would be more than a match for a hundred men, a tender compassion wells in its depths. Her expression simply has no consistency; in the appearance she presents, enlightenment and confusion dwell together, quarreling, beneath the one roof. The singular lack of any impression of unity in this woman’s face is proof of an equivalent lack of unity in her heart, which is surely owing to a lack of unity in her world. It is the face of one compelled into misfortune, who is struggling to defeat that misfortune. Unquestionably she is an unhappy woman.
Bowing slightly, I repeat my thanks.
In reply, she laughs briefly. “Your room has been cleaned.
Go and see. I’ll call on you later.” No sooner has she spoken than she twists swiftly about and lightly runs off down the corridor. I watch her go. Her hair is up in the simple butterfly-wing ichogaeshi style, and below the sweep of hair a white neck is visible. It strikes me that the black satin weave of the obi at her waist would be only a facing.
CHAPTER 4
When I return, dazed, to my room, I see that it has indeed been beautifully cleaned. The previous night’s events still rather disturb me, so I open the cupboard just to check. Inside stands a small chest, and from the top drawer a yuzen -dyed soft obi is half tumbled out, suggesting that someone has seized a piece of clothing in haste and quickly departed. The upper part of the obi is hidden from view beneath alluringly gaudy clothing. To one side is a small pile of books. Topmost are a volume of the Zen master Hakuin’s sermons and the first volume of The Tales of Ise. 1
That apparition of the previous night may well have been real.
Idly plumping myself down on a cushion, I discover that my sketchbook has been placed on the elegant imported-wood desk, carefully laid open with the pencil still tucked between its pages. I pick it up, wondering how those poems I feverishly jotted down in the night will read the next morning.
Beneath the poem
The maddened woman
setting the dewdrops trembling
on the aronia.
someone has added
The crow at dawn
setting the dewdrops trembling
on the aronia.
Because it is written in pencil, I can gain no clear sense of the writing style, but it looks too firm for a woman’s hand and too soft for a man’s. Here’s another surprise!
Looking at the next poem,
Shadow of blossoms
shadowed form of a woman
hazy on the ground.
I see that the person has added below it
Shadow of blossoms
shadowed form of a woman
doubled and overlaid.
Beneath
Inari’s fox god
has changed to a woman’s shape
under the hazed moon.
is written
Young Yoshitsune
has changed to a woman’s shape
under the hazed moon. 2
I tilt my head in puzzlement as I read, at a loss to know whether the additions are intended as imitations, corrections, elegant poetic exchanges, foolishness, or mockery.
“Later,” she said, so perhaps she is about to appear with my breakfast. Once she’s here, I’ll probably be able to make a little more sense of things. Happening to glance at my watch, I see it’s past eleven. How well I slept! Given the lateness of the hour, I’d be better off making do with only lunch.
I slide the right-hand screen door open onto the balcony and look out, in search of echoes of last night’s scene. The tree that I judged to be an aronia is indeed so, but the garden is smaller than I thought. Five or six stepping-stones are buried in a carpet of green moss; it would feel very nice to walk there barefoot. To the left is a cliff face, part of the mountain beyond, with a red pine slanting out over the garden from between rocks. Behind the aronia is a small clump of bushes, and beyond a stand of tall bamboo, its ninety feet of green drenched in sunlight. The scene to the right is cut off by the roofline of the building, but judging from the lay of the land, it must slope gently down toward the bathhouse.
Casting my eyes farther, I see that the mountain slopes down to a hill, which in turn sinks to an area
Bowing slightly, I repeat my thanks.
In reply, she laughs briefly. “Your room has been cleaned.
Go and see. I’ll call on you later.” No sooner has she spoken than she twists swiftly about and lightly runs off down the corridor. I watch her go. Her hair is up in the simple butterfly-wing ichogaeshi style, and below the sweep of hair a white neck is visible. It strikes me that the black satin weave of the obi at her waist would be only a facing.
CHAPTER 4
When I return, dazed, to my room, I see that it has indeed been beautifully cleaned. The previous night’s events still rather disturb me, so I open the cupboard just to check. Inside stands a small chest, and from the top drawer a yuzen -dyed soft obi is half tumbled out, suggesting that someone has seized a piece of clothing in haste and quickly departed. The upper part of the obi is hidden from view beneath alluringly gaudy clothing. To one side is a small pile of books. Topmost are a volume of the Zen master Hakuin’s sermons and the first volume of The Tales of Ise. 1
That apparition of the previous night may well have been real.
Idly plumping myself down on a cushion, I discover that my sketchbook has been placed on the elegant imported-wood desk, carefully laid open with the pencil still tucked between its pages. I pick it up, wondering how those poems I feverishly jotted down in the night will read the next morning.
Beneath the poem
The maddened woman
setting the dewdrops trembling
on the aronia.
someone has added
The crow at dawn
setting the dewdrops trembling
on the aronia.
Because it is written in pencil, I can gain no clear sense of the writing style, but it looks too firm for a woman’s hand and too soft for a man’s. Here’s another surprise!
Looking at the next poem,
Shadow of blossoms
shadowed form of a woman
hazy on the ground.
I see that the person has added below it
Shadow of blossoms
shadowed form of a woman
doubled and overlaid.
Beneath
Inari’s fox god
has changed to a woman’s shape
under the hazed moon.
is written
Young Yoshitsune
has changed to a woman’s shape
under the hazed moon. 2
I tilt my head in puzzlement as I read, at a loss to know whether the additions are intended as imitations, corrections, elegant poetic exchanges, foolishness, or mockery.
“Later,” she said, so perhaps she is about to appear with my breakfast. Once she’s here, I’ll probably be able to make a little more sense of things. Happening to glance at my watch, I see it’s past eleven. How well I slept! Given the lateness of the hour, I’d be better off making do with only lunch.
I slide the right-hand screen door open onto the balcony and look out, in search of echoes of last night’s scene. The tree that I judged to be an aronia is indeed so, but the garden is smaller than I thought. Five or six stepping-stones are buried in a carpet of green moss; it would feel very nice to walk there barefoot. To the left is a cliff face, part of the mountain beyond, with a red pine slanting out over the garden from between rocks. Behind the aronia is a small clump of bushes, and beyond a stand of tall bamboo, its ninety feet of green drenched in sunlight. The scene to the right is cut off by the roofline of the building, but judging from the lay of the land, it must slope gently down toward the bathhouse.
Casting my eyes farther, I see that the mountain slopes down to a hill, which in turn sinks to an area
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