10

“Taro-sensei's building is self-sufficient,” Akira explained.

They sat, cross-legged, on cushions at a low cypress table. The small room had latticed paper-thin walls with exquisite pen-and-ink drawings hanging upon them. It reminded Savage of Akira's home.

In an obvious display of deference, Taro dismissed a servant and poured tea into small, thin, beautifully painted ceramic cups, each depicting a colorful scene from nature (a waterfall, a blossoming cherry tree) with a minimum of brush strokes.

Akira continued explaining. “The fifth floor, of course, is the dojo. On the other floors, there are dormitories, a shrine, a library, a cooking and eating area, a shooting range… everything that Taro-sensei's students need to attempt to perfect their spirits, minds, and bodies, to make them as one.”

Akira paused to pick up his cup, placing his left hand under it, using his right hand to support the cup on one side. He sipped the tea and savored it. “Perfect, Tam-sensei.”

Savage watched Akira carefully and imitated the way he gripped the cup. Prior to their leaving America, Akira had explained the protocol of the tea ceremony. Its sanctified tradition dated as far back as the fourteenth century. Influenced by Zen Buddhism, the ritualistic sharing of tea was intended to produce a condition of purity, tranquillity, and harmony known in Japanese as wabi. When strictly performed, the ceremony took several hours and incorporated a minimum of three locations and servings, accompanied by various foods. The tea-master prepared each serving, adding tea to hot water and whipping it with a bamboo whisk. Conversation was limited to gentle, soothing topics. The participants felt freed from time and the turmoil of the outside world.

On this occasion, the ceremony had been starkly abbreviated. Of necessity. But respect for the ritual still applied. Noting the solemnity of Akira and his sensei, Savage quelled his urgent questions and raised the gleaming cup to his lips, inhaling the fragrance of the steaming tea, sipping the clear, delicately flavored liquid. “My spirit feels comforted, Taro sensei.” Savage bowed.

“This quenches the thirst in my soul,” Rachel added. “Arigato, Taro-sensei.”

Taro chuckled. “My not-inadequate student”-he indicated Akira-”taught you well.”

Akira's brown face became tinged with a blushing red. He lowered his eyes in humility.

“It's rare to meet a civilized gaijin.” Taro smiled and lowered his cup. “Akira mentioned a library in this building. Most sensei would never allow their students to read. Thought interferes with action. Words contaminate reflex. But ignorance is itself an enemy. Facts can be a weapon. I would never permit my students to read works of fantasy. Novels”-he gestured with disparagement-“though poetry is another matter, and I encourage my students to expand their spirits by composing haiku and studying such classic examples as those by the incomparable Matsuo Basho. But books of information are mostly what my students read. History, in particular that of Japan and America. Manuals of weaponry, both ancient and modern. The principles of locks, intrusion detectors, electronic surveillance equipment, and various other tools of their craft. Also languages. I require each of my students to be skilled in three, apart from Japanese. And one of those languages must be English.”

Savage glanced surreptitiously at Akira, at last understanding how his counterpart had acquired so impressive a fluency in English. But why the emphasis on English? Savage wondered. Because English was pervasive throughout the world? Or because of America 's victory in World War Two? Why did Akira's expression become more melancholy as Taro emphasized that his students had to be expert in America 's history and language?

Taro stopped talking and sipped his tea.

Akira kept a close watch on his sensei. Apparently concluding that Taro did not intend to say anything further for the moment, that it would not be rude to break the silence, he resumed his explanation.

“When I was ten,” Akira said, “my father sent me to Taro-sensei, to study martial arts. Until I completed high school, I came here five times a week for two-hour sessions. At home, I religiously practiced what I had been taught. Most male teenagers in Japan supplement their high school classes with intensive private tutoring in order to devote themselves to preparing for university entrance examinations. These occur in February and March and are known as ‘examination hell.’ To fail to be accepted by a university and especially Tokyo University is a great humiliation. But as my studies with Taro-sensei became more demanding and intriguing, I realized that I had no interest in applying to a university, or rather that he and this institution would be my university. Despite my unworthiness, Taro-sensei graciously accepted me for greater instruction. On my nineteenth birthday, I came here with a few belongings and never stepped outside for the next four years.”

Savage tightened his grip on his cup. Turning to Rachel, he saw that the surprise on her face was as strong as what he felt. “Four years?” She was too amazed to blink.

“A moderate amount of time, considering the objective.” Akira shrugged. “To attempt to become a samurai. In our corrupt and honorless twentieth century, the only option for a Japanese devoted to the noble traditions of his nation, committed to becoming a samurai, is to join the fifth profession. To make himself the modern equivalent of a samurai. An executive protector. Because now-just as then-a samurai without a master is a warrior without a purpose, a frustrated wanderer, a directionless, unfulfilled ronin.”

Savage gripped his frail teacup harder, afraid he'd break it but controlled by greater surprise. “And all those men in the dojo…”

“Are Taro-sensei's advanced students. Many are about to graduate after the privilege of having studied with my master for almost four years,” Akira replied. “You might compare them to monks. Or hermits. Except for grocers and other merchants who bring necessary goods, no outsider is permitted to enter.”

“But the outside door was unlocked,” Savage said. “And so was the door to the dojo. In fact, I didn't even see a lock. Anyone could walk in.”

Akira shook his head. “Each door has a hidden bolt, electronically activated, although tonight the bolts were left open. In case my enemies managed to follow me here. An enticement. So they could be subdued and questioned. The stairway, of course, is a trap once the doors are sealed.”

Savage pursed his lips and nodded.

Taro inhaled softly.

Akira turned to him, aware that his master intended to speak.

“Although my students retreat from the world,” Taro said, “I do not wish them to be ignorant of it. By means of newspapers, magazines, and television broadcasts, they're instructed in contemporary events. But in these sequestered surroundings, they're trained to study the present with the same detachment that they do the past. They stand apart, watchers, not participants. Because only by being objective can a protector be effective. The essence of a samurai is to be neutral, without expectations, maintaining a stillness at his core.”

Taro considered his words, bobbed his wizened head, and sipped his tea, the signal that others could speak.

“My apologies, Taro-sensei. But another potentially indelicate question occurs to me,” Savage said.

Taro nodded in permission.

“Akira mentioned the corrupt age in which we live,” Savage said. “In that case, few young men-even Japanese- would be willing to shut themselves away and commit themselves to such arduous training.”