Some birds delight in
Flocking together. Some are
Alone. Which find joy?
After much serious thought, I decided I would wait until Tengen came back before mentioning the matter of a new robe for him to Father. My caution was two-fold. I worried if I asked Father before mentioning it to Tengen that the monk would be annoyed by my forwardness. But also, I hesitated in case Father might be angry with me for my clumsiness in spilling the ink.
As things turned out, it was just as well I did not speak to Father.
Tengen did not come back for my next lesson. Nor the next.
I was on fire with anxiety. Was it possible that his kannushi had forbidden him to return? I doubted that. Tengen had said that Father was a major benefactor of his monastery. The kannushi would not want to lose Father’s contributions over such a relatively minor incident. Then was it Tengen himself who had decided he no longer wanted to teach me? I shook my head; I could not—would not—believe that.
Finally, I decided that Tengen was trying to punish me in the same fashion as he no doubt punished his much younger pupils in the monastery, by simply ignoring me.
Once the thought occurred to me, I settled down at once. He would be back. I only had to wait. And I would surprise him when he did come back.
I borrowed ink from Father’s apartment and copied out my kanji. All of them. I only stopped when I was certain I could no longer improve on them. Then I put my brush and paper aside and delved into my chest.
On the last occasion I had seen Gen, he had given me a book of haiku written by Yosa Buson. I had never so much as looked at it since. There was no point. I couldn’t read any of it. Now, I pulled it out and turned the pages carefully.
I realized the book was very old indeed. The cover was of leather, so aged that it was beautifully soft and almost warm to the touch. The pages inside were bound in a way that I had never seen before. Each page was folded double with printing on both sides. The only bound books I had seen before were Father’s ledgers, and they were nothing like this. His, I supposed, were very up to date, perhaps even gaijin in style. They were also practical, containing nothing but rows of kanji, with the same symbols repeated often.
This book was simply beautiful.
It contained not only kanji, but illustrations. As I turned each page reverently, I rejoiced in its beauty. Why, I wondered, had I never looked at it before now? Was it because I had thought it would be no use to me until I could read, or was it because I did not want to admit that I was defeated by it? I shrugged the thought aside. No matter, I was looking at it now.
I gazed at the wood-block illustrations with pleasure and dawning excitement. Each one must surely indicate the subject matter of the haiku it represented. That would make it much easier for me to be able to understand the many kanji I was not yet familiar with. I turned to the first page and began to explore.
It was not quite as easy as I had hoped. I became exasperated with the book very quickly, as I found significant gaps in my knowledge. Kanji I recognized were scattered here and there, but seemed to make no sense. I sat back with an exasperated sigh. I was about to close the book and replace it in the chest until the day came when I could truly understand it when an echo of something Gen had said came back to me. The thought was elusive, and I had to relax and deliberately empty my mind before it would come to me.
Then, I had it. Not one thing, but two.
Haiku, he had said, were all about nature. I glanced again at some of the illustrations and nodded to myself. Yes, I could see that. Like an echo to that thought came another: kanji do not always mean the same thing. They can have different meanings depending on the kanji on either side of them and the subject matter.
The knowledge was almost as exciting as my first attempts to learn how to use the abacus. I took a deep breath and looked at the haiku again.
They didn’t exactly make perfect sense, but when I allowed my eyes to simply skim over the text without forcing myself to understand every word, I found I could at least get an idea of what each haiku said. I was delighted and barely noticed Anzu when she brought me tea.
“Oh, that is pretty, Mi-san. Is it very valuable?”
“Probably.” I closed the cover of my book quickly, as though I was jealous of anybody else reading it. Unexpectedly, a wave of regret made me deeply sad. I had accepted the book from Gen as though it was nothing. It had never occurred to me that it might be valuable, and now I felt very guilty. Gen was no more than a humble messenger. This book could well have been the most precious thing he owned. To distract my thoughts, I asked, “Can you read, Anzu?”
She laughed at the question. “Read? What use would reading be to me, Mi-san? Anyway, I am not clever like you. I would never be able to understand all those kanji.”
Me, clever? I found the idea delightful, even though I did not believe it.
“I’m only learning. Brother Tengen is an excellent teacher, but it is still difficult.” I added moodily, “I think Brother Tengen was very angry with me when I spilled ink on his robe.” I hesitated and finally spoke the words I had been denying to myself. “I wonder if he will come back?”
I did not expect an answer, and I was surprised when Anzu answered me quickly. “Oh, I’m certain he’ll be back.”
I glanced at her, and I was sure I saw the same slyly amused expression on her face that I had seen on the maid’s when Tengen rushed past her. I was tempted to demand why Anzu was so sure, but I felt it was beneath my dignity to gossip with my amah, so I did not.
In any event, she was right.
I had almost unraveled the riddles of my haiku. The more I read them, the easier they became. I exclaimed with delight when I understood how the same kanji could mean something completely different depending on the context. Even better was being able to read something that made sense, that was not just isolated words.
That was a key to everything for me, and I read and reread the poems with growing pleasure. There were still kanji I could not be sure of, but that did nothing to destroy my pleasure. The only thing that did trouble me was the knowledge that I had taken something so precious from Gen with barely a word of thanks.
Hard on the heels of that thought came another. I could, I supposed, give the book to Father and ask him to return it to Gen. I recoiled from the idea at once. Father was far too important to spend time seeking out a messenger. But I could ask him to give it to Tanaka-san. I could, I thought, manage to write a simple note and put it in the book, asking Tanaka-san to give it back to Gen.
I could do that. But I chose not to. Somehow, it seemed to me that it would be terribly rude to return the book in such an impersonal way. No, I would wait until the day came when Father called for me to go with him to Edo, and then I would hand it back to Gen myself. With suitable thanks, of course.
My daydream was so pleasant I had no idea Brother Tengen had come into the room. It was not until Anzu stood up quickly and bowed that I realized we were no longer alone. When I saw that Tengen had returned, I was so pleased that my greeting was over-blown and sounded false.
“Brother Tengen! But this is such an unexpected pleasure. I am so pleased to see you again. I quite thought you had forgotten all about me.”
As I gushed the entirely inappropriate words, I could not resist glancing at his robe to see if the ink stain was still visible. It was not, and although the robe was perfectly clean, I thought it was also far from new. Its vivid saffron—I thought of the lovely color as sunshine through clouds—was faded slightly, and some of the hems of the material were slightly frayed. Instantly, I cursed myself for my selfishness. Just because I had feared telling Father about my clumsiness, Tengen had been forced to wear somebody else’s cast-off garment. I was appalled.
“My kannushi instructed me to return to give you your lessons.”
How very formal he sounded, very cold. Suddenly, I was no longer clever. I felt exactly as one of his young pupils must feel when he had made a stupid mistake.
“Then please convey my thanks to your kannushi,” I murmured politely.
“I will do so should the opportunity present itself,” he replied curtly. “I see you have been practicing your kanji. We will begin where we left off.”
He sat down as stiffly as his words, with none of the fluid grace he usually showed. I noticed he seated himself on the opposite side of the chabudai to me, almost as if he wanted to put as much physical distance between us as he could without actually being discourteous. I watched him covertly as he picked up my untidy pile of papers and shuffled them firmly into a precise stack.
It seemed to me that each movement was causing him discomfort. I recognized his actions. I had been exactly the same when I had first begun to exercise, intensely reluctant to move a fraction more than necessary as I anticipated the pain that would follow.
“Are you well, Brother Tengen?” I asked cautiously.
He did not reply at once, and I was about to repeat my question when he answered me.
“I have a little stiffness in my back. It is nothing.”
At once, I was intrigued. How had a teacher come to get a stiff back? Were my first thoughts correct? That this monk was not just a teacher of small boys, but also a practitioner of martial arts? Had his pain been acquired in combat on the dojo? Before I could ask, he handed me the inkpot and brush and began to bark out a series of words.
Without realizing I was doing it, I had stiffened in response to his tone. My back began to ache in protest at my posture and I blushed as I understood how very wrong I had been. Tengen had not been punishing himself with too much exercise. He was simply stiff with the effort of ensuring both his body and his tone of voice were as formal as possible.
What a fool I was. Tengen raised his head and stared at me with his eyebrows raised. I was sure he had read my mind, and I lowered my head and began to brush my kanji quickly.
It was very fortunate that I had practiced my calligraphy so much that it was second nature to me now. I had no need to think about the shape of kanji that I already knew. I was very grateful for that.