the topic of Meister Eckhart, and Seuse’s eyes danced as if I had just handed him the keys to Heaven. He raced through everything he knew about the man who would soon be his master. I’d never before heard such a brilliant jumble of ideas fall from a mouth, and Seuse’s voice was wild with ecclesiastical joy.
I asked why Sister Gertrud claimed that Meister Eckhart would not even admit that God was good. Seuse explained that Eckhart’s position was that anything that is good can become better, and whatever may become better may become best. God cannot be referred to as “good,” “better,” or “best” because He is above all things. If a man says that God is wise, the man is lying because anything that is wise can become wiser. Anything that a man might say about God is incorrect, even calling Him by the name of God. God is “super-essential nothingness” and “transcendent Being,” said Seuse, beyond all words and beyond all understanding. The best a man can do is to remain silent, because any time he prates on about God, he is committing the sin of lying. The true master knows that if he had a God he could understand, he would never hold Him to be God.
That afternoon my mind opened to new possibilities, and my heart to new understandings. I could not imagine why Gertrud would want to prevent Eckhart’s writings from entering our collection of books. What some would call heretical, I saw only as reasonable suppositions about the nature of God. I came away convinced that the teachings of my youth had been limited. If the arguments of Eckhart had not been allowed to cross my ears, what else had I not heard? As Seuse said that afternoon, with a brilliant gleam in his eyes, “That which is painful sharpens one’s love.”
In a moment of candor, I confessed to Seuse that I desperately wished I could read something by Eckhart. This caused a slightly wicked smile to cross his lips, but he said nothing. I wondered if he was amused that I would speak a desire that ran contrary to the monastery’s stance, but I thought no more of it until he left us a few days later. I very much wanted to spend more time with him, but Gertrud, perhaps sensing this, ensured that my scriptorium duties were doubly heavy.
I was allowed to bid farewell to Seuse at the gates, as he set out again towards Kцln. When he was certain that no one was looking at us, he slipped a small book into the folds of my robe.
IX.
Since the moment I wrote the words, they have haunted me.
Sayuri Mizumoto is not a bitch and she did not have a condescending look on her face. That much should be obvious. I said those horrible words because I was mad at Marianne Engel for not visiting me in a week.
I am ashamed of how I treated Sayuri and afraid that leaving that sentence in will make me appear racist. How could it not? But I assure you I chose the word “Jap” only because I was looking for any advantage that might make Sayuri feel vulnerable. I used the word not because
Or rather, I
Dr. Gregor Hnatiuk, in righteous anger, was beautiful to behold. He stormed into my room to demand that I apologize to Ms. Mizumoto. Apparently he was behind the times: he’d heard of my insult, but not about my Japanese-speaking act of contrition. But still, it was breathtaking to see the shine on his sweaty brow as he defended the honor of the fair lady.
It was then that I understood upon whom he had his crush.
I explained that all the necessary fences had been mended and added that in the process Sayuri had even found a new companion with whom to speak Japanese. This placated Gregor somewhat, but he still felt it necessary to throw one final barb. “Someday you’ll have to learn that your big mouth is the front gate of all misfortune.”
“Yes, Gregor, I’ve heard that before,” I said. “From Sayuri.”
His chipmunk cheeks turned red. It was obvious that just hearing her name spoken aloud was enough to unsettle him, and the way he spun on his heel to exit confirmed all my suspicions.
At the door he stopped suddenly, turned back around, and said: “Marianne can speak Japanese?”
What follows is a translation of the conversation between Marianne Engel and Sayuri Mizumoto.
The question: how can I include a translation of a conversation that I did not understand when it was first spoken?
The answer: Sayuri helped me. She assures me that it’s faithful to the original conversation but I really have no way of knowing that it is, other than to trust her. Which I do, mostly, although I still have a nagging fear that the whole thing is a massive manuscript error that Titivillus will throw into his sack for Satan to use against me on Judgment Day. But this is a chance I’ll have to take.
I’m pleased to report that my cruel words did not fatally sabotage what has grown into a friendship between us. In the many hours that we’ve spent together, I’ve learned the truth of Sayuri’s childhood (or, at least, her version of it), as I reported earlier.
But what I have learned above all else, in the years that have passed, is that Sayuri Mizumoto is an exceptional woman. What other word could be used to describe a woman who has helped with translations for a book in which she’s called a Jap bitch?
Sayuri and Marianne Engel decided to work together on my rehabilitation program. Dr. Edwards had some reservations about the idea, but acquiesced when Sayuri suggested that a partner would make the program both easier and more enjoyable for me.
