Mandarins (12 page)

“Sucking on a peppermint pipe somehow makes it seem all the colder.”

“Oh? I can feel the chill in my hands and feet.”

Somewhat halfheartedly, it seemed, she poked at the charcoal in the long brazier.

From inside the workshop, he could see the pilgrims through the roughly woven screen that hung down from the doorway. Indeed, he could see them quite clearly: an endless stream flowing to and from Kiyomizu. A priest passed, wearing a small metal gong round his neck; next came a suitably attired married woman in a broad-brimmed hat, and then a wickerwork palanquin drawn by a golden ox—a most unusual sight. He watched them through the thin cattail screen, abruptly appearing from his left and his right and just as quickly moving on. All was ceaseless change but for the narrow earthen-brown street baking in the sun of a spring afternoon.

Casually observing this scene was a young attendant to a lord.
¹
As though struck by a sudden thought, he called out to the master potter:

“Lady Kannon has as many visitors as ever, has she not?”

“Yes, yes . . .”

The potter replied with an air of annoyance, apparently absorbed
in his work. He was an old man, with small eyes, an upturned nose, and something rather droll about him; in both his features and his manner, there was not a hint of malice. Wearing what seemed to be a light hemp kimono and a wilted soft cap, he might remind us of a figure from Abbot Toba's now highly regarded scroll paintings.

“I wonder whether I might become a regular worshipper myself,” remarked the attendant. “Having no prospects for advancement is unbearable.”

“You are joking.”

“Well, if it were to bring me good fortune, I'd be quite devout. Daily worship, devotional retreats . . . Such is a small price to pay . . . It's a good transaction to conduct with the gods and the Buddha.”

He spoke with the flippancy of youth, licking his lower lip and looking about the workshop . . . With a bamboo thicket in back, the straw-thatched cottage was so cramped that one's very nose bumped up against the walls. Yet, unlike the dizzying tumult of travelers beyond the screen, it offered a peace and quiet that, to all appearances, had endured for a hundred years, the balmy spring breeze blowing over the reddish-brown surface of the jugs, the wine jars, and the other unglazed earthenware. Even the swallows, it seemed, were refraining from building nests along the ridge of the roof.

As the old man remained silent, the attendant resumed speaking.

“You have surely seen and heard a great variety of things in all your long years. Tell me now. Does Lady Kannon truly bestow good fortune?”

“She does. Years ago I would sometimes hear of this.”

“Of what?”

“It is not something I can relate in a few short words. And even if I were to tell the whole story, it is unlikely you would find it much of interest.”

“More's the pity for me! I am nonetheless a man with at least a modicum of faith. If, after all, I should be the beneficiary of her blessing, I would tomorrow . . .”

“A modicum of faith, you say. Or is it a nose for business?”

The old man laughed, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. Having molded the clay that he had been kneading into the form of a pot, he seemed at last to be in blither spirits.

“One of your tender years is not likely to understand whatever I might venture to say concerning the will of the gods and the Buddha.”

“I suppose not. But it is precisely because I do not understand that I am asking you, venerable one!”

“No, no . . . The question is not whether they determine our fates but rather whether such is for good or ill.”

“But surely it is perfectly known to those on whom either favor or disfavor has fallen . . .”

“Ah, but there you seem to be quite uncomprehending.”

“It is not the matter of fortune or misfortune that I fail to grasp but rather your reasoning.”

The day was waning, lengthening the shadows of the passersby—and of two in particular: women carrying their wares in tubs on their heads. One was holding a cherry sprig in her hand, apparently intended to be offered as a gift for those awaiting their return.

“The woman has a hemp-thread shop in the Western market . . . Now there's a case in point.”

“So have I not been telling you that I am eager to listen?”

The two fell silent for several moments. Plucking at chin stubble with his fingernails, the attendant gazed vacantly out to the road, where seashell shapes were shining white, most probably fallen petals from the cherry sprig he had seen.

Finally, in a drowsy voice, he murmured:

“Let me hear the tale, old man . . .”

“Well then, by your leave, I shall tell you,” began the other slowly. “It is, as ever, a story from times past.” He spoke at the leisurely pace of which only those knowing neither the length nor the brevity of the day are capable.

“It is already some thirty or forty years hence. Still a young woman, she had gone to Kiyomizu to beseech Lady Kannon to grant her a life of ease. Her prayer was hardly without merit, for having lost her mother, she now found herself in such dire circumstances that it was all she could do to eke out a living from day to day.

“Her deceased mother had once been a sought-after medium at Hakushu Shrine, but then when rumor spread that she was availing herself of foxes,
²
the clientele had, it seems, abruptly fallen off. Moreover, she was quite a large woman, youthfully sensual for all the white spots on her face. There was, foxes aside, something about her that ordinary human males found beguiling.”

“Well, I should rather hear about the daughter than the mother.”

“Now, that's a fine way to talk! . . . Well now, the mother's death left the girl with meager means, and despite her efforts she was unable to support herself. She was a lovely and clever lass, but with her tattered rags she was reluctant to venture to the temple grounds for her devotional retreat.”

“My, my, was she such a beauty?”

“She was. I confess to partiality, but there was surely nothing in either her features or her disposition that would have been cause for shame.”

“Ah, what a pity that the story is of so long ago!” the young man exclaimed, tugging slightly on a sleeve end of his faded indigo robe. The old man chortled and resumed his story. Every now and then,
in the grove behind the cottage came the mating song of a bush warbler.
³

“She had spent twenty-one days in retreat at Kiyomizu-dera, and on the last evening, as the time for the fulfillment of her vow grew nigh, she had a dream. Now as it happened, there was among those lodged in the same temple a hunchbacked monk, who, it seems, was endlessly reciting a
dh
ā
r
ā
ni
. This most probably disturbed her, so that though she occasionally dozed, the sound remained in her ears. It was as if even the earthworms in the ground beneath the outer corridor were murmuring in the night . . . And then she suddenly heard a human voice that said: ‘On thy return, a man shall approach thee. Hearken to his words.'

“Startled, she awoke. The monk was still absorbed in his incantation, but no matter how she strained her ears to catch the words, she could understand nothing of their meaning. Suddenly she happened to turn and there saw dimly in a lamp kept burning throughout the night the face of Lady Kannon. It was the countenance she was accustomed to seeing in worship: wondrous and majestic. Yet as she looked, she had the uncanny feeling that someone was whispering in her ear: ‘Hearken to his words.' The lass had now thoroughly convinced herself that she had, in fact, heard the voice of the bodhisattva.”

“Well, well . . .”

“The night was advancing as she left the temple. She walked down the gentle slope to the capital's Fifth Avenue, and there, as she might well fully have expected, found herself caught from behind in the arms of a man. It was a warm evening in early spring, but, alas, in the darkness she could neither see his face nor even distinguish his clothing. As she tried to break loose, her fingers touched his mustache. Ah, to have concluded her days of devotion in such a manner!

“Moreover, though she asked him for his name, he gave no reply, nor would he tell her where he resided. He merely said that she was to do as she was told and then led her along the avenue below the slope, holding her firmly in his grip, tugging at her as they went along, and heading ever toward the north. All her weeping and wailing were for naught, as they followed the deserted avenue.”

“I see. And then?”

“At last they came to the Yasaka pagoda,
⁴
where, it seems, he took her inside and spent the night . . . I don't suppose there is any reason for an old man such as myself to elaborate.”

Again the corners of his eyes wrinkled as he laughed. The shadows of the passersby had lengthened all the more. The scattered cherry blossoms had found their way toward them, perhaps blown across the road by an imperceptible breeze. They now lay between the rain-catching stones, filling the spaces with specks of white.

“You mustn't jest,” said the attendant, then added, continuing to pluck at his chin stubble, as though having just remembered:

“And that was the end of it?”

“If that were indeed the end of the story, it would hardly be worth telling,” replied the potter, his hands again on the clay utensil he had molded.

“When morning came, the man, apparently thinking that their encounter had been decreed by karma, earnestly entreated the woman to become his wife.”

“Aha!”

“Whatever she might have said had she not had her oracular dream, she was in any case certain that this was the will of Lady Kannon and so finally nodded assent. When they had performed a perfunctory exchange of nuptial cups, the man brought out from the interior of the pagoda ten bolts of twilled fabric and ten bolts of silk, saying that
such would serve as a provisional dowry . . . I should think it hardly likely that
you
could match him!”

The attendant's only reply was a smirk. The bush warbler too had fallen silent.

“The man now said that he would go and return in the evening. Leaving the woman behind, he hurriedly departed. Now she found herself doubly forlorn. However clever she was, her anxiety could, under the circumstances, have hardly been surprising. With nothing more in her mind than a desire for diversion, she went further inside. There, lo and behold, she found not only twilled fabric and silk but also gems, together with gold dust and other precious metals, heaped up in leather-covered boxes. The sight caused the heart of even this brave lass to skip.

“A man might acquire some of this wealth, but to have amassed such a fortune, there could be no doubt that he was, if not an armed robber, at the very least a thief . . . Adding to her loneliness was now, with this realization, great fear—and thus the desperate desire to remain there not another moment. Were she to fall into the hands of the authorities, what would become of her?

“She was about to turn round and run toward the door, when she was stopped by a hoarse voice calling to her from behind the leather-covered boxes. Utterly astonished by the mere thought of any other person in such a place, she looked and saw sitting among the gold-dust sacks a round figure which, though human, might just as easily have been taken for a sea slug . . . Blear-eyed, wrinkled, bent, and squat, this was a nun of some threescore years. Whether or not she knew of the lass's intention, she edged forward on her knees and, in a purring tone that quite belied her appearance, offered greetings of introduction.

“She was hardly in a state of mind to receive such, but fearful that she might be suspected of planning an escape, she reluctantly sat
among the boxes, her elbow on one of them, and engaged the nun in empty chatter. From their talk, it seemed that the woman had served as the man's cook. Yet, strangely enough, when asked about his occupation, she gave no answer. And even at that, as she appeared to be rather hard of hearing, the lass was obliged to repeat the same comment or question so often that soon she was close to tears of vexation . . .

“This went on until about noon. But then, as she was talking of how the cherry trees of Kiyomizu were now in bloom and how the bridge at Fifth Avenue was being repaired, she saw that the crone, no doubt as a happy consequence of her years, had begun to grow drowsy. Then too, the lass had not been quick in her replies. Now seeing her drawing the deep and even breath of sleep, the lass seized her chance. Creeping quietly to the entrance, she cracked open the door and looked out. As luck would have it, there was no one outside . . .

“If she had run out right there and then, that might have been the end of it, but suddenly she remembered the twilled fabric and the silk that she had been given that morning. And so she stole back to the leather boxes, where somehow she stumbled over the sacks of gold dust, thereby accidentally touching the knees of the nun. The old wench awoke in surprise. For a moment she remained in a state of dazed annoyance but then suddenly, as though in a mad rage, began clinging to the young woman's feet, half weeping, half babbling. From what the other could make of her fragmented speech, she seemed to be bemoaning what dire punishment she would face should her captive succeed in escaping. Yet the lass was now sure that to remain in this place would endanger her life, and so the two went to furious battle, with slapping hands, kicking feet, and flying sacks . . . So great was the commotion that had there been mice nestling in the crossbeams, they would have come tumbling down.