THE
BLIND GEISHA
II
- 9
The
Mist Is My Roof
Elizabeth
wrote:
Ikkyu was eighteen when he became a
disciple of a reclusive monk in a small Kyoto temple. Two years
later, this mentor died and Ikkyu became a wandering monk
disconsolate and prone to suicide.
At twenty-two, he tried to become a
student of a master named Kaso who had a reputation as the sternest
teacher in Japan. Kaso refused to see the young man. Ikkyu resolved
to "take the mist as his roof and the reeds as his bed"
until Kaso relented.
Ikkyu's determination was rewarded. As
if ordained, the stern master and the ascetic young monk were
perfectly matched. They passed a decade together in Kaso's rather
rustic temple on the shore of Lake Biwa. His dedication to his master
was unconditional. Kaso, become an old, frail little man, was often
sick; and it was Ikkyu who cleaned the vomit and excrement.
With
a soft gust of breeze, the curtains fluttered and the candle flame
did its little dance casting delicate shadows on the sloping ceiling
of the room. She lifted her glasses to the crown of her head and
rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. From a mug---PSC Vikings, the
decal nearly worn away with use---she took a yellow #2 and wrote a
note to herself in the margin of the manuscript page.
This brief timeline of Ikkyu's youth
does not jibe with the conventional portrait of the poet as an adult.
Media, both modern animé and traditional woodblock prints, portray
him as a rowdy rascal who spent more time in wine shops and brothels
than he ever did in temples. His early reading of the Vimalakirti
sutra and his subsequent training seem to give the lie to such a
notion. Who was Ikkyu? Vimalakirti reincarnate?
She
looked up from her desk, leaned back and gazed out the window. The
man was proving to be all too illusive. And dear Mori all the more
so. From downstairs she heard the soft chime of Grace's cell phone
and the murmur of her voice. The tide was slack just now. The gulls
raucous. Along the low white crest of rolling waves a small pod of
brown pelicans stroked their way south. The gawky creatures were her
particular favorites.
Standing,
leaning over her desk, she peered south along the shoreline, and
watched as they emerged from behind the cedars. Elegant from this
distance, she thought. Looking for lunch? Or just out for a stroll?
"Or
without an agenda," she said. Being a bird. Hmmm
She
sat, and reread what she had written. On a notepad she wrote:
The question remains: was Ikkyu a
reprobate and, if so, how does one reconcile that fact with his early
training, his satori?
"Two
questions, then," she said. And they beg a third: how does an
enlightened man behave? How one behaves seems to me the central issue
of anyone's life. Too many folks just swept along by circumstance,
flotsam on the tide. Too few people act with intention. "And
constancy." Easy to be chaste for an afternoon.
Elizabeth
sighed. Gazed again out her window, pencil tapping desktop. She
turned her head to the soft footsteps coming up the stairwell. Grace
appeared and slowly sat, perched on the top step. Her face was
angular and pale.
"What
is it, dear?"
The
young woman was slow to answer. Then, "I'm sorry to bother you,
Bess."
"Not
at all. I'm at a bit of an impasse anyway."
A
slight shake of the young woman's head. "There's been some
weather. Bernard's off the grid."
"That
was the phone call?"
"Ummm."
Grace ran a hand through her hair. "Too soon to worry, but ..."
The
heavy surf that had raised warnings on the Oregon coast was the
residual swell of a storm in the Pacific. How odd, Elizabeth thought,
we so rarely think beyond our own little nests. A butterfly in China
...
"A
bit unusual," Grace said, "to have weather like that this
time of year. They were running south under bare poles ... " She
gathered her hair, turning it to gather loose strands, and brought
the long tail over her shoulder. "Weather funneling down from
the northwest. Waves kept building."
"But
they're all right?"
Grace
shrugged. "Not enough to know." She looked away, then down,
entwining her fingers, rubbing the the base of her hands together. "A
friend of Bernard's ... a ship reported sighting a sailboat in
distress, but could do nothing with the sea state. Breaking waves 8 -
10 meters. The Coast Guard passed along what information they had.
Serendipity."
"Serendipity?"
Grace
nodded. "Bernard's boat."
"And?"
"And
little more. The ship gave a position, but ... "
"Were
they in distress, could they tell? Or just thought as much."
"A
quick look from a fast moving horse." A bit of a smile. "No
EPIRB signal, so ... "
"Epirb?"
"Ah.
Sailor talk. Emergency position-indicating radio beacon. Bullet proof
little devices that transmit a boat's position." She shrugged
again. "For what that's worth. 500 miles off the coast.
Pinpoint. Precise. And meaningless. Too far from anywhere."
The
two women sat quietly. Distant gulls mewed faintly above the slow
roll and wash of the retreating tide. A sharp whistling bird call
brought their eyes to the window.
"He's
back," Elizabeth said. She looked at Grace with raised eyebrows,
turned her hands palm up. "Well?" she said.
"The
red breasted sapsucker?" Grace said.
They
listened. The call repeated, then came as a series of staccato
whistles with each seemingly a duplicate of the one before.
"Sapsucker
it is," Elizabeth said. "Staking his territory. Saying
hello. My guess anyway."
"Sharp
black bill, brownish, white rump and about the size of a healthy
robin."
Elizabeth
smiled. "You're learning." She gathered her loose papers
and put them into their folder, turned it on its back and slipped it
into the corner of her desk. "He's a competent fellow, your
Bernard. He'll be all right."
Grace
stood, nodded and turned down the stairs. "A little pasta
tonight?" she said.
"Suits
me. The rigatoni? With the Romano?"
"We
just have the pecorino. You thought it was a little too sharp, too
salty. Yes?"
"Sheep's
milk, that one is, if I'm not mistaken." She pushed herself up
with a grunt. "No matter, my dear. The taste buds are getting as
bad as the eyes. Need a bit of zest to perk them up. Pesto and
pecorino should do the trick."
Grace
started down the stairs as sirens wailed suddenly, loudly from the
highway. Moving through the room, Elizabeth caught the reflection of
the red and blue lights and the crunch of gravel, an ambulance
turning in at the Harvey's house.
"It's
next door," Elizabeth said. "Go see, Grace." The
Harvey's, that was the name. Was he a doctor of some kind?
Grace
went to see; but stood at the end of the driveway reluctant to
intrude. They rarely saw these people, hardly knew them. As she moved
around the hedge, a gurney was eased through the narrow front door.
Mr Harvey stood aside rubbing his clipped hair with the palm of his
hand. He leaned over and spoke to his wife as she passed.
"She's
diabetic," he said to the EMT pushing the gurney. "Has a
stent, three years ago. Is ... is... I'll follow you in." He
started for the house, stopped, pulled keys from his pocket, and
turned to the car. Seeing Grace, he gave a curt wave and walked to
meet her.
"Miss
Yew," he said. "Immense favor to ask." He took her by
the arm. "Check the house for me, would you. I'm so rattled ...
Hide-a-key in the flower pot." He moved quickly to his car, slid
ponderously behind the wheel. "We're digging our graves with our
teeth, we are," he said. "I'll call ... I'll ... take care
of the place, would you. We were just dancing ... we were... Jesus."
A
frown clouded Grace's face. What was that all about? "Grace?"
called Elizabeth, faintly. Frightened, that voice? She looked up to
see the woman leaning out the window. Walked towards the road as
ambulance and car drove off; and, as she turned around the hedge,
said, "All in hand, Bess."
"What's
happening then, Grace?" Elizabeth said.
"Mrs
Harvey collapsed. Don't know why. Mr Harvey asked me to check the
house. All a bit odd." She gave a wave. "Be right back,"
she said.
The
neighboring house was a small, one-story ranch painted gray. Rather
drab. The yard was moss and weed, patches of grass and some creeping
Charlie. The front door stood ajar. Grace pushed it open and walked
through.
Inside
was nothing like outside. A large central room with adjacent kitchen
held a leather sofa and two leather chairs with ottomans. An ebony
coffee table with carved end pieces and what appeared to be abalone
inlays fronted the sofa. The table was pushed back against the sofa,
and a small rug had been rolled against the table. The furniture sat
on a gleaming hardwood floor.
Mr
Harvey's cell phone sat on the curved island that separated the two
spaces. A bottle of red wine stood open with crackers and cheese
beside it. Salami. Two small plates. A cabinet door was opened and
phone numbers and a conversion chart had been neatly pinned inside.
The kitchen floor was tiled and the counter top was granite. Black
appliances and a large free standing cast iron stove.
"Oh
my," Grace said.
Floor
to ceiling windows faced the sea. A brass telescope sat poised beside
an armchair and table with books neatly stacked beside a brass lamp.
More books lined the shelving of the far wall. Bedrooms and bathrooms
were likely at either end of the house. She scanned titles. Novels
and non-fiction. Books of the sea. Records occupied a bottom shelf
with tapes and CDs slotted above them. An expensive looking turntable
circled a record round and round and made its audible, persistent
complaint, the record long over.
Grace
lifted the arm, switched it off. Glen Miller. They had been dancing.
The
house smelled of lemon polish and sandalwood candles. Other than a
light in the master bedroom, nothing else seemed amiss. She returned
the cheese to a well stocked refrigerator. Corked the wine. She left
his phone where she had found it.
Returning
down their driveway, Grace saw Elizabeth appear in the open Dutch
doorway.
"Things
are rarely as they seem," she said.
"I'll
put the kettle on," Elizabeth said.
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