Chapter 5
Koan

Every attempt to write ended in frustration. The easy style which Michio longed to adopt eluded him still, for the compendious archive of his memories and experiences real and imagined were like an undersea cave, an enclosed grotto filled with inaccessible gems. Others tapped into this well with such facility that it seemed they could not help but delve from it at every opportunity, and yet he knew only the occasional miniscule portion of his own truth, covering up the difference with verbosity and pontification. It was for this reason that he did not write poetry; the process of baring one’s emotion to such an extent was beyond his capacities, and he had no desire to be put on display in such a fashion, seeing it as paramount to a public execution. Nevertheless, he did enjoy the reading of poetry more than all else, for it gave him the chance to brave the treacherous waters without the same personal risk, still enjoying a vestige of the heady sensation brought on by direct access to the creative mind in all its frailty and power.

Regardless, the propulsive nature of his thoughts, and the investment which he had placed in this vision of himself were too great to be dismissed out of hand and discarded, even if they did not match up with the ideals which he had imagined. It was a matter of pride and of profound necessity to maintain the effort, in the hope that one day a breakthrough would arrive and vindicate his many hours of toil and devotion. Until that day, though, it remained an impossibly difficult task to rationalize even another minute spent on any one of the many projects he was sure had been destined to fail from the start.

In moments of self-pity, he had once again considered authoring a story whose subject was a thin veneer to conceal a prolonged complaint about the difficulties of writing, but this would be too much to bear for any reader, least of all himself. No author had ever become famous for writing this sort of self-indulgent treatise on how challenging it was to create; the true inspiration came in the form of characters one could believe in, with struggles and concerns that made sense in their world and which had to be overcome. In the absence of that basic structure, even the most sympathetic audience could not help but turn away from such an over-earnest imbroglio. It was, after all, the ultimate responsibility of writers to write, regardless of whatever judgments they and others would place on their work; if they did not truly hurl themselves into the task, then there was no hope of them ever creating anything worth reading.

Michio stared at himself in the mirror, hoping that he would suddenly divine his state of mind. One moment he seemed unperturbed by all that went on around him, the next reduced to gibbering fear by phantoms and bewildered by strange women on the path to his door. How could he be so calmly meditating on the nature of his profession while his world grew incomprehensible and filled with fear?

Perhaps he was not calm at all, and merely gave the outside appearance of being so. He recalled the words of the Zen master Shaku Soyen, who had said “My heart burns like fire but my eyes are as cold as dead ashes.” The man had traveled to America this very year, to San Francisco in fact. Michio thought about all that he had heard of the region; the rumors among the Chinese that it was the “land of the Golden Mountain” had filtered to even the Japanese, yet they had long been known to be largely a falsehood. Despite this, he saw America as a strange and dreaming place, where there lay both opportunity and hardship in equal measure. Though at times he contemplated traveling there as a way to escape his long-standing slump, its shores were notorious for their vicious bite among those who were not savvy about urban living and the nature of the opposition they faced. He wondered how the Zen master, undoubtedly better equipped than he to handle its challenges, was faring.

He remained pondering thus for a long time, before he realized that he had accepted the invitation of one Ms. Muratani for dinner. Realizing suddenly that he would be late if he did not hurry, Michio rapidly donned one of the well-pressed suits he preferred for such occasions and hailed a carriage to convey him there.

The Muratani household was situated on excellently maintained grounds, surrounded by a small bamboo grove that provided privacy and an elegant surrounding. He reflected that his concern for detail and appearances conflicted strongly with his sloppiness in work and the upkeep of his own home; yet this contradiction was easily explained by the fact that he, like so many people, found it easier to discover the faults displayed by others rather than resolve his own. In any case, the Muratani family could satisfy even the most discerning and critical of guests with their near-ideal hospitality.

Muratani Takahashi, the patriarch of the family, had a history of becoming a patron to young artists who managed to convince him of their potential, so it was not solely out of friendship that he came to visit. Still, he was not at all there to try to wring money out of the man, either. In fact, it was too crass for him to even bring up the topic, so he hoped that an offer of patronage was indeed what Yukiko had in mind when she had made her invitation. Many other possibilities existed, but he was not sure at all how he felt about what else it might mean that she had asked him to come and dine with her and her parents.

Yukiko was not an unattractive girl by any means. She was quick and incisive with her speech, and would not hesitate to express herself when the occasion arose. Her face held bright hazel eyes and a fair complexion, and it was framed by brown hair that came down just to her chin and accented its oval shape quite well. There was simply the problem of the fact that she did not seem to evince any personal interest in him whatsoever, and he had no desire to enter into a relationship that had been promoted simply by the goading of her father. Still, he might not have read the situation aright; this present meal would perhaps shed light on the hidden intentions within.

“Ah, welcome, Michio!” cried the elder enthusiastically upon his entrance. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.”

“And I you, Mr. Muratani. Thank you very much for your invitation,” he replied. Michio had forgotten how tall the man was; he always appeared unusually so, even in a room full of Westerners.

“Of course. Come, sit and have tea with us, and we shall talk.”

Mrs. Muratani poured the service demurely; she was a straightforward woman, possessed of many of the same attributes as her daughter, although they had become tempered with age. She did not like to make the common sort of polite conversation of little consequence, and so remained quiet as she served her family and guest.

“We have heard so much about your stories. Yukiko tells me you have recently published a number of short pieces in the Shimbun,” said Takahashi.

“Yes, a variety.”

“What are they about, if I may inquire?”

Michio was taken aback by such a direct question. It was hard to isolate a particular thread in the stories and say that they were “about” this or that, but such an answer would not satisfy. How then could he answer while respecting the other’s intelligence and his own artistic sensibility?

“They are... koan,” he said

“Really! How interesting that you should characterize them so. I would have said the very same thing myself. They reveal quite an understanding of Buddhism, you know.”

Further surprised, Michio almost blurted out “I was wrong, I do not warrant such an opinion!” but retained his composure by a spider’s thread and held his tongue. It was not precisely true that he was ignorant of Zen Buddhist teachings, but rather that he did not feel himself qualified to comment on them, and certainly did not know what had possessed him to assert that his stories had anything to do with the famed koan of its practitioners.

A koan was a riddle or parable, designed to educate the student by suspending the normal action of rational thought through the presentation an absurd or particularly cleverly contrived and thought-provoking scenario, and allowing them to see beyond their common sense confines. Often, these featured scenes in which one who claimed to be knowledgeable would be put in his or her place by the shrewd and often witty Zen masters. These teachers were not at all hesitant to rap students on the head or knuckles when they revealed their lack of understanding, but they were also figures of great compassion and their wisdom was almost universally respected.

What had he meant, then, when he referred to his marginally palatable tales of sophistication and city life as koan, and why had Mr. Muratani so readily agreed? It was not possible that he could have intended it literally, but Michio was hard-pressed to find in his stories even the elements of newly risen awareness that signaled the operation of a koan at work.

Yet perhaps it was the fact that they were not presented as koan that made them so effective. The truth was that the stories which Michio wrote were strongly at odds with his outlook on life and his perception of the world outside; interpreting them one way, they were simple narratives of intrigues and social manipulation, but contrasted with his core beliefs about the importance of sincerity and his longing to be like the poets of old in richness of imagery and depth of characterization, they became wonderfully ironic and served to make one condemn the attitudes that were depicted and strive to avoid them in one’s own life. Thus, however unknowingly, he had served the precise goal which the koan was meant to achieve, when one reinterpreted the works in their widest context. Still, if he had not intended them this way, but rather written in the ignorance of what he was doing, then ought he dare to presume to take credit for the appreciation that Mr. Muratani had gained for his stories?

On the other hand, he was now committed. “You are too generous, Mr. Muratani. I am but a humble writer of serials and short stories, and have yet to produce even one novel to my name.”

“It does not trouble me that you have not done so, for the writing of a novel is a task for a mature veteran of the craft, and, while I do not mean to offend, you are yet young. It is possible that you would be best served by waiting for some time before you make the attempt. Still, then again...” Takahashi peered at him intently. “Well, I do not deem it wise to place any pressure on you.”

The older man cleared his throat. “It may have occurred to you that, while we do value your friendship, there is another reason why we sought to bring you here tonight.”

Michio stiffened. He prayed silently that this talk would not end in the inexorable trap of matrimony. It was more usual for the parents to confer about such arrangements, but his mother had passed and his father did not find it easy to discuss such matters with him, feeling it a dubious business which the young people often had much more business in deciding. Still, it was not impossible that his father had given his blessing in Michio’s complete ignorance. He waited, tensing his shoulders and maintaining a rigid back.

“You know that your father is growing older, and has been meaning to retire soon,” said Takahashi.

“Of course,” Michio replied. The young man had indeed known, but this was a peculiar tack for talk of marriage. He was partly relieved, thinking he had escaped an ignominious fate, but still waited intently to see what would befall him.

“The business of your family, printing, has remained very successful for generations. Yet, once again begging your pardon, you have not expressed much interest in this, as has been clear over the years.”

This was almost shockingly direct, but still told him nothing of what was to come.

“Your father and I have therefore contemplated a bold proposal, and one which he asked me to present to you in his stead, feeling that you might be hurt if it came from him. We want my daughter, Yukiko, to complete an apprenticeship under you so that she may learn the art of running the press, and she will thereafter fulfill the quotidian demands of the business. This plan is put forward with the understanding that you will be compensated for the use of what will still be your shop until you declare otherwise, and that you will therefore be free to pursue your writing as you see fit, keeping a substantial share in the profits it gains.”

Michio was stunned. This was a possibility he had never considered, yet he immediately saw the sense of it. Yukiko, an intelligent and ambitious young woman, would otherwise be prevented from fulfilling her ambition by the conservative elements of society and law; only in such a way could she gain the satisfaction of running a business of her own. He, in turn, would be set free from what he viewed as the drudgery of having to take over from his father, and all without losing face or challenging the status quo. As the owner in absentia, he could have absolutely nothing to do with the business and it would thrive just as before, despite being run by an unmarried woman. A smile spread over his face as he realized that, in an indirect way, he had acquired just the patronage he had desired.

“This scheme is excellent. I would be most honored to welcome Yukiko into the family tradition, and I am not at all hurt that my father would select her. In fact, I could not think of a better successor for him.”

Yukiko, who had remained silent but eager as events were unfolding, smiled and lowered her head deferentially.

“I am truly flattered. See, you praise me too much, the color draws into my cheeks,” she said.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the father. “I feel very glad that you are a willing participant in this plan. I, too, worried that you might feel slighted in some way, but I see by your face that you truly wish for this to be done. We can arrange the rest of the details later, but for the present, let us eat and enjoy ourselves!”

The remainder of the evening passed as a pleasant, filmy blur; Michio was so overjoyed to have been let off the hook, as it were, that he let go of his restraint and drank his fill of sake. He hoped he had not embarrassed himself, he reflected from the inside of the carriage home.

As the coach pulled up to his front door, he noticed again a person standing on his front path and prepared to reprimand whoever was there. Looking in the light of a lamp, though, he realized that it was a beggar, extending a teacup with a fracture peeking out from between the man’s gnarled fingers. A scar on them made a perfect line with the cracking porcelain, making it appear as though the hand itself was prone to shatter at any moment. Immediately sobering up, Michio reached into his coat and withdrew a golden one yen coin.

“Here,” he said.

“I don’t want your pity, only a cup of tea.”

Michio, wracked with guilt, hesitated. He was not so naive of the outside world that he did not suspect some folk of being thieves. Yet this man had refused the open offering of money, and one yen could buy a great deal if apportioned properly. Surely if he had meant to steal, he would have simply done so; the house was unlocked, and indeed contained no valuables other than the antique clock which was of a distinctly collector’s bent and held little interest or market value in practical terms.

“Please come in,” he said, and began preparing the kettle for tea. He had least of all expected to be hosting a poor man after his dinner with the wealthy Muratani family, and yet he felt it was the least he could do in return for the windfall that had unexpectedly come to him.

“I’m not a beggar, you know. Though I may be poor, one has to beg in order to be a beggar, and I do no such thing.”

“How is it that you survive, then?” Michio asked, curious.

“I go hither and yon, and people often take pity on me and give me some of whatever is left in their larders, out of charity. Truly, I can’t abide such a lifestyle, but neither can I abide the life of a working man any longer, for all the meaning has gone out of it.”

“What did you do before you began traveling?”

“I was a soldier, and before that, a carpenter, in fact. In a past life, I made furniture and practical things, being a useful component in the great machine. Seeing at last my opportunity to escape my village, I enlisted and fought against the Russians in Manchuria, along with many other men, most of them much younger than I. Since I had resolved to serve Emperor Meiji and my country despite my age, I was ill-suited to the combat which I was to face.”

“And was it this that gave you the scar on your fingers?”

The man laughed. “No, that came from my own stupidity, carving a notch into my hand as easily as into lumber. I did not see enough of combat to receive such a nick; to be honest, I abandoned shortly after we arrived in Manchuria, and returned in disgrace.”

“Why did you leave so early?” Michio asked.

“I saw one day a man shot before me, his blood spilling into the ground like rainwater to nourish the soil. At this moment I realized that I was terrified, and that I did not believe in the killing of men just like myself but for the misfortune of having been born in an often disputed territory, or having been sent there by those who had no concern for their well-being. Then and there, I knew that I could not kill, and so left in shame rather than betray my own beliefs.”

The young man shifted uneasily. Universal conscription had been instituted, yet he, being a pacifist and afraid, had evaded the call through the protective efforts of his father. Many things were owed to the man, even if he rarely entered into Michio’s lamentably self-centered thoughts; his love was indubitable, and his integrity great.

“I understand. But why did you not return to work thereafter?”

“Who would hire me? I had dishonored the Emperor, even if I meant no such disrespect. Besides, I had a wildness about my eyes, even as you see now, that made others fearful.” Michio looked abashed as he said this. “I lament the effect it has on you, but I assure you that it is merely the mark that a man bears when he sees the death of his fellows. No patriotic slogan, no indoctrinating system of education could have ever prepared me for it, and even now my eyes cannot assume their normal aspect, appearing always hunted and anxious as you see.”

“I do not fear them,” Michio said, though without much conviction.

“Do not worry, I blame no one. Looking into the mirror produces such a reaction in me that I, too, must look away. What is a man, when he can no longer look into his own eyes in his reflection?”

To this, Michio had nothing to say. The former soldier stood, and thanking him, departed into the cold night. E-mail: vokuro@adelphia.net