Kusamakura

“Just look at the texture of it, look at those spots!†The old gentleman almost drools with delight as he speaks.

Indeed, the color’s beauty increases the more you gaze. If you breathed on that cold, lustrous surface, your warm breath might instantly freeze there, leaving a puff of cloudiness. The most astonishing thing is the color of the shrike spots. They are not so much spots as subtle shifts in color where the spot emerges from the surrounding stone, a transition so gradual that the eye finds it almost impossible to locate the point at which the deceptive moment of change occurs. Metaphorical y, it’s like gazing into a translucent plum-colored bean cake, at a bean that lies embedded deep within. These shrike spots are so precious that the presence even of one or two is highly prized. There would be almost no examples of a stone with nine. What’s more, the nine are distributed equidistantly over the surface, so apparently systematical y that the effect could wel be mistaken for a human artifact—a masterpiece of nature indeed.

“It’s certainly a splendid thing,†I say, passing it to the young man beside me. “It’s not just pleasing to the eye, it’s delightful to touch as wel .â€

“Would you understand such matters, Kyūichi?†the old man inquires with a smile.

“I’ve no idea,†Kyuichi blurts out, ducking the question with a rather desperate air. He puts the ink stone down in front of him and gazes at it, then picks it up and hands it back to me, perhaps acknowledging that it’s too fine for his ignorant eyes. I run my hands over it careful y one more time before returning it reverently to the abbot. He rests it delicately on the palm of his hand til he’s finished examining it; then, apparently not yet sated, he picks up the edge of his gray cotton sleeve, rubs it fiercely over the spider’s back, and gazes in admiration at the resultant luster.

“The color real y is marvelous, isn’t it? Have you ever used this?†asks the abbot.

“No, I scarcely ever get the urge to actual y use it. It’s just as I bought it.â€

“Yes, I can understand that. This would be considered rare even over in China, I should think, wouldn’t it?â€

“Quite so.â€

“I’d like one of these myself, I must say,†the abbot remarks. “Maybe I’l ask Kyuichi for one. How about it, Kyuichi, could you buy me one?â€

Kyuichi gives a chuckle. “I could wel be dead before I get a chance to find you your ink stone.â€

“Yes, indeed. An ink stone wil be the last thing you have on your mind, eh? Speaking of which, when do you set off?â€

“I’m going in two or three days.â€

“See him off as far as Yoshida, won’t you, Mr. Shioda?†says the abbot.

“Wel , I’m an old man, and normal y I wouldn’t bother these days, but it may be the last time we meet, who knows, so I’m planning to go along and say farewel , in fact.â€

“There’s no need to do that, Uncle.â€

So he’s the old gentleman’s nephew. Yes, I can see the resemblance between them now.

“Oh, go on,†urges the abbot. “Do let him see you off. It would be quite simple if you went down the river by boat. Isn’t that so, Mr.

Shioda?â€

“Yes, it’s not easy over the mountains, but if we went around the long way by boat . . .â€

The young man no longer objects to the offer; he simply remains silent.

“Are you going over to China?†I venture.

“Yes.â€

This monosyl able isn’t an entirely satisfactory response, but there seems no need to delve further, so I hold my tongue. Glancing at the papered window, I register that the shadow of the aspidistra has shifted.

“Fact is,†Mr. Shioda breaks in on his nephew’s behalf, “with this war, you know . . . He enlisted as a volunteer, so he got cal ed up to go.†And so from him I learn the fate of this young man, who is destined to leave for the Manchurian front in a matter of days. I’ve been mistaken to assume that in this little vil age in the spring, so like a dream or a poem, life is a matter only of the singing birds, the fal ing blossoms, and the bubbling springs. The real world has crossed mountains and seas and is bearing down even on this isolated vil age, whose inhabitants have doubtless lived here in peace down the long stretch of years ever since they fled as defeated warriors from the great clan wars of the twelfth century. Perhaps a mil ionth part of the blood that wil dye the wide Manchurian plains wil gush from this young man’s arteries, or seethe forth at the point of the long sword that hangs at his waist. Yet here this young man sits, beside an artist for whom the sole value of human life lies in dreaming. If I listen careful y, I can even hear the beating of his heart, so close are we. And perhaps even now, within that beat reverberates the beating of the great tide that is sweeping across the hundreds of miles of that far battlefield. Fate has for a brief and unexpected moment brought us together in this room, but beyond that it speaks no more.

CHAPTER 9

“Are you studying?†she inquires. I’ve returned to my room and am reading one of the books I brought along, strapped to my tripod on the journey over the mountain.

“Do come in. I don’t mind in the least.â€

She steps boldly in, with no hint of hesitation. A wel -formed neck emerges above the kimono col ar, vivid against its somber hue. This contrast first strikes my eye as she seats herself before me.

“Is that a Western book? It must be about something very difficult.â€

“Oh, hardly.â€

“Wel , what’s it about, then?â€

“Yes, wel , actual y, I don’t real y understand it myself.â€

She laughs. “That’s why you’re studying, is it?â€

“I’m not studying. Al I’ve done is open it in front of me on the desk and start dipping into it.â€

“Is it interesting to read like that?â€

“Yes, it is.â€

“Why?â€

“Because with novels and suchlike, this is the most entertaining way to read.â€

“You’re rather strange, aren’t you?â€

“Yes, I suppose I am a little.â€

“What’s wrong with reading from the beginning?â€

“If you say you have to start at the beginning, that means you have to read to the end.â€

“What a funny reason! Why shouldn’t you read to the end?â€

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it, of course. I do it too, if I want to know about the story.â€

“What do you read if it isn’t the story? Is there anything else to read?â€

There speaks a woman, I think to myself. I decide to test her a little.

“Do you like novels?â€

“Me?†she says abruptly. Then she adds rather evasively, “Yes, wel . . .†Not very much, it seems.

“You’re not clear whether you like them or not, then?â€

“Whether I read a novel or not is neither here nor there to me.†She gives the distinct impression that she takes no account of their existence.

“In that case, why should it matter whether you read it from the beginning, or from the end, or just dip into it in a desultory way? I don’t see why you should consider my way of reading so strange.â€

“But you and I are different.â€

“In what way?†I ask, gazing into her eyes. This is the moment for the test, I think, but her gaze doesn’t so much as falter.