Mister Timeless Blyth, page 14
I dismounted and crossed the square, pushing my bike. It was difficult to make out what was being said, the sound crackling, the words broken up by the wind which was also tugging at two banners, raised at the front of the crowd. I stopped, caught my breath as the flags unfurled, a Rising Sun and a Nazi Swastika.
I turned away, unsettled, and cycled home.
Didn’t I know there was a war on?
There was a newspaper article the following day. What I had seen was not some military rally, a show of force. Rather it was a welcoming party for six young visitors from Germany, members of the Hitler Jugend, visiting Japan to learn something of its culture. From Kanazawa they would be taken to the great monastery of Eiheiji to experience firsthand the way of life there, the rigorous discipline of the monks. The abbot said he hoped the boys would take away something of the spirit of the place, an understanding of Zen.
The hope, I thought, was optimistic. But what did I know?
The monastery had been established by Dogen, the revered founder of Soto Zen.
Like all great teachers Dogen was a poet. I would use one of his verses on the first page of my book.
The water bird
Wanders here and there.
She leaves no trace
But never forgets
Her path.
I had been working steadily on the book. Now I resolved to throw myself into it even more.
Suzuki-sensei had returned to his home in Kamakura and I sent him the first few chapters. He kindly invited me to visit him there whenever it might be convenient. As soon as I could, I made the journey by train, once again bowing to great Fuji-san (the real one!) on the way. As instructed, I alighted from the train at the little station of Kita Kamakura and walked the short distance towards Engakuji temple, breathing the clear air, uplifted by birdsong.
The path to Suzuki’s place led through an avenue of tall trees – magnificent cryptomeria, Japanese cedar known as sugi – up a flight of worn stone steps, past wild magnolia, azalea and camellia to his retreat, a three room house looking out across the tree tops, beyond Engakuji to the sea. It was like entering another world.
Suzuki welcomed me, bade me sit facing him on a thick zafu cushion at a low table. So, he said. Here we are!
And there we were indeed.
There were bookshelves filled to overflowing, stacks of books on the tatami-covered floor. A single scroll hung in a tokonoma alcove, and on a shelf was the same photograph of his wife Beatrice I had seen in his lodgings in Kanazawa.
I asked if he was well, and he said Yes, he was very well. He had been to the dentist that morning. And he had pain in his eye. And he had taken a dose of worm powder. And it had been necessary to call in a carpenter to repair some rat-holes in the ceiling. But apart from all that, yes, he was well!
His expression was at once stern and benign, the corners of his mouth turned down, the eyes beneath those bushy eyebrows twinkling.
And you, he asked, how are you?
I too am well, I said. All things considered.
Good, he said. It is good to consider all things!
It was remarkable to see, this austerity tempered by humour.
Now, he said, shall we eat?
The kitchen at the temple had delivered two bento boxes, one vegetarian for me, the other for him with a serving of raw sliced fish.
He bowed. Itadakimasu. I humbly receive this. All that was needed by way of grace.
Bon appétit.
I feasted on rice balls with umeboshi plum, tofu pockets, cold noodles in a sesame dressing, a little sliced omelette. On the side there were pieces of pickled ginger but not, mercifully, my unfavourite takuan.
Oishii, I said. Delicious.
When we had eaten, I was anxious to hear what Suzuki thought of the chapters I had sent him, my work-in-progress, but I was reluctant to ask. As if reading my mind, he smiled, gave what felt like a benediction.
I think your book is excellent.
I said it owed a very great deal to his own work.
Thank you, he said. That may be so. But you have made something entirely your own.
I was humbled by the generosity, the kindness of his comments.
I think, he said, we are doing the same work, opening doors.
Or shoji screens!
Perhaps it is important we bring Zen to the world.
He indicated a pile of manuscripts on his desk.
My own books have been translated. They are published in England, America and Germany.
At a time like this, I said, that is something wonderful
Yes, he said, that is the word. Wonderful!
I am sure they bring light into the darkness.
Let us hope, he said.
I told him about the gathering I had seen at Kanazawa station, the delegation, the flags.
He looked concerned, his forehead furrowed.
And you say these young Germans went to Eiheiji?
Yes.
He was silent for a moment.
I wonder what Dogen would make of that?
Heartened by Suzuki’s response, I worked even harder on my book, in the early mornings before Tomiko woke up, in the evenings when I came home from school, at odd moments in the staffroom between classes. In a matter of months I had completed a draft. I had it typed and mimeographed, ready to go. I took a copy to Suzuki, carried it up that long flight of steps to his home at Engakuji, a gift delivered with gratitude.
Over the next few visits I made, he gave me the wisdom of his response, sharing his insight, his erudition but also his humour. Occasionally he would correct a mistranslation, a misinterpretation. But more often than not he simply encouraged, with a word, a silent nod. When we got to the end of the book he let out a great sigh of satisfaction.
So, he said. This is your Sacred Treasure. This is why Buraisu-san came from the West!
In these darkest of times I was pursuing the light. Word had filtered through about the blitz on British cities, particularly London. I woke often in the night, worried for Ma and everyone else back home. But Ma’s letters reassured me. She was fine and in good spirits. These were indeed dark days and poor old London was taking a battering. She supposed she shouldn’t say it, but she didn’t think Leytonstone was much of a strategic target. Elsewhere the damage was terrible, but she felt in her bones all would be well, in time, in time. She said she was actually glad I was not at home. She ended, Send your prayers for us all. And I did, at Engakuji I prayed for all sentient beings, but especially for Ma and Dora, for Annie and for Lee. Let them all be safe from harm.
Suzuki had said more than once I must meet his friend Yamanashi-san, as in Admiral Yamanashi, late of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
At first I was reluctant, uncertain. What would a lifelong pacifist have to say to a military commander? Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more?
But Suzuki was adamant and could be most persuasive. He said in his own way the Admiral was a man of peace. He had consistently opposed Japan’s naval programme, the increasing of its capacity, its preparation for war, which he said would be suicide. He had argued in favour of a treaty with the Western powers. There had been a high-powered meeting in London where he had put his case. But he had been overruled, a voice crying in the wilderness. He had been forced to resign, replaced by what Suzuki called fire-breathing nationalists.
And now?
Most interesting, said Suzuki. He was appointed President of Gakushuin, the Peers School. This has close connection with the Imperial household. So he most certainly has the approval of the Emperor himself.
Suzuki could see I was intrigued, not least by his own insistence.
He is a very cultured man, he said. I think you will like him!
I have often thought back to that meeting, at Suzuki’s home, and in retrospect I see how pivotal it was, how monumental its importance (at least in terms of my own little life!)
I had made a few visits to the house since that first time, and though he always put me at my ease, I still treated him with great deference, saw each visit as a kind of pilgrimage, to sit at the feet of the master. Now there was to be this added dimension, the presence of Yamanashi, a man who had been in a position of great influence and power and who still moved at the highest levels of a rigidly hierarchical Japanese society.
I was not sure what to expect, but my trust in Suzuki was absolute, and if he had chosen to introduce me to the Admiral, he must have his own very good reasons (or un-reasons).
I arrived at the exact time we had arranged, going so far as to be there a few minutes early and check my watch, counting down to the second before sliding open the door and calling out my greeting.
Gomen kudasai.
Suzuki himself called back, Buraisu-san, welcome! Come in, come in!
I should not have been surprised that Yamanashi-san was already there, but it was gratifying to see that he too treated Suzuki with great respect. He stood and greeted me, gave a slight bow, spoke to me in English.
Mister Blyth, he said. I am very happy to meet you.
And I you, I said, responding with a deep bow. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.
So, said Suzuki. Here we are!
Yes, said Yamanashi, smiling. Here we are.
He was quite unlike anyone I had ever met, had a poise about him, an air of contained strength. He looked younger than his sixty years, his hair just beginning to turn grey at the temples, a neatly trimmed moustache still dark. The face was lean, almost gaunt, skin taut over high cheekbones. But what struck me most about his appearance were the eyes. I could imagine him scanning horizons, looking out across immeasurable distances. Then when he focussed on me with that same intensity, the gaze was piercing. I fancied he was looking into my soul, assessing me in an instant. It should have been unsettling, but the judgement was kindly, almost amused.
Please, said Suzuki, indicating we should sit. A teapot sat on the table with three blue-glazed bowls, each one different. He poured, and we drank, and we talked the afternoon away.
Yamanashi’s English was fluent. He spoke with great fondness of the time he had spent in England as a young man, studying in London.
Earth hath not anything to show more fair, he said.
He mentioned he had returned to London just a few years ago but had not had time to enjoy the city for its own sake, being constrained by duty.
I recalled what Suzuki had told me, of the Admiral being in London, his attempts to negotiate a treaty, his resignation.
No doubt you would have found the place much changed, I said.
No doubt, he said.
Nevertheless, he wondered what could have made me want to leave London and come to Japan.
Fate? I said. Destiny? Karma? Or perhaps sheer chance!
Perhaps, he said, then left a little silence before continuing.
Suzuki-sensei has told me about your book on Zen in English Literature. It sounds fascinating.
A small contribution, I said, to understanding across cultures. Or to creating further misunderstanding!
I should very much like to read it, he said.
I would be honoured, I said. I shall make sure you receive a copy.
Throughout the afternoon we spoke and relaxed into each other’s company. We discovered much common ground. I sensed a keen and incisive mind, a generous spirit of inquiry. To my delight he also showed a great love of English poetry, particularly Shakespeare and Wordsworth, but also Blake and my beloved Matthew Arnold. I felt that, like Suzuki, he would be an insightful reader of my book, and I, in turn would have much to learn from him.
Towards the end of the afternoon, when there was a natural pause in the talk, the three of us sat in a kind of companionable silence. It was then that I felt something quite extraordinary take place. It is difficult to put into words – like any profound, or profoundly simple experience.
I can only say it felt like a deepening, a recognition, a familiarity.
We were in the moment, and yet we were somehow beyond time. It was as if we knew each other and had sat like this before.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third…carved in Lapis Lazuli.
In the timelessness there was a stillness, a fulness-in-emptiness.
We sat, as if in zazen. We just sat there as if we just sat there. That was all. Eternity in love with the productions of time.
So, said Suzuki, breaking it, and clapping his hands. When shall we three meet again?
Later Suzuki told me I had made a good impression on the Admiral, adding, And he is not a man who is easily impressed.
I was equally taken with him, I said.
I thought of telling Suzuki about my little moment of awakening, or satori, or delusion, call it what you will, but I decided against it for the moment.
Suzuki’s eyes glinted with a kind of amusement, a look I had come to recognise.
I was glad you introduced yourself, he said, with Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.
Yes, I said, a little hesitant, aware of that twinkle in the eye.
It was most appropriate, he said.
It means, I am happy to meet you, does it not?
Indeed, said Suzuki. But words can mean much more than they say. As a poet, you know that! So this simple expression can also mean, You are my superior and it is a great honour to meet you.
I see. So far, so respectful.
It can also mean, Please help me. Be kind to me.
Really?
Or, taking it further, it can mean, I am in your debt and look forward to working with you.
I had no idea.
Finally, it can mean, Thank you in advance for all the help you are going to give me.
Good God, I said. All of that in two little words?
You are discovering just how subtle Japanese can be.
And maddeningly allusive and complex.
I hope the Admiral did not think I was bing pushy or obsequious.
Not at all. They were the right words to use.
The best words in the best order.
Exactly so.
I had no idea at the time just how prescient Suzuki’s words would prove to be. I would indeed be endlessly indebted to the Admiral for all his help. Yamanashi, I discovered, was in contact, not just with the Imperial household, but with some of the most powerful and influential men in the country. He moved comfortably among them, and was part of their world. And yet he took to this unqualified gaijin, this barbarian. He gave me his hand. He reached down and helped me up. He opened doors. Without him I would not have survived.
He read the completed manuscript of my book (passed on to him by Suzuki) and he declared himself Most Impressed. The book, he said, was important, especially at this time. He introduced me to an editor at Hokuseido publishing house in Tokyo and recommended the book to him. In time, and largely, I suspect, as a result of the Admiral’s influence, the book was accepted for publication. Who would read it? I had no idea. But that was not my concern. It would be out there in the world and for that alone I was simply grateful, felt blessed.
And as if that were not enough, Tomiko told me one evening, quietly and without fuss, that she had been to see the doctor and he had confirmed what she had already known (and I had hoped), that she was expecting our first child.
I held her and she wept for joy.
My cup runneth over, I said.
She didn’t understand and I didn’t think I could explain. But she could see I shared her gladness.
I tried to mime the fulness in my heart, cupping my hands. Then a little gospel song came back to me, from my early childhood when Ma and Pa would take me to church.
I sang it as best I could.
Running over, running over,
My cup’s full and running over.
Tomiko laughed, delighted, clapped her hands.
Since the Lord saved me
I’m as happy as can be.
My cup’s full and running over.
Happy as can be.
Pass the tambourine!
I was much distracted by the imminent arrival of our child. Tomiko was almost at full term and the baby was due any time. So when the postman brought a small rectangular package along with the usual mail, I did not at first give it my full attention as Tomiko set it down on the kitchen table. Then I noticed the package was from Hokuseido Press and I picked it up with some excitement. I felt it in my gut, a stirring, a quickening, and part of me, quite detached, looked on with some amusement as my hands actually shook, fumbling to tear the thing open without doing damage to the contents. I peeled away the paper wrapping, the stiff protective card, and there it was, an advance copy of my book.
I have heard other writers say that moment is always a kind of disappointment to them. They have worked long and hard at the book, put their very souls into it, now time has passed and here it is, somehow reduced, laid out between boards, the life gone out of it.
I can only say I have never experienced this with any of my own books, and least of all with this, the first.
I held it in my hands, felt the weight of it, the solidity. It was here. It existed. It was real. It had actually come to pass. A cream-coloured dust jacket with my name and the title in blue lettering across the top. Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics. RH Blyth. The same underneath in elegant Japanese characters.
I took off the dust jacket, admired the rich blue cover, the title printed in a panel on the spine. I replaced the cover, opened the book at the frontispiece, a monochrome watercolour painting by Thomas Girtin, titled Fields in Flood. It looked for all the world like a Japanese brush drawing, and underneath was a haiku by Onitsura.
I know well
That the June rains
Just fall.
