On July 31 play was moved to yet another suite, called the “new upper
rooms,” a row of three rooms once more, two of eight mats and one of six.
The framed inscriptions on the walls were in the hands of Rai Sanyo,
Yamaoka Tesshu, and Yoda Gakkai.
The suite was above the Master’s
room.
The clump of hydrangeas at the veranda of the Master’s room was like a
great, distended balloon. Today again a black swallowtail was playing
among them, its reflection clean on the pond. The wisteria bower under the
eaves was heavy with foliage.
Seated by the board, I heard a splashing. The Master’s wife was at the
stone bridge, throwing bread into the pond. The splashing was of carp come
to feed.
She had said to me that morning: “I had to be back in Tokyo because we
had company from Kyoto. It was fairly cool, not at all uncomfortable; and
so I started worrying in the other direction. I’ve been afraid he might catch
cold.”
There was a light sprinkle of rain, and soon it was falling in large drops.
Otaké did not notice until someone called his attention to it.
“The sky seems to have a kidney condition too,” he said.
It had been a rainy summer. We had not had one really cloudless session
since we had come to Hakoné. And the rains were capricious. Today, for
instance, there was sunlight on the hydrangeas while Otaké was planning
Black 83, and the mountain was shining a freshly washed green, and then
immediately the sky clouded over again.
