The first sign from the Master’s wife that she was concerned about his
health came on July 21, the day of the third Hakoné session.
“He has been having pains here,” she said, bringing a hand to her chest.
He had, it seems, been aware of the trouble since spring.
He had lost his appetite. The day before he had had no breakfast at all,
and only a thin slice of toast and a glass of milk for lunch.
During the third session I had noticed the twitching of the hollow cheeks
that sagged over the prominent jaws, but I had thought that the heat was
affecting him.
That year it went on raining after the rainy season should have ended,
and summer was late in coming. Then, before July 20, when the calendar
has summer beginning, it suddenly turned warm. On July 21 a mist hung
heavy over Mt. Myojo. The garden was muggy and still. A black
swallowtail butterfly hovered among the red lilies, fifteen and sixteen to a
stem, at the veranda. Even the flock of crows cawing in the garden seemed
warm. Everyone, down to the clerk, was plying a fan. It was the first
uncomfortably warm session since the beginning of the match.
“Fierce,” said Otaké, wiping at his forehead and hair with a small towel.
“And Go is fierce too.
‘Up to Hakoné we’ve come, we’ve come,
The steepest of them all.…’ ”
With time out for lunch, Otaké took three hours and thirty-five minutes
to play Black 59.
