advice in personal matters. There was something of the religious ascetic
about Tōgō. Otaké, who read the Lotus Sutra every morning, had a way of
believing absolutely in anyone he was inclined to respect, and he was a
man with a deep sense of obligation.
“He will listen to Tōgō,” said one of the managers. “Tōgō seems to think
he should go on with the game.”
Otaké said that this would be my chance to give Tōgō’s healing powers a
try. It was an honest and friendly suggestion. I went to Otaké’s room. Tōgō
felt here and there with the palms of his hands.
“There’s nothing at all wrong with you,” he said promptly. “You are
delicate, but you will live a long life.” But for some moments he continued
to hold his hands over my chest.
I too brought a hand to my chest, and noted with surprise that the quilted
kimono over the right side was warm. He had brought his hands near but
not touched me. The kimono was warm on the right side only, and chilly on
the left. He explained that the warmth came from certain poisonous
elements. I had been aware of nothing abnormal in the region of my lungs,
and X-rays had revealed no abnormality. Yet I had from time to time sensed
a certain pressure toward the right side, and so perhaps I had in fact been
suffering from some slight indisposition. Even granting the effectiveness of
Tōgō’s methods, I was startled that the warmth should have come through
the heavy quilting.
Tōgō said that Otaké’s destiny was in the match, and to forfeit it would
make him an object of universal derision.
The Master could only await the outcome of the negotiations. Since no
one had informed him of the finer points, he was probably unaware that
Otaké thought of forfeiting the match. He grew fretfully impatient as the
days went by in useless succession. He drove to the Kawana Hotel for a
