Shibumi (10 page)

“One does not achieve it, one… discovers it. And only a few men of infinite refinement ever do that. Men like my friend Otake-san.”

“Meaning that one must learn a great deal to arrive at
shibumi?”

“Meaning, rather, that one must pass through knowledge and arrive at simplicity.”

From that moment, Nicholai’s primary goal in life was to become a man of
shibumi;
a personality of overwhelming calm. It was a vocation open to him while, for reasons of breeding, education, and temperament, most vocations were closed. In pursuit of
shibumi
he could excel invisibly, without attracting the attention and vengeance of the tyrannical masses.

Kishikawa-san took from beneath the tea table a small sandalwood box wrapped in plain cloth and put it into Nicholai’s hands. “It is a farewell gift, Nikko. A trifle.”

Nicholai bowed his head in acceptance and held the package with great tenderness; he did not express his gratitude in inadequate words. This was his first conscious act of
shibumi.

Although they spoke late into their last night together about what
shibumi
meant and might mean, in the deepest essential they did not understand one another. To the General,
shibumi
was a kind of submission; to Nicholai, it was a kind of power.

Both were captives of their generations.

Nicholai sailed for Japan on a ship carrying wounded soldiers back for family leave, awards, hospitalization, a life under the burden of mutilation. The yellow mud of the Yangtze followed the ship for miles out to sea, and it was not until the water began to blend from khaki to slate blue that Nicholai unfolded the simple cloth that wrapped Kishikawa-san’s farewell gift. Within a fragile sandalwood box, swathed in rich paper to prevent damage, were two
Gô ke
of black lacquer worked with silver in the Heidatsu process. On the lids of the bowls, lakeside tea houses wreathed in mist were implied, nestling against the shores of unstated lakes. Within one bowl were black Nichi stones from Kishiu. Within the other, white stones of Miyazaki clam shell… lustrous, curiously cool to the touch in any weather.

No one observing the delicate young man standing at the rail of the rusty freighter, his hooded green eyes watching the wallow and plunge of the sea as he contemplated the two gifts the General had given him—these
Gô ke,
and the lifelong goal of
shibumi
—would have surmised that he was destined to become the world’s most highly paid assassin.

The First Assistant sat back from his control console and puffed out a long sigh as he pushed his glasses up and lightly rubbed the tender red spots on the bridge of his nose. “It’s going to be difficult getting reliable information out of Fat Boy, sir. Each input source offers conflicting and contradictory data. You’re sure he was born in Shanghai?”

“Reasonably, yes.”

“Well, there’s nothing on that. In a chronological sort, the first I come up with has him living in Japan.”

“Very well. Start there, then!”

The First Assistant felt he had to defend himself from the irritation in Mr. Diamond’s voice. “It’s not as easy as you might think, sir. Here’s an example of the kind of garble I’m getting. Under the rubric of ‘languages spoken,’ I get Russian, French, Chinese, German, English, Japanese, and Basque.
Basque?
That can’t be right, can it?”

“It
is
right.”

“Basque? Why would anyone learn to speak Basque?”

“I don’t know. He studied it while he was in prison.”

“Prison, sir?”

“You’ll come to it later. He did three years in solitary confinement.”

“You… you seem to be uniquely familiar with the data, sir.”

“I’ve kept an eye on him for years.”

The First Assistant considered asking why this Nicholai Hel had received such special attention, but he thought better of it, “All right, sir. Basque it is. Now how about this? Our first firm data come from immediately after the war, when it seems he worked for the Occupation Forces as a cryptographer and translator. Now, assuming he left Shanghai when we believe he did, we have six years unaccounted for. The only window Fat Boy gives me on that doesn’t seem to make any sense. It suggests that he spent those six years studying some kind of game. A game called Gô—whatever that is.”

“I believe that’s correct.”

“Can that be? Throughout the entire Second World War, he spent his time studying a board game?” The First Assistant shook his head. Neither he nor Fat Boy was comfortable with conclusions that did not proceed from solid linear logic. And it was not logical that a mauve-card international assassin would have passed five or six years (Christ! They didn’t even know exactly how many!) learning to play some silly game!

For nearly five years Nicholai lived within the household of Otake-san; a student, and a member of the family. Otake of the Seventh
Dan
was a man of two contradictory personalities; in competition he was cunning, cold-minded, noted for his relentless exploitation of flaws in the opponent’s play or mental toughness. But at home in his sprawling, rather disorganized household amid his sprawling extended family that included, besides his wife, father, and three children, never fewer than six apprenticed pupils, Otake-san was paternal, generous, even willing to play the clown for the amusement of his children and pupils. Money was never plentiful, but they lived in a small mountain village with few expensive distractions, so it was never a problem. When they had less, they lived on less; when they had more, they spent it freely.

None of Otake-san’s children had more than average gifts in the art of Gô. And of his pupils, only Nicholai possessed that ineffable constellation of talents that makes the player of rank: a gift for conceiving abstract schematic possibilities; a sense of mathematical poetry in the light of which the infinite chaos of probability and permutation is crystallized under the pressure of intense concentration into geometric blossoms; the ruthless focus of force on the subtlest weakness of an opponent.

In time, Otake-san discovered an additional quality in Nicholai that made his play formidable: In the midst of play, Nicholai was able to rest in profound tranquility for a brief period, then return to his game freshminded.

It was Otake-san who first happened upon the fact that Nicholai was a mystic.

Like most mystics, Nicholai was unaware of his gift, and at first he could not believe that others did not have similar experiences. He could not imagine life without mystic transport, and he did not so much pity those who lived without such moments as he regarded them as creatures of an entirely different order.

Nicholai’s mysticism came to light later one afternoon when he was playing an exercise game with Otake-san, a very tight and classic game in which only vaguest nuances of development separated their play from textbook models. Partway through the third hour, Nicholai felt the gateway open to him for rest and oneness, and he allowed himself to expand into it. After a time, the feeling dissolved, and Nicholai sat, motionless and rested, wondering vaguely why the teacher was delaying in making an obvious placement. When he looked up, he was surprised to find Otake-san’s eyes on his face and not on the
Gô ban.

“What is wrong, Teacher? Have I made an error?”

Otake-san examined Nicholai’s face closely. “No, Nikko. There was no particular brilliance in your last two plays, but also no fault. But… how can you play while you daydream?”

“Daydream? I was not daydreaming, Teacher.”

“Were you not? Your eyes were defocused and your expression empty. In fact, you did not even look at the board while making your plays. You placed the stones while gazing out into the garden.”

Nicholai smiled and nodded. Now he understood. “Oh, I see. In fact, I just returned from resting. So, of course, I didn’t have to look at the board.”

“Explain to me, please, why you did not have to look at the board, Nikko.”

“I… ah… well, I was resting.” Nicholai could see that Otake-san did not understand, and this confused him, assuming as he did that mystic experience was common.

Otake-san sat back and took another of the mint drops that he habitually sucked to relieve pains in his stomach resulting from years of tight control under the pressures of professional play. “Now tell me what you mean when you say that you were resting.”

“I suppose ‘resting’ isn’t the correct word for it, Teacher. I don’t know what the word is. I have never heard anyone give a name to it. But you must know the sensation I mean. The departing without leaving. The… you know… the flowing into all things, and… ah… understanding all things.” Nicholai was embarrassed. The experience was too simple and basic to explain. It was as though the Teacher had asked him to explain breathing, or the scent of flowers. Nicholai was sure that Otake-san knew exactly what he meant; after all, he had only to recall his own rest times. Why did he ask these questions?

Otake-san reached out and touched Nicholai’s arm. “I know, Nikko, that this is difficult for you to explain. And I believe I understand a little of what you experience—not because I also have experienced it, but because I have read of it, for it has always attracted my curiosity. It is called mysticism.”

Nicholai laughed. “Mysticism! But surely, Teacher—”

“Have you ever talked to anyone about this… how did you phrase it?… ‘departing without leaving’?”

“Well… no. Why would anyone talk about it?”

“Not even our good friend Kishikawa-san?”

“No, Teacher. It never came up. I don’t understand why you are asking me these questions. I am confused. And I am beginning to feel shame.”

Otake-san pressed his arm. “No, no. Don’t feel shame. Don’t be frightened. You see, Nikko, what you experience… what you call ‘resting’… is not very common. Few people experience these things, except in a light and partial way when they are very young. This experience is what saintly men strive to achieve through discipline and meditation, and foolish men seek through drugs. Throughout all ages and in all cultures, a certain fortunate few have been able to gain this state of calm and oneness with nature (I use these words to describe it because they are the words I have read) without years of rigid discipline. Evidently, it comes to them quite naturally, quite simply. Such people are called mystics. It is an unfortunate label because it carries connotations of religion and magic about it. In fact, all the words used to describe this experience are rather theatrical. What you call ‘a rest,’ others call ecstasy.”

Nicholai grinned uncomfortably at this word. How could the most real thing in the world be called mysticism? How could the quietest emotion imaginable be called ecstasy?

“You smile at the word, Nikko. But surely the experience is pleasurable, is it not?”

“Pleasurable? I never thought of it that way. It is… necessary.”

“Necessary?”

“Well, how would one live day in and day out without times of rest?”

Otake-san smiled. “Some of us are required to struggle along without such rest.”

“Excuse me, Teacher. But I can’t imagine a life like that. What would be the point of living a life like that?”

Otake-san nodded. He had found in his reading that mystics regularly reported an inability to understand people who lack the mystic gift. He felt a bit uneasy when he recalled that when mystics lose their gift—and most of them do at some time or other—they experience panic and deep depression. Some retreat into religion to rediscover the experience through the mechanics of meditation. Some even commit suicide, so pointless does life without mystic transport seem.

“Nikko? I have always been intensely curious about mysticism, so please permit me to ask you questions about this ‘rest’ of yours. In my readings, mystics who report their transports always use such gossamer terms, so many seeming contradictions, so many poetic paradoxes. It is as though they were attempting to describe something too complicated to be expressed in words.”

“Or too simple, sir.”

“Yes. Perhaps that is it. Too simple.” Otake-san pressed his fist against his chest to relieve the pressure and took another mint drop. “Tell me. How long have you had these experiences?”

“Always.”

“Since you were a baby?”

“Always.”

“I see. And how long do these experiences last?”

“It doesn’t matter, Teacher. There is not time there.”

“It is timeless?”

“No. There is neither time nor timelessness.”

Otake-san smiled and shook his head. “Am I to have the gossamer terms and the poetic paradoxes from you as well?”

Nicholai realized that these bracketing oxymorons made that which was infinitely simple seem chaotic, but he didn’t know how to express himself with the clumsy tools of words.

Otake-san came to his aid. “So you are saying that you have no sense of time during these experiences. You do not know how long they last?”

“I know exactly how long they last, sir. When I depart, I don’t leave. I am where my body is, as well as everywhere else. I am not daydreaming. Sometimes the rest lasts a minute or two. Sometimes it lasts hours. It lasts for as long as it is needed.”

“And do they come often, these… rests?”

“This varies. Twice or three times a day at most. But sometimes I go a month without a rest. When this happens, I miss them very much. I become frightened that they may never come back.”

“Can you bring one of these rest periods on at will?”

“No. But I can block them. And I must be careful not to block them away, if I need one.”

“How can you block them away?”

“By being angry. Or by hating.”

“You can’t have this experience if you hate?”

“How could I? The rest is the very opposite of hate.”

“Is it love, then?”

“Love is what it might be, if it concerned people. But it doesn’t concern people.”

“What does it concern?”

“Everything. Me. Those two are the same. When I am resting, everything and I are… I don’t know how to explain.”

“You become one with everything?”

“Yes. No, not exactly. I don’t
become
one with everything. I
return
to being one with everything. Do you know what I mean?”

“I am trying to. Please take this ‘rest’ you experienced a short time ago, while we were playing. Describe to me what happened.”

Nicholai lifted his palms helplessly. “How can I do that?”

“Try. Begin with: we were playing, and you had just placed stone fifty-six… and… Go on.”

“It was stone fifty-eight, Teacher.”

“Well, fifty-eight then. And what happened?”

“Well… the flow of the play was just right, and it began to bring me to the meadow. It always begins with some kind of flowing motion… a stream or river, maybe the wind making waves in a field of ripe rice, the glitter of leaves moving in a breeze, clouds flowing by. And for me, if the structure of the Gô stones is flowing classically, that too can bring me to the meadow.”

“The meadow?”

“Yes. That’s the place I expand into. It’s how I recognize that I am resting.”

“Is it a real meadow?”

“Yes, of course.”

“A meadow you visited at one time? A place in your memory?”

“It’s not in my memory. I’ve never been there when I was diminished.”

“Diminished?”

“You know… when I’m in my body and not resting.”

“You consider normal life to be a diminished state, then?”

“I consider time spent at rest to be normal. Time like this… temporary, and… yes, diminished.”

“Tell me about the meadow, Nikko.”

“It is triangular. And it slopes uphill, away from me. The grass is tall. There are no animals. Nothing has ever walked on the grass or eaten it. There are flowers, a breeze… warm. Pale sky. I’m always glad to be the grass again.”

“You
are
the grass?”

“We are one another. Like the breeze, and the yellow sunlight. We’re all… mixed in together.”

“I see. I see. Your description of the mystic experience resembles others I have read. And this meadow is what the writers call your ‘gateway’ or ‘path.’ Do you ever think of it in those terms?”

“No.”

“So. What happens then?”

“Nothing. I am at rest. I am everywhere at once. And everything is unimportant and delightful. And then… I begin to diminish. I separate from the sunlight and the meadow, and I contract again back into my bodyself. And the rest is over.” Nicholai smiled uncertainly. “I suppose I am not describing it very well, Teacher. It’s not… the kind of thing one describes.”

“No, you describe it very well, Nikko. You have evoked a memory in me that I had almost lost. Once or twice when I was a child… in summer, I think… I experienced brief transports such as you describe. I read once that most people have occasional mystic experiences when they are children, but soon outgrow them. And forget them. Will you tell me something else? How is it you are able to play Gô while you are transported… while you are in your meadow?”

“Well, I am here as well as there. I depart, but I don’t leave. I am part of this room and that garden.”

“And me, Nikko? Are you part of me too?”

Nicholai shook his head. “There are no animals in my rest place. I am the only thing that sees. I see for us all, for the sunlight, for the grass.”

“I see. And how can you play your stones without looking at the board? How do you know where the lines cross? How do you know where I placed my last stone?”

Nicholai shrugged. It was too obvious to explain. “I am part of everything, Teacher. I share… no… I flow with everything. The
Gô ban,
the stones. The board and I are amongst one another. How could I not know the patterns of play?”

“You see from within the board then?”

“Within and without are the same thing. But ‘see’ isn’t exactly right either. If one is everyplace, he doesn’t have to ‘see.’” Nicholai shook his head. “I can’t explain.”

Otake-san pressed Nikko’s arm lightly, then withdrew his hand. “I won’t question you further. I confess that I envy the mystic peace you find. I envy most of all your gift for finding it so naturally—without the concentration and exercise that even holy men must apply in search of it. But while I envy it, I also feel some fear on your behalf. If the mystic ecstasy has become—as I suspect it has—a natural and necessary part of your inner life, then what will become of you, should this gift fade, should these experiences be denied you?”

“I cannot imagine that happening, Teacher.”

“I know. But my reading has revealed to me that these gifts can fade; the paths to inner peace can be lost. Something can happen that fills you with constant and unrelenting hate or fear, and then it would be gone.”

The thought of losing the most natural and most important psychic activity of his life disturbed Nicholai. With a brief rush of panic, he realized that fear of losing it might be fear enough to cause him to lose it. He wanted to be away from this conversation, from these new and incredible doubts. His eyes lowered to the
Gô ban,
he considered his reaction to such a loss.