today, however, he was relaxed, and it had been an easy question. Sōji took pleasure in recording all the details of his tea gatherings, and kept detailed notes on their practice. He would not have had a problem telling Genan what kind of scroll and utensils they had used on any particular day.
Genan had not stopped his practice out of laziness. He never spoke about the war that was raging on Odawara’s borders. Indeed, to an observer it would seem that he knew nothing about it. After his lessons, he often told stories of the travels he had undertaken when he was younger. He had also been to many of the places Sōji had wandered before settling in Odawara, and Genan shared the memories without reserve, as if Sōji were a traveling companion. It was at odds with his usual reticent manner, which he used to preserve his dignified appearance.
In the beginning, Sōji had found him difficult to get to know. Aside from Hideyoshi, the lords surrounding Hideyoshi, and high-ranking tea practitioners such as Hosokawa Tadaoki and Furuta Oribe, Sōji had never enjoyed the friendship of anyone higher ranking. He was happy to have Genan’s confidence. Sometimes he even thought that it was his fate to be able to
meet Genan. The thought made it easier to resign himself to living in exile.
Although Genan paid him well, Sōji wasn’t Genan’s tea master in the way that he had been Hideyoshi’s. He could have been Genan’s personal tea master if he wished, but he refused. His troubles with Hideyoshi haunted him, and experience had taught him a painful lesson. People with power are like the sun. When the weather is fine, they are generous, but when the weather changes, they rain and thunder down on the weak.
Not that Sōji considered Genan and Hideyoshi to be the same, not at all. But his two exiles had pounded into his brain that a person of authority is always a person of authority.
And, similarly, a tea practitioner must be only a tea practitioner. When Sōji was younger, he had been very disappointed that Rikyū used tea to earn a living. Now he was forced into the same situation, and it made him sad. But at least he could earn enough money so that he could teach Genan without being his salaried tea master. He wanted to keep the mutual relationship between one who teaches and one who learns. That way, he could be modest without belittling himself. He didn’t know if Genan understood his intention or not, but he hoped that his refusal to serve Genan as his personal tea master hadn’t hurt their relationship.
Genan, who had the status to call Ujimasa by his given name only, did not do so with Sōji. That was a mark of special respect. On that day, after they finished their tea, they didn’t talk about traveling. But Genan, sitting cross-legged in his gray silk riding pants, didn’t stand right away. Instead, he began speaking formally.
“Since we have met today, there is something I want to talk to you about.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve heard a rumor that Rikyū has come to the area. In other circumstances, I might have watched Japan’s premier tea master making tea. Now that wouldn’t be possible even if I wished it. But you, Sōji, haven’t seen your teacher for a long time. You must be longing to see him. I’ve been thinking about this.”
“I am not worthy of your consideration.” Sōji’s mouth, which didn’t work smoothly at the best of times, failed him completely. All the intense emotions flooding through his body were forced into that tight, narrow oral cavity. He stammered as if his tongue were a fragile wood sluice that might be torn to pieces under a sudden flood. “Your kindness makes me forget such desires.”
“No, you shouldn’t give up. If you want to see him, why not go?”
If I were to go, how would I escape from Odawara? Sōji thought. He had heard a rumor that the road out of the province was nicknamed “Torn Mouth” because it had taken a couple of hundred soldiers with horses to push through. Sōji was an ant compared to them. Where was the opening where he could crawl out? There were guards posted everywhere who wouldn’t even miss a bug.
If he spoke, his emotions would tear him apart. He pressed his thick lips together, repressing a sudden surge of bewilderment. Genan knew the dangers of trying to escape from Odawara better than anyone. If he truly cared about Sōji, why would he suggest such a thing?
Sōji’s dark, pitted face didn’t hide his doubts very well, but Genan pretended not to notice. He reached into the front of his kimono, which had a pattern of triangle-shaped scales, and took out a small package wrapped in thin paper. He tossed it onto the floor, and it skidded until it reached Sōji’s kneecap. “This is my farewell gift.”
Sōji was overcome. “Master.”
“Why don’t you open it?”
He couldn’t speak.
Sōji’s rugged body had surprisingly slender fingers. When he made tea, those fingers danced elegantly. But Genan’s unexpected words confounded him, and he fumbled with the wrapping as he removed it to reveal two separate packages. When he realized what they were, those hands trembled. One package held three gold coins stamped with bamboo leaves, the Hōjō family crest. The Hōjō family owned many gold mines in their territory, and that more than anything else served as proof that the coin had come from the family. The other package held a pass, signed by Genan, that would get him past the guards on the road.
Still speechless, Sōji soaked in the words character by character. As he looked, Genan continued, “If you can, you should go through Komine Gate.” It wasn’t clear if he was speaking to Sōji or himself.
Komine Gate was one of the ten castle gates and the main guard post to the southwest, set up in an area enclosed by a low earthen entrenchment. The chief guard there was Matsudo Norihide, one of the family’s three chief retainers. He was often invited to formal tea gatherings at Genan’s house. Genan must have talked to him. And compared to Hakoneguchi and Hayakawaguchi, close by to the south, Komine Gate was near hilly terrain with roads that were seldom used, so it would be easy to move stealthily. The Hosokawa camp on Matsuyama, which called to Sōji day and night, was less than three miles away. If he ran into trouble, he could escape there.
It was as if this piece of paper had read his mind. The thought made him shiver. But Genan’s next comment was dry, unemotional. “You need to be on guard after you pass through the gate. Needless to say, you must be very careful.”
Sōji’s words finally found him. “I will never forget your kindness, not in this world or the next.”
“In that case, saying goodbye while living is equal to separation by death. We don’t know when we will meet again. Take care of yourself.”
“Master, I won’t say goodbye to you.” Sōji managed to stammer and shout at the same time, his intonation rising. “I will come back.”
“What? Come back?”
“Yes.” Sōji answered with his whole body. He had lived so long in exile that Sakai was no longer his home; it was Odawara now. He thought about the way Genan had protected him. Where else could he go?
It could not be denied that going to see his respected teacher, who was also the tea master for Odawara’s chief enemy, was impudent and outrageous behavior. Even so, there were three gold coins and a pass in front of him. Genan’s generosity made him grateful, and at the same time pierced him with sorrow. Sōji wasn’t sure if he could have accepted such kindness if his only motivation for leaving was to see Rikyū.
But Sōji was obsessed with something greater than that simple desire. He had banished his longing to see Rikyū to the bottom of his heart with all his other unfulfilled wishes. When the opportunity to escape was placed in front of him, his resignation transformed into a desire that could not be repressed. It tore the cover of his heart like bamboo breaking through the surface of the soil in the spring. He needed to tell Rikyū that he wanted to go back to Genan, to have Rikyū know and understand.
Sōji didn’t intend to reveal this to Genan. The only person who would understand was Rikyū. That was Sōji’s overwhelming desire—to see Rikyū, to express his unutterable emotion, and then return in a few days’ time to prove that he was as good as his word.
As Sōji made his final farewell, he took one of the gifts in front of him—the pass permit. “Thank you for your kind gift,” he stammered desperately. “I feel as though if I take the gold, it will mean this separation is permanent, and I couldn’t bear that. I would like you to keep this until I come back, and that will be proof that I’ve fully received your generosity.”
Genan stared at Sōji from under his distinctive white eyebrows. He had not moved or changed his sitting position from the spot where he drank tea, one tatami mat’s distance from Sōji. “Don’t force yourself,” he responded quietly. “There is no way to go except to follow fate.” He might have been saying it to himself, as a senior member of a family in danger of extinction, rather than Sōji.
It was not a clear day. The rain the night before had been heavy; it had stopped at dawn, but was threatening to return. The air was muggy and damp, as if the rainy season were coming back.
As the weeks had passed, Rikyū came back to full health, but this kind of weather had an immediate effect on his weakened stomach. It wasn’t serious enough to send him back to bed, but he didn’t go to see Hideyoshi, either. He stayed at h
is mountain house and relaxed.
Outside was an old tree whose branches grew close to the eaves, branches bare of fruit. The plums had been picked to be pickled. The thick, green branches looked thinner when wet. Pieces of thick Hakone bamboo were lined up at the corner of the veranda. Recently, Rikyū had been using the bamboo to make flower vases, protecting the veranda with thin straw mats as he worked. Since he had the day off, he looked forward to resuming the work this afternoon.
The far-off mountain ranges that rose from the field next to the garden looked like subtle ink dots smeared by the rain. As the mist that hung over the mountains flowed gently with the wind, the mountains looked like a mass of people dividing into separate groups.
After eating a bowl of arrowroot gruel for breakfast, Rikyū gazed vacantly at the mountains. His mind was full of ideas for crafting the bamboo. The shapes of the individual pieces, the volume each would hold, the aesthetic impression of their surfaces—all of these elements would come together to create a harmonious beauty. In his hands he held a handmade flyswatter. It had been created with numerous strips of bamboo bundled into a fan shape with a thin handle lashed on. There were still many flies around, but it was the sound he heard next that distracted him from thoughts of bamboo.