十一 1

Before the alcove, a go board is set in the middle, and Meitei and Dokusen sit facing each other.

"No playing for nothing. The loser treats the other to something. All right?" Meitei emphasized. Dokusen, as usual pulling at his goat-like beard, said:

"Doing such a thing vulgarizes what should be a pure pastime. If one's mind is captured by the stakes of winning or losing, it is no fun at all. Only by casting aside victory and defeat, and finishing a game with a heart like white clouds naturally drifting from the mountain peaks, can one know the true flavor within."

"There you go again. Dealing with such immortal bones is a bit too much trouble for me. You're exactly like a figure out of the Liexian Zhuan."

"I play the stringless plain qin."

"I send wireless telegrams."

"Anyway, let's play."

"Are you taking white?"

"Either is fine."

"As expected of an immortal, so magnanimous. If you take white, then by natural order I take black. Come, go ahead. Anywhere you like."

"It is the rule to play from black first."

"I see. Then in modesty, I shall proceed from here by the book."

"There is no such book move."

"No such move is fine. It's a newly invented book move."

I, being of narrow experience, only first beheld a go board recently, but the more I think of it, the stranger its construction. A not-so-large square board is crampedly divided into squares, and black and white stones are arranged in a dizzying clutter. Then they fuss, sweating oily sweat, over who won, who lost, who died, who lived. It is but a surface barely a foot square. A cat could scatter it with a paw and reduce it to chaos. Draw it near and it binds into a grass hut; untie it and it is the original plain again. It is a useless trifle. Far more relaxing to fold one's arms and gaze at the board. For the first thirty or forty moves, the stone placement is not particularly an eyesore, but when you peek at the critical moment they call the turning point of the realm, it is a truly pitiful sight. White and black push against each other until they nearly spill off the board, each squeaking and pressing tight. Being cramped, they cannot ask the neighbor to move over, nor have the right to order the previous stone to vacate as a nuisance; resigned to fate, they can only freeze, motionless, with no other recourse. If humans invented go, and human tastes are reflected in the board, then the cramped fate of the go stones may well represent the petty nature of humans. If human nature can be inferred from the fate of go stones, one must assert that humans are those who shrink the vast sky and wide sea to themselves, and delight in marking off their own domain with petty knife-work so they cannot step beyond their two standing feet. One might sum it up: humans are those who seek out suffering.

The carefree Meitei and the Zen-minded Dokusen, for some reason, today alone dragged out an old go board from the cupboard and began this sweltering mischief. Being the pair they are, at first they acted freely, white and black stones flying about the board at will, but the board's space is limited, and the grid fills move by move, so whether carefree or Zen-minded, discomfort is inevitable.

"Meitei, your go is rough. There is no rule for entering such a place."

"A Zen priest's go may have no such rule, but in the Honinbo style it exists, so it can't be helped."

"But you'll just die."

"A minister does not decline death; how much less a shoulder — here, like this?"

"If you come that way, very well. A gentle breeze from the south brings coolness to the hall. Like this, if I follow, it's safe."

"My, your follow-up is impressive. I thought you wouldn't dare to connect. Connect, and strike the Yahata bell — like this, what do you do?"

"Do or not, there's nothing to do. A single sword leans on heaven, cold — eh, bother. I'll cut decisively."

"Whoa, terrible, terrible. If you cut there, it dies. Hey, no joke. Wait a moment."

"That's why I said from the start: you must not enter where it's come to this."

"I intruded and beg pardon. Please take this white stone."

"You're calling wait again?"

"While you're at it, please also withdraw the one next to it."

"Brazen, you. Hey."

"Do you see the boy? — It's not as if you and I are strangers. Don't be so standoffish, just withdraw them. It's a matter of life or death. Any moment now, from the flower path, I'll come dashing out."

"I don't know anything about that."

"You needn't know, just move aside a bit."

"You've called wait six times since a while ago."

"Good memory. Henceforth I shall wait twice as much as before. That's why I say, just move aside. You're quite stubborn. Sitting zen should loosen you up some."

"But if I don't kill even this stone, my side looks like a bit of a loss..."

"Weren't you the type who didn't mind losing from the start?"

"I don't mind losing, but I don't want you to win."

"What enlightenment. As ever, you cut lightning in the shadow of spring wind."

"Not spring wind shadow, but lightning light shadow. Yours is reversed."

"Hahaha, I thought it was about time everything turned upside down, but there's still something precise. Then nothing to be done, I resign."

"Life and death are great matters, impermanence is swift; I resign."

"Amen," said Meitei, and this time slapped down a stone in a completely unrelated area.

While Meitei and Dokusen before the alcove earnestly contested win and loss, at the entrance of the room sat Kangetsu and Kōchi side by side, and the master beside them with a yellow face. Before Kangetsu, three bonito flakes, bare, were neatly arranged on the tatami — a curious sight.

These bonito flakes came from Kangetsu's bosom; when taken out they were warm, felt in the palm, bare yet retaining heat. The master and Kōchi, with strange eyes, fixed their gaze upon the flakes, when Kangetsu opened his mouth.

"Actually I returned from my home prefecture about four days ago, but with various errands I was running about here and there, so I couldn't come up."

"No need to hurry so," the master said his usual charmless thing.

"I needn't hurry, but I was worried I couldn't present this gift soon."

"Bonito flakes?"

"Yes, a local specialty."

"Even in Tokyo there seem to be such things," the master picked up the largest one, brought it to his nose tip, and sniffed.

"Sniff all you like, you can't tell good from bad bonito."

"Is its being a bit large the reason it's a specialty?"

"Please just eat it."

"I'll eat it sooner or later, but this one's tip is bitten off."

"That's why I said I was worried not to bring it sooner."

"Why?"

"Why, a rat ate it."

"That's dangerous. Eat carelessly and you'll get the plague."

"Nonsense, a bite like that does no harm."

"Where on earth did it bite?"

"On the ship."

"On the ship? How?"

"Nowhere to put it, so I put it in a bag with the violin, boarded ship, and that night it was done. If only the bonito, fine, but the rat mistook my precious violin body for bonito and also bit it some."

"Careless rat. Living on a ship, does one lose such discernment?" the master said something no one understood, still gazing at the flakes.

"Rats are careless wherever they live. So even at my lodgings it might happen again. Unsafe, so at night I slept with it in my bed."

"Seems a bit unclean."

"So when eating, please wash it a little."

"A little won't make it clean."

"Then soak in lye and scrub hard."

"Did you sleep hugging the violin too?"

"The violin is too big to hug to sleep," he began, when

"What? You slept hugging the violin? That's elegant. There's a verse: 'The passing spring, the heart hugging a heavy biwa,' but that's far beyond. A Meiji genius must hug a violin to sleep to surpass the ancients. 'Night long guarding by the mosquito net, the violin' — how's that? Kōchi, can new-style poetry say such?" From the other side, Meitei loudly joined their talk.

Kōchi seriously said, "New-style poetry, unlike haiku, cannot be made so quickly. But when made, it will emit a finer sound touching the subtleties of the living spirit."

"Is that so? I thought the living spirit was summoned by burning hemp stalks, but does new-style poetry's power also bring it?" Meitei, ignoring the go, still jested.

"Talk such nonsense and you'll lose again," the master warned Meitei. Meitei, unfazed:

"Whether I want to win or lose, the opponent is like an octopus in a pot, no hands or feet to move, so bored I unavoidably joined the violin company." Then Dokusen, somewhat irritated:

"It's your turn. I'm waiting here."

"Eh? Already played?"

"Played, long ago."

"Where?"

"Extended this white diagonally."

"I see. Extended this white diagonally and lost — then mine is — mine is — mine is thus the day ends — no good move. One more play, place anywhere one stone."

"No such go exists."

"If no such go exists, let's play. — Then I'll bend this corner slightly. — Kangetsu, your violin is too cheap, so rats despise and bite it. Buy a better one; shall I fetch a three-hundred-year-old antique from Italy?"

"Please do. And while at it, the exorcism too."

"How would such an old thing be useful," the ignorant master snapped, settling Meitei.

"You equate human antiques with violin antiques. Even human antiques like certain Kaneda are still in fashion, so for violins the older the better. — Come, Dokusen, quickly please. Not a Noh line, but autumn days darken easily."

"Playing go with a restless man like you is painful. No time to think. Nothing to do, I'll place one here to make eyes."

"Oh my, you lived it. Pity. I thought you wouldn't play there, so chattered to crush your spirit, but no use."

"Of course. You don't play, you deceive."

"That's Honinbo style, Kaneda style, modern gentleman style. — Oy, Kusamori sensei, as expected Dokusen, having gone to Kamakura and eaten pickles, is unshaken. Admirable. Go is poor, but nerve is steady."

"So a man with no nerve like you should imitate a bit," the master answered still facing away, and Meitei stuck out his big red tongue. Dokusen, as if wholly unconcerned, urged again: "Your turn."

"When did you start violin? I thought to learn some, but hear it's quite difficult," Kōchi asked Kangetsu.

"Hm, a basic level anyone can."

"Same art, so one with poetic taste advances faster in music too — I secretly rely on that, but how?"

"Fine. You'd surely excel."

"When did you start?"

"High school days. — Sensei, have I told you how I began violin?"

"No, not yet."

"In high school you started with a teacher?"

"No teacher at all. Self-taught."

"Truly a genius."

"Self-taught doesn't mean genius," Kangetsu stiffened. Only Kangetsu stiffens at being called genius.

"Be that as it may, how did you self-teach? Tell us, for reference."

"I'll tell. Sensei, shall I?"

"Yes, tell."

"Now young people sling violin cases and walk streets, but then high school students playing Western music were almost none. Especially my school was in the deepest countryside, so plain even straw sandals were rare, so of course not one student played violin..."

"Seems an interesting tale started over there. Dokusen, shall we wrap up?"

"Two or three spots unfinished."

"Fine to leave. The rough part I give you."

"Even so, can't take."

"A Zen scholar yet so punctilious. Then at one stroke. — Kangetsu, sounds quite interesting. — That high school, students commute barefoot..."

"Not so."

"But all do military drill barefoot, turn right, till soles grow thick, no?"

"Nonsense. Who said that?"

"Anyone. And bento is one giant rice ball slung at waist like a summer orange, eaten — rather bitten. Center reveals one plum. Awaiting that plum, they bite the saltless rim and charge — vigorous indeed. Dokusen, your kind of tale."

"Rustic, robust, admirable spirit."

"More admirable: no ash trays there. A friend employed there went to buy a Tobatsukō-branded ash tray, but none, not even the name. Asked, told: cut one from the back grove, anyone can, no need sell. Another fine tale of rustic robustness, ne, Dokusen?"

"Um, that's fine, but must place one dead stone here."

"Fine. Dead, dead, dead. Done. — Hearing that, amazed. You self-taught violin there — admirable. 'Alone and unmatched,' says Chuci; Kangetsu is a Meiji Qu Yuan."

"Not Qu Yuan."

"Then this century's Werther. — Count stones? Stiff. No count needed, I've lost, sure."

"But no conclusion..."

"Then you do it. I'm no tax office. A genius Werther's violin tale I must hear, or ancestors unappeased, excuse me," he left the board and slid to Kangetsu. Dokusen carefully took white stones to fill white holes, black to fill black, muttering calculation. Kangetsu continued.

"The locale being such, my prefecture's people were stubborn: if any softness, other prefectures' students would think ill, so they strictly disciplined us; quite a nuisance."

"Your prefecture's students, truly hopeless. Why wear plain navy hakama? That alone is odd. And salt wind tans them black. Men pass, but women must suffer," Meitei interjected, and the main talk flew off.

"Women are that black too."

"Yet find husbands?"

"All the country is black, no help."

"Fate. Ne, Kusamori?"

"Black better. Born white, mirror feeds vanity, unbearable. Women are unmanageable," the master sighed.

"But if all black, don't they vanity in black?" Kōchi reasonably asked.

"Anyway women wholly unnecessary," the master said, and

"Say that, wife sulks later," Meitei smiled, warning.

"Nonsense, safe."

"Not home?"

"Took child, left earlier."

"So quiet, I see. Where?"

"Who knows. Walks as she likes."

"And returns as she likes?"

"More or less. You bachelors are lucky," the master said; Kōchi looked slightly displeased. Kangetsu grinned. Meitei:

"All with wives feel that. Ne, Dokusen, you too wife-trouble?"

"Eh? Wait. Four six twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Narrow, yet forty-six points? Thought I won more, but only eighteen point difference. — What?"

"Said you too wife-trouble?"

"Hahaha, not especially. My wife inherently loves me."

"That's rude of me. That's Dokusen."

"Not only Dokusen. Such cases abound," Kangetsu defended all wives.

"I agree with Kangetsu. To me, humans reach absolute by two paths: art and love. Marital love represents one, so must marry to fulfill this happiness or defy heaven's will. — What, sensei?" Kōchi turned serious to Meitei.

"Fine theory. I'll never reach absolute."

"Wife won't help," the master said grimly.

"Anyway we unmarried youth, touched by art's spirit, must open the path upward, or life's meaning unknown; so start with violin, hence asking Kangetsu."

"Right, Werther's violin tale we await. Speak, no more interruption," Meitei sheathed his edge, and

"Upward path not opened by violin. Such play revealing cosmic truth is terrible. To know this, one needs the spirit of flinging hands from a cliff and reviving after death," Dokusen preached, but Kōchi knew no Zen, unimpressed:

"Heh, perhaps, but art expresses humanity's utmost longing, so cannot discard."

"If cannot discard, I'll tell my violin tale as wished. To begin practice took much effort. First, hard to buy, sensei."

"Of course, no violin where no straw sandals."

"No, there is. Money saved beforehand, enough, but simply can't buy."

"Why?"

"Small place; owning one is soon noticed. Noticed, soon called cocky and disciplined."

"Geniuses ever persecuted," Kōchi sympathized.

"Again genius; please spare the label. Daily walks past violin shops, I thought: if only I could buy, how it'd feel in arms — not a day without longing."

"Natural," Meitei judged; "Strangely fixated," the master wondered; "Truly genius," Kōchi admired. Only Dokusen aloof, twisting his beard.

"Why a violin there may puzzle, but natural: a girls' school exists, students must practice daily, so violins exist. Of course none good, barely named violin, so shops careless, hang two or three at front. When wind or clerk's hand strikes, they sound. Hearing, my heart near burst, unable to sit or stand."

"Dangerous. Epilepsy has types; yours is Werther's violin epilepsy," Meitei teased.

"Without such keen sense, no true artist. Must be genius," Kōchi more impressed.

"Perhaps epilepsy, but that tone is strange. Since, I've played much, never such beauty. How describe? Beyond words."

"Crystalline clanging," Dokusen offered difficult words, but none heeded, pity.

"Daily walks, I heard this spirit-sound thrice. The third, I resolved: must buy. Though my prefecture rebuke, other prefectures scorn — even if beaten to death — even if expelled — I must buy."

"That's genius. None but genius so fix. Envious. I've long wished such fierce feeling, but no. Concerts etc.—

“Stories of the world, in your language.”