The Pure Land (39 page)

He gave her no instruction, handed her over to a young nun who showed her the room where she would stay. It was tiny and dusty and draughty, tatami mats worn and frayed, shoji screens ripped. There were cobwebs in the corners, bird-shit and mouse-droppings on the floor. She turned to leave but found she couldn’t move, couldn’t force herself to take one single step. The young nun had left her alone, now she reappeared with brooms and dusters, cleaning cloths and a bucket of water, nodded and rolled up her sleeves. At least this much she understood. When they’d cleaned up the room, the nun disappeared again, came back with scraps of tatami matting, odd pieces of shoji paper, a few simple tools.

They broke for food, a few minutes only, ate rice and pickles, a thin watery soup. By mid-afternoon they had done running
repairs to the room, made it at least habitable. She felt a ridiculous sense of satisfaction, smiled at the nun and stepped outside.

The master was passing and she wanted to tell him how hard she had worked, cleaning and patching up the room, how she didn’t really know why she was here but was willing to stay and work for her keep.

He listened, nodded, said the first meditation session was at 3 a.m.

There were four nuns, who lived in a separate corner of the compound, and twenty monks. They did not mix, except in the meditation sessions, zazen, the long hours of sitting, and at mealtimes when they all sat in silence, ate their meagre rations, stared straight ahead. But right from the first day she noticed one or two of the monks glancing in her direction in that way she recognised, that grubby, furtive longing that was all the worse for being hidden.

Again she tried to speak to the master, asked him why she was here.

That is for you to ask yourself, he said. And the way to ask it is by sitting, and the way to answer it is by sitting some more, until there are no questions and nobody asking them, no striving after non-answers. It is hard work. Now, get on with it.

She blazed with irritation at that, and the anger carried her through most of a session, made her almost forget the pain in her back, her knees and ankles, her very bones. Then, when the pain demanded attention and she shifted her position, the master was standing behind her with a long flat wooden lath in his hand. She had seen this, knew what to expect. She bent forward, tensed, and the master struck her across the back, eight times,
whack
, each blow sharp and quick but stinging. Then the master bowed and she bowed in return, ostensibly to show her gratitude
for his concern, though in reality to keep her rage in check. The master’s faint half-smile showed he saw this, then he nodded, grimfaced again, told her to continue.

Every nerve in her was screaming to leave, to run out. Nothing was stopping her. The gate was open. She sat on. 

The second week she shaved her head. Her thick locks, lacquer-black, lay coiled in clumps on the floor. Her pate was bald, stubbly to the touch when she ran her hand over it. Her scalp stung here and there, nicked by the razor. She was glad she had no mirror to see how she looked. But the morning breeze felt cool.

Now at least the monks would stop looking at her in that way, burning her with their eyes.

No.

One night a note was slipped under her door. It was from one of the monks, declared his love for her, asked her to give him a sign and he would come to her the next night. It was unsigned, ended with a tanka poem.

At the end of the early morning zazen, she bowed to the master, asked if she could read something out. He looked surprised, but nodded permission. She uncrumpled the piece of paper, read the whole note, the poem, then she ran her gaze along the row of monks, said if the author of the note really did love her, he should step forward and embrace her now.

For a moment the silence deepened, then there was a gruff clearing of throats. One of the younger monks stifled a laugh, composed himself immediately.

She crunched the piece of paper once more into a ball, recited a tanka poem she had made herself, in response.

The master grunted, told her to pour the tea for the monks. None of them looked her in the eye.

It continued. In spite of her shaved head, her drab robes, her intensity, every new monk who arrived at the temple seemed to fall in love with her, as if she still carried the fragrance and allure of the floating world. Even one or two of the older monks, toothless ascetics, looked at her with longing, made her uncomfortable. A visiting abbot from a temple in Kyoto was delivering a sermon on impermanence, the transience and illusoriness of the world. He caught her eye, stuttered, hesitated, lost his thread; then he blustered through with references to the sutra of Hui Neng, concluded with a commentary on the fleeting nature of beauty and hurried from the hall.

She asked for an audience with the master. He made her wait a week then granted her request.

When she entered his room he was seated with his back to her, intent on the scripture he was reading. He ignored her, made her wait. She sat, in silence. At last he spoke, still without turning round.

Why did Bodhidharma come from the West?

She said nothing. She was flummoxed. This was not what she had expected.

Don’t worry, he said. I’m not expecting an answer. But you know of Bodhidharma?

Yes, she said, I know some of the stories.

There are many stories, he said. Children’s tales for the most part. But they do embody some teaching.

I’m sure, she said.

You know he is supposed to have cut off his own eyelids?

And tea-plants grew from them.

Yes.

He turned for the first time since she’d come into the room. He held in his hand an open razor, its blade glinting in the light from the candle on his shrine. He placed the razor in front of her.

There is a saying that the way of truth is narrower than the razor’s edge.

She kept silent, looked at the blade, imagined its sharpness.

Have you heard the story of the nun Ryonan?

No, she said.

She was a rare beauty, he said. She was descended from a famous warrior, Shingen, and inherited some of his spirit. With her beauty and refinement she was a favourite at the court of the Empress. But when the Empress died, she saw how fleeting was human life. Her youth and beauty would fade; she resolved to turn her back on the world and study Zen. Unfortunately her family had other ideas. They forced her into marriage, but agreed that she could become a nun after she had borne three children. She did their bidding, bore the children; then she shaved her head and went to a Zen temple. However, the master would not accept her. He said she was too beautiful, even with her head shaved and in her nun’s garb.

She went to another master, the story was the same. She travelled the country and everywhere met with the same rejection. Her beauty was a curse.

Maki felt a coldness like stone chill her belly. The master continued his story.

At last she came to the master Hakuo, in Edo. Like all the rest, he turned her away. She was far too beautiful. Her good looks would only cause trouble. So she went to the kitchen, got a red-hot poker, and held it to her face.

Maki flinched.

The master waited a moment, went on.

She burned herself badly. The scars would mar her looks forever. She went back to Hakuo, who took one look and said, Fine, you can stay.

Maki was shaking. She felt tears choke her, felt misery and hopelessness and rage.

The master said, She took on the name Ryonan, which means Clear Realisation. She wrote of her experience in a poem, in the tanka form which you yourself favour.

The master left a silence, then he pushed the open razor closer to Maki.

Well? he said.

Time passed. She heard the wind in the trees, felt a thin trickle of sweat down her back. The shaking stopped. Her mind was clear and cold, awareness centred on her own breath, her heartbeat. She could still leave at any time. The gate was still open. Nothing was forcing her to stay.

She reached forward and picked up the razor, held it out. One sharp gash should be enough to slice the flesh, leave a scar. She braced herself.

Namu Amida Butsu
.

She closed her eyes, struck. But before the blade could reach her face, she felt her wrist gripped hard.

The master had grabbed it, eased the razor from her grasp.

You are strong, he said. With this kind of determination you can succeed. You must not be deflected from your purpose by these foolish men and their unwelcome attentions. The problem is theirs, not yours.

And he gave her the name Ryonan, said, May your realisation be clear.

It all seemed so long ago, a lifetime. But the memory of it was vivid, intense. She remembered exactly how it felt, the panic, then the detachment, the actual feel of the razor in her hand.

She had once asked the master, years later, What if you had not caught my hand? What if I had slashed myself, even cut my own throat?

He had answered roughly, There is no
What if?
There is only what happens, what is.

But from that day on, the day she became Ryonan, it had changed. It was as if she
had
scarred herself, carried the mark. Her gaze turned inward. The look on her face was calmness and strength. In itself it was protection from the monks, withered their ardour, made them think twice.

The thought of it now made her smile. Poor foolish men, trying to douse that fire, or channel it into their meditation.

Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire
.

Right up till the last moment, before liberation, before realisation, the dragon could still rear up, still roar.

Her smile became a chuckle. Even this morning, when she’d thought with compassion about Guraba-san, she had seen him clearly, the golden young man he had been. And that tenderness,
that fondness, had allowed a faint memory, a stirring, even in this old flesh. She might tell young Gisho, if she thought it would not be discouraging!

It was as well she had no mirror to look at. The face that looked back at her would be the face of an old crone, wrinkled and gaunt, a leathery old lizard. It was years since she had seen her reflection, except for the odd glimpse in passing, crossing the river and glancing down, seeing it there, still broken and broken, unclear.

The last time she had seen an actual mirror, she had been in middle age. At the master’s suggestion, she had gone beyond the village to the town, to beg from door to door, chanting as she went.

I go to the Buddha for refuge. I go to the order for refuge. I go to the dharma for refuge.

At one house an old woman had bowed, invited her in. She had left her geta, her wooden sandals, at the door, stepped inside and stood waiting in the cool hall.

The sounds and scents of domesticity came to her. The smoky sesame and ginger smell of noodles cooking in hot oil; the shrill singsong voices of children playing. The old woman’s grandchildren, life continuing, living itself, from generation to generation.

She took off her old straw kasa that was hat and umbrella to her, shelter and shade, protected her whatever the season.

Basho had written a haiku.

She smiled at that, looked up and saw another nun, older than herself, face weathered, smiling back at her. She was startled, hadn’t noticed her. She bowed, and the other did the same. She put a hand to her face, and so did the other. Then she realised, it was a looking-glass. This was her face as the world saw it, the face of a stranger, and yet …

The struggle was there, the years of hardship, in the lines around the mouth, on the forehead. But something shone in the eyes, an inner light, a clarity; it had more beauty in its way than young Maki’s easy charm, though it had even been part of that. In behind the young woman’s mask, it had been there all along.

She bowed to this other, this reflection, herself.

Namu Amida Butsu
.

The old woman of the house came out, gave her some rice, a few coins.

She bowed, offered gratitude, put on her kasa and her sandals, walked on.

It was later that same day that she saw him, tall, unmistakable, walking on the other side of the road. His hair, his whiskers, had started to grey, but he still looked handsome, had grown distinguished. The woman walking behind him must be Tsuru, older, heavier, and behind her was the boy. She felt a sharp little intake of breath, a sudden stab to the heart.

Guraba-san glanced across at her. Was there something, a moment in the eyes? A flicker? Recognition? Remem brance? He doffed his hat with a touching politeness, a gentlemanliness, that tugged at her. Tsuru looked right through her, saw nothing and nobody, an ageing nun, a shabby mendicant. The boy stopped, crossed the road towards her. A young man almost, in a school uniform, dark military tunic buttoned up to the neck. He peered through round-framed glasses, looked at her, looked into her. His hair was darker than it had been, but still light brown, halfway to fair. She almost broke as he reached out his hand, and she realised he was offering alms. Her own hand shook as she held
out the begging bowl and he dropped in a single silver coin, bowed.

She bowed deeply, thanked him, invoked the blessings of Buddha Amitaba on his head.

Tsuru called out to him. Tomisaburo. The name they had given him to sound like his father’s. Tom Glover. Tomi Guraba.