Kusamakura (19 page)

I’m a painter and, as such, a man whose professionally cultivated sensibility would automatically put me above my more uncouth neighbors, if I were to descend to dwelling in the common world of human emotions. As a member of society, my superior position allows me to instruct others. Furthermore, the artist is capable of a greater aesthetic behavior than those who have no sense of poetry or painting, no artistic skill. In the realm of human feelings, a beautiful action is one of truth, justice, and righteousness; and to express truth, justice, and righteousness through one’s behavior is to align oneself with the pattern of behavior deemed proper for civic life.

Now, I have removed myself for a while from that sphere of human feelings, and during this journey I feel no necessity to rejoin it. Were I to do so, the whole point of the journey would be lost. I must sieve from the rough sands of human emotions the pure gold that lies within and fix my eyes on that alone. For now, I choose not to play my part as a member of society but to identify myself purely and simply as a professional painter, to cut myself loose from the entangling strictures of gross self-interest, and to dedicate myself fully to my relationship with the artist’s canvas—and of course my disinterested stance applies also to mountains and to water, not to mention to other people. Under the circumstances, then, I must observe Nami’s behavior in the same way, simply for what it is.

When I have climbed about a quarter of a mile, a single white-walled dwelling looms up ahead. A house among the mandarin trees, I think. The road now divides in two, and I turn left, with the white-walled house off to one side. I glance back and discover a girl in a red skirt climbing the hill behind me. The skirt gives way to a pair of brown shins, below which is a pair of straw sandals, advancing steadily toward me. Petals from the mountain cherries tumble about her head. At her back she bears the shining sea.

She arrives at the top of the steep path and emerges onto the flat top of the knoll. To the north tower fold upon fold of spring’s green peaks, perhaps the view that I gazed up at from my balcony this morning. To the south is what seems like a burned area about fifty yards wide, and beyond it a crumbling cliff face; below lies the mandarin orchard I have just passed through, and beyond the distant village, all that meets the eye is that familiar expanse of blue sea.

The main path has become indistinguishable among the numerous tracks that meet and part and intersect. All are a path of some sort, and none is the path itself. A further interesting confusion is the intriguing patches of dark red earth that are visible here and there in the grass, not clearly connected to this or that track.

I wander through the grass, looking for a place to settle myself down. The landscape that looked so suitable for painting when viewed from my balcony also seems suddenly to have lost its unity and coherence. Its color too is gradually fading. As I plod stupidly hither and yon in this fashion, all desire to paint deserts me. With the need to paint gone, the selection of a place no longer matters—wherever I choose to sit will become my home. The warmth of the spring sunlight has penetrated to the roots of the grass, and as I plump myself down, I sense that I am inadvertently crushing beneath me an invisible shimmer of heat haze.

Down beyond my feet shines the sea. The utterly cloudless spring sky casts its sunlight over the entire sea surface, imparting a warmth that suggests the sunlight has penetrated deep within its waves. A swath of delicate Prussian blue spreads lengthwise across it, and here and there an intricate play of colors swims over a layering of fine white-gold scales. Between the vastness of the spring sunlight that shines upon the world, and the vastness of the water that brims beneath it, the only visible thing is a single white sail no bigger than a little fingernail. The sail is absolutely motionless. Those ships that plied these waters in days gone by, bearing tributes from afar, must have looked like this. Apart from the sail, heaven and earth consist entirely of the world of shining sunlight and the world of sunlit sea.

I throw myself back onto the grass. My hat slips from my forehead and haloes my head. The grass is studded with little clumps of wild japonica bush one or two feet tall, and my face has come to rest just in front of one. Japonica is an interesting plant. Its branches obstinately refuse to bend, yet neither are they straight: each small straight twig collides with another small straight twig at an angle, so that the whole branch consists of a series of obliques, tranquilly ornamented with rather pointless scarlet or white flowers, and a casual scattering of soft leaves to top it off. You could characterize the japonica as belonging to the type of the enlightened fool. Some in this world doggedly retain an awkward and innocent honesty—they will be reborn as japonica. It’s the flower that I myself would like to become.

When I was a child, I once cut myself some twigs of japonica, complete with flowers and leaves, and arranged them attractively to make a rack for holding my writing brush. In it I propped a cheap, soft-haired brush, and seeing the contraption there before me on my desk, the white brush head peeping out from among the flowers and leaves, gave me great pleasure. When I went to bed that night, the japonica brush rack filled my thoughts. As soon as I awoke the next morning, I leaped from my bed and ran to the desk—to discover the flowers drooping and the leaves dried. Only the brush head glowed there unaltered in their midst. That such a beautiful thing could wither and die in the space of a single night appalled me. This earlier self seems to me now enviably unsullied by the world.

The japonica that meets my eyes now, as soon as I lie back, is an old and intimate friend. As I gaze at it, my mind drifts pleasantly, and the impulse to poetry wells up in me again.

Lying here, I ponder, and as each line of a Chinese poem comes to me, I jot it down in my sketchbook. After a little time, the poem seems complete. I reread it from the beginning.

That’s it! I’ve done it! I’ve truly captured the feeling of lying here gazing at the japonica, all worldly thoughts forgotten. It doesn’t matter if the poem doesn’t actually include the japonica, or the sea, as long as the feeling comes through. I give a groan of pleasure—and am astonished to hear the sound of a human clearing his throat not far from me.

Rolling over, I peer in the direction of the voice. A man comes around the edge of the flat knoll and emerges from among the trees.

His eyes are visible beneath the tilted rim of a dilapidated brown felt hat. I can’t make them out in detail, but they are evidently shifting uneasily. He is dressed rather indeterminately in an indigo-striped garment tucked up at the thighs, and bare feet in high clogs. The wild beard suggests he is one of those roaming mountain monks.

I assume he’ll proceed on down the steep mountain path, but to my surprise he turns back at the edge and retraces his steps. Instead of disappearing back the way he came, however, he changes direction yet again. No one could be wandering to and fro on this grassy flat unless he were here to take a stroll, surely. Yet this is hardly the figure of a mere stroller; nor would such a person be living hereabouts. The man pauses in his tracks from time to time, tilting his head questioningly, gazing all about him. He appears to be deep in thought. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone. I can’t make it out at all.

My eyes are held by this alarming fellow. I’m not particularly afraid; nor do I feel tempted to draw him; it’s simply that my eyes are glued to him. My gaze continues to travel left and right, following his movements, until suddenly he comes to a standstill—and then another human figure appears in the scene.

They seem to recognize each other, and both approach. Watching them, my vision gradually focuses in on a single point in the middle of the grassy flat. Now these two figures come together face-to-face, with the spring mountains behind them and the spring sea before.

One, the man, is of course my wild mountain monk. And the other? The other is a woman—Nami.

As soon as I recognize her, this morning’s image of her holding the dagger returns to me. Could it be hidden in her robes now? I wonder, and for all my vaunted “nonemotional” stance, I shudder.

Facing each other, the two maintain their pose for a long moment. There is no hint of movement in either figure. Perhaps their mouths are moving, but no voices reach me. At length the man hangs his head, and the woman turns toward the mountains. I cannot see her face.

There in the mountains a bush warbler sings; the woman appears to listen to it. After a while the man raises his deeply bowed head and half-turns on his heels. Something odd is happening. The woman rapidly breaks her pose and turns to face the sea. Something peeps from her waistband—it must be that dagger. Head triumphantly high, the man begins to leave.

The woman takes two steps in pursuit of him. She is wearing straw sandals. He pauses—has she called him? As he turns, her right hand goes to her waist. Watch out!

What she produces is not the dagger I anticipate, however, but a cloth object like a purse of money. Her white hand holds it out toward him, a long string swaying below it in the spring breeze.

One foot placed before her, the body bent slightly from the waist, the extended white hand and wrist, and that purple cloth bag—this image is all I need for a picture.

The composition, with its dash of purple, is beautifully connected by the perfect balance of the man’s turned body a few inches away. Distant yet close—that expression could have been made to fit this moment. The woman’s figure seems to draw him toward her, the man’s seems drawn backward by her, yet these forces are merely notional. The relationship between them is cleanly broken by the edge of the proffered purple bag.

The interest of the picture is intensified by the fact that the delicate balance these two figures maintain is set against the clear contrast in their faces and clothes.

This swarthy, thickset, bearded man; that delicate form, with her long neck and sloping shoulders and firm, clear features. This wild figure twisted harshly toward her; that elegant shape, sleekly graceful even in her everyday kimono, leaning gently forward from the waist. His misshapen brown hat and indigo-striped garment tucked to the thigh; her elegant curve of hair, combed to a gossamer glint, and the captivating glimpse of padding deep within the glowing black satin of her obi folds—all this is marvelous material for a picture.

The man puts out his hand and takes the purse, and at once the beautifully balanced tension in their mutual poses disintegrates; the woman’s figure ceases to draw him, while he in turn has broken free of that force. Painter though I am, I have never before realized just how powerfully psychological states can influence a picture’s composition.

They move apart now, to left and right. No tension holds the two figures in relation, and the composition has lost all vestige of coherence. At the entrance to the wood the man pauses and turns to look back, but the woman never glances behind her. She is walking smoothly toward me. At length she arrives directly in front of me.

“Sir!” she exclaims, and again, “Sir!”

Damn! When did she notice me?

“What is it?” I inquire, poking my head up above the japonica. My hat tumbles back onto the grass behind me.

“What are you doing there?”

“I was lying here composing a poem.”

“Liar! You saw what happened just now, didn’t you?”

“Just now? You mean, you two. . . . Yes, I did see a bit.”

She laughs. “You didn’t need to just see a bit. You could have watched all of it, you know.”

“To tell the truth, I did see quite a lot.”

“There you are, then! Come on over here a moment. Come out from under that japonica.”

I meekly do as instructed.

“Was there something else you wanted to do there?”

“No, I was just thinking of heading back.”

“Well then, let’s go together.”

“Very well.”

Still submissive, I return to the clump of japonica, put on my hat, retrieve my painting equipment, and set off to walk beside her.

“Did you paint anything?”

“No, I gave up.”

“You haven’t painted a single picture since you’ve been here, have you?”

“That’s so, yes.”

“But surely it’s odd coming here specially to paint and then producing nothing?”

“There are no odds about it.”

“Really? Why not?”

“What’s the odds whether I paint a picture or not, after all?”

“That’s a pun, isn’t it.” She laughs. “You’re very nonchalant, I must say.”

“What’s the point of coming to a place like this if you’re not going to be nonchalant?”

“Oh, come now. No matter what place you’re in, being alive has no point unless you’re nonchalant. Look at me, I’m not at all embarrassed to have been seen as you saw me back there.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, surely.”

“You think so? So who do you imagine that man was?”

“Hmm. Well, he certainly isn’t someone with a lot of money.”

She laughs again. “A good guess. You’re a master of insight, aren’t you! Actually, he has so little money he can’t stay in the country, and he came to get some money from me.”