Night Boat. Alan Spence

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      I bathed and put on my cleanest clothes, the ones that smelled least of mildew and sweat. The Yotsugi home was about a mile from the temple, and I set out walking, past a row of little shops and stalls selling fruit and vegetables, pickles and dried fish, trinkets and knick-knacks, clogs and straw umbrellas, sweets made from bean paste, scrolls and paintbrushes, netsuke, incense. I loved the stink and fragrance of it all, the light of the day fading, oil-lamps lit for the evening. I felt light and buoyed up, exhilarated.

      An old woman bowed, in deference to my monks’ robes. I bowed lower in return. A crazy drunk laughed at me, sprayed spit, his face a toothless demon mask. I laughed right back at him, bowed again, walked on.

      The way led through some narrow back streets and past a stretch of open ground next to the graveyard. I was aware of a movement, turned and saw a scraggy-looking dog loping towards me. It stopped and growled, started barking at me. I looked around for a stone to throw at it, but there was nothing. Hackles raised, it came closer, barked louder. I turned and faced it down, barked back at it louder still, and it ran off, whimpering.

      Ha!

      I offered up a silent prayer to Kannon, for protecting me and for not letting me find a stone. The edict of the Dog Shogun was still in force. Compassion for living beings. I saw myself reported, arrested by some petty official, thrown in jail, sentenced and executed. A sad end to a young life, and before I’d even had the chance to know Hana. I laughed again, this time at myself.

      The Yotsugi residence looked modest from the outside, a solid wooden gate, weathered and worn, bamboo fencing on either side, the family name carved on an old oak panel, and beside it a length of rope, a bell-pull. I breathed deep, gathered myself and tugged at the rope. Somewhere far inside, a temple-bell clanged. I heard the shuffle and clack of wooden geta and the door creaked open. An old servant peered out at me and when I announced my name he showed me inside, led me along a walkway to the house, told me to wait in an anteroom of polished hardwood, immaculate tatami mats on the floor. In a tokonoma alcove, a single chrysanthemum had been placed in a vase in front of a hanging scroll inscribed with vigorous, fluid calligraphy reading The Flower-path. On one wall was mounted a samurai sword in its sheath. On the wall opposite hung a magnificent kimono, sleeves spread out like wings, dyed deep pink, patterned with gold-embroidered birds. The air was filled with the scent of a rich musky perfume, a dark, spicy expensive incense. I breathed it in.

      The shoji screen slid open with the barest whisper and my host stepped into the room and greeted me by name.

      Welcome to my humble home, he said, and motioned me to sit.

      I kneeled on the tatami, and he sat facing me on a low wooden seat.

      Now, he said. Let us get to know each other.

      Yotsugi-san asked all the questions. He wanted to know about my family background and I told him what I knew. He was intrigued that my father was samurai and could trace his ancestry back to a warrior clan of the Kamakura period. I told him with some pride that they had fought alongside the great Minamoto no Yoshitsune.

      Excellent, he said.

      I told him my father had also spent time at Shoin-ji, where my own training had begun.

      And now he runs the busy way-station at Hara?

      Yes, I said, and I must have registered surprise that he knew this.

      Forgive me, he said. I took the liberty of making some enquiries.

      I am honoured, I said, bowing.

      I find it fascinating, he said, that your father’s early Zen training was no barrier to his becoming a successful businessman. In fact, I am sure it prepared him well for the cut and thrust of commerce.

      I heard Zen and barrier, cut and thrust, pictured a swordsman cutting down his enemies. Yoshitsune on the battlefield.

      My own modest success, he said, is founded on a love of beauty.

      He indicated the kimono on the wall.

      I deal in these gorgeous creations, for those who can afford to pay.

      The gold birds glittered against the deep pink silk. The shoji screen opened a fraction and Yotsugi-san gave the slightest nod towards the gap. It opened wider and a young woman stepped into the room and set down a lacquer tray bearing a teapot and two bowls, a bamboo whisk and a lidded box. Another maid followed behind with a heavier tray of dark wood, on it a small stove and an iron kettle. The two women backed out through the gap, bowing.

      So, said Yotsugi-san.

      I thought he was about to prepare tea for us himself. But he clapped his hands and the screen slid open once more, and kneeling there was Hana.

      I’d known I would be seeing her at some point in the evening. I had struggled between anticipating it and trying not to think of it at all. But the actuality took me completely by surprise. I felt as if I’d been struck in the chest, and just for a moment I could not draw breath.

      She wore a floral-patterned kimono in blues and greens, the sash a rich purple. Her hair was swept up, just so, held in place by a silver clasp and exposing the exquisite curve of her neck. I caught again a waft of her perfume, jasmine, and in behind it the smell of her.

      Hana.

      She kept her head down, not looking at me.

      Tea, said her father, and she bowed, glanced up, just for an instant caught my eye, gave a quick half-smile that turned me inside out.

      Tea.

      Her movements were extraordinarily graceful as she placed the kettle on the stove, wiped the bowls with the chakin linen cloth, removed the lid from the box and scooped a little tea into each bowl, all with the deftest of movements designed to keep her sleeves out of the way but performed with the flow of a dance or a piece of kabuki. I was mesmerised.

      You are familiar with the way of tea? asked her father.

      Yes, I said. No. I mean . . .

      He smiled, waited.

      I mean I have read about it, but never . . .

      So, he said. Hana will initiate you into the mysteries.

      Hana.

      I imagined making a calligraphy of her name, the brush-strokes flowing into a simple drawing of a flower.

      Hana.

      The water in the kettle had come to the boil. She poured a little into the first bowl, the one in front of me. Then she whisked the tea into a bright green froth, bowed and offered it to me, holding the bowl in both hands. I took it clumsily, touching her fingers. Her eyes smiled, and she made a slight rotating movement of her head, trying to tell me something.

      Then I remembered the form of the ritual, and I turned the bowl through a quarter-circle, sipped from the side. Nothing in my life had tasted as sweet as this bitter green tea.

      She whisked up more in the other bowl, СКАЧАТЬ