Zen Attitude

by Sujata Massey

  “Let’s just park on the temple grounds. I’m sure there’s room for my little van.” Mr. Ishida cruised up the narrow stone path between the scowling statues and veered off over the pedestrian thoroughfares until he came upon a tiny lot with space for a few cars. The two spaces for visitors were filled, so Mr. Ishida eased into the spot that said PRIEST ONLY PARKING.

  “I will make a prayer to Buddha that we do not get towed,” Mr. Ishida said, turning off the ignition and opening his door. It was 3:55, so we had made perfect time for the morning session of Zen.

  I was glad I knew the routine. As I’d expected, Mr. Ishida blended in perfectly with the older worshipers. We merged into the line of people slowly entering the temple, taking a hard cushion and the prayer book. Mr. Ishida and I settled down in a middle row. I arranged the voluminous robe to cover my legs, which I planned to adjust from a half-lotus into a more comfortable position as time went on. The sutra chanting began. I sneaked a side glance at Mr. Ishida, who was droning loudly. He was perfect.

  We chanted for half an hour, then began the ritual of standing and prostrating ourselves before the altar. Mr. Ishida’s feet appeared to have gone as numb as mine, but when I reached out a hand to support him, he shook me off with a slight gesture, preferring his walking stick for support.

  As I sat cross-legged on the hard cushion again, I became aware of someone entering the room with slow, sliding footsteps. My head was bowed, so I couldn’t see more than the hem of a black robe. The new priest joined the other priests on the right side of the altar. After a gentle clash of cymbals, the Zen meditation session began. Mr. Ishida’s breathing became slow and even, a model for me to follow. But I couldn’t stay with the meditation. I felt as if I was being watched.

  Keeping my head bowed, I opened my eyes. The monks and lay worshipers facing from across the room all had their eyes piously half closed. I moved my gaze leftward to the three priests settled in by the altar. The priests also had their eyes closed, except for the man sitting closest to the altar. Wajin. I had found my watcher.

  Chapter 24

  Vice-Abbot Wajin’s eyes remained on me, and his expression did not change. Did this mean he wouldn’t blow my cover? I dropped my head and tried deep breathing to calm myself. Wajin eventually got up from his place, and, carrying the discipline stick, began his path through the ranks of monks and lay worshipers. He did not hit as many worshipers as Abbot Mihori had during my previous session. Wajin struck only the people who bowed before him as he passed slowly through the rows. I remained motionless, as did Mr. Ishida. Wajin passed us without stopping.

  The Zen breakfast was as unappetizing as before. Mr. Ishida appeared to find it delicious, even taking a second helping of gruel. I wanted to warn him about Wajin’s presence, but it was impossible to do that with no conversation allowed. When we’d washed and dried our bowls and handed them back to a junior monk, Wajin said a prayer officially ending the period of silence. The monks departed for their duties, and the worshipers fanned out of the building. I led Mr. Ishida across the garden toward a smaller wooden building where the archives were contained.

  “Isn’t it wonderful, granddaughter, to have traveled almost six hundred kilometers to finally have a chance to see the treasures of Horin-ji?” Mr. Ishida said in a carrying voice.

  “Yes!” I wished he would be less obvious, but he kept up his ramblings as we entered the next building.

  “To see the work of Mitsuhiro is my lifelong dream. Excuse me, can you show us to the archive?”

  A monk with a babyish, round face looked startled. “The archive is not open until afternoon.”

  “That is exactly why we are here now, to avoid the crowds. At my age, I cannot be packed in like sushi. I had made an appointment expressly for the morning!” Mr. Ishida thudded his staff for emphasis.

  The monk’s eyes ran over Mr. Ishida’s worn black priest’s robe and down to the straw sandals. The costume was just too powerful. It spoke of age and rank and an ineffable sense of class. I sensed the monk giving up.

  “We will have to see what Jiro-san says. It is up to Jiro-san.”

  Jiro, the monk in charge of antiquities, had an ageless face that looked as though it had been carved from marble. I recognized him as the stern monk who had caught me crawling on the ground near the Mihori residence. I kept my face lowered while Mr. Ishida described our religious pilgrimage.

  “You trained in Kyoto, Obosan? At which temple?” Jiro was addressing Mr. Ishida with the honorific title used for priests.

  “Ryoan-ji.” Mr. Ishida named the most famous Zen temple in all of Japan without a quiver of uncertainty.

  “Ah, you must know the honorable abbot there. . . .”

  “Yes, we trained together as young Zen acolytes. Over the years, I have appraised a number of treasures at his temple. My mission today is to verify the authenticity of one of our treasures. Through comparison with your holdings, I hope to find an answer. I have brought my granddaughter, who hopes to enter a nunnery in Kyoto next year.”

  I choked at that, and the monk’s gaze flashed over me, but returned to Mr. Ishida, the more interesting visitor. “Which treasure do you wish to see, Obosan?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I would like the chance to examine your Mitsuhiro scroll.”

  “Ah. We do own a scroll, but unfortunately cannot display it at this time of year because of the humid air. We will have a showing in late October.”

  We had thought this argument through beforehand. I spoke my prepared line.

  “The Tokyo National Museum sent its scroll to the Louvre. Europe has record heat this summer, doesn’t it, Grandfather?”

  “That’s correct. The Tokyo National Museum knows the importance of sharing its contribution with the world, as we try to in Kyoto. Just last month a delegation of esteemed priests visited from Kamakura, and we gave them access to all they wanted to see.”

  Jiro’s marble face flushed with color. “Well, if it is only for a few minutes, perhaps I can show you.”

  “You are too kind to an old man,” Mr. Ishida said.

  We were brought tea by the junior monk while Jiro went to the archives to fetch the scroll. After five minutes he came back holding a long wooden box. He set the box down, then went to a cupboard and took out several large sheets of acid-free paper. The paper was laid ceremoniously over a long library table before he slowly unfurled the scroll, weighting each end with a Lucite block so it was stretched to its entirety. The scroll was exactly like mine. I started sweating under my robe as Mr. Ishida removed a magnifying glass from his tiny purse.

  “This is an account of travel!” he said after reading the first few words. “Granddaughter, please take note.”

  I nodded. I didn’t understand this scroll any better than my own. What I did notice was the colored papers of this scroll had survived better than mine. They were brighter, and the only sign of age was light mildew damage.

  I waited for Mr. Ishida to pull out the sheaf of Polaroid photos I’d given him to use for comparison, but he didn’t. I wondered if it was because of Jiro’s presence across the table. Since he’d laid out the scroll, he’d been intently watching Mr. Ishida move down the lines of flowing letters with his magnifying glass.

  “While I look at the writing, why don’t you study the seals?” Mr. Ishida said to me.

  There were three different seals on the lower left hand corner of the scroll. It wasn’t uncommon for an artist to use several different seals with his name stamp during his lifetime. I recognized a long oval seal as the same as I’d seen on the Mitsuhiro in the Tokyo National Museum’s catalog, although the seal’s ink was a slightly different shade of scarlet. I pondered that, a question growing in me.

  Soft footsteps creaked along the wooden hall outside the archive office. I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of someone’s black robe. Time was short, and I didn’t want Wajin popping in to greet me. “Grandfather, I think it may be time to leave, if we are to return to Tokyo on ti
me.”

  “I thought you were from Kyoto!” Jiro seized on my mistake.

  “Yes, of course. I am merely visiting with my granddaughter.” Mr. Ishida put his magnifying glass away. “You have been extremely kind to an old man. I will say a prayer to Buddha in gratitude for your help.” Mr. Ishida swiftly grabbed his staff and gestured for me to carry his purse. We stepped toward the door, making our bows.

  Outside the temple I said, “I didn’t like the look of the seals on that scroll.”

  “Hush, let’s talk about it in the van.” Mr. Ishida was moving rapidly around the corner and toward the tiny parking lot. His trusty old Town Ace van was still there. As we slid into our respective seats, I noticed that the interior smelled of incense. Mr. Ishida had left a rear window open. In the few hours the car had waited in Horin-ji, it had become infused with the temple’s holy scent.

  “So, what do you think? The ink was different, wasn’t it? And the paper was in too-perfect condition.”

  “That’s right. But the most significant fact was that poems on that scroll were exactly the same as your scroll’s.”

  “Their scroll is a forgery.” The pieces were starting to click into place for me like black and white tiles in the game of go.

  “You’ve learned well,” Mr. Ishida said. “And your scroll is probably the genuine one. I’d like to examine it closely, not just in photographs.”

  “I would also.” I heard Wajin’s smooth voice at the same time a light but strong piece of black silk whisked over my head. My head was pulled back with so much force I felt it might snap.

  “What’s this, young man? Do you have any idea who I am?” Mr. Ishida protested.

  “You’re Ishida, the antiques seller from Tokyo. Not a priest at all.” As Wajin spoke, more fabric whipped through the air, and from Mr. Ishida’s gasp, I knew he’d been blindfolded, too. My hands were still free. I reached out rapidly to the passenger door. Something sharp sliced into my hand, and I drew back, stopped by the pain.

  “Be careful. It would be so easy for me to cut the most important vein,” Wajin murmured as he bound my hands with rope behind my back. When he was done and turned to Mr. Ishida, I pressed my bound hands hard against the seat back, trying to stop the flow of blood. I didn’t dare go for the door again. I felt my afternoon of work at Yoko Maeda’s shop slip away from me, and I wondered if she would ever hear what happened to me.

  “Now, Grandfather, allow me.” Wajin was binding Mr. Ishida’s hands, I guessed.

  “Let him go, for God’s sake,” I said. “Ishida-san is seventy-four. He’s no threat to you, and if he has a heart attack, it will be on your hands.”

  “A natural death is not something I worry about. But where’s your little telephone? You always carry it, don’t you?”

  The telephone was back in the coin locker at the Tokyo National Museum. I told him, but he chose not to believe me, roughly pulling up my Zen robe to run his hands over my body. This time there was nothing magic about his touch. I cringed but kept still, remembering the knife.

  In the end, Wajin slid something else over my head. From the size and stiffness of the plastic piece, I knew it was a Tanabata festival mask.

  “I took the liberty of using the fox mask you left in the teahouse. The old man is wearing the bear mask. Pretty savage, neh? As we drive around the temple grounds, everyone will just think you’re a couple of festival revelers.”

  “The festival was two days ago. The masks are going to seem very odd.”

  “Actually, Tanabata is celebrated in Kamakura all week long. There are quite a few tourists in costume walking around at present. Listen and you will hear them.”

  Over the grinding sound of the van’s engine I could hear the hum of voices and the cry of a vendor selling grilled octopus balls. We had to be driving down the main thoroughfare. Where was he taking us? The Mihoris’ house, I thought as the van turned onto the smooth river stones that had shifted under my heels as I walked over them before. Then dirt; he must be on Akemi’s trail. I tried to pinpoint where we were going, but gave up after a few minutes. I could tell the car was climbing rough terrain. We were leaving the main temple grounds and heading into the mountains, the area Akemi had warned me not to enter.

  “Did you break into the apartment?” I called loudly toward the front seat.

  “I found the key in Nana’s handbag. But when I came to the apartment and examined the tansu, I found the scroll had been removed. I looked for it everywhere, and was going to force you to tell me where it was, but your boyfriend came home. I slipped out, but it left us with unfinished business.”

  As the van jounced, Mr. Ishida and I rolled against each other. In a whisper so low I thought I might have imagined it, he said, “Don’t speak. Keep the secret and you will live!”

  If I could convince Wajin that I needed to go to Tokyo to retrieve the scroll, I might be able to make my escape. I’d already botched several chances to be saved. I’d reached for the car door, but when the knife sliced into my hand, I’d pulled back. Then when we’d driven through the temple grounds, I should have shouted something out the window. In the mountains, no one would be around to hear me. The only chance would be to run away, and that would be impossible blindfolded and with my hands tied. Besides, Mr. Ishida wouldn’t be able to keep up with me.

  The van rolled to a stop. Wajin came around to open my door.

  “May I take off the mask? I’m feeling really sick.” I wanted to know where he’d brought us.

  “Yes, it is difficult to breathe in this heat.” Mr. Ishida sounded feeble.

  “The darkness will help you concentrate. Rei had trouble concentrating on her Zen meditation today, I noticed.” Wajin’s hands slipped under my armpits and hauled me out. “You’ve left bloodstains all over the seat!”

  “Yes, I’m losing a lot of blood. I’m very faint. . . .” I decided to play things up, but all he did was twist my arm behind my back and march me out of the van, not caring that I lost my shoes on the way.

  “Watch your head,” he said just as my forehead bumped something hard. We were going into a cave, I judged by the damp air. As I walked slowly, nudged along by him, I remembered the cave where Horin-ji’s monks had been buried from the thirteenth through sixteenth centuries, the place where Akemi had warned me not to go.

  “Sit.” Wajin let go of my arm and I leaned against the damp cave wall, using it for support as I slid down to the rocky ground. I didn’t think we were in very far. In fact, I had counted exactly fifty-two steps taken from the entrance. If I could get rid of my blindfold, I might be able to figure out an exit.

  Wajin went to get Mr. Ishida. I listened to the echo of his brisk footsteps heading out. Time stretched, and I began counting a slow dripping sound. I counted one hundred, then two hundred. The pain in my tightly tied wrists slowly evaporated into numbness. Why hadn’t Wajin brought Mr. Ishida back? What was going on outside the cave?

  After a long time Wajin came back. This time his breathing was rising and falling. I prayed for a diabetic seizure to take him, but he continued slowly toward me. I listened for a second set of footsteps, but heard nothing.

  “Ishida-san?” I called. When there was no answer, I whispered, “Where is he?”

  Wajin crouched down next to me, bringing with him the scent of incense. He laughed softly. “The old man is in the next world. If you don’t watch out, I’ll send you there as well.”

  Chapter 25

  “You killed him?” I recalled Mr. Ishida rolling against me in the car, the two of us silent with terror. I wished I had spoken to him, told him that I loved him and would never forgive myself for bringing him to Horin-ji.

  “Yes, the old man was no use to me. Not like you.”

  I heard the chugging sound of a car coming up the mountain and said, “The police must be here. I left a message about our destination.”

  “You’re lying. You didn’t contact the police, because you didn’t want anyone knowing about the fact you’ve stolen o
ur scroll.”

  “I had no interest in the scroll. I didn’t even know it existed until a day ago—”

  “Then why don’t you give it up to me? Make everything much simpler?”

  “You killed my friend. If I tell you where the scroll is, you’ll do the same to me.” I spoke loudly, hoping to alert whoever was outside the cave about the danger within. If the person was a tourist, he might retreat down the mountain to seek help.

  “Think about how you’d like to die, Rei. Quickly or slowly. Mercifully or in great pain.” Wajin made some rustling sounds, and his voice was farther away when he spoke again. “I’m going to have to leave you for a short time to attend to my duties. But do not worry about being alone. Someone you know will be looking after you.”

  Footsteps were echoing toward us; they came slowly, making me think the person was not familiar with the cave.

  “We’re here,” Wajin called.

  I heard the sound of someone tripping, and a male voice swore in Japanese. Finally the footsteps entered our chamber and stopped. The darkness before my eyes lessened, so I guessed the man had brought a flashlight with him.

  “She’s still alive?”

  Jun Kuroi. I recognized the voice.

  “I saved her for you.” Wajin laughed nastily. “Knowing the friendship you two share, I thought you might convince her to tell you where the scroll is. Then you’ll call me, and I’ll retrieve it. Don’t waste time. By sunset, I expect everything to be taken care of.”

  “Yes,” Jun said.

  “This is the end, Rei. I won’t tell you sayonara because I don’t expect to see you alive again.” Wajin kicked my hip before walking away.

  Jun didn’t speak to me directly until we’d heard a car start up outside the cave. “I’m sorry. I suppose you know everything.”