A rude awakening
Yugen’s throat was as dry as parchment. Where had all the water gone? A small face peered at him, a small boy’s face. ‘Mama . . .’ the boy began.
‘Stand up, little one, you’ll get your knees dirty,’ his mother said. ‘Let’s go and see the penguins, shall we?’ She ushered him away. ‘Hold Mama’s hand while we go down the stairs.’ The woman glared back at the monk.
He was lying on the backpack, something hard pressing against his cheek. The urn. He’d been using Soshin’s urn as a pillow for his watery dreams. Yugen gathered up his belongings, descended the stairs, and f led out the back exit.
If only Soshin were here to strike him, bring him back to mindfulness.
When he was finally out of the Oceanworld precinct he begged for Soshin’s forgiveness. Once more he had lost sight of his task. It would not happen again.
Yugen made his way to the station and crossed to the other side. He did not stop to think about whether to take the escalator or the stairs, did not gaze at the hovering of birds in the portico. There was sea on this side of the station, and ferries.
He walked down the street. The ferry was gone but the same men were there. This time they did not straighten up as the monk approached but continued slouching. He thought he detected suppressed grins. Was it like the monastery where everyone knew what the other was doing? Did the men know he’d spent the night under the bench at Oceanworld, even what he’d been dreaming?
‘I would like to take a ferry ride,’ Yugen announced with confidence.
One of the men put on an official-looking cap and stepped into a small ticket booth. ‘Where to?’ The others watched with veiled interest.
‘I don’t know,’ the monk faltered. A part of the sea without tourists, that wasn’t private property.
‘Finger Peninsula?’ the ticket seller suggested.
‘Is it beyond the pearl farm?’
The man nodded. ‘It’s way over on the other side of the bay. If you walk through Finger Peninsula town, you’ll come to the Pacific Ocean. The next ferry leaves in one hour.’
The Pacific Ocean would be perfect.
Yugen purchased a ticket. One hour. He must not anticipate, attach himself to the ferry by his desire for it to arrive.
He strolled by some timber jetties. At the end of one sat a woman with a small portable easel. She was sketching the bay, the broad sweeps of shoreline topography, strokes that marked the glimpsed horizon, the curves of land that drifted into each other so you couldn’t tell if they were separate islands or more contours of the mainland. In the foreground was the outline of a man fishing.
Yugen looked from the drawing to the bay. There was no fisherman. The woman continued the pencil line from the slightly curved rod down to the water. Her bay was gridded with lines marking something under the water, buoys, round and black, delineating the area. She was sketching with such speed, as if the bay was posing for her, a subject that might become impatient under her pencil strokes, and shift, rearrange itself. She stopped, looked at the sketch. The monk saw her shoulders rise and fall. She turned the page and began afresh. Perhaps he had disturbed her.
No sign of the ferry. Yugen came back to the waterfront shops. In the centre of the row was an old timber building with sliding doors, the vertical slats of different lengths creating a pleasing pattern. The once dark timbers above the facade were 66 bleached almost white by sea air. The building had a colonial tropical feel about it, a faded grandeur.
Yugen entered the cool dark atmosphere of the past. The f loorboards had the same satiny sheen as those in the monastery, polished by centuries of softly slippered feet walking across them. The monk loved the feel of such f loorboards. In the smooth sheen he saw ref lected all the monks who had gone before him, and how his footsteps also contributed to the sheen, subtly changing it, so that the f loor itself was always in a process of becoming. Many feet had walked across the f loor of the shop. It was uneven, dipping slightly at the main entrance.
Yugen heard the steady whirr of the electric fan on the counter, an old-fashioned fan, blades like clover leaves enclosed in a disc-shaped cage. The girl behind the counter gave a faint smile and busied herself with dusting, then rearranging a display of earrings and necklaces.
On the walls were faded photos of men in tight suits and fixed smiles. A framed collection of different kinds of pearls, and the oysters that produced them. One of an abalone pearl. Photos of blister pearls, gold-lipped oyster pearls, curiously shaped wild ones, before cultivation brought regularity.
The shopgirl worked on the display using only the tips of her fingers, as if too much touching would spoil it. She had delicately pencilled eyebrows, curled eyelashes, lips the colour of plums.
Had she applied her make-up on the train, as Yugen had seen young women do, so expert at transforming their faces that they were able to carry on a conversation at the same time?
‘Looking for something in particular?’
Yugen realised that he’d been staring. A prickling sensation rose into his face. He looked out across the bay; still no ferry. He was in the shop, he should buy something. ‘What is this?’ he asked, indicating two imperfectly shaped pearls on the end of a small silver chain.
‘A cell phone accessory.’
Yugen did not have a cell phone. He stood for a moment contemplating the pearls then moved on to a basket of discounted items—key rings, brooches, little purses made of silk. Something caught his eye. A star on a white background. He picked it up—an ornamental disc attached to a key ring. He had seen this star before, only last night—at Oceanworld, in the sea woman’s bag. But the memory was older than that. Perhaps something in the city, at the Blue House. While Yugen’s mind busied itself trying to locate the memory, his fingers idly turned the disc over. On the other side was a pattern of lines—five vertical crossed by four horizontal. This too looked familiar. It could have been anything—netting, checked cloth. Yugen seemed to remember a man on the train wearing shorts with checks on them. He continued turning the disc—star and cross-hatching alternately coming into view.
Now he knew where he had seen this, the two of them together: in Soshin’s coffin, on the little prayer bag. How did Soshin happen to have a prayer bag with this design? Had he been here, to this shop?
‘What are these markings?’ he asked the girl.
‘The talisman of diving women.’ The girl picked up another key ring from the basket. ‘The star is drawn with one line, to find the way back. And the cross-hatching represents a net to trap dangers.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Usually on their bonnets.’
‘No,’ the monk said urgently, ‘where are the women?’
She was still smiling but something had changed. He was showing too much interest. ‘Would you like to purchase the key ring?’
‘Thank you.’
The girl spread a sheet of pale green wrapping paper onto the counter, and placed the key ring in the centre of it. She was folding the corners in when Yugen heard a juddering. He looked up and caught sight of churning white water. Not only was the ferry at the pier but it was preparing to leave.
The shopgirl was still in the process of wrapping, a length of silver ribbon in her hand. ‘It’s fine as it is.’ Yugen grabbed the key ring, put money on the counter and raced towards the pier. He did not even wait for his change.