hand in the overskirt of his kimono, his right hand lightly clenched, he
raised his head and looked straight before him. Otaké seated himself
opposite. After bowing to the Master he took the bowl of black stones from
the board and placed them at his right. He bowed again and, motionless,
closed his eyes.
“Suppose we begin,” said the Master.
His voice was low but intense, as if he were telling Otaké to be quick
about it. Was he objecting to the somewhat histrionic quality of Otaké’s
behavior, was he eager to do battle? Otaké opened his eyes and closed them
again. During the sessions at Itō he read the Lotus Sutra on mornings of
play, and he now seemed to be bringing himself to order through silent
meditation. Then, quickly, there came a rap of stone on board. It was
twenty minutes before noon.
Would it be a new opening or an old, a “star” or a komoku?
was asking whether Otaké would mount a new offensive or an old. Otaké’s
play was conservative, at R-16, in the upper right-hand corner; and so one
of the mysteries was solved.
His hands on his knees, the Master gazed at the opening komoku. Under
the gaudy camera lights his mouth was so tightly closed that his lips
protruded, and the rest of us seemed to have left his world. This was the
third match I had seen the Master play; and always, when he sat before the
Go board, he seemed to exude a quiet fragrance that cooled and cleaned the
air around him.
After five minutes he seemed about to play, having forgotten that his
play was to be sealed.
“I believe we have arranged, sir, that your play should be a sealed one,”
said Otaké. “But I suppose you don’t feel that you have played at all unless
you have played on the board.”
