Untangling My Chopsticks (10 page)

Just then the Grand Tea Master walked in. And before I knew it, he had settled down on a cushion next to me! He leaned forward and bowed, so close I could see a small mole near his right ear. My heart skipped a beat. I bowed back. Now what?

I looked over at Mrs. Hisa, who shifted the bowl from her right hand and placed it in the palm of her left. Then, steadying the bowl with her right hand, with her thumb facing her, she
bowed to the Grand Tea Master. I did my best to copy her, swiveling around on my cushion to face the Grand Tea Master. I had lost all feeling in my left leg.

Mrs. Hisa then gently gripped the bowl, still resting it in her left palm, and turned the bowl about ninety degrees clockwise. When I did the same, several maple leaves came into view inside the tea bowl. Mrs. Hisa took a sip and said something, dropped her right hand to the floor, and then drank the remaining tea, making a loud sucking sound as she finished.

My first sip tasted like warm pureed grass. Not that I had ever drunk grass, but it was what I imagined grass would taste like if whirled in a blender with a jigger of hot water. I bowed and smiled at the Grand Tea Master then drank the remaining tea, noisily slurping the last bit like Mrs. Hisa, hoping it hadn't been a case of loose dentures.

After running my tongue over my teeth, I smiled. Mrs. Hisa took a deep breath and let out a satisfied sigh before thanking the Grand Tea Master. She then picked up her bowl and spoke. She must have been admiring the bowl, given the way she kept turning it her hands and looking back at the Grand Tea Master. I picked up my bowl, cocked my head, and said “
kirei
(beautiful),” one of the few adjectives I knew.

The bowl really was beautiful. It felt as weightless as an eggshell and had been glazed in a traditional Kyoto color, a soft golden ivory that reminded me of warm Cream of Wheat glistening with melted butter. The maple leaves looping around the bowl had been rendered with such a fine hand I could almost imagine them fluttering in the breeze.

Mrs. Hisa slowly and deliberately placed her bowl on the lacquer table in front of her. I did the same. Then she began conversing with the Grand Tea Master. She kept both hands clasped
in her lap as she spoke, occasionally looking at me, and then back to the Grand Tea Master. He looked at me, paused, and said something to her. She shifted her gaze to me.

“According to the Grand Tea Master, there is an entrance fee of fifteen thousand yen (almost $95) for the cooking school,” said Mrs. Hisa. “After that, each class costs nine thousand yen (about $56) each. He would like to know if you can afford that?”

Both legs had gone completely numb. I took a breath, puffing up my chest slightly, and assured Mrs. Hisa I had enough money; I had brought over a good supply of traveler's checks and had already deposited several hundred dollars from teaching into my Sumitomo bank account. She translated this back to the Grand Tea Master, who got up and left the room.

After a long period of silence, a maid in a red- and mustard-flowered kimono came in carrying several papers. She said something to Mrs. Hisa, who nodded and then turned to me with a serious look on her face.

“The Grand Tea Master”—she cleared her throat and began again—“the Grand Tea Master has decided to grant you entrance to study tea kaiseki at Mushanokoji.” She coughed, as if to dislodge a grass ball, and then swallowed.

“You can bring the entrance fee next week”—she cleared her throat again—“along with your payment for the first class.”

I silently yodeled with joy. The maid handed me the paperwork, which Mrs. Hisa helped translate. Once it was complete, the maid left the room to get it stamped. Several minutes later she returned with my copies in an envelope.

Mrs. Hisa rose from her cushion, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress with her palms. I tried to stand up, but my toes had turned to ginger ale. My knees buckled, just as the Grand Tea Master appeared. Forcing myself up on two tingling stumps, I
asked Mrs. Hisa to please thank the Grand Tea Master very much for his hospitality and his willingness to let me attend his school to study tea kaiseki. She conveyed my sentiments, then turned to me. “He is honored you would like to attend.”

After much bowing, we eased our way into the hall, where the maid in the chartreuse kimono stood waiting. She escorted us back to the stepping stone where we had left our shoes and waved us off.

As Mrs. Hisa and I made our way toward the subway, I told her how grateful I was for all her help. She was living proof of how vital personal introductions are in Japan. “Truly, I can't thank you enough for all you did,” I said, slowing down to match my pace with hers. She modestly waved her hand as if to say it was nothing, then stopped and looked up at me with a crinkled smile.

“I was happy to do it. Florence is my good friend.”

We reached the subway platform, and in the middle of my good-bye, Mrs. Hisa unsnapped her purse. “I almost forgot,” she said, riffling through her belongings. “There is an American gentleman also studying tea kaiseki.” Her train pulled in.

“I asked him the other day if he could translate the classes for you and he said he would.” She retrieved a slip of paper and handed it to me. “Here,” she said, stepping onto the train. “His name is Stephen. He is expecting your call.”

6.

he next night after supper, I came into the Guesthouse den to practice my Japanese characters while waiting for the only phone to become free. There are three kinds of characters in the Japanese language:
kanji, hiragana,
and
katakana.
Kanji are the Chinese characters that the Japanese adopted, while hiragana and katakana are each a series of roughly forty-six characters that the Japanese developed to represent the sounds of syllables. Hiragana is used for native Japanese words, such as ki-mo-no. Katakana is used for words of foreign origin, such as New York.

That particular night I was practicing kanji to a hauntingly beautiful cassette tape I had just bought for my Walkman called “The Silk Road” by the Japanese musician Kitaro. Inspired by nature, Kitaro wrote the music in such a way as to re-create the
sound of flowing brooks, rustling wind, and even Buddhist drums. “Flow of Time” had come on and I had just finished my last kanji character for flower
(hana),
when the phone became free. So I dialed Stephen.

“
Moshi-moshi
(hello),” answered a high-pitched male voice.

“Hello, is Stephen there?” I inquired.

“It's me.”

“Oh, hi, it's Victoria.” Silence. “Mrs. Hisa gave me your name. I was wondering—hello? Are you still there?”

“Uh-huh.”

Clearly, Stephen was a man of few words, at least on the phone. So I got right to the point and asked him if he really was willing to translate the tea kaiseki classes from Japanese to English? Was he sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?

“Well, Musha (Mushanokoji) asked me if I'd teach some tea kaiseki classes in English,” confessed Stephen, “and I said I would. Working with you will help me organize my thoughts.”

Relieved to know he would also benefit from our arrangement, I told him to consider me his guinea pig. He snorted, then became serious. “You should buy some books.” I asked him which ones and he proceeded to rattle off several titles:
Japanese Cooking: A Simple Art; Good Food from a Japanese Temple; Kaiseki: Zen Tastes in Japanese Cooking;
and
A Feast for the Eyes.

“I know they're expensive, but they're essential,” he said. “They explain many of the techniques and dishes we'll be covering in class.” I said I would try to buy them as soon as possible.

“If you can't afford them right away, you can come over to my place and look through mine.” I thanked him for his generous offer.

“Bring a notebook with you to class,” he added. “After we
eat we can go over my notes.” I thanked him again and then we agreed to meet “at Mush” on Saturday around 1:00.

Saturday arrived cold and bright, a typical December day in Kyoto and ideal for walking. I gave myself three hours to get to the tea school, not because I feared getting lost—I had found as long as I knew which side of the Kamo River I was on, I no longer needed a map—but because I wanted to slow down. Too often I found myself racing around the city focusing on my destination, instead of enjoying the journey.

Most tourists who flock to Kyoto miss the city's small back streets unencumbered with sidewalks and traffic. With limited time, they hit the top ten temples, shrines, museums, and gardens, ticking them off like errands on a to-do list.

But to truly feel the soul of the city, you need to tear yourself away from the bright lights and slip into the shadows where you'll find the shops, homes, and people that embody the traditions and values of Kyoto's elegant past.

Take the sagging wooden building I passed with nothing more than a cream-colored fan displayed in the shop's glass window, a sandalwood arc perched on a red cushion, spread open to charm the eye with a tiny green bird sitting on a leafy red maple branch. The view was simple at first and something you could easily miss as you hurried by. But behind those cream-colored folds lay something else, the romance of a time when a scented fan was a woman's most elegant accessory.

During the ninth century, Heian-period women would wear up to twelve layers of colorful overlapping kimonos. It was fans,
not necklaces, earrings, or pendants, that accented the delicate lines of their attire. By the fourteenth century, when the kimono had dropped down to three layers and silver and brocade waist sashes had grown in popularity, again, it was the fan not jewelry that remained the accessory of choice.

This folding work of art was also utilitarian. In a country squeezed for space, its compact nature enabled women and men to store it in the breast pocket fold of their kimonos. When they were hot, they simply flipped it open to create a cooling breeze often scented with sandalwood from the fan's carved wooden supports. In knowing hands, the plaited curve could also be an erotic device, particularly when a woman coyly held it across her face.

At a tea ceremony, the fan is considered a guest's most important accoutrement. When guests enter the tearoom on their knees, they place their closed fans in front of them as a gesture of politeness. The closed fans also serve to draw a “line” of respect between the guests and their host, since one of the Chinese characters for the word fan means “line.”When the tea master Rikyu forbade the samurai to bring swords into his tearoom, a fan became an appropriate substitute. As a result, guests never cool themselves inside the tearoom with their fans, since opening them would be akin to brandishing a sword. Instead, they keep their fans neatly closed on the tatami behind them, or for women discreetly tucked into the waist sashes of their kimonos, since that is where female samurai used to carry their swords.

Beyond the fan shop lay other signs of old Kyoto, such as the husband and wife in matching white aprons, hairnets, and black rubber boots, who had already finished making the day's supply of bean curd. At one time, every village and town in Japan had its own tofu maker. Although this no longer holds true, Kyoto remains the bastion for Japan's finest tofu. Creamy and rich,
it tastes as different from commercially made tofu as Wonder Bread does from a freshly baked Parisian baguette.

The couple stood on the worn stone floor washing their wooden buckets and storage boxes, while the delicate tofu floated like puffy white sea creatures in a stainless steel tank.

Next door, a woman in a beige apron swept up leaves outside her pickle store. The bamboo-handled twig broom she used made a loud scratching sound as it grazed the pavement. In the Shinto tradition, she would purify the swept area with a bucketful of water.

Farther on, I came to a soba shop, which I had come to recognize by the enormous red-and-black lanterns hanging out front, along with an irresistible cloud of dashi that smelled like caramelized onions seasoned with clam juice and soy.

Adjacent to the soba shop stood a small convenience store. Next to it was a creaky wooden sweet shop, where an elderly woman sat on a stool, peering out from the dark like an owl. The glass case in front of her held rows of glossy glutinous rice dumplings filled with red and white bean fudge. Just as I had passed the store, an old woman, bent over like a shrimp in a teal kimono, shuffled in to buy some sweets.