There is delusion and realization
an excerpt from The Kenjo Koan
Alan Lessik
Over the next days our ship slowly sailed through the Aegean Sea to the Ionian Sea. As we passed ancient islands, Gül would recount the tales of the Greeks, Romans and others who fought over these lands for more than one thousand years. We passed rocky islands with ruins of temples and buildings strewn as if the recent war knocked them down instead of the ages of time. Maybe war is just a quickening of time. Instead of centuries of decay and destruction by earthquakes, storms and waves beating on boulder filled shores, war compresses time with the same destructive effect.
Each evening the seventy passengers on board would gather in the ornate ballroom with wood paneling, glass chandeliers and waiters in tuxedos. Our group was invited to sit with the Captain, a venerable Italian with a black and grey beard, piercing brown eyes and a muscular build, easily noticed under his impeccably tailored uniform. He was glad that peacetime sailing was back and was particularly pleased that Trieste was again a commune in Italy rather than in Austro-Hungary.
While we all talked, Mitsu would lean back in his chair, his legs touching mine under the table and occasionally brushing my arm as he pointed out one thing or the other. Only later when we were alone in our stateroom could we be as intimate as we wanted. Our public life was guided by the constraints of local culture in how we could interact, talk and touch. In our own room, we created our private world of Kenzo and Mitsu, a world of love, a world where we thought only of each other. While it’s difficult to divide up one’s life this way, it is not unusual that we did so. Most people have no idea of what occurs on the other side of closed doors, apartments or offices. And since we could always fall back on speaking Japanese to each other, even in public we were able to express ourselves relatively freely. This was one advantage of not being in land of our birth.
Eventually, the steamer headed due north as we entered the Adriatic. We could see land in the far distance, to the west—Sicilia and Napoli the southern states of Italy and to the east Greece and Albania. The former city-state of Dubrovnik, now part of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes was only stop of the trip. As we steamed into the harbor, with the claxons announcing our arrival, we viewed the tall ramparts surrounding the entire city. Built in the 12th century, they had withstood battles, fires and earthquakes.
Anxious to be on land again, we were the first down the gangplank and into the immigration station. Without conscious awareness, we all had quickly adjusted to the rolling of the ship as we balanced ourselves as we walked on board. And now for the first minutes, I was surprised by the solidness of the ground under my feet. On land, we only notice how it is to walk when something is wrong—a hurt foot, a broken toe or twisted ankle. Rarely are we aware of every step, the difference between one leg and the other, the strength of the muscles. Coming off the ship our legs and feet had to regain their memories of how to move on earth.
We were greeted by immigration officials who stamped our passports, giving me and Mitsu more than a glance.
“Bienvenue a Dubrovnik,” one said.
“Merci” replied Mitsu. The two of them chatted in French, our only shared language. They were curious about us as they told us that we were the first Japanese that they had ever met. One of the young men explained that we should go through the narrow passageway above and just beyond, we would be able to get a guide if we so wished.
By now, the Captain had also joined us. Once inside, we found a guide and Mitsu and I went off with him. The Captain and Elisa went their own way to go shopping and Gül said he had business to attend to. Our guide led us across a stone bridge through a large wooden door with a rounded top.
“The Ploce Gate, one of the two entryways into the old city,” he announced.
Inside the walls were thick and tall. As a young child with my father I had been in the Imperial Palace and was entranced by the walls, higher than anything I had ever seen or could imagine, made of stone and gleaming in the morning light. Years later, a zen priest explained how walls take something that seems to have no existence—space—and by creating an inside and outside, make the space into something definable.
Here the walls enclosed an entire city with streets of marble with buildings, houses, shops all crowded next to each other. Every inch of the city was filled in; there were no trees or plants growing from the ground. The sun above was the only reminder of the natural world from which we had come. If there was an opposite to the eight days we had been on the wide open sea, it was this contained and planned man-made city.
In one plaza there was a model of the city itself, a city within a city. The tiny streets were miniature replicas of the sights right before us. All that was missing were two tiny Japanese men wandering in wonder. Our guide gave a thorough explanation of the overall layouts and then began his tour through the streets with us, taking us up and down staircases to the upper level and the ramparts. From this vantage, we could see outside vista again with the blue sea reflecting the bright sunny skies. In less than an hour, we encircled the city, passing guards in their small booths who nodded in acknowledgement as we passed.
Back inside again, we strolled among churches and trading offices. Our guide gave us a brief history of the city built in the 1200s.
“Dubrovnik, or Ragusa as it was called then, was and always has been a trading city. Despite the thick walls protecting us, we were never a fort or castle with military pretentions. We were more than a city; we were a symbol of freedom and trade. For many centuries, our flag was a simple white flag with the word Libertas written in red. That flag was recognized throughout the Mediterranean and there were other settlements also named with the Dubrovnik which promoted the same ideals. We were known as traders and merchants, carrying goods and services, not guns. A city that is built on trade is a city based on relationships.”
“But weren’t you ever attacked and had to defend yourself?” I asked.
“Yes, many times against the French, the Venetians and others. And many times we lost. But our values never changed and the conquerors either left or took on our characteristics. It is possible to be at peace even during war. We did not deal with munitions which corrupts people and pulls them into destruction of others. We had trading partners throughout the world and even in your parts of Asia, long before any of us were born. While we tried to be fair and honest, many of our merchants also grew rich. And as you can see, they invested in building the finest of cities.”
An impressive a city it was, almost like a dream of a place I never imagined. Clean streets of white marble and limestone with no horses or carts to interrupt our way echoed the muffled footsteps of the residents and market people. Our guide pointed out the differences in costumes—young Bosnian girls with white dresses, embroidered vests and banded headscarves that puffed up in front and then down in the back; Macedonian men with dark round flat caps, short white kimonos with red and black embroidered skirts; a Montenegrin man with dark pants tucked into white leggings with boots and a long coat playing a gusle, a single stringed instrument, like our ichigenkin, but bowed not plucked. My eyes were feasting on the colors and the layers of clothing.
“Each village in each region has its own styles and colors. I only know some of them and more broadly can recognize regions. This is a gathering place of all people. And now you two are giving our people something new to see.”
“Ah, the seer is being seen himself,” Mitsu laughed. “We as sightseers and travelers do not believe that our passage is noticed so busy are we in taking in everything delightful and new. Meanwhile the people we are observing are discretely nudging each other as we pass.”
“Yes, the tales they will tell about you when they return home to their villages tonight.”
Right as he spoke, an old man walked up and talked to our guide in a language I did not recognize.
“This man wanted to know where you were from. As a youth, he left Serbia and went to Russia to visit some relatives. While there he was conscripted against his will and sent out to the Far East to fight in the war against Japan. He only saw Japanese soldiers from afar and never wanted to be any closer than he was. Even at that, he recognized you as Japanese. He would like to invite you for a drink.”
We shook hands and agreed to follow him to a street side bar with some low wooden benches outside. The barmaid brought small glasses for all of us and poured some amber colored liquor.
“Zivjeli”, our host cried out looking directly into our eyes. We each followed suit and downed the sweet yet strong drink.
“He wishes you long life,” translated our guide. “How do you like our rakija? It is a plum brandy and locally it is made with anise.”
“Such interesting taste, unlike anything I have tried. I feel like I can taste it as much in my nose as my tongue. It is bitter and sweet and even spicy at the same time.”
The bottle was passed around again and new drinks poured. I lifted my glass, “Kanpai!” and my new friends responded in kind.
The old man spoke up and began a rambling speech, only stopping when the guide cut him off to translate.
“The world is remarkable in it what it brings to us. I was saying to my daughter Esiaka this morning, there is always something new something different around the corner. She scorns me, ‘Otestka, nothing is new; it’s the same every time you go out.’ ‘Is it?’ I ask her. ‘Just look at your own daughter. Every moment she is changing in front of us. Just a short time ago, she could not even walk, now she is running here and there. She learns new words each day and I love watching her when she sees a new flower or animal or person. There is such wonder and excitement in her eyes. That’s how we should approach life.’
“She did not want to hear this from me and went back to her chores around the house. ‘Why don’t you go out and see something new in the world then and stop talking nonsense to me.’ So I left the house and decided to wander down to the market here. And then you appeared.
“I was lucky to come back alive from the Russian front in 1905. From the day I was picked up on the street in Moscow on a cool October night to the heartbreaking return after the Battle of Mukden, ah you recognize that name don’t you, it is a stain on history, another mark of craziness and greed that hardly anyone remembers anymore. Yes, I was there, ten days on that damned railroad to hell, bitter cold when we started and it just kept getting colder as we crossed mile after mile of barren frozen tundra. I barely spoke Russian and there was another Croat fellow like me that got caught up in this madness. We became the best of friends on this outward journey but he was not to come back.
“Finally we arrived in Vladivostok with its harbor filled with damaged warships. That should have warned us to sneak back on that train. But all we were told was how the glorious motherland was going to be victorious, words that no one should ever trust.” He spit as he said this and poured another drink for us all.
“Zivjeli…yes, we all need to remember and to live long lives. It’s when we forget that we make the same stupid mistakes all over again. They sent our platoon out to the countryside near Mukden. It took us about two weeks of marching and in that time, I was able to observe the people and their life. Country people everywhere are the same. They carry the burdens of life, growing and harvesting their crops, maintaining the land and some animals. The clothes they wore were different, the faces were different but their lives were the same as my parents.
“As I said, I never saw your people directly but when the fighting began, the men about me began dropping, crying out and screaming in pain from bullets and mortar shots. I was stunned by the noise, sounds and smells. On top of that, it was so cold that I felt my body becoming numb and could barely move. Suddenly, splat, the man beside me blew up and covered me with warm blood. At some point, I collapsed behind a low wall and waited for death. When I looked up, it was getting dark and I saw streaks of lights across the sky. In that moment, when no one cared about me or knew where I was, I was mesmerized by beautiful, red flashes above me with whooshing noises which sounded like the waterfalls in the Ibar River where I used to play as a child.
“I only woke out of my reverie from the shouts of soldiers around me as they started to run backwards. Some force within me pushed my frozen body up and I followed them in retreat. I ran as fast as I could, jumping over dead and dying bodies. Pure instinct took me away, not consciousness but a raw instinct which said run like you have never run before. I scrambled through the snow, up hills and ran until I could not run anymore. I saw what looked like a temple of some sort and ducked inside.
It was dark and lit by candles. A priest dressed in a grey robe noticed me. Despite my condition, he did not seem surprised or even afraid of me. Even though we could not speak each other’s languages, he took my hand and brought me into the main hall of this place. In the front of the room, was an elevated altar with a statue of a half-naked man, with a robe drooping down his chest and his hands on his lap facing upward. The man had a strange faraway look in his eyes like he was seeing everything and nothing at the same time. The priest lit some incense and gave me one to hold. He chanted something and then stuck his glowing stick in a big pot filled with sand with other sticks there, some burning, others burnt out. I said a little prayer myself and crossed myself from the head to the shoulders and added my incense to the kettle. He pointed to the man and said something like ‘Budva’, I remember that so well because it’s a city down the coast from here. I thought how amazing that he knew the region where I was from and took this as a sign.
“The priest gave me some food and a warm place to sleep for the night. The next day, we both lit incense again, and I said ‘Budva, yes I know Budva.’ He smiled and bowed to me. We walked outside and he pointed the way down the road and shortly after I ran into a small band of comrades being assisted by the Red Cross. I was able to follow them back to the garrison at Vladivostok and was there for several weeks until they sent me on the train back.
“As soon as I got back to Moscow, I jumped on a train to Split and then made my way down the coast to Budva. I walked into the first church and could find no such statue anywhere. I asked and they looked at me like I was crazy. I searched every church and mosque and temple but to no avail. But Budva was a sanctuary for me. I settled there and married a Montenegrin woman and grew my life and family. The peaceful part of my heart was saved that night despite all I experienced.”
Listening to this man brought tears to my eyes and I could see it had the same effect on Mitsu. “Wait here, Sir, I have something I must retrieve on board our ship. I will be right back.”
I ran through the streets, causing more disruption than I would ever seek to do, out the gate and over to the docks. I hustled up the gangway to my stateroom and searched through one of the trunks to find what I was looking for. Pulling it out, I carefully wrapped it in some paper and string, placed it in my coat pocket and ran all the way back.
When I arrived, the three others were waiting with concern written on their faces.
“Are you okay?” our guide asked.
“Very much so.” I turned to the old man. “I think I found what you were looking for,” and pulled out the package. “Here please open it and consider a token of friendship from me.”
He carefully opened the package and went wide-eyed. He looked at me and then back at the gift and back at me again.
“It’s him, it’s the man in the statue I was talking about. Where did you get this from?’’
“He’s Buddha. He came from India, through China where you met him and then to Japan. He shows us insight and the peace that comes through enlightenment.” I could see the translator was having trouble with my language. “The temple you entered was a Buddhist temple. There are Buddhists all over China, Manchukuo and Japan. He was a real person who discovered the meaning of life and death and taught people how to live with that knowledge. He’s not a god, but we honor his wisdom for bringing us the way.”
“Buda, Budva… You have helped an old man to complete his life. My family will be shocked to know that I am not as crazy as they thought me to be. I knew this to be a special day when I woke up. Zvijeli! I won’t need much more of life now that I have this. Dyahkyu. Thank you from my heart.”
He reached out and gave me a bear hug and kissed me on both checks and then did the same to a surprised Mitsu.
The old man left with a spring in his walk as he called out to passersbys as he made his way down the street. We had agreed to meet back with our group for dinner and so our guide walked us down one narrow street after another until we came to an ancient looking tavern. Elisa was there with many bags and boxes with the Captain sitting by her side.
“Look at what I found. There was a beautiful Italian fashion shop and the Captain was so generous, he would not allow me to spend a dinar.” He tipped his hat at me, and I returned the favor.
Just then, Gül entered with a handsome man his age and presented him all around. “Zoran from the Maritime Trade Organization, he wanted to meet our Japanese dignitaries, so I invited him to join us.”
With that introduction, we sat down to an evening full of conversation, good food, much rakija and many cheers of long life. A small local band came in and set up to play. There were several stringed instruments that were bowed or strummed, one man playing a flute and another a drum. After the open bars of one tune, Zoran announced, “This is one of the many Croatian traditional dances. This one is just for men only, so please will you join me.”
I was reluctant but the rest of the table insisted that I get up.
“It’s simple dance, just follow me. Take the hand of the man next to you. Don’t be shy Kenzo, Mitsu won’t bite you. There you go, now step forward with your right foot and step behind with you left. No, Gül your other right foot, there you go. Repeat that three times as we move around in a circle together. One and, two and three and, now repeat that in the opposite direction. Good, one and two and three and. Now when you finish the third step, lift your hand upwards without letting go, swoop up and swoop back two times and then we start again but this time, we have our arms around each other’s shoulder.”
While we were doing this men from other tables were dancing much more confidently in groups all around us. It was thrilling, my dear, to be dancing so close to Mitsu on the right and Gül on the left. I could smell the sweat rise from their bodies as we strained to keep up with Zoran’s directions. What a wonderful sensation this was. So different from the formal dances Elisa and I practiced. But more importantly, I was dancing with the man I loved. We both felt the joy and the energy that flowed around this circle. Even Gül who was often had a stern look, had a softer face with almost a smile.
There were several of these dances and each time, we would join following Zoran’s guidance. I could tell that Elisa was a bit jealous of the good time we were having, so made sure that she had her time to dance with the Captain when it was possible.
We danced for almost 2 hours. Zoran suggested that we go off to the hammam to clean up and relax. Elisa bade us goodbye and took the Captain’s arm as he carried her piles of boxes and bags. We left in the opposite directions, chatting among ourselves as we wandered down quiet streets lit by gas lamps. We stopped at a small building on a corner, marked Banya. We entered and were met inside by a number of men in various states of undress, all in a boisterous mood.
We were shown to some changing cabins and given towels to wrap around our waists. Zoran led us in to the large room where we each found a station to wash up. Many of the men were washing each other’s backs and hair and so Mitsu and I did the same. I loved the feel of his body and with the glistening sweat accumulated from our night’s activities and the heat of the room. I soaped up my hands and rubbed his back. Even if I close my eyes as I am writing this to you, I can remember the feel and the smell of that night. I was positioned right behind him, my knees straddling him before me, soaping up his back and massaging those smooth shoulders of his. I worked my way up and down from his long neck down to his buttocks massaging, soaping and rinsing. When we switched places, I felt such excitement to feel his hands and to smell him so close behind me. It was difficult to be discrete when my body was having its own reactions.
Back home, there were still remains of similar places in Yoshiwara, the famed ‘Floating World.’ The area was greatly diminished by the time of my adulthood and mainly it was the stories that remained. It was a place where any man or any woman could go to pursue and enjoy pleasure. There were theaters, bars and restaurants as well as special places that men and women could experience sexual releases. Life had its own timetable in the Floating World.
Men who wanted to enjoy men, women who wanted women, men looking for women and women looking for men had their own places to go. Outside the gates, all of us were expected to act in certain ways according to our roles and class in society. Inside the gates, other rules applied. No weapons were allowed and social class was extinguished. Fashions were set here by the higher ranking courtesans, and eventually were followed by the rest of the country. Wakashu, young men in between puberty and adulthood were specifically allowed to pursue both men and women as lovers and to dress and experience both the male and female genders. Some famous wakashu eventually became actors or musicians, publicly keeping their lives in this suspended state without having to marry.
As a rite of passage, my father took me to Yoshiwara when I was 16. He set me up with an attendant in one of the halls of pleasure and she took me back to her room. I was nervous and honestly not very interested but could not refuse my father. When we got to the room, she came close to me and tried to initiate sexual contact but I refused. She took this as shyness and tried to talk to me with a soft voice letting me know that it was okay and nothing to be embarrassed about.
I still refused and finally said, “I don’t want to be with a woman, only a man.”
To my surprise, she softly said, “I understand my son. Not every man wants or needs to have a woman in his life. You may not know it yet, but there are many such men like you. I will write down the address of a place here, were you can go to find some male pleasure. Meanwhile, let us stay here and talk for a while. When we go back out front, I will give your father a good report so that he will be proud of his son.”
So we talked for a while about her life and my life. I was curious about if she enjoyed her work and what were her dreams. She hoped to become a singer and even sang a popular love song for me. She had such a beautiful voice, that I could feel longing in every part of my body. I also felt a sadness to think that I might never find love like this in my life. She anticipated my thoughts and told me not to think that way, for love and contentment would come to me.
Tempted as I was, I never went back on my own to the address she gave me. But it was enough to know such places and people existed to make me happy and confident. And a few years later when Mitsu and I met in university, I knew that I had met the match for me.
Nina, I can only hope that you too have an open heart for the one who will love you as you deserve. You have been through hard times, perhaps harder than I can imagine. I never anticipated being separated from Mitsu just as I never imagined that if I had a daughter I would be separated from her. I hope in reading this, you feel the fullness of your father’s love, the connection we have always had, no matter the circumstances, not matter the distance, no matter the pain. Even if I am gone when you read this, know that my undying love will never end.
__________
Alan Lessik is a novelist, a zen practitioner, amateur figure skater, and LGBT activist and non-profit leader. His debut novel, The Troubleseeker, published by Chelsea Station Editions was a finalist for the Publishing Triangle 2017 Ferro-Grumley Award for LGBTQ Fiction. He has presented and on panels l at the Cuba Reading and AWP conferences. His non-fiction works and essays have been published in Lambda Literary, the Advocate, San Francisco Bay Guardian, and Frontiers. His contribution to KQED Radio Perspectives, “Judge Not His Death” was one of the most commented on in 2014.