Miyamoto showed right on time, strolling down Sotobori-dōri from the direction of the station. Probably he’d taken the Yamanote from Shinjuku. I watched him enter the bank, then spent a few moments scanning the sidewalk in his wake. He seemed to be alone, but I couldn’t be sure.
I strolled over and reached the entrance just as he emerged. “Ah,” he said. “I thought you would have beaten me here.”
“No, I just arrived. Do you mind if we take a cab somewhere? And then maybe just walk?”
“A cab? But I thought…but all right, if you prefer.”
He seemed disconcerted and possibly a little nervous, but not unduly so. If this was a setup, I figured he’d be more on edge. Still, no sense taking chances.
We took a cab to Hamarikyu Teien, a centuries-old garden a mile or so to the southeast that was once the property of shoguns and emperors but that more recently had been opened to the public. Between the cab and a walk in the garden, I was confident anyone tagging along with Miyamoto would have to reveal himself.
The grounds were nearly empty, and we strolled along one of the paths in silence for a few minutes, clinging to the shadows of the trees to one side, avoiding the monotonous, leaden heat of the sun, the only sounds those of our feet crunching the gravel and the raucous cries of crows in the trees. Today, the garden is surrounded almost entirely by modern high-rises and has something of a fishbowl feel, but back then it was an unsullied oasis of green knolls and clusters of trees dense as broccoli stalks and ponds graced by gently sloping wooden bridges, with no hint of the metropolis around it beyond the occasional distant rumble of a train. As we moved along, I had several opportunities to glance behind us. No one had followed us in.
“I had forgotten how lovely Hamarikyu can be,” Miyamoto said, dabbing at his perspiring brow with a handkerchief as we walked. “Why have we not been using it for our exchanges?”
His ordinarily earthy Japanese diction was markedly formal today. I wondered why. “Well, it’s not too late.”
He chuckled. “That is true.”
I waited for him to go on, thinking of the way McGraw seemed to use silence to elicit information. But nothing came of it.
We came to the wisteria-covered trellis at the end of the Otsutai Bridge. A discreet wooden sign announced that waiting at the other end, on stilts at the center of the large pond, was the Nakajima Teahouse, serving potent green matcha and offering enviable views of the surrounding garden since 1707. I said, “Maybe a cup of tea?”
“By all means, yes. It would be good to sit. And to get out of this sun.”
I couldn’t disagree with any of that. And it would be good to have near panoramic views of the garden, too, in case I had missed anyone behind us when we first entered. I wondered if my caution was excessive. I decided I didn’t care. There seemed little to be lost from it, and much that might be gained. And besides, it was only temporary.
We crossed the wooden bridge, the slight breeze over the water a godsend, and came to a tiny island of rock and thick shrubs, occupied almost in its entirety by the single-story, green-roofed teahouse. We removed our shoes at the entrance and followed a kimonoed hostess to a corner overlooking the pond, where we sat on the tatami and ordered the matcha Nakajima was known for. We were the only patrons, and the still space, redolent of cedar and old tatami, felt solemn to me, imbued with the ghostly presence of generations of previous patrons who had sat and chatted here as we did now, all of them long since dead. The waitress brought our tea on a small lacquer tray, set it before us, bowed, and left us to talk.
I picked up the earthen cup and went to take a sip. “Not like that,” Miyamoto said. “Let it cool a little. Give yourself a moment to appreciate the aroma, the feel of the bowl in your hands.”
I was a little surprised and didn’t respond, though nor did I drink any tea. Miyamoto flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is why my children prefer to avoid me. Only…it seems a shame, not to pause to appreciate the small things. So often they’re more important than what we think are the big ones.”
Somehow, being corrected by Miyamoto didn’t sting. “It’s fine,” I said. “Do you know a lot about tea?”
He shook his head quickly as though embarrassed. “Very little.”
I sensed he was being modest. “You’ve done sadō, I think,” I said, referring to the Japanese tea ceremony — literally, “the way of tea.”
“Perhaps I was exposed to it somewhat, when I was younger. But still it’s really not right for me to suggest to others how they should comport themselves.”
“No, I don’t mind,” I said, setting my bowl down. “Show me the way you would do it.”
He beamed. “All right, since you ask. What’s important is not much more than what I said. The purpose is to appreciate, to pay careful attention…to be mindful. Not to overlook what seems small but that is in fact significant. The rest is commentary, no?”
The word he used for “mindful” was nen, which typically means “sense” or “feeling.” If he hadn’t offered the additional context, I wouldn’t have quite understood his meaning. I nodded and followed his lead, holding the bowl, appreciating the aroma, savoring the taste. At first I was just being polite, but after a few moments, I started to wonder if he might have a point. I knew there were tradecraft things I’d been missing. Why wouldn’t there be everyday things, as well? What would it cost to become more heedful of those things…and would the practice of becoming more heedful of one naturally cause me to become more heedful of the other? I thought this nen was an attitude worth cultivating. Not just to appreciate the things that make life worth living. But to be attuned to the things that can keep you alive.
When we were halfway through the tea, and he still hadn’t mentioned why he had contacted me, I thought it was time to nudge him. “So,” I said, “what’s on your mind?”
He nodded emphatically as though he’d almost forgotten and was grateful for my reminding him. “Ah, an embarrassing situation,” he said, setting down his cup. “Although I have an opportunity to resolve it.”
“All right.”
“The…funds we exchange. They are provided to various grateful recipients according to a formula designed and implemented by people far worthier than I.”
“Okay.”
“And, it seems, one of these recipients is less grateful than would be proper. He has made unfortunate threats about revealing the existence of this…assistance program that so many other people understand and value. As a gesture of goodwill, those other people attempted to propitiate him.”
“And that didn’t work.”
“It did for a while, it seems. But having gotten his way seems also to have encouraged him. He is making threats again.”
“That’s regrettable,” I said, mirroring his formal style, thinking that would make him more comfortable.
“Indeed. But I’m sure it will be dealt with. In fact, that’s precisely what I have been given the opportunity to arrange.”
I said nothing.
“What would be helpful, and most appreciated, is if someone could make this troublesome problem go away. For ten thousand U.S. dollars, and with no questions asked.”