Satori - Don Winslow [2]
Hel became a master in his own right.
So is it any wonder that Hel thinks like an Asian?
Nicholai sensed the man’s thoughts on him. The Americans are incredibly transparent, their thoughts as obvious as stones at the bottom of a clear, still pool. He didn’t care what Haverford thought of him — one doesn’t solicit the opinions of a grocery clerk — but it did annoy him. Shifting his attention to the sun on his face, he felt it warm his skin.
“What would you like?” Haverford asked.
“In the sense of what?”
Haverford chuckled. Most men emerging from long confinement wanted three things—a drink, a meal, and a woman, not necessarily in that order. But he was not going to indulge Hel’s arrogance, so he answered, in Japanese, “In the sense of what would you like?”
Mildly impressed that Haverford spoke Japanese, and interested that he refused to surrender such a small stone on the board, Nicholai responded, “I don’t suppose that you could organize an acceptable cup of tea.”
“In fact,” Haverford said, “I’ve arranged a modest cha-kai. I hope you find it acceptable.”
A formal tea ceremony, Nicholai thought.
How interesting.
A car waited at the end of the walk. Haverford opened the back door and ushered Nicholai in.
2
THE CHA-KAI WAS not only acceptable, it was sublime.
Nicholai savored each sip of the cha-noyu as he sat cross-legged on the tatami floor next to the lacquered table. The tea was transcendent, as was the geisha who knelt nearby, discreetly just out of hearing range of the sparse conversation.
To Nicholai’s shock, the functionary Haverford knew his way around the tea ceremony and served with impeccable courtesy, his ritual flawless. Upon arrival at the teahouse, Haverford had apologized that there were, by necessity, no other guests, then led Nicholai into the machiai, the waiting room, where he introduced Nicholai to an exquisitely lovely geisha.
“This is Kamiko-san,” Haverford said. “She will serve as my hanto today.”
Kamiko bowed and handed Nicholai a kimono to put on, then offered him sayu, a cup of the same hot water that would be used to brew the tea. Nicholai took a sip, then, as Haverford excused himself to go prepare the tea, Kamiko took Nicholai outside to the roji, the “dew ground,” a small garden that held only arrangements of rocks but no flowers. They sat on the stone bench and, without conversation, enjoyed the tranquility.
A few minutes later Haverford, now kimono-clad, walked to a stone basin and ceremonially washed his mouth and hands in the fresh water, then stepped through the middle gate into the roji, where he formally welcomed Nicholai with a bow. In turn, Nicholai purified himself at the tsukubai.
To enter the cha-shitsu, the tearoom, they had to pass through a sliding door that was only three feet high, forcing them to bow, an act that symbolized the divide between the physical world and the spiritual realm of the tearoom.
The cha-shitsu was exquisite, elegant in its simplicity, a perfect expression of shibumi. As tradition demanded, they first walked to an alcove, on the wall of which hung the kakemono, a scroll with painted calligraphy appropriate to the day’s occasion. In his role as guest, Nicholai admired the skillful brushwork, which depicted the Japanese symbol for satori.
An interesting choice, Nicholai thought. Satori was the Zen Buddhist concept of a sudden awakening, a realization of life as it really is. It came not as a result of meditation or conscious thought, but could arrive in the wisp of a breeze, the crackle of a flame, the falling of a leaf.
Nicholai had never known satori.