Part 26 (1/2)
Well, not quite: on the back wall was the traditional picture alcove, _tokonoma_, in which a seventeenth-century ink-wash scroll hung above a weathered vase holding three spare blossoms. Their room had no keys, no clocks, no television. It was a coc.o.o.n for the spirit, a place of textured woods, crisp _tatami_, lacquer, and rice-paper.
The woman deposited their bags on the black-bordered _tatami_, consulted briefly with Ken concerning dinner, then backed, bowing, out of the room, leaving them alone together in another time.
”Ken, this is perfect. I needed someplace like this.”
”We both did.” He embraced her. ”They're running our tub now. Afterward I have another surprise for you.”
”What?”
”Allow me some mystery.”
Whatever he had planned, she couldn't wait to throw off her clothes, don a loose cotton yukata robe, and pad with him down to the little wood-lined room where their steaming bath awaited. The floor was red tile, the walls scented Chinese black pine, the ma.s.sive tub cedar with rivulets of steam escaping through cracks in its cypress cover.
While they perched on little stools beside the tub, he soaped her back, occasionally dousing her with the bucket of lukewarm water. Then she did the same for him, watching half mesmerized as the soapy bubbles flowed off his shoulders, broad and strong. Almost like an athlete's.
Finally they climbed in, and amidst the cloud of vapor her last remaining tensions melted away.
”You know, I think of you every time I come to Kyoto, wanting to lure you back.” He reached for the brush and began to gently ma.s.sage her neck. ”I honestly never dreamed Matsuo Noda would come along and try to hire you.” He paused. ”I wish I could help you make your decision. But the most I can do is warn you to be careful.”
What are you telling me? she wondered.
”Ken, you seem troubled about something. What is it?”
”Tamara, powerful forces are at play here, beyond the control of either of us. Things may not always be what they seem. Just be aware of that.
But please don't ask me any more. Just look out for yourself.”
”I've had a lifetime of looking out for myself. I can handle Matsuo Noda.”
”Just don't ever underestimate him. He's not like anyone you've ever known before. The man is pure genius, probably the most visionary, powerful mind in the history of this country. You've met your match.”
”That remains to be seen.” She leaned back. Ken was challenging her now. On purpose? Maybe he figured that was
the only bait she would rise to. He wanted her to play along with Noda, but he wouldn't tell her why.
After they'd simmered to medium rare, heading for well done, they climbed out, toweled each other off, slipped back into their yukatas once again, and glided back to the room. She noticed that an interior screen had been pushed aside, opening onto another _tatami_ room where a thin futon mattress had already been unrolled and prepared with white sheets and a thick brocade coverlet. Hot tea waited on their little lacquer table, but their bags had disappeared. She checked behind a pair of sliding doors and saw that all her things had been neatly shelved by some invisible caretaker. Even the clothes she'd been wearing were already hung in the closet.
”Now for my surprise.” He was slipping on a black silk kimono. ”They have a special little garden here that only a few people know about.
I've arranged everything.”
”Shouldn't I change too for whatever it is we're doing?”
”Theoretically, yes. But formality doesn't suit you.” He cinched his _obi_. ”Come on. You can be formally informal.”
He led the way to the end of the veranda where they each put on the wooden clogs that were waiting. Then they pa.s.sed through a bamboo gate into yet another landscape, this one lit by candles set in stone lanterns. At the back stood a small one-room structure of thatch, reed, and unfinished wood. A teahouse.
”Tam, can you sit here for a second, in the waiting shelter?” He indicated a bench just inside the gate under a thatch overhang. ”I'll only need a few minutes to prepare.”
Off he went, clogs clicking along a string of stones nestled in among the mossy floor of the garden. He was following the _roji_, the ”dewy path” that led to the teahouse half hidden among the trees at the back.
Unlike the _ryokan' s _larger garden, this one had no water; it was meant to recall a mountain walk. The s.p.a.ce was small, with natural trees, offering no illusion of being more than it was. But it was a cla.s.sic setting for tea, a kind of deliberate ”poverty.” While she watched the flickering stone lanterns and listened to the night crickets, the cacophony of Kyoto could have been eons away.