The Master poured for his opponent, Otaké of the Seventh Rank.
Since offering the proper words of thanks at the end of the game, the
young Otaké had sat motionless, head bowed. His hands rested side by side
on his knees, his always pale face was blanched.
Roused by the Master, who had begun to put away the white stones, he
began putting the black stones in their bowl. The Master stood up and, as
on ordinary days, nonchalantly left the room. He had offered no comment
on the play. The younger player of course had no comment to make.
Matters might have been different had he been the loser.
Back in my room, I looked out the window. With astonishing speed
Otaké had changed to a padded kimono and stepped down into the garden.
He was sitting on a bench at the far side, all alone, arms tightly folded. His
eyes were on the ground. His attitude there in the wide, cold garden, in the
approaching twilight of late autumn, suggested deep meditation.
I opened a glass door at the veranda. “Mr. Otaké,” I called. “Mr. Otaké.”
He turned and glanced up at me, as if in annoyance. Perhaps he was
weeping.
I went back into my room. The Master’s wife had come in.
“It has been a long time, and you have been very good to us.”
I exchanged a few remarks with her, and Otaké had already left the
garden. With another quick change, he made the rounds, this time in formal
kimono, of the Master’s room and the rooms of the various managers and
organizers. He came to my room as well.
I went to pay my respects to the Master.
