Trevanian. Shibumi

   “Oh, four or five years, I suppose, sir.”
   The General frowned. “Five years? But… how old are you?”
   “Thirteen, sir. I know I look younger than I am. It’s a family trait.”
   Kishikawa-san nodded and smiled to himself as he thought of Alexandra Ivanovna who, when she had filled out her identity papers for the Occupation Authority, had taken advantage of this “family trait” by blatantly setting down a birth date that suggested she had been the mistress of a White Army general at the age of eleven and had given birth to Nicholai while still in her teens. The General’s intelligence service had long ago apprised him of the facts concerning the Countess, but he allowed her this trivial gesture of coquetry, particularly considering what he knew of her unfortunate medical history.
   “Still, even for a man of thirteen, you play a remarkable game, Nikko.” During the course of the game, the General had manufactured this nickname that allowed him to avoid the troublesome “l.” It remained forever his name for Nicholai. “I suppose you have not had any formal training?”
   “No, sir. I have never had any instruction at all. I learned from reading books.”
   “Really? That is unheard of.”
   “Perhaps so, sir. But I am very intelligent.”
   For a moment, the General examined the lad’s impassive face, its absinthe eyes frankly returning the officer’s gaze. “Tell me, Nikko. Why did you choose to study Gô? It is almost exclusively a Japanese game. Certainly none of your friends played the game. They probably never even heard of it.”
   “That is precisely why I chose Gô, sir.”
   “I see.” What a strange boy. At once both vulnerably honest and arrogant. “And has your reading given you to understand what qualities are necessary to be a fine player?”
   Nicholai considered for a moment before answering. “Well, of course one must have concentration. Courage. Self-control. That goes without saying. But more important than these, one must have… I don’t know how to say it. One must be both a mathematician and a poet. As though poetry were a science; or mathematics an art. One must have an affection for proportion to play Gô at all well. I am not expressing myself well, sir. I’m sorry.”
   “On the contrary. You are doing very well in your attempt to express the inexpressible. Of these qualities you have named, Nikko, where do you believe your own strengths lie?”
   “In the mathematics, sir. In concentration and self-control.”
   “And your weaknesses?”
   “In what I called poetry.”
   The General frowned and glanced away from the boy. It was strange that he should recognize this. At his age, he should not be able to stand outside himself and report with such detachment. One might expect Nikko to realize the need for certain Western qualities to play Gô well, qualities like concentration, self-control, courage. But to recognize the need for the receptive, sensitive qualities he called poetry was outside that linear logic that is the Western mind’s strength… and limitation. But then—considering that Nicholai was born of the best blood of Europe but raised in the crucible of China—was he really Western? Certainly he was not Oriental either. He was of no racial culture. Or was it better to think of him as the sole member of a racial culture of his own?
   “You and I share that weakness, sir.” Nicholai’s green eyes crinkled with humor. “We both have weaknesses in the area I called poetry.”
   The General looked up in surprise. “Ah?”
   “Yes, sir. My play lacks much of this quality. Yours has too much of it. Three times during the game you relented in your attack. You chose to make the graceful play, rather than the conclusive one.”
   Kishikawa-san laughed softly. “How do you know I was not considering your age and relative inexperience?”
   “That would have been condescending and unkind, and I don’t believe you are those things.” Nicholai’s eyes smiled again. “I am sorry, sir, that there are no honorifics in French. It must make my speech sound abrupt and insubordinate.”
   “Yes, it does a little. I was just thinking that, in fact.”
   “I am sorry, sir.”
   The General nodded. “I assume you have played Western chess?”
   Nicholai shrugged. “A little. It doesn’t interest me.”
   “How would you compare it with Gô?”
   Nicholai thought for a second. “Ah… what Gô is to philosophers and warriors, chess is to accountants and merchants.”
   “Ah! The bigotry of youth. It would be more kind, Nikko, to say that Gô appeals to the philosopher in any man, and chess to the merchant in him.”
   But Nicholai did not recant. “Yes, sir, that would be more kind. But less true.”
   The General rose from his cushion, leaving Nicholai to replace the stones. “It is late, and I need my sleep. We’ll play again soon, if you wish.”
   “Sir?” said Nicholai, as the General reached the door.
   “Yes?”
   Nicholai kept his eyes down, shielding himself from the hurt of possible rejection. “Are we to be friends, sir?”
   The General gave the question the consideration its serious tone requested. “That could be, Nikko. Let us wait and see.”
   It was that very night that Alexandra Ivanovna, deciding at last that General Kishikawa was not of the fabric of the men she had known in the past, came to tap at his bedroom door.
 

* * *

 
   For the next year and half, they lived as a family. Alexandra Ivanovna became more subdued, more contented, perhaps a little plumper. What she lost in effervescence she gained in an attractive calm that caused Nicholai, for the first time in his life, to like her. Without haste, Nicholai and the General constructed a relationship that was as profound as it was undemonstrative. The one had never had a father; the other, a son. Kishikawa-san was of a temperament to enjoy guiding and shaping a clever, quick-minded young man, even one who was occasionally too bold in his opinions, too confident of his attributes.
   Alexandra Ivanovna found emotional shelter in the lee of the General’s strong, gentle personality. He found spice and amusement in her flashes of temperament and wit. Between the General and the woman—politeness, generosity, gentleness, physical pleasure. Between the General and the boy—confidence, honesty, ease, affection, respect.
   Then one evening after dinner, Alexandra Ivanovna joked as usual about the nuisance of her swooning fits and retired early to bed… where she died.
 

* * *

 
   Now the sky is black to the east, purple over China. Out in the floating city the orange and yellow lanterns are winking out, as people make up beds on the canted decks of sampans heeled over in the mud. The air has cooled on the dark plains of inland China, and breezes are no longer drawn in from the sea. The curtains no longer billow inward as the General balances his stone on the nail of his index finger, his mind ranging far from the game before him.
   It is two months since Alexandra Ivanovna died, and the General has received orders transferring him. He cannot take Nicholai with him, and he does not want to leave him in Shanghai where he has no friends and where his lack of formal citizenship denies him even the most rudimentary diplomatic protection. He has decided to send the boy to Japan.
   The General examines the mother’s refined face, expressed more economically, more angularly in the boy. Where will he find friends, this young man? Where will he find soil appropriate to his roots, this boy who speaks six languages and thinks in five, but who lacks the smallest fragment of useful training? Can there be a place in the world for him?
   “Sir?”
   “Yes? Oh… ah… Have you played, Nikko?”
   “Some time ago, sir.”
   “Ah, yes, Excuse me. And do you mind telling me where you played?”
   Nicholai pointed out his stone, and Kishikawa-san frowned because the unlikely placement had the taste of a tenuki. He marshaled his fragmented attention and examined the board carefully, mentally reviewing the outcome of each placement available to him. When he looked up, Nicholai’s bottle-green eyes were on him, smiling with relish. The game could be played on for several hours, and the outcome would be close. But it was inevitable that Nicholai would win. This was the first time.
   The General regarded Nicholai appraisingly for some seconds, then he laughed. “You are a demon, Nicholai.”
   “That is true, sir,” Nicholai admitted, enormously pleased with himself. “Your attention was wandering.”
   “And you took advantage of that?”
   “Of course.”
   The General began to collect his stones and return them to the Gô ke. “Yes,” he said to himself. “Of course.” Then he laughed again. “What do you say to a cup of tea, Nikko?” Kishikawa-san’s major vice was his habit of drinking strong, bitter tea at all hours of day and night. In the heraldry of their affectionate but reserved relationship, the offer of a cup of tea was the signal for a chat. While the General’s batman prepared the tea, they walked out into the cool night air of the veranda, both wearing yukatas.
   After a silence during which the General’s eye wandered over the city, where the occasional light in the ancient walled town indicated that someone was celebrating, or studying, or dying, or selling herself, he asked Nicholai, seemingly apropos of nothing, “Do you ever think about the war?”
   “No, sir. It has nothing to do with me.”
   The egoism of youth. The confident egoism of a young man brought up in the knowledge that he was the last and most rarefied of a line of selective breeding that had its sources long before tinkers became Henry Fords, before coinchangers became Rothschilds, before merchants became Medici.
   “I am afraid, Nikko, that our little war is going to touch you after all.” And with this entrée, the General told the young man of the orders transferring him to combat, and of his plans to send Nicholai to Japan where he would live in the home of a famous player and teacher of Gô.
   “…my oldest and closest friend, Otake-san—whom you know by reputation as Otake of the Seventh Dan.”
   Nicholai did indeed recognize the name. He had read Otake-san’s lucid commentaries on the middle game.
   “I have arranged for you to live with Otake-san and his family, among the other disciples of his school. It is a very great honor, Nikko.”
   “I realize that, sir. And I am excited about learning from Otake-san. But won’t he scorn wasting his instruction on an amateur?”
   The General chuckled. “Scorn is not a style of mind that my old friend would employ. Ah! Our tea is ready.”
   The batman had taken away the Gô ban of kaya, and in its place was a low table set for tea. The General and Nicholai returned to their cushions. After the first cup, the General sat back slightly and spoke in a businesslike tone. “Your mother had very little money as it turns out. Her investments were scattered in small local companies, most of which collapsed upon the eve of our occupation. The men who owned the companies simply returned to Britain with the capital in their pockets. It appears that, for the Westerner, the great moral crisis of war obscures minor ethical considerations. There is this house… and very little more. I have arranged to sell the house for you. The proceeds will go for your maintenance and instruction in Japan.”
   “As you think best, sir.”
   “Good. Tell me, Nikko. Will you miss Shanghai?”
   Nicholai considered for a second. “No.”
   “Will you feel lonely in Japan?”
   Nicholai considered for a second. “Yes.”
   “I shall write to you.”
   “Often?”
   “No, not often. Once a month. But you must write to me as often as you feel the need to. Perhaps you will be less lonely than you fear. There are other young people studying with Otake-san. And when you have doubts, ideas, questions, you will find Otake-san a valuable person to discuss them with. He will listen with interest, but will not burden you with advice.” The General smiled. “Although I think you may find one of my friend’s habits of speech a little disconcerting at times. He speaks of everything in terms of Gô. All of life, for him, is a simplified paradigm of Gô.”
   “He sounds as though I shall like him, sir.”
   “I am sure you will. He is a man who has all my respect. He possesses a quality of… how to express it?… of shibumi.”
   “Shibumi, sir?” Nicholai knew the word, but only as it applied to gardens or architecture, where it connoted an understated beauty. “How are you using the term, sir?”
   “Oh, vaguely. And incorrectly, I suspect. A blundering attempt to describe an ineffable quality. As you know, shibumi has to do with great refinement underlying commonplace appearances. It is a statement so correct that it does not have to be bold, so poignant it does not have to be pretty, so true it does not have to be real. Shibumi is understanding, rather than knowledge. Eloquent silence. In demeanor, it is modesty without pudency. In art, where the spirit of shibumi takes the form of sabi, it is elegant simplicity, articulate brevity. In philosophy, where shibumi emerges as wabi, it is spiritual tranquility that is not passive; it is being without the angst of becoming. And in the personality of a man, it is… how does one say it? Authority without domination? Something like that.”
   Nicholai’s imagination was galvanized by the concept of shibumi. No other ideal had ever touched him so. “How does one achieve this shibumi, sir?”
   “One does not achieve it, one… discovers it. And only a few men of infinite refinement ever do that. Men like my friend Otake-san.”
   “Meaning that one must learn a great deal to arrive at shibumi?”
   “Meaning, rather, that one must pass through knowledge and arrive at simplicity.”
   From that moment, Nicholai’s primary goal in life was to become a man of shibumi; a personality of overwhelming calm. It was a vocation open to him while, for reasons of breeding, education, and temperament, most vocations were closed. In pursuit of shibumi he could excel invisibly, without attracting the attention and vengeance of the tyrannical masses.
   Kishikawa-san took from beneath the tea table a small sandalwood box wrapped in plain cloth and put it into Nicholai’s hands. “It is a farewell gift, Nikko. A trifle.”
   Nicholai bowed his head in acceptance and held the package with great tenderness; he did not express his gratitude in inadequate words. This was his first conscious act of shibumi.
   Although they spoke late into their last night together about what shibumi meant and might mean, in the deepest essential they did not understand one another. To the General, shibumi was a kind of submission; to Nicholai, it was a kind of power.
   Both were captives of their generations.
   Nicholai sailed for Japan on a ship carrying wounded soldiers back for family leave, awards, hospitalization, a life under the burden of mutilation. The yellow mud of the Yangtze followed the ship for miles out to sea, and it was not until the water began to blend from khaki to slate blue that Nicholai unfolded the simple cloth that wrapped Kishikawa-san’s farewell gift. Within a fragile sandalwood box, swathed in rich paper to prevent damage, were two Gô ke of black lacquer worked with silver in the Heidatsu process. On the lids of the bowls, lakeside tea houses wreathed in mist were implied, nestling against the shores of unstated lakes. Within one bowl were black Nichi stones from Kishiu. Within the other, white stones of Miyazaki clam shell… lustrous, curiously cool to the touch in any weather.
   No one observing the delicate young man standing at the rail of the rusty freighter, his hooded green eyes watching the wallow and plunge of the sea as he contemplated the two gifts the General had given him—these Gô ke, and the lifelong goal of shibumi —would have surmised that he was destined to become the world’s most highly paid assassin.

Washington

   The First Assistant sat back from his control console and puffed out a long sigh as he pushed his glasses up and lightly rubbed the tender red spots on the bridge of his nose. “It’s going to be difficult getting reliable information out of Fat Boy, sir. Each input source offers conflicting and contradictory data. You’re sure he was born in Shanghai?”
   “Reasonably, yes.”
   “Well, there’s nothing on that. In a chronological sort, the first I come up with has him living in Japan.”
   “Very well. Start there, then!”
   The First Assistant felt he had to defend himself from the irritation in Mr. Diamond’s voice. “It’s not as easy as you might think, sir. Here’s an example of the kind of garble I’m getting. Under the rubric of ‘languages spoken,’ I get Russian, French, Chinese, German, English, Japanese, and Basque. Basque? That can’t be right, can it?”
   “It is right.”
   “Basque? Why would anyone learn to speak Basque?”
   “I don’t know. He studied it while he was in prison.”
   “Prison, sir?”
   “You’ll come to it later. He did three years in solitary confinement.”
   “You… you seem to be uniquely familiar with the data, sir.”
   “I’ve kept an eye on him for years.”
   The First Assistant considered asking why this Nicholai Hel had received such special attention, but he thought better of it, “All right, sir. Basque it is. Now how about this? Our first firm data come from immediately after the war, when it seems he worked for the Occupation Forces as a cryptographer and translator. Now, assuming he left Shanghai when we believe he did, we have six years unaccounted for. The only window Fat Boy gives me on that doesn’t seem to make any sense. It suggests that he spent those six years studying some kind of game. A game called Gô—whatever that is.”
   “I believe that’s correct.”
   “Can that be? Throughout the entire Second World War, he spent his time studying a board game?” The First Assistant shook his head. Neither he nor Fat Boy was comfortable with conclusions that did not proceed from solid linear logic. And it was not logical that a mauve-card international assassin would have passed five or six years (Christ! They didn’t even know exactly how many!) learning to play some silly game!

Japan

   For nearly five years Nicholai lived within the household of Otake-san; a student, and a member of the family. Otake of the Seventh Dan was a man of two contradictory personalities; in competition he was cunning, cold-minded, noted for his relentless exploitation of flaws in the opponent’s play or mental toughness. But at home in his sprawling, rather disorganized household amid his sprawling extended family that included, besides his wife, father, and three children, never fewer than six apprenticed pupils, Otake-san was paternal, generous, even willing to play the clown for the amusement of his children and pupils. Money was never plentiful, but they lived in a small mountain village with few expensive distractions, so it was never a problem. When they had less, they lived on less; when they had more, they spent it freely.
   None of Otake-san’s children had more than average gifts in the art of Gô. And of his pupils, only Nicholai possessed that ineffable constellation of talents that makes the player of rank: a gift for conceiving abstract schematic possibilities; a sense of mathematical poetry in the light of which the infinite chaos of probability and permutation is crystallized under the pressure of intense concentration into geometric blossoms; the ruthless focus of force on the subtlest weakness of an opponent.
   In time, Otake-san discovered an additional quality in Nicholai that made his play formidable: In the midst of play, Nicholai was able to rest in profound tranquility for a brief period, then return to his game freshminded.
   It was Otake-san who first happened upon the fact that Nicholai was a mystic.
   Like most mystics, Nicholai was unaware of his gift, and at first he could not believe that others did not have similar experiences. He could not imagine life without mystic transport, and he did not so much pity those who lived without such moments as he regarded them as creatures of an entirely different order.
   Nicholai’s mysticism came to light later one afternoon when he was playing an exercise game with Otake-san, a very tight and classic game in which only vaguest nuances of development separated their play from textbook models. Partway through the third hour, Nicholai felt the gateway open to him for rest and oneness, and he allowed himself to expand into it. After a time, the feeling dissolved, and Nicholai sat, motionless and rested, wondering vaguely why the teacher was delaying in making an obvious placement. When he looked up, he was surprised to find Otake-san’s eyes on his face and not on the Gô ban.
   “What is wrong, Teacher? Have I made an error?”
   Otake-san examined Nicholai’s face closely. “No, Nikko. There was no particular brilliance in your last two plays, but also no fault. But… how can you play while you daydream?”
   “Daydream? I was not daydreaming, Teacher.”
   “Were you not? Your eyes were defocused and your expression empty. In fact, you did not even look at the board while making your plays. You placed the stones while gazing out into the garden.”
   Nicholai smiled and nodded. Now he understood. “Oh, I see. In fact, I just returned from resting. So, of course, I didn’t have to look at the board.”
   “Explain to me, please, why you did not have to look at the board, Nikko.”
   “I… ah… well, I was resting.” Nicholai could see that Otake-san did not understand, and this confused him, assuming as he did that mystic experience was common.
   Otake-san sat back and took another of the mint drops that he habitually sucked to relieve pains in his stomach resulting from years of tight control under the pressures of professional play. “Now tell me what you mean when you say that you were resting.”
   “I suppose ‘resting’ isn’t the correct word for it, Teacher. I don’t know what the word is. I have never heard anyone give a name to it. But you must know the sensation I mean. The departing without leaving. The… you know… the flowing into all things, and… ah… understanding all things.” Nicholai was embarrassed. The experience was too simple and basic to explain. It was as though the Teacher had asked him to explain breathing, or the scent of flowers. Nicholai was sure that Otake-san knew exactly what he meant; after all, he had only to recall his own rest times. Why did he ask these questions?
   Otake-san reached out and touched Nicholai’s arm. “I know, Nikko, that this is difficult for you to explain. And I believe I understand a little of what you experience—not because I also have experienced it, but because I have read of it, for it has always attracted my curiosity. It is called mysticism.”
   Nicholai laughed. “Mysticism! But surely, Teacher—”
   “Have you ever talked to anyone about this… how did you phrase it?… ‘departing without leaving’?”
   “Well… no. Why would anyone talk about it?”
   “Not even our good friend Kishikawa-san?”
   “No, Teacher. It never came up. I don’t understand why you are asking me these questions. I am confused. And I am beginning to feel shame.”
   Otake-san pressed his arm. “No, no. Don’t feel shame. Don’t be frightened. You see, Nikko, what you experience… what you call ‘resting’… is not very common. Few people experience these things, except in a light and partial way when they are very young. This experience is what saintly men strive to achieve through discipline and meditation, and foolish men seek through drugs. Throughout all ages and in all cultures, a certain fortunate few have been able to gain this state of calm and oneness with nature (I use these words to describe it because they are the words I have read) without years of rigid discipline. Evidently, it comes to them quite naturally, quite simply. Such people are called mystics. It is an unfortunate label because it carries connotations of religion and magic about it. In fact, all the words used to describe this experience are rather theatrical. What you call ‘a rest,’ others call ecstasy.”
   Nicholai grinned uncomfortably at this word. How could the most real thing in the world be called mysticism? How could the quietest emotion imaginable be called ecstasy?
   “You smile at the word, Nikko. But surely the experience is pleasurable, is it not?”
   “Pleasurable? I never thought of it that way. It is… necessary.”
   “Necessary?”
   “Well, how would one live day in and day out without times of rest?”
   Otake-san smiled. “Some of us are required to struggle along without such rest.”
   “Excuse me, Teacher. But I can’t imagine a life like that. What would be the point of living a life like that?”
   Otake-san nodded. He had found in his reading that mystics regularly reported an inability to understand people who lack the mystic gift. He felt a bit uneasy when he recalled that when mystics lose their gift—and most of them do at some time or other—they experience panic and deep depression. Some retreat into religion to rediscover the experience through the mechanics of meditation. Some even commit suicide, so pointless does life without mystic transport seem.
   “Nikko? I have always been intensely curious about mysticism, so please permit me to ask you questions about this ‘rest’ of yours. In my readings, mystics who report their transports always use such gossamer terms, so many seeming contradictions, so many poetic paradoxes. It is as though they were attempting to describe something too complicated to be expressed in words.”
   “Or too simple, sir.”
   “Yes. Perhaps that is it. Too simple.” Otake-san pressed his fist against his chest to relieve the pressure and took another mint drop. “Tell me. How long have you had these experiences?”
   “Always.”
   “Since you were a baby?”
   “Always.”
   “I see. And how long do these experiences last?”
   “It doesn’t matter, Teacher. There is not time there.”
   “It is timeless?”
   “No. There is neither time nor timelessness.”
   Otake-san smiled and shook his head. “Am I to have the gossamer terms and the poetic paradoxes from you as well?”
   Nicholai realized that these bracketing oxymorons made that which was infinitely simple seem chaotic, but he didn’t know how to express himself with the clumsy tools of words.
   Otake-san came to his aid. “So you are saying that you have no sense of time during these experiences. You do not know how long they last?”
   “I know exactly how long they last, sir. When I depart, I don’t leave. I am where my body is, as well as everywhere else. I am not daydreaming. Sometimes the rest lasts a minute or two. Sometimes it lasts hours. It lasts for as long as it is needed.”
   “And do they come often, these… rests?”
   “This varies. Twice or three times a day at most. But sometimes I go a month without a rest. When this happens, I miss them very much. I become frightened that they may never come back.”
   “Can you bring one of these rest periods on at will?”
   “No. But I can block them. And I must be careful not to block them away, if I need one.”
   “How can you block them away?”
   “By being angry. Or by hating.”
   “You can’t have this experience if you hate?”
   “How could I? The rest is the very opposite of hate.”
   “Is it love, then?”
   “Love is what it might be, if it concerned people. But it doesn’t concern people.”
   “What does it concern?”
   “Everything. Me. Those two are the same. When I am resting, everything and I are… I don’t know how to explain.”
   “You become one with everything?”
   “Yes. No, not exactly. I don’t become one with everything. I return to being one with everything. Do you know what I mean?”
   “I am trying to. Please take this ‘rest’ you experienced a short time ago, while we were playing. Describe to me what happened.”
   Nicholai lifted his palms helplessly. “How can I do that?”
   “Try. Begin with: we were playing, and you had just placed stone fifty-six… and… Go on.”
   “It was stone fifty-eight, Teacher.”
   “Well, fifty-eight then. And what happened?”
   “Well… the flow of the play was just right, and it began to bring me to the meadow. It always begins with some kind of flowing motion… a stream or river, maybe the wind making waves in a field of ripe rice, the glitter of leaves moving in a breeze, clouds flowing by. And for me, if the structure of the Gô stones is flowing classically, that too can bring me to the meadow.”
   “The meadow?”
   “Yes. That’s the place I expand into. It’s how I recognize that I am resting.”
   “Is it a real meadow?”
   “Yes, of course.”
   “A meadow you visited at one time? A place in your memory?”
   “It’s not in my memory. I’ve never been there when I was diminished.”
   “Diminished?”
   “You know… when I’m in my body and not resting.”
   “You consider normal life to be a diminished state, then?”
   “I consider time spent at rest to be normal. Time like this… temporary, and… yes, diminished.”
   “Tell me about the meadow, Nikko.”
   “It is triangular. And it slopes uphill, away from me. The grass is tall. There are no animals. Nothing has ever walked on the grass or eaten it. There are flowers, a breeze… warm. Pale sky. I’m always glad to be the grass again.”
   “You are the grass?”
   “We are one another. Like the breeze, and the yellow sunlight. We’re all… mixed in together.”
   “I see. I see. Your description of the mystic experience resembles others I have read. And this meadow is what the writers call your ‘gateway’ or ‘path.’ Do you ever think of it in those terms?”
   “No.”
   “So. What happens then?”
   “Nothing. I am at rest. I am everywhere at once. And everything is unimportant and delightful. And then… I begin to diminish. I separate from the sunlight and the meadow, and I contract again back into my bodyself. And the rest is over.” Nicholai smiled uncertainly. “I suppose I am not describing it very well, Teacher. It’s not… the kind of thing one describes.”
   “No, you describe it very well, Nikko. You have evoked a memory in me that I had almost lost. Once or twice when I was a child… in summer, I think… I experienced brief transports such as you describe. I read once that most people have occasional mystic experiences when they are children, but soon outgrow them. And forget them. Will you tell me something else? How is it you are able to play Gô while you are transported… while you are in your meadow?”
   “Well, I am here as well as there. I depart, but I don’t leave. I am part of this room and that garden.”
   “And me, Nikko? Are you part of me too?”
   Nicholai shook his head. “There are no animals in my rest place. I am the only thing that sees. I see for us all, for the sunlight, for the grass.”
   “I see. And how can you play your stones without looking at the board? How do you know where the lines cross? How do you know where I placed my last stone?”
   Nicholai shrugged. It was too obvious to explain. “I am part of everything, Teacher. I share… no… I flow with everything. The Gô ban, the stones. The board and I are amongst one another. How could I not know the patterns of play?”
   “You see from within the board then?”
   “Within and without are the same thing. But ‘see’ isn’t exactly right either. If one is everyplace, he doesn’t have to ‘see.’” Nicholai shook his head. “I can’t explain.”
   Otake-san pressed Nikko’s arm lightly, then withdrew his hand. “I won’t question you further. I confess that I envy the mystic peace you find. I envy most of all your gift for finding it so naturally—without the concentration and exercise that even holy men must apply in search of it. But while I envy it, I also feel some fear on your behalf. If the mystic ecstasy has become—as I suspect it has—a natural and necessary part of your inner life, then what will become of you, should this gift fade, should these experiences be denied you?”
   “I cannot imagine that happening, Teacher.”
   “I know. But my reading has revealed to me that these gifts can fade; the paths to inner peace can be lost. Something can happen that fills you with constant and unrelenting hate or fear, and then it would be gone.”
   The thought of losing the most natural and most important psychic activity of his life disturbed Nicholai. With a brief rush of panic, he realized that fear of losing it might be fear enough to cause him to lose it. He wanted to be away from this conversation, from these new and incredible doubts. His eyes lowered to the Gô ban, he considered his reaction to such a loss.
   “What would you do, Nikko?” Otake-san repeated after a moment of silence.
   Nicholai looked up from the board, his green eyes calm and expressionless. “If someone took my rest times from me, I would kill him.”
   This was said with a fatalistic calm that made Otake-san know it was not anger, only a simple truth. It was the quiet assurance of the statement that disturbed Otake-san most.
   “But, Nikko. Let us say it was not a man who took this gift from you. Let us say it was a situation, an event, a condition of life. What would you do then?”
   “I would seek to destroy it, whatever it was. I would punish it.”
   “Would that bring the path to rest back?”
   “I don’t know, Teacher. But it would be the least vengeance I could exact for so great a loss.”
   Otake-san sighed, part in regret for Nikko’s particular vulnerability, part in sympathy for whoever might happen to be the agent of the loss of his gift. He had no doubt at all that the young man would do what he said. Nowhere is a man’s personality so clearly revealed as in his Gô game, if his play be read by one with the experience and intelligence to interpret it. And Nicholai’s play, brilliant and audacious as it was, bore the aesthetic blemishes of frigidity and almost inhuman concentration of purpose. From his reading of Nicholai’s game, Otake-san knew that his star pupil might achieve greatness, might become the first non-Japanese to rise to the higher dans; but he knew also that the boy would never know peace or happiness in the smaller game of life. It was a blessed compensation that Nikko possessed the gift of retirement into mystic transport. But a gift with a poisoned core.
   Otake-san sighed again and considered the pattern of stones. The game was about a third played out. “Do you mind, Nikko, if we do not finish? My nagging old stomach is bothering me. And the development is sufficiently classic that the seeds of the outcome have already taken root. I don’t anticipate either of us making a serious error, do you?”
   “No, sir.” Nicholai was glad to leave the board, and to leave this small room where he had learned for the first time that his mystic retreats were vulnerable… that something could happen to deny him an essential part of his life. “At all events, Teacher, I think you would have won by seven or eight stones.”
   Otake-san glanced at the board again. “So many? I would have thought only five or six.” He smiled at Nikko. It was their kind of joke.
   In fact, Otake-san would have won by at least a dozen stones, and they both knew it.
 

* * *

 
   The years passed, and the seasons turned easily in the Otake household where traditional roles, fealties, hard work, and study were balanced against play, devilment, and affection, this last no less sincere for being largely tacit.
   Even in their small mountain village, where the dominant chords of life vibrated in sympathy with the cycle of the crops, the war was a constant tone in the background. Young men whom everybody knew left to join the army, some never to return. Austerity and harder work became their lot. There was great excitement when news came of the attack at Pearl Harbor on the eighth of December 1941; knowledgeable men agreed that the war would not last more than a year. Victory after victory was announced by enthusiastic voices over the radio as the army swept European imperialism from the Pacific.
   But still, some farmers grumbled privately as almost impossible production quotas were placed on them, and they felt the pressures of decreasing consumer goods. Otake-san turned more to writing commentaries, as the number of Gô tournaments was restricted as a patriotic gesture in the general austerity. Occasionally the war touched the Otake household more directly. One winter evening, the middle son of the Otake family came home from school crushed and ashamed because he had been ridiculed by his classmates as a yowamushi, a weak worm, because he wore mittens on his sensitive bands during the bruising afternoon calisthenics when all the boys exercised on the snow-covered courtyard, stripped to the waist to demonstrate physical toughness and “samurai spirit.”
   And from time to time Nicholai overheard himself described as a foreigner, a gaijin, a “redhead,” in tones of mistrust that reflected the xenophobia preached by jingoistic schoolteachers. But he did not really suffer from his status as an outsider. General Kishikawa had been careful that his identity papers designated his mother as a Russian (a neutral) and his father as a German (an ally). Too, Nicholai was protected by the great respect in which the village held Otake-san, the famed player of Gô who brought honor to their village by choosing to live there.
   When Nicholai’s game had improved sufficiently that he was allowed to play preliminary matches and accompany Otake-san as a disciple to the great championship games held in out-of-the-way resorts where the players could be “sealed in” away from the distractions of the world, he had opportunities to see at first hand the spirit with which Japan went to war. At railroad stations there were noisy send-offs for recruits, and large banners reading:
   FELICITATIONS ON YOUR CALL TO COLORS and WE PRAY FOR YOUR LASTING MILITARY FORTUNE.
   He heard of a boy from the neighboring village who, failing his physical examination, begged to be accepted in any role, rather than face the unspeakable haji of being unworthy to serve. His pleas were ignored, and he was sent home by train. He stood staring out the window, muttering again and again to himself, “Haji desu, haji desu.” Two days later, his body was found along the tracks. He had chosen not to face the disgrace of returning to the relatives and friends who had sent him off with such joy and celebration.
   For the people of Japan, as for the people of its enemies, this was a just war into which they had been forced. There was a certain desperate pride in the knowledge that tiny Japan, with almost no natural resources other than the spirit of the people, stood alone against the hordes of the Chinese, and the vast industrial might of America, Britain, Australia, and all the European nations but four. And every thinking person knew that, once Japan was weakened by the overwhelming odds against it, the crushing mass of the Soviet Union would descend upon them.
   But at first there were only victories. When the village learned that Tokyo had been bombed by Doolittle, the news was received with bewilderment and outrage. Bewilderment, because they had been assured that Japan was invulnerable. Outrage, because although the effect of the bombing was slight, the American bombers had scattered their incendiaries randomly, destroying homes and schools and not touching—by ironic accident—a single factory or military establishment. When he heard of the American bombers, Nicholai remembered the Northrop planes that had bombed The Sincere department store in Shanghai. He could still see the doll-like Chinese girl in her green silk dress, a stiff little collar standing around her porcelain neck, her face pale beneath its rice powder as she searched for her hand.
   Although the war tinted every aspect of life, it was not the dominant theme of Nicholai’s formative years. Three things were more important to him: the regular improvement of his game; his rich and resuscitative returns to states of mystic calm whenever his psychic vigor flagged; and, during his seventeenth year, his first love.
   Mariko was one of Otake-san’s disciples, a shy and delicate girl only a year older than Nikko, who lacked the mental toughness to become a great player, but whose game was intricate and refined. She and Nicholai played many practice bouts together, drilling opening and middle games particularly. Her shyness and his aloofness suited one another comfortably, and frequently they would sit together in the little garden at evening, talking a little, sharing longish silences.
   Occasionally they walked together into the village on some errand or other, and arms accidentally brushed, thrilling the conversation into an awkward silence. Eventually, with a boldness that belied the half hour of self-struggle that had preceded the gesture, Nicholai reached across the practice board and took her hand. Swallowing, and concentrating on the board with desperate attention, Mariko returned the pressure of his fingers without looking up at him, and for the rest of the morning they played a very ragged and disorganized game while they held hands, her palm moist with fear of discovery, his trembling with fatigue at the awkward position of his arm, but he could not lighten the strength of his grip, much less relinquish her hand, for fear that this might signal rejection.
   They were both relieved to be freed by the call to the noon meal, but the tingle of sin and love was effervescent in their blood all that day. And the next day they exchanged a brushing kiss.
   One spring night when Nicholai was almost eighteen, he dared to visit Mariko in her small sleeping room. In a household containing so many people and so little space, meeting at night was an adventure of stealthy movements, soft whispers, and breaths caught in the throat while hearts pounded against one another’s chest at the slightest real or imagined sound.
   Their lovemaking was bungling, tentative, infinitely gentle.
 

* * *

 
   Although Nicholai exchanged letters with General Kishikawa monthly, only twice during the five years of his apprenticeship could the General free himself from administrative duties for brief leaves of absence in Japan.
   The first of these lasted only one day, for the General spent most of his leave in Tokyo with his daughter, recently widowed when her naval officer husband went down with his ship during the victory of the Coral Sea, leaving her pregnant with her first child. After sharing in her bereavement and arranging for her welfare, the General stopped over in the village to visit the Otakes and to bring Nicholai a present of two boxes of books selected from confiscated libraries, and given with the injunction that the boy must not allow his gift of languages to atrophy. The books were in Russian, English, German, French and Chinese. These last were useless to Nicholai because, although he had picked up a fluid knowledge of rough-and-ready Chinese from the streets of Shanghai, he never learned to read the language. The General’s own limitation to French was demonstrated by the fact that the boxes included four copies of Les Miserables in four different languages—and perhaps a fifth in Chinese, for all Nicholai knew.