Night Boat. Alan Spence
the ground, carefully, stood back and bowed, still silently chanting the Daimoku. Now I was the one who was shaken, flustered. My face burned as the girl bowed and bowed, thanking me over and over, fluttering in front of me.
Her father introduced himself as Mr Yotsugi. He asked my name, and said he was grateful to me, and if my superiors might give permission he would like to express his gratitude by offering me hospitality at his home.
The ronin who had ritually disembowelled themselves just moments before had gathered round, helping people to their feet, offering sympathy. The manager was bustling among the crowd, endlessly apologising, anxiously bowing. When he stood back to let Yotsugi-san pass he bent almost double and his apologies rose to an even higher pitch as he asked if there was anything he could do to make recompense, anything at all.
There was no harm done, said Yotsugi-san, thanks to this young man.
Then he turned to me and told me where they lived, said he hoped I would visit them soon.
I watched them go.
The girl gave a last look back at me over her shoulder. She smiled and undid me completely.
The whole of the next week, at odd moments, I found myself thinking about the girl. I remembered the way she had caught my eye and looked away, the fear as she had pitched forward, the feel and smell of her in my arms. I sat in zazen, I chanted the sutras, and the more I willed myself not to think of her, the more clearly her image arose in my mind.
Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them.
The scent of her. Jasmine and sweat.
The deluding passions are inexhaustible. I vow to extinguish them.
The sheen of her lacquer-black hair. The white nape of her neck.
The Buddha Way is supreme. I vow to enter it.
The warmth of her small thin body through the kimono.
As I left the meditation hall after a particularly difficult session, torn between trying to picture her face and trying to banish it completely, the head priest called me to one side and instructed me to wait. He stood with his back to me until everyone else had left, then he turned and fixed the full intensity of his gaze on me, fierce and withering. He must have been observing my meditation, seen every thought, every desire. I bowed deep, kept my head bent.
So, he said. This merchant, Yotsugi-san, he has a daughter.
I felt myself burn, said Yes, my voice a squawk. Even that one word felt like a confession. I didn’t trust myself to say more.
Her name is Hana.
Hana. Her name. Hana. Flower.
Hana.
According to Yotsugi-san, you saved his daughter’s life, or at the very least kept her from serious injury.
A faint hope. Perhaps I was not, after all, about to be damned.
He has sent a letter singing your praises and inviting you to dine with the family this evening.
I looked up. The gaze was just as fierce, unremitting – nostrils flared, an irritated twitch at the corner of the mouth. He breathed out, part snort, part sigh.
Go, he said. But do not be distracted by this young woman or her father’s wealth. Stay in the Buddha-mind.
With a curt nod, a grunt, I was dismissed.
Do not be distracted. Stay in the Buddha-mind.
Her name was Hana. I spoke it, tasted it in my mouth.
Hana.
A mantra.
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,