The two opening plays had been ceremonial, and serious play began
today. As he deliberated Black 3, Otaké fanned himself and folded his
hands behind him, and put the fan on his knee like an added support for the
hand on which he now rested his chin. And as he deliberated—see—the
Master’s breathing was quicker, his shoulders were heaving. Yet there was
nothing to suggest disorder. The waves that passed through his shoulders
were quite regular. They were to me like a concentration of violence, or the
doings of some mysterious power that had taken possession of the Master.
The effect was the stronger for the fact that the Master himself seemed
unaware of what was happening. Immediately the violence passed. The
Master was quiet again. His breathing was normal, though one could not
have said at what moment the quiet had come. I wondered if this marked
the point of departure, the crossing of the line, for the spirit facing battle. I
wondered if I was witness to the workings of the Master’s soul as, all
unconsciously, it received its inspiration, was host to the afflatus. Or was I
watching a passage to enlightenment as the soul threw off all sense of
identity and the fires of combat were quenched? Was it what had made “the
invincible Master”?
At the beginning of the session Otaké had offered formal greetings, after
which he had said: “I hope you won’t mind, sir, if I have to get up from
time to time.”
“I have the same trouble myself,” said the Master. “I have to get up two
and three times every night.”
It was odd that, despite this apparent understanding, the Master seemed
to sense none of the nervous tension in Otaké.
When I am at work myself, I drink tea incessantly and am forever having
to leave my desk, and sometimes I have nervous indigestion as well.
Otaké’s trouble was more extreme. He was unique among competitors at
the grand spring and autumn tournaments. He would drink enormously
from the large pot he kept at his side. Wu
of the Sixth Rank, who was at
