Kusamakura

The sandy stream runs beneath a little bridge a bare twelve feet or so long and bears its waters on toward the shore. Out there where its spring flow joins the shining spring sea, fathoms of fishing nets are looped up to dry in an uneven jumble of lengths. Perhaps it is these that impart to the soft breeze, blowing in through the nets to the vil age, a warm, pungent smel of fish. That sluggish silver visible beyond the nets, like a dul sword melted to a shimmering swim of molten metal, is the sea.

This scene is utterly at odds with the barber beside me. If his character were more forceful, able to hold its own in my mind against the bril iance of the scene that lies al about him, I would be overwhelmed by the wild incongruity between the two. Fortunately, however, the barber is not so strikingly impressive. However overflowing he is with the old Tokyoite’s bravado, no matter how he might bluster and swagger, the man is no match for the vast and harmonious serenity of the circumambient air. This barber, who does his best to shatter the prevailing atmosphere with his display of self-satisfied garrulousness, has swiftly become no more than a tiny particle floating deep in the far reaches of the felicitous spring sunlight. A contradiction, after al , cannot arise where the relative strength, substance, or indeed spirit and body of the two elements are irreconcilable; it can be felt only when two things or people are on a similar level. If the discrepancy between them is too vast, al contradictory relationship may wel final y evaporate and vanish, and the two instead come to play a single part in the great life force. For this reason the man of talent can act in the service of the great, the fool can be an assistant to the man of talent, and the ox and horse can support the fool. My barber is simply enacting a farce against the backdrop of the spring scene’s infinity. Far from destroying the tranquil ity of spring, he is in fact achingly augmenting the sensation of it. I find myself savoring my chance encounter with such a happy-go-lucky pantomime buffoon on this vernal day. This ebul ient braggart, al puff and no substance, provides in fact the perfect touch to set off the day’s deep serenity.

In this state of mind, it strikes me that my barber is a fine subject for a picture or a poem, so I remain squatting there companionably, chatting about this and that, long past the time I should have left. Then suddenly a little priest’s shaved head slips in between the shop curtains.

“Excuse me, could you do me a shave?†he says, and in he comes. He’s a very jol y-looking little priest, in a white cotton gown with a padded rope belt and a black priest’s robe of coarse gauze draped over it.

“RyÅnen! How’s it going? I’l bet the abbot told you off the other day for dawdling, huh?â€

“Not a bit of it. He gave me a pat on the back.â€

“Pat on the back because you went off on an errand and managed to pul out a fish while you were at it, huh?â€

“He said he was pleased I’d given myself such a good time; it goes to show I’m wiser than my years.â€

“No wonder yer head’s al swel ed up like that. Just look at those lumps. Dreadful business to shave such a badly behaved noggin. Wel , I’l let you off this time. But you just mold it into better shape before you bring it here again.â€

“If I have to remold it to suit you, it’s easier to take it to a better barber.â€

The barber laughs. “Head’s shaped funny, but you sure got a quick tongue.â€

“As for you, your hands are hopeless at shaving, but they sure know how to lift a sake cup.â€

“Whaddya mean ‘hopeless at shaving,’ goddamn you!â€

“I didn’t say it, the abbot did. No need to lose your cool. Come on now, act your age.â€

“Hrrmph. No joke—isn’t that right, mister?â€

“What?â€

“These priest types, they al live the easy life perched up there in their temples. No wonder their tongues get so quick off the mark. Even this young fel er, he’s forever shootin’ his mouth off—oops, head to the side a bit—to the side, I said, dammit—I’l give ya a cut if ya don’t do as yer told, got that? There’l be blood, I’m warnin’ ya.â€

“Hey, that hurts! Don’t be so rough!â€

“This is nothin’. How ya goin’ to be a priest if ya can’t put up with a bit of pain, huh?â€

“I’m already a priest.â€

“Yer not the real thing yet. Speakin’ of which, why did that Taian die? Tel me.â€

“But Taian’s not dead.â€

“Not dead? Fancy that. I was sure he died.â€

“He turned over a new leaf after al that happened, and he went off to Daibaiji temple up in Rikuzen, to throw himself into his practice.

He’l have reached enlightenment by now, I should think. It’s a fine thing.â€

“What’s fine about it? Never heard of no Buddhist teaching that says it’s fine to do a flit like he did. You just look out, ya hear me?

Don’t you go makin’ a fool of yerself with a woman. Speakin’ of women, that loony goes visiting the abbot, does she?â€

“I haven’t heard of any loony woman.â€

“Get it through that thick bald skul , come on. Does she go or doesn’t she?â€

“No loony goes to visit, but Shioda’s daughter certainly does.â€

“The abbot can pray al he likes, there’s no curin’ that one. That ex-husband of hers has cursed her.â€

“She’s a fine woman. The abbot has a lot of praise for her.â€

“Wel , it beats me. Everything’s topsy-turvy once you’re up in that temple of yours. Whatever he says, a loony’s a loony—right, that’s yer head done. Off you go quick smart, and get yerself a scolding from the abbot.â€

“No, I’d rather take my time about it and get a pat on the back instead.â€

“Do as you like, you impudent twerp.â€

“Pah! You’re a shit-ass!â€

“What did you say?â€

But the freshly shaved head has already ducked through the shop curtains and is out in the spring breeze.

CHAPTER 6

It is evening. I settle at the desk, al the doors opened wide.

Not only are there few people in this inn, but the building itself is relatively spacious, so that here in my room, separated as it is by winding corridors from the realm of human intercourse where those few dwel , not a sound comes to disturb my contemplations. And today al is quieter stil .

The master of the house, his daughter, and the male and female servants seem to have al departed and left me here alone—departed not to some ordinary place but to the land of mists perhaps, or to the realm of clouds. Or perhaps cloud and water have moved closer, so that their little boat drifts unawares upon a sea so calm that the hand is too languid to reach for the til er, then floats off and away until the white sail seems to become one with water and cloud, until at last even the sail itself must scarcely know how it might differ from them—perhaps it is to this distant realm that they have al departed. Or perhaps they have suddenly disappeared into the depths of the spring, their mortal bodies now transformed to spirit mists there in the vast reaches between heaven and earth, too insubstantial to be visible any longer even to the microscope’s powerful eye. Or they have become skylarks, singing al day the delights of the mustard blossom’s gold, and now, as the light fades, soaring to where the evening’s deep violet trails its hues. Or perhaps as gadflies they have lengthened the long day with their labors, failing at the last to sip from the last flower’s center its sweet accumulated dew, and now they sleep a scented sleep, pil owed beneath some tumbled camel ia blossom.