Satori

“This is Kamiko-san,” Haverford said. “She will serve as my hanto today.”

Kamiko bowed and handed Nicholai a kimono to put on, then offered him sayu, a cup of the same hot water that would be used to brew the tea. Nicholai took a sip, then, as Haverford excused himself to go prepare the tea, Kamiko took Nicholai outside to the roji, the “dew ground,” a small garden that held only arrangements of rocks but no flowers. They sat on the stone bench and, without conversation, enjoyed the tranquility.

A few minutes later Haverford, now kimono-clad, walked to a stone basin and ceremonially washed his mouth and hands in the fresh water, then stepped through the middle gate into the roji, where he formally welcomed Nicholai with a bow. In turn, Nicholai purified himself at the tsukubai.

To enter the cha-shitsu, the tearoom, they had to pass through a sliding door that was only three feet high, forcing them to bow, an act that symbolized the divide between the physical world and the spiritual realm of the tearoom.

The cha-shitsu was exquisite, elegant in its simplicity, a perfect expression of shibumi. As tradition demanded, they first walked to an alcove, on the wall of which hung the kakemono, a scroll with painted calligraphy appropriate to the day’s occasion. In his role as guest, Nicholai admired the skillful brushwork, which depicted the Japanese symbol for satori.

An interesting choice, Nicholai thought. Satori was the Zen Buddhist concept of a sudden awakening, a realization of life as it really is. It came not as a result of meditation or conscious thought, but could arrive in the wisp of a breeze, the crackle of a flame, the falling of a leaf.

Nicholai had never known satori.

In front of the kakemono, on a small wooden stand, was a bowl that held a single small maple branch.

They stepped over to a low table, on which was a charcoal burner and a kettle. As Nicholai and Kamiko knelt on the mat by the table, Haverford bowed and left the room. A few moments later a gong sounded, and he returned carrying the cha-wan, a red ceramic bowl that contained a tea whisk, a tea scoop, and a cloth.

As teishu, the host, Haverford knelt at his proper place at the table, directly across the hearth from Nicholai. He wiped all the utensils with the cloth, then filled the bowl with hot water, rinsed the whisk, then poured the water into a waste bowl and carefully wiped the tea bowl again.

Nicholai found himself enjoying the old ritual, but did not want to be lulled into complacency. The American had obviously done his research and knew that in the few years of freedom Nicholai had enjoyed in Tokyo before his imprisonment, he had established a formal Japanese household, with retainers, and had observed the old rituals. Surely he knew that Nicholai would find the cha-kai both nostalgic and comforting.

And it is both, Nicholai thought, but be cautious.

Haverford presented the tea scoop, then opened a small container and paused to allow his guest to appreciate the aroma. Nicholai realized with surprise that this was koi-cha, from plants one hundred years old, grown only in the shade in certain parts of Kyoto. He could not imagine what this mat- cha might have cost, then wondered what it might eventually cost him, given that the Americans had not gone to such extravagance for nothing.

Pausing for precisely the correct time, Haverford then dipped a small ladle into the container and scooped out six measures of the finely powdered pale green tea into the cha-wan. He used the bamboo ladle to heap hot water into the bowl, then took the whisk and whipped the potion into a thin paste. He examined his work, then, satisfied, passed the bowl across the table to Nicholai.

As ritual demanded, Nicholai bowed, took the cha-wan with his right hand, then passed it to his left, holding it only in the palm of his hand. He turned it clockwise three times and then took a long sip. The tea was superb, and Nicholai politely finished his drink with a loud slurp. Then he wiped the rim of the cha-wan with his right hand, turned it once clockwise, and handed it back to Haverford, who bowed and took a drink.

Now the cha-kai entered a less formal phase, as Haverford wiped the cha-wan again and Kamiko added more charcoal to the hearth in preparation for making cups of thinner tea. Still, there were formalities to observe, and Nicholai in his role as guest began a conversation about the utensils used in the ceremony.

“The cha-wan is Momoyama Period, yes?” he said to Haverford, recognizing the distinct red tincture. “It is beautiful.”

“Momoyama, yes,” Haverford answered, “but not the best example.”

They both knew that the seventeenth-century bowl was rightfully priceless. The American had gone to immense trouble and expense to arrange this “modest” cha-kai, and Nicholai could not help but wonder why.

And the American could not quite contain his satisfaction at pulling off this surprise.

I don’t know you, Hel, Haverford thought as he sank back into his own seiza position, but you don’t know me either.

In fact, Ellis Haverford was something quite different from the Company thugs who had beaten Nicholai to a bloody pulp during three days of brutal interrogation. A native of Manhattan’s Upper East Side, he had spurned Yale and Harvard for Columbia, as he couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to live anywhere but on the isle of Manhattan. He was majoring in Oriental history and languages when Pearl Harbor was bombed, and was therefore a natural to go into an intelligence desk job.

Haverford refused, joined the Marines instead, and commanded a platoon on Guadalcanal and a company in New Guinea. Purple Heart and Navy Cross on his chest, he finally conceded that his education was being wasted, agreed to go into the covert side of the war, and found himself training local resistance movements against the Japanese in the jungles of French Indochina. Haverford was fluent in French, Japanese, and Vietnamese and could make himself understood in some parts of China. As aristocratic in his own way as Hel – although he came from far more money – Ellis Haverford was one of those rare individuals who seemed comfortable in any setting, including an exclusive Japanese teahouse.

Now Kamiko served thin tea and brought out mukozuke, a tray of light snacks – sashimi and pickled vegetables.

“The food is good,” Nicholai said in Japanese as Kamiko served.

“It’s garbage,” Haverford answered, pro forma, “but I’m afraid it’s the best I can offer. I am so sorry.”

“It’s more than enough,” Nicholai said, unconsciously slipping into Japanese manners that he had not had the opportunity to use for years.

“You are more than kind,” Haverford responded.

Aware of Kamiko’s passive attention, Nicholai asked, “Shall we switch languages?”

Haverford already knew that Hel spoke English, French, Russian, German, Chinese, Japanese, and, randomly, Basque – so there was quite a menu from which to choose. He suggested French and Nicholai accepted.

“So,” Nicholai said, “you have offered me one hundred thousand dollars, my liberty, a Costa Rican passport, and the home addresses of Major Diamond and his apprentices in exchange for my performing a service that I assume involves a murder.”

“ ‘Murder’ is an ugly word,” Haverford answered, “but you have the basic elements of the deal correct, yes.”

“Why me?”

“You have certain unique characteristics,” Haverford said, “combined with specific skills required for the assignment.”

“Such as?”

“You don’t need to know that yet.”

“When do I begin?” Nicholai asked.

“More a question of how.”

“Very well. How do I begin?”

“First,” Haverford answered, “we repair your face.”