THE
BLIND GEISHA
II - 6
Steadily
Falls The Rain
They
sat at the kitchen table opposite each other, the room redolent with
brewing tea and flickering candles. Books lay open, papers scattered
in a haphazard fashion, an old mug bristling with sharp pencils, a
pot simmering on the stove adding onion and garlic and peppers to the
mix.
"Listen
to this waka," Grace said. She held a book open with a flat
hand, read: "'Flowers withering, colors fading: I spend these
meaningless days in the world and steadily falls the rain'." She
looked across the table at Elizabeth. "The poet is Ono no
Komachi. She was, supposedly, the beauty of the Heian period. Angst
from a 1000 years ago. Must have had an agile mind, as well. The
woman was rather well known for her kakekotoba.
Imagine that. Only eleven poems survive, all in the Kokinshu.
That anthology is dated 905, and in its preface is the only
biographical data we have of Ono no Komachi. One line states that she
lived 'recently'. Pity we have so little"
"Umm.
Poignant, your poem," Elizabeth said. "Her poem. A trope is
it, that kakekotoba?"
"Yep." Grace thumbed a page.
"Here: trope: a rhetorical device, da-dah da-dah ... using words
figuratively. Metaphors, for example. Yes?"
"Department of Redundancy
Department, my dear." Elizabeth tilted her head, smiled.
"Oops. Of course."
"I have done a trope or two,
too."
"I blush," Grace said.
"Prating to the professor."
"Pfui."
Elizabeth sipped tea. "So, your kakekotoba ..."
"Well, a rather simple business,
Dr Reece, in Japanese. That particular trope makes use of phonetic
readings. Instead of kanji, one writes using hiragana. And, willy
nilly you get multiple meanings."
"Similar to homophones in
English, I believe," said Elizabeth. "'Through' and
'threw'."
"And 'two' and 'too'. Which you
just ... I missed that. Pedantic, I am. Didactic to a fault. I'm
sorry."
Elizabeth laughed. "Not to worry,
child. Age will bring indifference. Go on with the dissertation."
"Pay attention now class,"
Grace said, and stuck her tongue out at Elizabeth. "Ecoutez.
Ici. Have a look." On a blank notebook page, Grace wrote:
松
"That's
matsu
meaning 'pine tree'. This:
待
is
matsu
meaning 'to wait'. The same word, different characters, can also mean
'depend on', 'tip', 'posterity', or 'necessarily'. Probably others as
well. So the poet uses hiragana,
the phonetic syllabary to write:
まつ
The
symbols for 'ma' and 'tsu'. And the meaning must be derived from
context. You see?"
Elizabeth
sipped tea, considered. "So you get," she said, "pine
tree necessarily waiting on a hot tip for posterity."
Grace
laughed, raised a mug and said, "All good for the poet."
Elizabeth's
stomach gurgled quietly. "Oops, hello. The smell of your chili
is making me hungry. Jalapenos?"
"Of
course."
"Three
bean?"
"Yes
ma'am. No cumin." A shake of the head from Grace, a bleak look.
"Without cumin it's hardly chili, but ..." They had argued
the point for several months. The young woman ran a hand through her
thick, dark hair. "Compromise. Not cumin."
"You're
too kind, child," Elizabeth said. "I'll do the cornbread."
"Honey.
No sugar."
"Of
course. And the unsalted butter."
"I
really can't tell the difference, can you?"
Elizabeth
shook her head, "No," she said, "but sometimes it's
best to stay between the lines." The woman reached for a book.
"Hoover claims---well, I suppose it's Bokusai. Whomever. The
claim is that Ikkyu was reading the Vimalakirti Sutra at age eleven."
She moved a folder, set aside two paperback books, and took up a
faded typed manuscript. "Listen. This is that sutra. Does it
seem reasonable that an eleven year old boy would comprehend this?"
She read:
This
body is like earth that has no subjective being. This body is like
fire, devoid of ego. This body is like wind that has no set life
span. This body is like water, devoid of individuality. This body has
no reality but makes these four elements its lodging.
Grace
nodded. "It does seem a bit much. The images would be familiar
though. Burton Watson translation?"
Elizabeth
nodded.
"Fire,
wind, water. And you forget, I think, his environment." The
young woman sat back, hands cupping the warm mug, legs crossed,
sipped, and said. "As a child, growing up in Hong Kong, I
attended a private school for the sons and daughters of wealthy
parents. My parents were not wealthy, but my father was an
influential government official and spiritual leader in the
community. I had shown promise rather young, and so was admitted."
"I
had no idea, Grace. Not Hawaii then?"
A
faint smile. "That was a bit later. After my parents died."
"Ah."
The
two women had worked together for a bit more than three years.
Elizabeth had advertised for a writing assistant. Some knowledge of
Japanese was required. A salary was offered. A mutual friend at the
University of Oregon introduced an untenured instructor named Grace
Yew to Elizabeth. The two women, young and old, shared intelligence
and reticence, and a penchant for words and language.
"Hakka
was my first language," Grace said. "And then English.
Cantonese. Japanese in Hawaii."
"How
curious," Elizabeth said. "One of my favorite writers is
Amy Tan. She wrote a book in which hakka people figure prominently.
Is she hakka, do you suppose."
Grace
stood, walked to the sink, and set her cup down. Stirred the chili.
The window above the sink looked out on the front yard, a cloistered
patch of grass and wild flowers, laurel hedge thick and surrounding.
"She has always said she was an American writer. I think, if she
were hakka, she would say so. Very proud people, we hakka." She
turned from the window, leaning against the counter. "Hubris our
dominant trait."
Distant
bird call filled a brief silence. From a bedroom, the quiet,
repetitive tone of the young woman's cell phone.
I'm
too proud to quit now. Micki's reply. Elizabeth remembered the bleak
look on her friend's face, then closed her eyes and took a long
breath. "I'm sorry about your parents," she said. "Do
you need to get that?"
A
shake of the head. "The oddest thing," Grace said. "I
felt so very little. I remember so little. They flew off to Canton.
And were gone." She came to the table, sat. "In Hawaii, I
felt so very like a displaced person, and so became reclusive. My
uncle's family were related by marriage to the Lee family, sugarcane.
Became wealthy. I was considered a prodigy, went to the best schools.
My aunt was an ethnographer. Taught at the University of Hawaii.
Specialized in traditional Hawaiian culture. She it was who
introduced me to surfing. I balked, though, at hula."
"My
goodness, one would never guess. Surfing"
"Me
and Waikiki. Just like all the other haoles."
"How-lies?"
"A
term for all non-native Hawaiians. Mostly you fish bellies though,
luahine."
The
women laughed.
"I
was smothered in their kindness and concern; but all I wanted to do
was surf. I'd run away. They'd find me on North Shore. Surfing the
Waiamea or hangin' at the shrimp trucks. Surfing was my salvation.
Then, a millstone around my neck."
"I
don't recall it mentioned on your résumé."
"No."
"A
polyglot beach bum."
"Yes."
"And
beautiful."
A
shrug. "Eyes of the beholder," Grace said.
"Yes,
well. Formidable then. Anyway you slice it, my dear. I'm so glad
you're here."
She
had met Jack in the park in Ala Moana. He was a small man, old; she
was a tall, young woman. Both were of Hakka descent; but he had
Japanese on his father's side. They cradled their boards under their
arms and walked purposefully across the beach. His board was long and
heavy, but he managed it with aplomb, his long usage making for ease.
He walked with a slight limp, his right knee bearing the long scar of
surgery.
Grace
shorten her stride, switched her short board to her left side, and
walked just a step behind her teacher.
Jack
made a good living teaching surfing. He supplemented his income by
wagering with haoles. No one could ride the Pipeline like Jack; but
to look at the man, who would think he could produce such grace and
elegance. He used the disparity between looks and reality to good
effect. Sandbagging the puffed up white boys, he took them out,
explained how the waves were brought up short on the shallow reef,
how they formed the incredible tubes of water.
"You
don't want to fall out dere, boys. Cut you up bad thing."
Shaking his head, frowning, talking his stunted English, giving what
was expected. And out they would paddle. Jack would pick a small
breaker, ride it clumsily just short of a tube, then kick out. "You
try, you fellas," he called out to his students. And so it would
go. Jack upping the ante with each wave.
Then,
"Bigger set comin' now," Jack told them. "Probably
want to let 'em by."
"Ah,
we can ride them."
"Naw,
too big dees wave."
"You
sit then; we're going for it."
"Bad
bet, boy."
"My
money talks, Jack. $10 says I tube this one."
"Well,
I give you the line, kick out. You follow, go where you like. 'Kay?"
"Don't
hurt yourself, dude." And they laughed.
And
Jack paddled before the curling sea, stood as it broke, changed his
line left with a deft push on his back foot, and accelerated down the
face, the tube forming, Jack bending from the waist, walking to the
nose, palms together as if in prayerful thanks for the wonder of
waves, popping out as the tube snapped closed, quick shuffling
suriashi back to kick out and down, paddling back out, a shaka shake
of hand at the boys, hang loose, fellas, who sat and then shouted and
pumped their fists.
"My
style is like Jack's," Grace said. "Or was. It has been
awhile. I was fifteen then." She went to the stove, stirring the
chili with a wooden spoon, reflecting. "He couldn't bend that
knee so well, so he was always more upright, very old school. Me
too."
"1991,"
Elizabeth said
"Yep."
"I
was being 'retired' by the regents of Leland Stanford Junior
University."
"Really?
That surprises me."
"Humph.
I had published a story entitled 'Pruning'. One of my favorite
characters: David Littlease. Through David I rather excoriated
administrators. Someone took offense, as someone will. That led to
..." Elizabeth shrugged.
"Humph
indeed," Grace said.
"And
your Jack, he injured that knee how?" Elizabeth had no desire to
dredge the past. Her past anyway.
"Well,
as a young man, he worked on Lanai, harvesting pineapples. In 1953, a
general strike was organized. Certainly the workers were exploited.
Like everywhere else. Generally, all the strikes on the various
islands were peaceful events. This one got a little rough. The
company, Castle and Cooke brought in some strike breakers. They
brought clubs. Jack and several others were badly beaten. His knee
was the result."
"The
haves and the have-nots. All of history is filled with that
struggle."
"The
impetus for Karl Marx."
"The
French Revolution," Elizabeth said.
"Not
to mention our own little story of Mori and Ikkyu. The have-nots take
the brunt of all the world's brutality."
"So
much cruelty. Why do you suppose that is?" Elizabeth said.
Grace
gave her little shrug. "Can't know, I would say. Maybe too much
nature, too little nurture." A tilt of head, considering. She
stood and moved to the stove. Took up her wooden spoon and stirred
the chili. Turning, she softly recited Ikkyu's poem:
Cold,
hot, pain, pleasure, time to be ashamed.
Ears
from the beginning are two pieces of skin
One,
two, three, ah! three, two, one.
Nan-ch'uan
with a flick of the wrist killed the cat.
She
gave again her little shrug.
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