Pagoda, Skull & Samurai Read online

  In his mind the Abbot deplored the irony of life. "How can a man with that much talent be doomed to spend his life in obscurity? When his fate seems pitiable even to me, how resentful he himself must feel. Alas, if possible at all, I would like to help such a man achieve distinction and fulfill his heart's long-cherished dream. A man's life, as short as a plant's, is of course nothing but a temporary-illusion woven by the working of causes and effects, useless to cherish and impossible to prolong. Yet, trifling as the way of something such as carpentry may be, a carpenter can achieve nobility immeasurable in gold or silver if he stakes his body and soul on his work, free from human greed and selfish motivations, thinking only of carving well when a chisel is in his hand, only of shaving well when he works with a plane. How exceedingly pitiful that this man is forced to bury his heart of gold in the cemetery ground for lack of an opportunity to express it. How regrettable were his talent to be taken to the other world like so much excess baggage. It is no different in essence from the grief of an excellent horse without a deserving rider, or the regret of a man of lofty character spurned by his lord. Well, then, karma must have ordained that I should discover the obscure glitter of the priceless jewel in jūbei's heart. I shall grant him the contract for this project and reward his selfless aspiration even in a small way."

  The Abbot, however, suddenly remembered that Genta had been exceptionally anxious to undertake this job himself. Genta, who had built the main hall, the cookhouse, and the guest halls, had already submitted his estimates four or five days earlier. Far from inferior to jūbei in his skill, Genta outrivaled jūbei in public confidence and esteem. Two masters for a single job. The Abbot wanted to grant it to one just as much as to the other. He was at a loss in deciding which one to choose.

  <8>

  "Present yourself at the temple by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. The Abbot will speak to you in person regarding the pagoda contract, for which you have expressed your desire. See to it that you appear properly attired," stated Enchin, a comical monk-clerk with a red nose (infelicitous evidence of his overfondness for red pepper), ever boastful of his oratorical ability. Being on friendly terms with him, Genta usually teased Enchin, calling him by his nickname, Reverend Cayenne. They had seen each other every day during the construction of the main hall, but their familiarity had since faded somewhat. Standing on ceremony as befitted his role of the official messenger, Enchin laudably hid his hands, with which he had the habit of scratching the top of his helmet-shaped shaven pate, behind the sleeves of his robe. Genta, his head courteously lowered, replied to the effect that he would respectfully and humbly comply with the summons. Perhaps in an effort to make her husband popular even with such a common monk, the tactful Okichi wrapped some money together with the untouched cakes and forced them on Enchin—a rather improper way of offering alms. Enchin continued on to Jūbei's house to deliver the same message.

  The next day, Genta went in the back entrance of Kannō Temple, clean-shaven and neatly dressed in formal attire. He sat erect in the waiting room, all but certain that the Abbot himself would award him the contract. Jūbei, unimpressive though he was in his appearance, waited alone with equally tense anticipation in a deserted, chilly room. He wondered, "Will the Abbot send for me any moment now? Will he decree that the entire pagoda job be entrusted to me? Or has he summoned me to say instead that he decided to grant it to Genta? If that should be the case, what am I to do? There will be no more hope for my talent to blossom. Now I can only pray that, out of pity for my foolish heart, the Abbot will grant me the job." Not even noticing the beautiful pictures of golden and silvery phoenixes aflight on the paper sliding doors, jūbei let his thoughts float in space, blindly groping in the dark.

  After some time had passed, the same clever-looking acolyte appeared and announced, "The Abbot summons you. Would you please come this way?"

  Jūbei became agitated. "At last the time has come for me to learn whether my dream will come true!" he thought. No sooner did he follow the acolyte into a room than a pair of sharp angry eyes pierced him from the side. To his surprise, they belonged to Genta; not even a shadow of the Abbot was visible in the room. Taken aback, jūbei stood fixed in one spot for a few seconds, wordlessly staring back at his master. Having no other choice, he sat down two mats away from the other, his head feebly sagging and his enervate, sorry eyes cast down at his knees. Genta, in contrast, showed the bearing of a wild eagle standing against the wind atop a thousand-foot rocky peak and gazing down upon a small puppy. His heart full of self-confidence, he kept a handsomely erect posture, neither sagging his back nor slouching his shoulders. Both in his mien and his looks, he was truly a man of masculine charm who would inspire anyone's admiration.

  The Abbot, nevertheless, loved them both, judging with a clear mind, one unswayed by worldly opinions or misled by surface appearance. Until yesterday he had been unable to decide on his final choice. But some solution must have come to him, for he had summoned them today to wait in the same room. At last, his stately steps falling lightly on the mat, he issued from his chamber and entered the room through the door, which an acolyte was holding open. As he silently took his seat, the two men at once prostrated themselves in utmost reverence, unable to raise their heads for some time. When jūbei finally managed to look up, his face was pitifully flushed, as bashful as a village child who finds himself in the presence of a noble personage for the first time in his life. Hot perspiration flooded the wrinkles on his forehead, formed beads on the tip of his nose, and soaked his armpits. His thick fingers clutching at his knees looked as sturdy as withered pine branches, but they were trembling one and all as he desperately waited for a single word from the Abbot, as though such were a matter of life and death. It was an almost comical sight, had it not been so pitiful. Genta also intently awaited the verdict, not uttering a sound. Fully aware of the equally intense feelings of the two men, the Abbot could hardly find a way to begin and so remained silent for a while.

  "Genta and Jūbei. Now listen well, both of you," said the Abbot at last. "There is only one pagoda to be built and there are two of you who want to build it. Much as I would like to grant both your wishes, it is of course impossible to do so. Unfortunately, there are no definitive criteria by which one can judge who is more deserving. It is beyond the discretion of the managers and administrative monks, and even beyond my own. Therefore, I will leave it to be negotiated between the two of you. I will stay out of it and abide by the agreement reached between you. Talk it over at home and report the result to me. Keep in mind that this is all I am going to say on the matter. You may leave now, if you wish. However, I have nothing particular to occupy me today. Would you stay a while to keep me company over a cup of tea and tell me stories of the outside world? In return, I will tell you some funny old tales I found yesterday."

  Smiling gently, the Abbot talked to the two men as if they were his friends—whatever it was he had in mind.

  <9>

  When the acolyte brought the tea service, the Abbot poured tea and offered it to the two of them. They received their cups awkwardly, overwhelmed by such an honor.

  "If you remain so stiff and reserved," said the Abbot, "we can hardly expect to enjoy a congenial talk. I will not pick out cakes for you, so please help yourselves." He pushed the stemmed cake dish toward them and moistened his own throat with a cup of tea. "Old recluses like us do not have many interesting stories to tell. But in the sutras I have read recently, there was one particular tale which impressed me deeply. Now please listen."

  This is the tale that the Abbot told:

  Once upon a time on a beautiful day in a certain country, a wealthy elder took a stroll with his two sons into a large field blooming with fragrant flowers and carpeted with soft, thick grass. They came upon a large stream. Since it was the beginning of summer, the level of the water was somewhat low, but the stream still ran clear along the banks. In midstream stood a beautiful sandbar made of jewel-like pebbles and silvery sand. Carried away by his m
erry mood, the elder leaped easily across to the sandbar —a distance of about two yards—to find himself in an isolated realm set apart by an equal distance from the opposite bank. It was a land of purity, uncontaminated by the depravities of the world. The elder rejoiced and danced about.

  Feeling sorry for his two sons, who were calling to him in envy, desirous of coming across but unable to, the elder said, "This is a land of purity quite unattainable for you. But since you seem so anxious, I will help you across. Can you see these pebbles under my feet? They are rare and precious, all shaped like lotus petals. Before me lie peerless grains of sand, each with the hues of the five precious metals."

  Eyeing all this from a distance, the two boys grew all the more impatient to cross the stream. The father halted them gently and made a bridge with a palm tree which looked like it might have been uprooted in a flood. The brothers scrambled to be the first to cross. In the end the elder brother flung the younger to the ground and won his way. He started to hurry across the bridge, bursting with haughty pride, but when he reached the middle, his brother, full of resentment, got to his feet and rocked the bridge with all his might. The elder son fell into the water and, after much struggling and gasping, finally reached the sandbar. As soon as he spied the younger, who was now crossing without difficulty, he in turn rolled and jerked the bridge. Unable to cling to the round trunk, the younger son fell into the water.

  The soaking wet boy had barely crawled up to the father's feet when the father lamented, "Now how does it look? Since you stepped up here, this sandbar has changed entirely. The pebbles have turned an ugly black, and the sandbar is now made of ordinary yellow grains. Look for yourselves."

  The two sons looked down, their eyes bulging in astonishment. Their father was right. There was now nothing but mere pebbles and sand. "Did I torment my beloved younger brother over such worthless things?" "Did I almost drown my esteemed elder brother for these?" The two were ashamed and saddened. The elder son wrung the younger's sleeves, while the younger squeezed his brother's hems. As the two tended to and consoled each other, the father lifted the bridge and placed it across the stream behind the sandbar.

  "Now we have no more use for this sandbar. Let's stroll over yonder. You two cross the bridge first." This time the brothers tried to yield to each other. At last, in the order of their ages, the elder son started first, while the younger held the bridge firmly so that his brother would not slip off. When it was the younger brother's turn, the other secured the log. The father leaped across with ease. While the three were enjoying a leisurely walk, the elder son happened to pick up a stone. The younger noticed that it had the shape of a beautiful lotus flower. When the elder boy glanced at the sand that the younger scooped up, he saw in it the dazzling colors of the five precious metals. The brothers rejoiced together and shared their finds, marveling at the mutual happiness they had attained. Out of his pocket the father produced a lotus flower made of gems and offered it to the elder son. Then to the younger, he gave grains of gold that he had been keeping in his sleeves. And he told them to cherish the gifts.

  "It may sound like a fairy tale," continued the Abbot, "but there is no falsehood in Buddha's words. It isn't merely a story made up to beguile children. Ponder on it awhile and you will see how meaningful it is. Did you not enjoy it? I find it immensely interesting."

  The Abbot thus concluded the story. Though casually told, the gravity of the parable's truth penetrated deeply. Genta and jūbei looked at each other in bewilderment.

  <10>

  Jūbei walked home from the temple in a daze, his arms folded across his chest.

  "The Abbot's tale is a riddle to teach us that one should yield to the other willingly. Dimwitted as I may be, I can see that much. But... I don't want to yield. I've taken such painstaking care in building the model. Even when Onami, simply out of concern, says, 'You must be chilled through. Why not go to bed?' I tell her to shut up and stop nagging. I've devised one new design after another, hardly sleeping nights. I'd give up my life with no regrets if I were allowed to finish this one work to my satisfaction, once and for all. How sorry I am about the Abbot's admonition. Of course, reason tells me what I ought to do, but if I should yield this job, is there any prospect for another pagoda to be built? Am I destined to be buried in obscurity? How deplorable! What a shame! How I resent my fate! It's not that I fail to appreciate fully the holy Abbot's compassion, but I don't know what to think. My rival is Master Genta, to whom I owe so much. I can't very well resent him, can I? Anyway, is there no choice other than to yield willingly, submissively? No, none at all. Even so, how frustrating! Had I not come up with a foolish ambition, had I remained content with being the Dimwit, I wouldn't be suffering such wretched anguish now. It was my own fault that I forgot my place. Ah, I alone am to blame.

  "Yet... yet... oh, well, I shouldn't think about it any more. Everything will be all right if jūbei can remain Nossori, ridiculed by the clever people of the world. If I only live and die as if in a dream, deplored even by my own wife as a worthless husband, that will be that.

  "Now that I've abandoned my ambition, I feel wretched and resentful toward life and the cruel world.... This is nothing but useless grumbling.... It may be useless grumbling, but all the same I feel wretched. If the Abbot's unspoken admonition had penetrated my heart, his infinite compassion should have permeated my entire body, leaving no room for dissatisfaction. Isn't that so? He handled our dispute in such a way that neither of us would be hurt. He elucidated the holy sutra and instructed us through the tale of the two brothers to help us remain friends forever. To liken my situation to the tale, I am of course the younger brother, who is expected to yield first. Oh, how painful to be a younger brother!"

  Completely lost in thought, his careworn eyes clouded with tears, jūbei tottered like a marionette toward his house, where no particular pleasure awaited.

  "You idiot! You madman! What are you doing to my wash!"

  Startled by the abusive scream, Jūbei inadvertently kicked over a drying board propped against a pail. The clumsy man fell backward in consternation.

  "Confound you! Are you possessed by a fox or something?" thundered an enraged maid, a girl probably from the countryside, her plump face distorted in anger like a composite face in a children's game. With the blind strength of the famous Okane of Ōmi, she pommeled jūbei and shoved him with her outstretched arms.

  Unable to withstand her furious onslaught, he was flung to the dusty ground. "Yes, yes. A fox must have cast his spell on me. I'm sorry." He fled in pain as the maid continued to shout invectives after him.

  When he reached home, his wife said, "Oh, you're back at last. I've been worried. My, you're coated with dust! What happened?"

  "Leave me be!" he said in a half-hearted attempt to stop her fussing. But her concerned face unleashed an uncontrollable sorrow, so that tears began to well up in his eyes. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, as though scolding himself, and then tried to cover up by casually pinching tobacco into his pipe, unable to speak.

  Already surmising the reason for his extraordinary condition, his wife could find no means of comforting him. Painfully troubled in her heart, she picked up some embers with an iron chopstick and a wooden one and warmed a pot of tea over the feeble heat.

  Before long, Ino came home from playing. "Oh, Papa is home. Is Papa going to build it? Ino built one, too. Look!"

  Quickly opening the door, the boy pointed to a miniature pagoda, smiling innocently in anticipation of praise. His mother burst into tears, biting on her kimono sleeve to stifle her sobs.

  Jūbei stared at the little pagoda with his tear-filled but unblinking eyes and said, "Well done! Well done! Now I must give you a reward." But his tear-muffled laughter merely echoed vacantly against the ceiling. Looking up toward the heavens, he moaned, "What agony it is to be a younger brother!"

  <11>

  The front door opened with the usual cheerful roll. "Okichi, I'm home."

  Hearing her husband's spirited voi
ce, Okichi tossed aside the pipe with which she had been blowing anxious rings of smoke and rose to welcome him. "It's taken awfully long, hasn't it?" she said, rushing behind him to help take off his coat. She folded it adroitly with the use of her chin and put it aside in a corner. Returning to the brazier, she made the iron kettle sing like a bell-ring cricket in no time at all. She eyed her husband, who had settled down to relax, and said solicitously, "It's warm today, but the wind is cold. You must have been chilled on your way home. Shall I warm a bottle of sake for you?" With the noiseless speed and efficiency of an expert, she prepared a snack. Pickles were flavored with citron juice, and roe was trimmed with grated radish—so simple yet in good taste.

  Despite the bitter thoughts in his heart, Genta was comforted somewhat by the table set before him. He emptied the sake cup rapidly two or three times and nursed the next cupful. "Why don't you join me?" He offered his cup to Okichi.

  She sipped a bit, put the cup down, and cut some sheets of crisply broiled kelp. "Sanko is supposed to come by any minute now...." Mumbling to herself the name of the fish vendor, she returned the small cup to Genta and filled it again for him.

  Convinced that everything had gone well, she began again smoothly, "Well, I had no doubt of your success today, but I can't stop my needless worrying until I hear it from you. What did the Abbot say? What happened to Nossori? It makes me terribly uneasy to see you so serious and sullen."

  "No need for you to worry," laughed Genta rather loudly. "The compassionate Abbot will let me be a man of honor when all is said and done. You see, Okichi, being kind to a younger brother makes me a good elder brother, doesn't it? Sometimes one must share one's meal with a hungry man even if one finds it somewhat painful. I fear no one and nothing, but being brave is not the only masculine quality, is it? Such is also a true man who restrains himself and makes an effort to be meek. Yes, a commendable man. A five-storied pagoda is a glorious project. I would like to build, all by myself, a masterpiece that will survive for a thousand years to be admired by posterity. I would like to accomplish it solely by virtue of my own talent with no help from anyone else. Nevertheless, a true man is he who controls his temper, a laudable man indeed, just as the Abbot says. The Abbot never lies. I loathe to give up even a half of the job on which my heart is set; it pains me, but I must be the elder brother. Okichi, I intend to split the pagoda job with Nossori. A commendably meek man, aren't I? Commend me, Okichi. The entire matter is too disheartening, so at least let me hear you commend me." Without amusement, he laughed absurdly loudly.