Every night the west wind blew; but the morning of the next session,
December 1, was warm and pleasant. One looked for springlike
shimmerings in the air.
After a game of chess the day before, the Master had gone into town for
a game of billiards. He had been at mahjong until almost midnight with
Iwamoto, Murashima, and Yawata. That morning he was out strolling in the
garden before eight. Red dragonflies lay on the ground.
The maple below Otaké’s upstairs room was still half green. Otaké was
up at seven thirty. He feared he might be defeated by stomach cramps, he
said. He had ten varieties of medicine on his desk.
The aging Master seemed to have fought off his cold, and his young
adversary was suffering from varied complaints. Otaké was, surprisingly,
the more highly strung of the two. Away from the board, the Master sought
to distract himself with other games. Once he had returned to his room he
never touched a Go stone. Otaké apparently stayed close to the board all
through the days of rest and was assiduous in his study of the most recent
formations. The difference had to do not only with age but with
temperament as well.
“The Condor flew in last night at ten thirty.” The Master went to the
managers’ room on the morning of the first. “Can you imagine such
speed!”
The sun was bright against the paper doors of the game room, which
faced southeast.
A strange thing happened before the session could begin.
