When we went to sit on a step facing the garden, Mizuki explained: “The garden consists of fifteen different-sized rocks. It has an odd feature, and that is that wherever you walk, you can only see fourteen rocks, no more, no less.”
“So that’s the attraction?”
“It’s not an attraction. It’s a quality,” she said. “Imagine, this Zen work has existed since the fifteenth century. It was created by a monk of the Rinzai School.”
“So what does it mean?” I was getting interested. “I suppose the rock islands are not there by chance. They must have some meaning in Zen philosophy.”
“Yes, they must have some meaning, but nobody knows what it is. The person who made the garden never left any explanation. That’s why it’s a mystery, a kind of Zen koan—but it has no answer.”
“It reminds me of the mystery of the ryokan where I’m staying. It’s called The Blue Frogs Ryokan, but I haven’t seen any blue frogs anywhere.”
Mizuki took off her glasses and glared at me. My banal comment—the fruit of a brain as dry as that garden—had debased a very sacred matter.
We spent the rest of the afternoon visiting two more shrines, one of which was the Kiyomizu-dera Buddhist temple, surrounded by magnificent forests climbing up the mountainside. Observing tradition, we drank water from one of three streams that are channeled down the mountain to flow into a pond.
More than the temple building, what impressed me was the marvelous view of the forest-covered mountain on one side and the panoramic vistas of Kyoto on the other. Looking down from above, it seemed like a small, modern, soulless city.
Our last stop, just before sunset, was the shrine of Fushimi Inari Taisha—a large complex of Shinto temples, located quite a long way from the city. The temple grounds were full of statues of foxes, who were believed to be messengers of Inari Okami, the Shinto god of rice and prosperity. I was intrigued because they wore bibs with something written on them in calligraphy. But the most impressive sight on that walk were all the incredibly longtoriipaths—red arcades made up of thousands of pillars going all the way up to the top of the mountain.
As we went back to the railway station, I felt so tired I was almost buckling at the knees. Mizuki, on the other hand, was on fine form, like a night bird becoming alert after dark.
“If you come to the bar with me, Samuel, I’ll sing you something you’ll never forget.”
“I was about to say I need to call it a day, but I’d hate to miss the show. What’s the song called?”
“‘I Look Up when I Walk.’”
After so much trekking from temple to temple, I thought she was just teasing me, but she insisted that it was one of the most famous Japanese songs of all time.
“Is it the one you were thinking of singing before jumping off the mountain?”
“Yes. The title’s very appropriate, isn’t it?” It was as if she thought suicide was a joke. “But it’s not only about climbing mountains or walking along paths. It’s a song about happiness and sadness.”
Later, on the train taking us back to the city center, I said, “All right, I’ll come with you and hear this song. I’m curious to know what the lyrics say.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find out. Tonight I’ll sing it for you.”
Holes in Your Socks
On the way back to the old alleyway leading to The Blue Frogs Ryokan and the karaoke bar, Mizuki suddenly said, “Do you know when love ends between a couple?”
I was taken aback by this odd question. “I don’t know . . . When you have an affair?”
“That’s a consequence of the end of a relationship, but there are things that indicate it was over a long time before that.”
“What things?” This subject was making me feel uncomfortable. “Sorry, perhaps I’m a bit insensitive and don’t see these things.”
“People don’t usually think about what I’m going to tell you now, but I think it’s a very precise description of a relationship. Let me see if I can explain it to you . . .”
We’d reached the bar that bore my name, but we didn’t go straight in. Mizuki leaned back against the wall, one foot lifted to rest flat against it, and explained her theory.
“Love is madness and inspiration. Plato said that anyone who’s in love becomes a poet. To a greater or lesser extent, people indulge in all kinds of silliness trying to impress the person they love. So, when everything’s going well, your partner will surprise you on your birthday or at Christmas with a trip to some place you never dreamed existed, or take you to a special secret restaurant. Things like that.” Mizuki paused to take in a deep breath. “So, when couples start giving each other practical gifts, it means their passion has died.”
“What sort of practical gifts?” I was getting defensive. My last gift to Gabriela had been to enroll her in a course of Hebrew, which I knew would make her very happy.
“I mean the everyday things you need, useful gifts: an anorak for rainy days, a new pair of shoes just like the ones you always wear that are falling apart, T-shirts and underwear. Well, that’s if we’re talking about clothes. To sum up, they’re things you need, but you’d buy them yourself in normal circumstances. Can you imagine Juliet giving Romeo a couple of T-shirts and some underpants?”
“I don’t like it when you’re so cynical.” I was getting annoyed. “Maybe it’s more romantic to give a hundred roses or a heart made of your own hair, but practical gifts show you don’t want your partner to lack anything they need. If your man has holes in his socks, you give him four new pairs. It’s as simple as that. So what’s the problem?”
