Читать книгу Traditions - Dave Lowry - Страница 9

A Puppy Dog’ s Bark

The date: around 1630 probably. The place: a little nomiya, a rustic shack of a restaurant that served travelers in that rural corner of central Japan. The afternoon’s business: slow. Heat oozed in from off the dusty highway outside. The greasy noren (a split length of cloth serving as an informal doorway) was unruffled by even the faintest breeze. Inside, except for the flies droning, the only customers were a pair of itinerant barbers and a swordsman. The latter sat near the window, watching the empty highway with a sleepy sort of disinterest and sucking noisy mouthfuls of cold noodles from a cheap bowl. Because he smelled and looked more than a little in need of a bath and scratched most distastefully with the blunt ends of his chopsticks at the scruffy patch of eczema on his forehead, the barbers did their best to ignore him.

Presently, the noren parted. Three young ronin ambled in, dusty and blinking in the darkness of the nomiya, their eyes still accustomed to the bright sun outside. They gave their orders in curt, tired voices to the proprietor who in turn snapped irritably at his assistant. Only after they had slumped wearily onto the floor matting and been served tea did they notice the swordsman by the window. Perhaps it was because they were shamed by the quality of the swords they carried. Ronin were men of samurai rank who, for one reason or another, were not in the service of a lord. They tended to be an uncouth lot. Looking at the fine weapon of the other diner, perhaps they felt a need to display their toughness. Probably, however, the young ronin were just hot and tired and ill-tempered, and the odd-looking swordsman was an easy target for their teasing.

One of the ronin began slurping his tea loudly, mocking the swordsman, who continued to slurp his noodles. The others laughed, and another of them grabbed at the hair above his own forehead and mussed it wildly, mocking the swordsman’s unsightly skin condition, while the third rolled his eyes.

“Whew,” he growled, “that one smells like a wild pig.”

Neither of the two barbers who were also eating in the nomiya had ever so much as held a sword. But with all the caution of master warriors they watched the swordsman. No one of his rank, they knew, would allow these kinds of insults to pass unheeded. Though they remained quiet, eating with mechanical slowness, they were ready to leap for the doorway at the first sign of a fight lest they become caught in the melee sure to ensue.

By now each of the three ronin had casually touched the swords beside them, with the pretense of adjusting their position slightly. Actually, each had pushed the collar of his sword free from the scabbard by an inch or two, freeing the blades for the fastest use possible. Ready now, they waited.

The flies buzzed in lazy loops, scouting the noodles below.

“Hey, ugly,” barked one of the ronin. “Wouldn’t you be better off out in back with the other—” his jest was cut off by the movement of the swordsman, who looked up from his bowl for the first time. His head swiveled. His eyes followed the droning flies. Then, like some kind of mantis, he struck.

“Click . . . Click, click.” Between the pincers of his chopsticks three flies were crushed with a speed that did not seem real.

A long stillness filled the air of the nomiya. Finally, there were three more clicks. It was the sound of the ronin carefully snapping their swords back into their scabbards. They finished their own meals with the politest of silences. The swordsman, the son of a Harima Province constable and known as Miyamoto Musashi, continued to slurp his cold noodles.

The famous story of Musashi and the three ronin is, disappointingly, more a legend than anything like a documented event. Like many of the other stories of his life, it may not ever have happened. But if it did, it is a good example of what martial artists have always respected as one of the aims of the budo. What Musashi understood in the threat of the ronin at the nomiya was the distinction between two kinds of attacks that martial artists (as well as the rest of the population, for that matter) should always be aware of. This distinction might be more aptly demonstrated in a contemporary setting.

A young Japanese karate exponent and his wife were visiting New York City a few years ago. They’d met some friends at a Manhattan restaurant for dinner and after eating they left the restaurant in search of a taxi to take them back to their hotel. Standing on a street corner in many parts of Manhattan can be an unnerving experience at any time, of course. But when it is nearly midnight and your hometown is on the other side of the earth, it can be particularly trying. The couple had nearly reached the conclusion that every taxi driver in that part of the city was extracting revenge for Japan’s sin of having produced a fuel efficient car. At least half a dozen of them breezed past without so much as a glance in their direction. Abruptly, the couple’s problem was compounded.

“Hey, China Doll! You lookin’ nice.” An admirer sauntered up to lean against a street lamp. He mouthed remarks insulting to the man and insinuating to his wife, both of whom pretended not to understand. The wife moved so that her husband was between herself and the stranger. The situation grew more tense. The jerk stepped away from the light post. “Come on, pretty lady. I’ll show you a real good time.” He reached his arm out in front of the husband. “This Jap ain’t gonna be no fun,” he said.

The jerk didn’t know it, but the “Jap” in question had achieved something of a reputation back in Japan for snapping off the makiwara punching posts in his dojo when he struck them. If he’d hit the troublesome jerk, there was a real possibility he’d have inflicted terrible, perhaps fatal damage. Instead, he laughed. Uproariously. He gave the man a playful shove, the kind a friend might give another, rocking the jerk back on his heels.

“You wouldn’t want to spend any time with her,” he said, still laughing and, with his arm around his wife, turning to walk toward a taxi he saw down the block. “She’s a Jap, too!”

It is unlikely that Musashi or the karateka in Manhattan would have had much trouble if they’d chosen to reply to their aggravators in a physical way. Both were experts in lethal techniques of fighting. Yet both of them solved potentially explosive situations by resorting to stratagems that hurt no one. Many of us would have been driven to react to these kinds of threats. We would have been tempted to respond aggressively in either case, particularly if we were reasonably certain of winning. Why then, did those two not?

Musashi and the karateka both avoided a violent altercation because in both instances, each realized the attacks directed at them were attacks against their ego, their self-image, rather than against themselves or those around them. The mocking taunts of the ronin may have embarrassed Musashi (though he was ragged and dirty much of his life, his self-portrait is one of a man dressed in fine clothes, evidence of Musashi’s pride). They were far from being a threat to his safety. The karateka certainly could not have enjoyed the lewd remarks made to his wife. But by his response he not only showed the crude stranger how idiotic his advances were, he also demonstrated his mastery of the budo by settling a potential conflict without resorting to violence.

Had the two martial artists pursued the course many would have taken, consider the results. The three ronin—as well as the bystanders possibly—would have been killed or injured. In the karateka’s situation, he might have been able to control his blows. Still, suppose, as happened in an altercation in St. Louis recently, the offending man had fallen when the karateka hit him, had struck his head against the curb, and died as a result. Lives would have been taken or irretrievably lessened, and all because of some name-calling.

It would be a mistake to assume that Musashi and the karateka, because they avoided violence in these instances, would not ever have resorted to fighting. If the streetcorner punk had grabbed the karateka’s wife or physically assaulted him, the results would have been immediate and, for the assailant, unforgettable. Musashi killed dozens of opponents on the battlefield or in duels. Yet because of their training, both men responded in a way that left no one injured or killed since they saw that neither situation warranted it.

Distinguishing between an attack on our egos and an actual physical assault is easy to determine in retrospect. When confronted with the actual circumstances, the difference can be blurred by anger or fear. When my driving elicits an obscene gesture from someone in another car, my immediate impulse is to become equally angry and to return the gesture or shout. But if I think for only a moment, I realize my anger is probably due to the fact that I am a lousy driver (to which anyone who’s ever ridden with me will attest). The other motorist, by bringing it so rudely to my attention, is taking a poke at my ego that is difficult to ignore. While an average sized person standing in a line might think nothing of a jostle from behind, the skinny fellow beside him might well be quick to return the shove back out of the fear that, because of his diminutive size and equally frail ego, he is being threatened.

No one likes being teased or ridiculed. When we consider that the common response, to reply with equal or greater vigor, is what causes wars between nations, we realize that we need to consider other solutions. For the budoka, at least one of those solutions is found in the dojo. He finds one answer in the kind of constant, intensive training that allows him to defend himself physically should that be necessary. But he finds another solution, one which more practically strips away false pretensions and fears and fragile or bloated egos and instead leaves him with a feeling of quiet pride and self-worth that is invulnerable. The man or woman who has persevered daily, monthly, yearly through the demands placed upon them by budo training knows that they have endured unique experiences, passed tests of spirit and soul and body. With these experiences comes a knowledge that permits them to smile and to shrug off assaults on their ego as easily as Musashi killed the flies.

The ability to perceive the difference between a shot at our self-image and a dangerous attack on our self, our family, or our society and to respond accordngly is an unmistakable sign of budo mastery. As one of my sensei once so eloquently put it, “You cannot concern yourself about every little puppy dog that barks at you. Worry yourself only with those that mean to bite.”