Kusamakura

“What a lovely view! It’s a waste to keep the shutters closed, Your Reverence.â€

“That’s true. But then, I see it every night.â€

“This view would stil be lovely however many nights you saw it. If it were me, I’d stay up al night just to gaze.â€

The abbot laughs. “Of course you’re an artist, so we’re bound to be a bit different.â€

“You too are an artist, Your Reverence, when you find such a view beautiful.â€

“Yes, that’s true enough, I suppose. Even I can do the odd Bodhidharma painting. Look at this one hanging here. This scrol painting was done by a predecessor. It’s very good, isn’t it?â€

I look at the Bodhidharma painting on the scrol in the little alcove. As a painting, it’s dreadful. Al you can say for it is that it’s not vulgarly ambitious. The painter has made not the slightest attempt to conceal its clumsiness. It is a naïve work. This predecessor must have been a similar type, someone who cared nothing for pretension.

“It’s an unsophisticated painting, isn’t it?â€

“That’s al our sort of painting requires. It only needs to reveal the painter’s nature.â€

“It’s better than the sort that’s skil ful but worldly.â€

The abbot laughs. “Wel , wel , that’s a good enough compliment, I suppose. Now tel me, are there such things as doctors of painting these days?â€

“No, there aren’t.â€

“Ah, I see. Because I met a doctor the other day.â€

“Real y?â€

“I suppose a doctor is a fine thing to be, eh?â€

“Yes, I imagine so.â€

“You’d think there’d be doctorates for painters too. I wonder why there aren’t.â€

“In that case, there ought to be doctorates for abbots as wel , oughtn’t there?â€

He laughs again. “Yes, wel , maybe so. . . . Now what was his name, the fel ow I met the other day? I must have his name card here somewhere.â€

“Where did you meet him? In Tokyo?â€

“No, here. I haven’t been to Tokyo for twenty years or more. I hear those things they cal ‘trains’ are running these days. I wouldn’t mind taking a ride on one to see what it’s like.â€

“There’s nothing very interesting about them. They’re noisy things.â€

“Wel , you know the saying—‘The dogs in a misty country wil bark at the sun, the cows in a hot country wil pant at the moon.’ I’m a country fel ow, so I’d probably have a hard time coping with trains, in fact.â€

“Oh, I’m sure you’d cope perfectly wel . They real y are very boring things.â€

“Is that so?â€

Steam is pouring from the iron kettle. The abbot takes a pot and cups from the nearby tea chest and proceeds to make us tea.

“Have a cup of coarse-leaf tea. It’s not the delicious tea that Mr. Shioda makes, mind you.â€

“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.â€

“You look as if you wander about a lot. Now, is that in order to paint?â€

“Yes. I take along the equipment when I go walking, but I don’t mind if I don’t actual y paint any picture.â€

“Ah, so it’s only half-serious, then?â€

“Yes, you could say that. I hate submitting myself to al that fart counting, you see.â€

Even a Zen practitioner such as the abbot is apparently at a loss to comprehend this expression. “What do you mean by ‘fart counting’?â€

“If you live in Tokyo for a long time, you get your farts counted.â€

“How so?â€

I laugh. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just counting, but then they go on to analyze your farts, and measure your ass-hole to see if it’s square or triangular, and so on.â€

“Ah, you’re talking about hygiene, are you?â€

“Not hygiene, no. I’m talking about detectives.â€

“Detectives? So it’s the police, is it? Now, what’s the purpose of policemen, eh? Do we real y have to have them?â€

“No, artists certainly have no need of them.â€

“Nor do I. I’ve never had any cause to bother one.â€

“I’m sure not.â€

“Stil , I don’t care if the police want to go counting farts. So what? They can’t do a thing to you, after al , unless you’ve done something wrong.â€

“It’s dreadful just to think something might be done to you on account of a simple fart, though.â€

“When I was a young monk, you know, my superiors always told me people never get anywhere with their training unless they can throw themselves into it with the same abandon it would take to expose your guts on the street in the heart of Tokyo. You should do the same sort of rigorous training, you know. Then you wouldn’t need to go traveling.â€

“If I were a real painter, I could achieve that sort of state whenever I wanted.â€

“Wel then, you should do so.â€

“I can’t if people are counting my farts al the time.â€

The abbot laughs. “Wel , there you are, you see. Now, that lass of Shioda’s, where you’re staying, young Nami, after she came back from the marriage, al sorts of things used to plague her mind, til in the end she decided to come to me for some Buddhist instruction. And now look at her, she’s come a long way with it. These days she’s got a fine head on her shoulders.â€

“Wel , wel , I did get the impression she was no ordinary woman.â€

“No, she’s very sharp. A young monk studying under me by the name of Taian was led to a moment of great crisis in life on account of her, you know. It’s proved to be an excel ent aid to enlightenment for him, I understand.â€

The pine casts its shadow across the quiet garden. The distant sea glimmers faintly, with a shifting light that seems to answer and yet not answer the lights that fil the sky. The fishing boats’ far lamps wink on and off.

“Look at the shadow of that pine.â€

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?â€

“Is that al ?â€

“Yes.â€

“It’s not simply beautiful. It cares not if the wind blows.â€

I drink off the last of my tea, place the cup upside down on the tea tray, and rise to my feet.

“We’l see you as far as the gate. Ryoooneeeen! The guest is leaving!â€

When we step out of the priests’ quarters, the pigeons are cooing.

“There’s nothing more enchanting than pigeons, you know. I have only to clap, and they al come flying over. Here, I’l show you.â€

The moonlight has grown brighter stil . In the deep silence, the magnolia tree proffers its tangled branches of cloudy blossoms to the vault of the sky. Suddenly the abbot startles the very center of the clear spring night with a loud clap. The sound dies on the breeze, and not a single pigeon appears.

“Not coming, eh? Funny, I thought they would.â€

Ryonen looks at me with a hint of a smile. The abbot appears to think pigeons can see in the dark. What a happy innocence.

At the gate we part. I turn to watch their two rounded shadows, one large and one smal , fol ow each other back down the stone path and disappear.

CHAPTER 12

I believe it was Oscar Wilde who remarked that Christ’s approach to life was supremely artistic. I don’t know about Christ, but I certainly believe this statement could justly be applied to the abbot of Kankaiji. Not in the sense of tastes, or of being in accord with the times—after al , this is a man who hangs in his alcove a Bodhidharma scrol painting so execrable it scarcely deserves the name of art, and boasts about how fine it is; a man who believes that there are doctorates for painters, and who thinks that pigeons can see in the dark. But I would claim that, despite al this, he is a real artist. His heart is a bottomless wel . Everything passes straight through it without hindrance. He moves freely through al places, creates at wil , and moves on, and there’s not the least hint of any sul ying particle of experience remaining lodged within him. If just a touch of discernment and taste could be added to his brain, he would become the perfect artist, at one with whatever situation he found himself in, maintaining the artist’s essential state of mind even in the most trivial everyday moments of life.