Waiting for Black to play, the Master talked of eel restaurants in Atami,
the Jubako and the Sawasho and the like. And he told of having come to
Atami in the days before the railway went beyond Yokohama. The rest of
the journey was by sedan chair, with an overnight stop in Odawara.
“I was thirteen or so, I suppose. Fifty and more years ago.”
“Ages and ages ago,” smiled Otaké. “My father would just about then
have been born.” Complaining of stomach cramps, he left the board two or
three times while deliberating his next move.
“He does take his time,” said the Master during one of the absences.
“More than an hour already?”
“It will soon be an hour and a half,” said the girl who kept the records.
The noonday siren blew. “Exactly a minute,” she said, looking at the
stopwatch of which she was so proud. “It begins to taper off at fifty-five
seconds.”
Back at the board, Otaké rubbed Salomethyl on his forehead and pulled
at the joints of his fingers. He kept an eye medicine called Smile beside
him. He had not seemed prepared to play before the noon recess, but at
eight minutes after the hour there came the smart click of stone on board.
The Master grunted. He had been leaning on an armrest. Now he brought
himself upright, his jaw drawn in, his eyes rolled upwards as if to bore a
hole through the board. He had thick eyelids, and the deep lines from the
eyelashes to the eyes set off the intentness of his gaze.
White now needed to defend his inner territories against the clear threat
presented by Black 115. The noon recess came.
Otaké sat down at the board after lunch and immediately went back to
his room for a throat medicine. A strong odor spread through the room. He
put drops in his eyes and two hand-warmers in his sleeves.
