Читать книгу Enzan - John Donohue - Страница 8

Chapter 1

He arrived at the dojo as the training session was ending. We were all soaked with sweat and the heavy blue quilted tops we wore were pressing on our shoulders like the weight of Judgment Day. The visitor carefully slipped off his shoes, placed them neatly to one side, and bowed. It was a good bow, the kind you see from someone who’s been in a dojo before. He moved like a martial artist too: smooth motion that hinted at years of labor in the precise economy of violent action. He stood at the rear of the room as the training session came to a close. He was still and watchful. Only his brown eyes glittered under the high lights of the training hall.

They’re so self-contained, the Japanese. You think after all these years I’d be used to it. But at that moment, I just wanted to reach across the room and smash his face in. I didn’t, of course. Partly because my teacher Yamashita has trained me better, but mostly because it was what my visitor wanted, and why give him the satisfaction?

I called to the class to line up and they flowed into a long row with the unthinking ease of repeated practice. In the Japanese martial tradition, every training session begins and ends with a ceremony. It’s a reminder of who we are and what we are doing. That sounds like a simple thing, but my experience is that we’re all hardwired for distraction and delusion. The Buddha pointed that out. So, for that matter, did Jesus. I hate to have to admit the nuns who tortured me all those years in Catholic school were right about anything. Yet it’s true, and the need to focus on purpose and identity is a real one. So martial arts students in the dojo line up at the end of every class. They stand in rank order and face their sensei, their teacher.

That’s me.

I knelt in the formal position, carefully setting the white oak training sword down at my left side. I nodded and the students sank down as well.

The dojo captain, the most senior student present, called out “Mokuso!” the barked command to meditate. It’s just one of the more interesting contradictions of the art I practice. It was a command to be like empty vessels, bereft of ambition or aggression, an order to clear the mind and become one with all things. But, of course, every one of us in that room had spent the last two hours achieving, learning the finer points of killing someone with a sword.

There’s a lot written about the martial arts: all these complicated ideas about transcending the self, a dense thicket of words and description. It’s cool and calming, the promise of an experience of measured beauty, like water flowing. Alluring, but not completely accurate. Just so much clutter. Step out with me onto the hard floor of a practice session. No incense here, just the smell of heated bodies; no chanting, simply the grunt of effort and the thwack when a blow hits home.

And losing the self? Please. There’s sublimation, for sure. Training is a heavy yoke. But look around at us. The reasons we train are varied, but in the end they are deeply and depressingly similar. Skill gives us control and the illusion of a manageable universe. Achievement brings approval. Effort is penance. Safety. Love. Forgiveness. We chase what everyone else is chasing. We’ve just figured out a really complicated and dangerous way of doing so.

But it’s what I know. So that day when the lesson ended and I sank down into seiza, the seated posture for meditation, I tried not to think about the visitor. The feel of the hardwood floor, the warmth of my folded legs, the ebb and flow of controlled breathing, were all experiences that had been part of my life for so long that the sensations were old friends. I can move into seiza in any dojo in the world and feel I am home. OK, add belonging to the list of things we seek.

But I couldn’t give myself over completely to the experience. He was there. My Japanese visitor with the good bow and knowing eyes.

Visitors are rarely good news. Yamashita’s school is one with a daunting reputation. Martial artists train for years just to get a crack at being considered for admission. Visitors seeking to join us are eager and polite, but a pain anyway: there’s all that testing to put them through to see if they have what it takes. It’s necessary, but it interrupts the training process. And we’re all about training.

The uninvited guests are even worse. They show up at odd intervals like young gunslingers, swaggering into town, looking to make a name for themselves. They’re eager too, but not as polite.

And I get to deal with them.

Which creates another break in training. And I take my teaching seriously. I used to feel a certain apprehension when challengers sauntered in, asking for a “lesson.” These people are usually dangerous in a commonplace kind of way, and I’ve learned you should never underestimate their potential. It only takes one slip, one millisecond of distraction, to fall. So over time I’ve learned to leave all the worry behind and just get on with it, channeling my irritation into action. It’s not pretty, but at least it’s over quickly.

Like the cage fighter who came by one day, shaven head and square jaw, sleeve tats snaking up both arms. He had slabs of muscle covering him like warm armor. He wore the baggy fighting shorts of a Thai kickboxer.

“We don’t have to do this,” I told him.

He had a mean smile: “Sure we do,” he told me.

He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his head, snapped some tight punches out into the air and took a few test roundhouse kicks. Then he got ready to square off.

I came toward him, the oak sword in my hand. He gestured at it. “What gives?”

I shrugged at him. “We use swords here.”

His eyes narrowed and his mean face got even meaner. “Come on, man!” I could tell he thought I wasn’t playing fair, but that was not my problem. The dojo is an orderly place, and the austere lines of traditional Japanese architecture make it seem like things should be placid there. Another great illusion. It’s a box like any other, although it’s filled with dangerous things. He was a fighter used to being in a cage, but even in that place there are rules. In Yamashita’s dojo there are rules of a type but only one really important one: real fighting has no rules.

The bokken I carried is a hardwood replica of the sword used by the old warriors of Japan. The oak shaft is a symbolic sword and a real bludgeon-like weapon. You can kill someone with one of these things. I should know.

The cage fighter circled me warily, protesting. “No one said anything about weapons.” His taped hands were held out in front of him like paws, and even as he protested he shrugged into his stance. Anyone else would have thought he was having second thoughts. In reality, he was looking to create a distraction, an opening where he could close with me and drive me to the floor.

But I ignored his words. Thoughts of any type just slow reaction time and draw events out. I’ve learned that over the years. Better to ride the storm and get it over with quick.

He would want to close the distance between us and get inside the sword’s arc, wrap me up, slam me to the floor, and pound me into submission. He’d batter my weapon away, lunge forward, and grab my legs. He’d launch at me like an ugly, calculating animal.

It was an explosion of feints, blocks, angles worked, and weaknesses exploited. The usual sweaty blur. In the end, I broke his arm, both collarbones, and dumped him on the floor. Then I went back to training.

So you can see why our latest visitor made my stomach clench and my scalp tingle.

I’d seen people like him enter our little world before. He was dressed in the dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie these people wore like a uniform. The way he moved, the way he looked, made me uneasy. And somewhere deep inside my brain a voice hissed: Be careful, Burke.

It sounded like Yamashita’s voice. I know what you’re thinking: hearing voices? This sort of psychic event had started happening to me a few years ago. At first, I couldn’t be sure what I was experiencing. But with time, the voice in my head grew in strength and authority. Now, whenever it came, it rang with a bell-like quality. And it seemed to me, as Yamashita’s physical powers had waned as he aged, his spiritual force had only gained in strength. I can’t really explain it, but there is a link between the two of us. And in times of confusion or danger, his voice comes to me, unbidden, but welcome nonetheless.

I study something called the Yamashita-ha Itto Ryu. It’s probably not like anything you’ve ever seen. Most people are familiar with modern martial systems like judo or karate. What I do is both more complicated and more elemental than these modern styles. For two decades I’ve worked to master a body of knowledge that has as its end the achievement of a type of aesthetic violence. I can drop someone with a sword or staff. I know joint locks that make your skin feel like it’s been set afire, and nerve strikes that will make the body convulse and the universe shrink down to a bright, white-hot nova of pain. It’s a system of refined force and channeled aggression. At least that’s what Sarah Klein, the woman who left me, thought. But I don’t think she got the entire picture. It’s not simply about danger and violence, but also about the ways in which we acknowledge the chaos in life, deal with it, and come out the other side. So if the tradition has left me with a butcher’s knowledge of human anatomy, it also strives to provide me with a monk’s insight into the frailty and transcendence inherent in human nature.

The dojo I was in that day was simply a large, high-ceilinged room with a polished wooden floor. There were racks for weapons along one wall, and one long scroll of calligraphy near the wooden shrine. It’s an admonition from an old archery sensei that Yamashita liked very much: Be in the dojo wherever you are. Live like a sage or exist like a fool. Not many people could read it, but that wasn’t a problem. Yamashita and I send the same message in every practice session we teach.

We bowed out at the end of class and I turned my attention to the visitor. He came across the dojo’s broad expanse of floor toward me. He moved well: good balance, with the momentum coming from his hips. These kinds of guys are usually pretty well trained in judo or karate: fifth-degree black belt or higher. He wasn’t close enough for me to guess. If his ears were banged up, I’d bet judo. If his hands were banged up, I’d go with karate. Fifteen or twenty years ago I’d have been impressed, but not anymore. Yamashita operates on a whole other level.

The man bowed politely. “Please excuse me, Dr. Burke, for disturbing the end of your lesson.” He held out a business card, a meishi, holding it with two hands, very formal, very polite.

“Choudai-itashimasu, Ito-san,” I began. I’d glossed his name from the kanji on the card. In Japan, business cards like this have one side in Japanese characters and the other in English. Technically, Ito was correct in presenting the Japanese side first, but I couldn’t be sure if he was paying me a compliment by assuming I’d be able to read it or hoping I’d have to turn it over to read the English translation and thereby lose face. This is part of the fun of hanging out with the Japanese. If you get invited to lunch, you can’t be sure whether you’re there to eat or be eaten.

Then the ritual began. I welcomed him to the dojo and apologized that I had not been able to prepare for a visitor. He said the fault was his and he was honored to be welcomed to such a renowned school. I invited him upstairs for tea, suggesting we would be more comfortable. He declined. I insisted. He declined again. I asked him to reconsider, but he demurred. Only then could we get down to business.

The conversation was formal and it proceeded along predictable lines, but my mind was racing during the entire exchange. I had read more than his name on the business card. What I saw there alarmed me. I tried to mask it, even as I searched Ito’s face for some hint of the danger he was bringing into my world.

“We are, of course, honored to have you as a visitor, Ito-san,” I said. “It’s a shame you did not come earlier. Perhaps the training would have interested you.”

Ito smiled tightly at that and his eyes widened in agreement. It was the first glimpse of honest emotion he’d let me see. “I agree. Perhaps you would do me the honor at some other time?”

I bowed slightly. “Of course.” Now that we were close to each other, I could see he had the thick hands of a man who had spent his formative years pounding things. It marks you in all sorts of ways. The prospect of a good fight of any kind probably made his nervous system hum like a shark’s when it senses chum in the water. Was it my imagination, or did Ito’s nostrils flare slightly?

It was a fleeting twitch, however, and he got himself under control quickly. “The dojo’s reputation is impeccable,” he said politely.

“Yamashita Sensei is a true master,” I told him. “It is unfortunate he is away and unable to welcome you in person.” My teacher was spending a few weeks at a small zendo, a monastery in upstate New York. He went there for the solitude and the spiritual discipline—not everything revolves around the sword, Burke—but I also suspected he liked the hot baths as well. It’s something I can sympathize with. I haven’t been at this as long as my teacher, but even so there are days when my joints moan and I yearn for release.

“Yes,” Ito said. “We had been informed Yamashita-san was away.” He gazed around the room at the last of the students, racking weapons and preparing to leave. “A pity. I would have enjoyed seeing him after all I have heard …” Then he focused on me.

I expected some condescension. Some sign that I wasn’t quite living up to the standards set by my absent master. As the years have passed and I have assumed more and more teaching responsibilities in the dojo, it was a common experience for me to be judged a disappointment by others. The old-time Japanese sensei are skeptical that a round-eye can ever even approach a level of serious competence. They’d have preferred it if Yamashita had chosen someone else to be his heir. And even the American students who come our way seem disappointed. You think they’d know better. But deep down they yearn for the inscrutable East. For the magic of the exotic. For Master Yoda.

What they get is me. The thick forearms of a swordsman. A shock of dense, dark hair. Eyes the greyish blue of the shingle by the shore of a cold sea. Dressed up in the dark blue garments worn by warriors from another place and another time.

But there was no disappointment in Ito’s expression. He was carefully studying me, a man sipping at some invisible nectar in the air. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood up and I tingled from the faint current that was passing through me.

I knew what I was feeling—haragei. It’s the weird sixth sense the Japanese believe is a hallmark of the advanced martial artist. They say with haragei, you can sense the skill of an opponent just by being in close proximity to him. I realized Ito had this skill. Some people think I have it too. I’m not so sure about that, but Yamashita’s a master of haragei and I’ve felt his force washing over me enough to know I was being “read” by Ito.

Ito’s eyes shifted as if he were coming to some new realization about me. “Yes, a pity, Dr. Burke. It would be most instructive …” his voice tapered off for a moment. “But please excuse me. I am sent to inquire as to whether you would do me the honor of meeting my superiors.”

“I’m sorry, Ito-san,” I told him, “but Yamashita Sensei is not available and will not be returning for several weeks.”

This was always how it started. The quietly contained men in the dark suits. The invitation to a meeting. Yamashita’s past was largely a mystery to me, but it seemed as if these people had a hold on him. I wasn’t sure why, but it was something that could not be denied.

But my teacher is aging now. I feared another summons would be more than he could stand. I wanted to protect him from that, like a man shielding an ember, fearful it will burn itself out without protection. I was ready to dig in my heels on this one. But Ito took me off guard.

“Just so,” he answered, smiling. His teeth were even and very white. “But excuse me, perhaps I have been unclear. My principals,” and here he nodded significantly at the business card in my hand, “wish to speak with you.”

I looked at the card without saying anything, trying to regain my mental balance.

Ito took a step closer, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. “With the greatest respect, Dr. Burke, this is a matter of some urgency. We wonder if you would be willing to come with me. Now.”

He was trying to flatter me. And I was curious. But mostly, I thought I should go simply to ensure that they wouldn’t come back at a later date for Yamashita. Because if they did, he’d go with them, no matter what crazy plot they were hatching. That was the kind of hold they had on him. I knew he didn’t need that. I also knew it was my job to protect him.

These people were dangerous. I’d seen them in action before. They operate in a world of obligation and honor, where it is assumed that some people command and some people serve. And all who serve are expendable. It’s dressed up in mythology and ritual that’s thousands of years old. And no matter what they say, it exerts a powerful hold on the Japanese, even today.

But not me. I was going into this with my eyes wide open. Or so I thought. I looked at Ito’s meishi and the embossed golden chrysanthemum on the card. He was a messenger from the Imperial House of Japan, the longest line of serving monarchs in the world and the descendants of the sun goddess herself. He didn’t impress me.

But I went anyway.