Free John Rain 08: Graveyard of Memories by Barry Eisler Page A

something of a fishbowl feel, but back then it was an unsullied oasis of green knolls and clusters of trees dense as broccoli stalks and ponds graced by gently sloping wooden bridges, with no hint of the metropolis around it beyond the occasional distant rumble of a train. As we moved along, I had several opportunities to glance behind us. No one had followed us in.
    “I had forgotten how lovely Hamarikyu can be,” Miyamoto said, dabbing at his perspiring brow with a handkerchief as we walked. “Why have we not been using it for our exchanges?”
    His ordinarily earthy Japanese diction was markedly formal today. I wondered why. “Well, it’s not too late.”
    He chuckled. “That is true.”
    I waited for him to go on, thinking of the way McGraw seemed to use silence to elicit information. But nothing came of it.
    We came to the wisteria-covered trellis at the end of the Otsutai Bridge. A discreet wooden sign announced that waiting at the other end, on stilts at the center of the large pond, was the Nakajima Teahouse, serving potent green matcha and offering enviable views of the surrounding garden since 1707. I said, “Maybe a cup of tea?”
    “By all means, yes. It would be good to sit. And to get out of this sun.”
    I couldn’t disagree with any of that. And it would be good to have near panoramic views of the garden, too, in case I had missed anyone behind us when we first entered. I wondered if my caution was excessive. I decided I didn’t care. There seemed little to be lost from it, and much that might be gained. And besides, it was only temporary.
    We crossed the wooden bridge, the slight breeze over the water a godsend, and came to a tiny island of rock and thick shrubs, occupied almost in its entirety by the single-story, green-roofed teahouse. We removed our shoes at the entrance and followed a kimonoed hostess to a corner overlooking the pond, where we sat on the tatami and ordered the matcha Nakajima was known for. We were the only patrons, and the still space, redolent of cedar and old tatami, felt solemn to me, imbued with the ghostly presence of generations of previous patrons who had sat and chatted here as we did now, all of them long since dead. The waitress brought our tea on a small lacquer tray, set it before us, bowed, and left us to talk.
    I picked up the earthen cup and went to take a sip. “Not like that,” Miyamoto said. “Let it cool a little. Give yourself a moment to appreciate the aroma, the feel of the bowl in your hands.”
    I was a little surprised and didn’t respond, though nor did I drink any tea. Miyamoto flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is why my children prefer to avoid me. Only…it seems a shame, not to pause to appreciate the small things. So often they’re more important than what we think are the big ones.”
    Somehow, being corrected by Miyamoto didn’t sting. “It’s fine,” I said. “Do you know a lot about tea?”
    He shook his head quickly as though embarrassed. “Very little.”
    I sensed he was being modest. “You’ve done sadō , I think,” I said, referring to the Japanese tea ceremony—literally, “the way of tea.”
    “Perhaps I was exposed to it somewhat, when I was younger. But still it’s really not right for me to suggest to others how they should comport themselves.”
    “No, I don’t mind,” I said, setting my bowl down. “Show me the way you would do it.”
    He beamed. “All right, since you ask. What’s important is not much more than what I said. The purpose is to appreciate, to pay careful attention…to be mindful. Not to overlook what seems small but that is in fact significant. The rest is commentary, no?”
    The word he used for “mindful” was nen , which typically means “sense” or “feeling.” If he hadn’t offered the additional context, I wouldn’t have quite understood his meaning. I nodded and followed his lead, holding the bowl, appreciating the aroma, savoring the taste. At first I was just