Читать книгу Chojun - Goran Powell - Страница 13

Mrs. Miyagi

It was a baking hot day when I found myself waiting nervously outside the gate to Miyagi’s house. I’d been invited to join the classes in his private dojo, a small building in his garden, and not wanting to be late on my first visit, I’d arrived half an hour early. The gate was shut, but unlocked. I wondered whether to go through to the house or wait by the gate. I peered through the bars, trying to decide. Miyagi lived in a grand house, with a tiled roof and ample gardens surrounded by a high wall. The trees and bushes were neatly trimmed. The flowers were in perfect bloom and a pile of chopped wood had been stacked neatly beside the house. It was clear that Miyagi had no shortage of students to perform chores for him.

A woman in a colorful kimono appeared at the gate. “You’re here for to-te?” she asked.

“Master Miyagi invited me,” I said, “My name is Kenichi Ota.”

“You’re eager Kenichi, that’s good,” she laughed, her voice rich and deep “My husband likes students who’re eager, but there’s no one here to teach you, not yet. Miyagi is out and about, so why don’t you come inside and have something to drink? It’s hot today.”

I accepted gratefully and Mrs. Miyagi led the way to the house. She wasn’t as I’d imagined Miyagi’s wife, tall and haughty, she was small, with a round face and warm eyes that danced with mischief. Her hair was piled on top of her head and pinned in the traditional style, and she wore a necklace made of different colored precious stones and coral pieces.

“Come in,” she said, stepping into the entrance hall. The lofty room was cool after the heat outside. My eyes were drawn to one wall hung with portraits of what must have been Miyagi’s ancestors, fine gentlemen and ladies in old-fashioned dress. Some were photographs, professionally taken and of high quality, but the older ones were paintings, and from the quality of the brushwork they had been done by a master. On the opposite side of the room stood a cabinet filled with fine ornaments: lacquerware boxes with unusual designs that didn’t look Okinawan but rather Chinese or Japanese in origin, incense burners of a design that could have been Malayan or Indonesian, and fearsome looking warrior masks that could have been from Borneo or the South Sea islands.

Mrs. Miyagi showed me into the lounge and urged me to sit. I was apprehensive, imagining Miyagi returning home to find me seated on his favorite couch and chatting with his wife on my very first visit, but Mrs. Miyagi insisted I should sit, so I had little choice. She brought sweets and a glass of juice and I munched on the sweets guiltily as she demanded to know about my family, the names of my brothers and sisters, the health of my parents and relatives. By the time I’d finished my juice, she knew all about me. Was I polite to my parents, she demanded. I was about to reassure her on this important matter when I heard a soft footstep behind me and turned to see Miyagi in the doorway. I sprung up and thanked Mrs. Miyagi for her hospitality. Miyagi turned without a word and I followed him out of the house to the dojo, wondering if he were annoyed and whether I should explain that Mrs. Miyagi had insisted. In the end I said nothing.

Only three other students turned up that day. It was mid-summer and the humidity was dreadful. Miyagi’s private dojo was tiny compared to the one in the elementary school, and there was no air in the room. Nevertheless, no allowances were made for the heat and we performed the usual warm up and conditioning drills. To my regret, I’d abandoned wearing the headband that my father had given me long ago—Shinzato didn’t wear a headband so neither did I. The sweat stung my eyes so badly that I blundered around half blind. I was afraid Miyagi would never ask me back, but instead, he took me aside and taught me a new kata. It was very different to the slow, heavy movements of Sanchin. This kata was called Saifa. It was filled with explosive punches and strikes using the back-fist and hammer-fist, kicks and knee-strikes, sweeps and stomps, rips and tears. A guttural shout called a kiai was required in two places. Miyagi demonstrated this martial roar and the little room shook with thunder. I sensed a frisson of violence running through the kata and felt the violence running through my veins as I performed it. Later, Miyagi demonstrated the meaning of certain movements. I learned to tear free from a grab on the wrist or lapel, deflect a punch or kick and respond with one of my own, to lock the wrist and elbow and throw a man to the floor.

Miyagi had finally begun to teach me the devastating secrets of his art and I returned to his home for training at every opportunity. My nervousness at being in such a grand household was soon lost as I got to know the rest of his family. He had nine children and there was always a happy atmosphere in the Miyagi household, with much laughter and joking. Mrs. Miyagi was a doting mother and I got the feeling Mr. Miyagi was a doting father, though he remained stern whenever I was there.

He would never accept payment for his instruction, so when I wasn’t busy on my uncle’s boat I would do chores for him instead. One weekend, he asked me to move a pile of heavy stones from one side of the yard to the other. The next weekend, he asked me to move them back again. I didn’t mind. I was delighted to be near my sensei, and Miyagi indulged me good-naturedly with work designed to build my strength and stamina.

One day, two rough-looking men appeared in the garden demanding to see Miyagi. When no one answered the door, they banged louder and repeated their demands to see him. I stopped what I was doing and took a closer look at the men. One was tall and broad with a flat nose and fleshy cheeks, but it was the smaller one who drew my eye. His body was lean and hard, his mouth set tight in a sneer. His pale eyes darted around the yard until they fell on me. I looked away quickly but it was too late.

“Hey, where is Miyagi?” he shouted.

For someone to use such a familiar form of address for an Okinawan nobleman in his own garden could only mean one thing. He was here to challenge Miyagi. I’d heard it happened occasionally—Miyagi was one of the most renowned to-te masters in Okinawa and people wanted to prove themselves against him.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Is he in the house?”

I shrugged.

The men returned to the door and banged it again, shouting for Miyagi. As they did, he appeared behind them. “I’m Miyagi,” he said.

The men turned to find him standing one step away. “Is there some emergency?” he asked, his voice showing no emotion whatsoever.

The men were lost for words and exchanged furtive glances. “No emergency,” the smaller one answered finally. “We were looking for Miyagi.”

“If there’s no emergency, then why the urgency?” he demanded, and I noticed he had sunk his weight and was planted like a rock in front of them.

“No urgency,” the smaller man said, regaining his composure a little. “We were just looking for you, and now we’ve found you.”

“If there was no urgency, then why hammer on my door and conduct yourself in such a manner?” Miyagi demanded, his voice growing louder now.

“You are Miyagi the to-te man?” asked the bigger of the two, ignoring Miyagi’s question.

“You know who I am. Who are you?” he said, never taking his eyes from the smaller man.

“We have come to see your to-te,” the bigger man said.

“I do not show it,” Miyagi said.

The men took a moment to consider their next move. The smaller of them was about to say something but Miyagi spoke first, “There is only one way to see it, but you wouldn’t thank me for showing you.”

I’d inched closer in case Miyagi needed my help. He glowered at me but I remained where I was. “The wood is all chopped?” he asked, struggling to control his temper.

“Not all of it,” I answered.

“Then go and finish,” he ordered.

I moved away and returned to my chores. The two men spoke a while longer with Miyagi, but I was too far away to hear what was said. They left meekly enough without a backward glance and I never saw either of them again.

That evening Miyagi was away at a committee meeting so Shinzato taught in his place. When the class had finished and the other boys had left, I cornered Shinzato and asked a question I’d never dared ask before.

“Do we ever spar?”

“Occasionally,” he answered.

“Why not more?” I probed. “Isn’t it important to practice realistically?”

“Real to-te isn’t a game. It’s life or death.”

“But everything we do is prearranged. It’s not the same as a real fight, where you don’t know what’ll happen.”

Shinzato regarded me for a moment and I held his gaze, wondering whether he knew we went to the same school. I thought he was going to refuse, but instead he said we could spar if I wanted.

“What should I do?” I asked.

He raised his arms to the guard position and I did the same.

“Now what should I do?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you,” he said with the trace of a smile. “You said yourself, sparring’s unpredictable.”

I looked into his eyes wondering what he was thinking. His expression was void of clues. Then a black explosion went off in my face. He’d stuck me, his movement so fast that I hadn’t reacted at all. I stumbled backward in shock. I could taste blood on the inside of my lip and feel the beginnings of a swelling with my tongue. Shinzato circled me. Our sparring wasn’t over. I had the sinking feeling it had only just begun. I became hyper-alert, waiting for the next punch, but when Shinzato stepped forward it was with a kick that caught me in the belly. It knocked the air out of me and I doubled over, gasping in pain and cursing my own stupid curiosity.

Shinzato waited for me to recover, eying me like a hawk eyes a wounded bird. Eventually I stood upright and Shinzato nodded for us to continue. I couldn’t stop now, it would be unthinkable, so I lunged forward and threw a punch at his face. I felt his hands tap my wrist, parrying my punch aside. I followed up with a punch from my other hand, but somehow he was at my side, no longer in front of me. When I lifted my foot to turn and face him, he swept it from under me. I stumbled. As my head dipped, I saw a flash of something. His kick connected with my jaw, and I saw black.

I woke to find myself on Mrs. Miyagi’s couch. I could hear raised voices in the hallway outside, which stopped when they realized I’d come around. Shinzato entered and stood beside me. “You’re awake,” he said with a frown.

“Yes,” I answered groggily.

“You’re okay.”

Was it a statement or a question? I couldn’t tell. I nodded dumbly.

“Now you know why we don’t do more sparring,” he said with a grin. ‘Someone always gets hurt.”

It was the first time I’d ever seen him smile. “Yes,” I replied with a grin of my own, eager to show I didn’t bear a grudge.

At this, it seemed Shinzato felt his duty had been done and he turned to leave. Mrs. Miyagi entered the room with a tray, ignoring Shinzato very deliberately to make her displeasure very clear. There were tea and sweets on the tray and she insisted I drink a cup of sweet tea.

Shinzato murmured a polite good-bye to Mrs. Miyagi but she didn’t reply. I tried to sit up but she would have none of it, and I dared not disobey. Several times I tried to get up and leave, but Mrs. Miyagi continued to make polite conversation and I couldn’t get away. I haven’t even the slightest recollection of the topics we covered, though I imagine it was about the health and wellbeing of my family. A good hour must have passed before Mrs. Miyagi was finally satisfied that I was ready to make my way home.