Night Boat. Alan Spence

can afford to pay.

      The gold birds glittered against the deep pink silk. The shoji screen opened a fraction and Yotsugi-san gave the slightest nod towards the gap. It opened wider and a young woman stepped into the room and set down a lacquer tray bearing a teapot and two bowls, a bamboo whisk and a lidded box. Another maid followed behind with a heavier tray of dark wood, on it a small stove and an iron kettle. The two women backed out through the gap, bowing.

      So, said Yotsugi-san.

      I thought he was about to prepare tea for us himself. But he clapped his hands and the screen slid open once more, and kneeling there was Hana.

      I’d known I would be seeing her at some point in the evening. I had struggled between anticipating it and trying not to think of it at all. But the actuality took me completely by surprise. I felt as if I’d been struck in the chest, and just for a moment I could not draw breath.

      She wore a floral-patterned kimono in blues and greens, the sash a rich purple. Her hair was swept up, just so, held in place by a silver clasp and exposing the exquisite curve of her neck. I caught again a waft of her perfume, jasmine, and in behind it the smell of her.

      Hana.

      She kept her head down, not looking at me.

      Tea, said her father, and she bowed, glanced up, just for an instant caught my eye, gave a quick half-smile that turned me inside out.

      Tea.

      Her movements were extraordinarily graceful as she placed the kettle on the stove, wiped the bowls with the chakin linen cloth, removed the lid from the box and scooped a little tea into each bowl, all with the deftest of movements designed to keep her sleeves out of the way but performed with the flow of a dance or a piece of kabuki. I was mesmerised.

      You are familiar with the way of tea? asked her father.

      Yes, I said. No. I mean . . .

      He smiled, waited.

      I mean I have read about it, but never . . .

      So, he said. Hana will initiate you into the mysteries.

      Hana.

      I imagined making a calligraphy of her name, the brush-strokes flowing into a simple drawing of a flower.

      Hana.

      The water in the kettle had come to the boil. She poured a little into the first bowl, the one in front of me. Then she whisked the tea into a bright green froth, bowed and offered it to me, holding the bowl in both hands. I took it clumsily, touching her fingers. Her eyes smiled, and she made a slight rotating movement of her head, trying to tell me something.

      Then I remembered the form of the ritual, and I turned the bowl through a quarter-circle, sipped from the side. Nothing in my life had tasted as sweet as this bitter green tea.

      She whisked up more in the other bowl, handed it to her father who took a sip, let out a great slow sigh of satisfaction, made a comment on the fragrance of the tea, the perfect form of the bowl.

      I knew this, I had read about it. The custom was to engage in conversation about the tea, the bowls, the room, all of it. But my brain was numb and unable to link with my tongue. Hana had robbed me of language.

      The bowl is beautiful, I heard myself say. The tea is delicious. The room is . . . very nice.

      Hana bowed again, looked away. Was she trying to hide a smile?

      The taste of tea is the taste of Zen, said her father. It sounded like something he had read rather than composed himself, but I nodded appreciatively, grateful that he was trying to put me at ease.

      I sipped more of the tea, felt a warmth in my chest, a lightness in my head.

      The taste of Zen!

      And it all felt suddenly ridiculous, the stiffness and formality, the strained responses, the sheer tight-arsed artifice of it. And yet. And yet. There was the lightness. It bubbled up out of me and I laughed.

      Good, I said. It tastes good!

      Hana held out a tray of sugared sweets. I took one shaped like a flower and popped it in my mouth, let it dissolve.

      I feel I have died, I said, and awakened in the Pure Land.

      Her father chuckled, nodded approval.

      By the end of the evening I had eaten more food than I had in the previous week, all prepared by Yotsugi-san’s cook. I had downed white miso soup and noodles in a golden vegetable broth, rice and tempura, four sorts of fish. Yotsugi-san had insisted I drink a cup of sake.

      One for the road, he said. Let us drink to our continuing friendship.

      The road, I said. Friendship.

      The sake slipped down, warming, left a pleasant aftertaste. But it was deceptive. I wasn’t used to it, felt the rush to my head and again I found myself laughing.

      Yotsugi-san said I could stay in one of their guest rooms, return to the temple in the morning, but I said I couldn’t miss the sesshin, which began early. The word slipped in my mouth and I pronounced it again with great deliberation. Sesshin.

      I understand, said Yotsugi-san. But I hope, we both hope, you will visit us again soon.

      I bowed, smiled directly at Hana who smiled back.

      It would be a great honour, I said.

      On the way back past the cemetery, the same dog came running after me, yapping and snarling.

      Stupid dog! I shouted. What is wrong with you?

      He barked louder, and this time instead of barking back at him, I just laughed and that was even more effective in driving him away.

      The sesshin began at 3 a.m. with the clang of a bell. I’d had no sleep to speak of, was a little hungover from the sake, the rich food, the sheer unaccustomed intoxication of it all.

      Hana.

      Bleary and barely awake, head numb, I managed to fold up my bedding – the thin futon, the single rough blanket – and bundle it away. Then I joined the line to use the toilet, the pit dug in the dirt floor. Ignore the stink. Splash my face with cold water, taking particular care to wash my ears. Cup a little water in my hands to swill in my mouth. Swallow it down. Follow the others into the meditation hall. Sit on my cushion on the tan platform.

      We sat in two rows, facing each other. Incense was lit, a thick, heavy scent.

      Clang.

      The bell rang, deep and resonant, beginning the session. The head priest entered the room without a sound, and we sensed it, a change in the atmosphere. Backs straightened. He walked slowly, silently, behind each row, stopping here or there to administer a sharp rap with his stick on a curved spine, hunched shoulders. He stopped for a moment right behind me and I braced myself for a blow that didn’t come. I bowed with folded hands, gassho, and he moved on.

      At the end of the hall he stopped and turned, then he told a story, by way of instruction. It was one I had heard before and I knew it was sometimes assigned as a koan, to be addressed in meditation, an insoluble problem to push the mind beyond itself, beyond thought.

      The priest’s voice was measured, incantatory, as if imparting some ancient wisdom.

      In ancient China there was an old woman who took it upon herself to provide for a monk and support him in his practice. She had a hut built where he could meditate, and she provided a little food for him every day. This went on for twenty years, and one day she decided to test him, to find out what progress he had made. So she approached a beautiful young woman and asked her to visit the monk.

      Embrace him, she said, then ask him suddenly,