Authors: Sujata Massey
When I first visited the island of Kyushu, I was on a holiday with my parents, buying pottery. The part of the daylong train ride I remembered best was passing Mount Fuji—how the faraway snow-capped mountain grew in size as I badgered my parents about getting out to climb it. But the train raced by, Fuji was gone, and I was heartbroken. So all the time we’d been in Kyushu, wandering through tiny, one-restaurant villages that did not serve the Italian pasta I craved, I’d griped to my parents about not stopping at Fuji-san to climb it. With the typical hubris of a seven-year-old, I was certain that I could make it to the top—and I wanted the walking stick, stamped with the milestones, that each successful climber brought home.
As the All Nippon Airways jet passed near Japan’s most revered landmark, the pilot encouraged us to look for it through the windows on the left side of the cabin. I strained my eyes but couldn’t see Fuji. The season was cold enough for snow to have covered the mountain, making it difficult to spot against the thick white clouds that enveloped it.
I was looking for something that, just like Fuji and its cloudy cloak, was masked by cloud cover. But I was highly doubtful that my trip to Kyushu would result in a revelation. I’d meet the potter, if I was lucky, and perhaps he could tell me something about how Mr. Harada had paid for his artwork. That’s all I might gain: a little more information on how the sophisticated collector did business, a tiny glimpse through the clouds.
The touchdown in Fukuoka was smooth, and my passage through the airport was just as uneventful. Nobody was on the lookout for me here, I realized with relief as I made my connection at Hakata station to a limited express train bound for Karatsu, the famous pottery region. A train attendant hawked copies of all the national papers, including
Tokyo Supootsu,
along with little cans of coffee, beer, and
bento
box lunches, but nobody who bought a paper glanced accusingly at me.
When the attendant came to me, I bought a lunch. Quickly, I demolished the picture-book arrangement of rice, sake-glazed salmon, and pickled bamboo shoots. I’d eaten nothing until now, and so I had been dangerously nauseated on the plane. I’d survived that flight, but barely, and now I was determined to arrive in Umeda in good condition. I’d taken the time, back at the airport, to change my clothes; now I was wearing Grand’s smart St. John suit, which seemed a little incongruous with my hair but was the best thing I had in my suitcase. I also had a large box of Belgian Leonidas chocolates, which I’d bought for the equivalent of $100. That’s what my expense account was for: I had to present Kazu Sakurai with a valuable gift that he couldn’t possibly find locally. Judging from the tourist materials I’d picked up in Fukuoka, there wasn’t much shopping near Umeda. Sakurai’s pottery studio was the entire shopping scene.
My phone vibrated. I picked it up reluctantly and, remembering what I knew about phone etiquette on trains, answered in a low voice.
“Rei-san! What’s wrong with you?”
It was Chika.
“It’s not the way it looks,” I said. “And I wish you hadn’t gotten the boys all upset for nothing—”
“Hugh’s wonderful. How can you do such a thing to him?” Chika was crying.
“It was a picture taken out of context—”
“Lie to him, but not to me.” Chika’s voice was hard.
“You’re as tough as your mother,” I said.
“And you—you’re just—American!” Chika hung up after that.
Trying to calm myself, I read the artist’s brochure, which was illustrated with color photos and had text in English, German, and Japanese. Kazu Sakurai was the ranking descendant in a family of pottery artisans—pre-Christian potters, if one was to believe the claims in the brochure.
I was skeptical about some of what I was reading, but not all. The history of Japanese pottery, I knew from my studies, originated in Kyushu as early as 10,000 BC. Kyushu potters made cooking vessels and female figurines that were different from the pottery found by archaeologists in other parts of Asia. This pottery style most probably came from Mongolia; thus, the early Kyushu pottery had more in common with Middle Eastern work than with what was commonly regarded as Japanese. Sakurai, the brochure told me, had spent twenty years studying the archaeological fragments of these pots, and had experimented with firing methods. When he felt he could produce pots that were almost identical to the earliest, lost works, he produced a collection of urns that won the grand prize in Japan’s foremost pottery competition. After that, he turned away from the sophisticated glazes of his father and grandfather in favor of rustic historic forms. His fame grew, and within a few years he was designated a Living National Treasure, recieving an annual stipend to pay his apprentices’ salaries.
There was nothing as tacky—or helpful—as a price list in the slick brochure. I figured that if you had to ask what it cost, you clearly couldn’t afford it. The brochure explained that visitors would be granted access only to the studio shop. Should someone wish an audience with the master, he or she was advised to secure an appointment.
So I needed an appointment, I thought with a sinking feeling. At least I had the benefit of a little more than $9,000 in my backpack. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to blow it all. I took out my cell phone, studiously bypassing the announcement of accumulated voice mail messages from Chika, Hugh, and Michael Hendricks. They were all probably calling to criticize me for my photographed embrace with Takeo. It was the last thing I wanted to discuss in a quiet train compartment.
A woman who sounded a good deal older than me answered the phone. I pitched my voice into the high, polite register, saying that I was in from Tokyo and needed to see the master for guidance on choosing a piece of pottery.
“I’m very sorry, but my master is not available on short notice. However, I am happy to offer you personal assistance while you visit us. Is it a wedding gift that you seek?”
Why had she asked about a wedding? The thought of Emi and Takeo made me press my lips together. Then I remembered that I’d pitched my voice to resemble a Tokyo office lady’s. She’d probably assumed that I was unmarried and had pooled resources with my colleagues to be able to afford something from a Living National Treasure.
“I’m not sure if it’s going to be a present or not. But I do want to shop.”
“
Ah so desu ka
,” she said gently. “Well, perhaps I can give you some ideas about what we have in your particular price range.”
“Thanks. Is there anything for about fifty thousand yen?” That was just a bit less than $500, and seemed a generous starting point.
“I’m so sorry, but at that price there is only one item we have: a
hashi-oki
service for five. And it would be made by an apprentice in our workshop who is under my master’s direction, but not, you understand, custom-made…”
I winced. She was talking about chopstick rests, little pieces of porcelain used to hold the business end of chopsticks during a meal. “Did I say fifty thousand? I meant to say five hundred thousand.”
“Oh.” She laughed lightly. “In that case, you have another choice. We have at the moment a set of teacups made in the ancient style. And if you have a bit more flexibility in price, you will have the chance to commission something specially, though you said you needed to buy quickly.”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “What I really would like is to see what is in the studio, and humbly request your master’s advice.”
“Yes, I understand your wish. My master would like to meet with everyone who comes through the studio, but regrettably, in order to meet customers’ deadlines he cannot do that. And since the typhoon, we have been very busy repairing the property.”
“It’s such a shame. I heard lovely things about the esteemed master from Harada-san, and that’s why I was interested in a commission.”
“Harada Kenichi-sama? The minister for the environment?” Her voice warmed.
“Yes.”
“Ah, he is a very special friend to the studio. I think—my master may want to send his greetings to him. Your name is…”
“Matsuda Reiko,” I said sweetly, taking the name from a real estate ad pasted near the train’s ceiling. Matsuda was a very common name; if word of my visit reached Mr. Harada, he would probably scratch his head and remember a Matsuda from somewhere.
“Matsuda-san, we are delighted to hear from a friend of our honorable customer. I am Sakurai Nobuko. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier.”
The potter’s wife? I sucked in my breath because all through the conversation, I’d thought she was some kind of employee. Nobuko Sakurai had consistently referred to her husband with the feudal term
danna-sama
, which literally meant “master,” and that could have been a term used by an employee instead of a wife. I understand now what people had told me about southern Japan—it was more antiquated than anywhere else in the country. In fact, as the train had passed the gardens of small houses, I’d seen men’s and women’s clothes hung on separate lines, something I’d heard was done so that the male garments would avoid contagion from the inferior female clothing.
“Well, I must prepare something for you to bring to Harada-san,” Mrs. Sakurai said. “At what time would you like to visit the studio?”
I looked at my watch. “I’m about two hours away. Would a four o’clock visit be inconvenient, though?”
“Oh, no. Four is usually the time for our tea break, anyway. You must join us.”
After hanging up, I tried to put my worries aside for a few minutes and take in Kyushu, one of Japan’s most famously beautiful islands. It had been devastated by the typhoon, even in the inland area where we were traveling. Citrus groves were littered with fallen
mikan
tangerines, and the rice paddies were brimming with muddy brown water. Almost every tiled roof had large blocks missing, and downed power lines were everywhere. The damage here, while similar to what I’d seen in Tokyo and Hayama, was worse for the local residents because so many of them were farmers. Mrs. Sakurai had said the pottery studio had suffered damage, too. No wonder she had warmed up when I’d talked about spending half a million yen. Visitors to Kyushu would be fewer, and times harder, in the winter ahead.
The stationmaster at the closest town to Umeda advised me to take the number 8 bus, which was just about to depart, so I did. Once aboard, I thought about whether I should have taken a taxi; I had the funds. No, I thought, taxi drivers talked. Taking the bus would make me less memorable. I’d already begun to regret dyeing my hair, because while the streaky look was common in Tokyo, it wasn’t in the village of Kyushu.
“This is the stop for Umeda. Please don’t forget your things,” a recorded female voice said from the bus’s loudspeaker. I decided I’d better get out, because it looked as if the town was essentially a single road, spanned by a few shops. I stepped off the bus with my suitcase, and my feet crunched into something. I looked down. Pots. Everywhere, the earth was mixed with the shards of
kuromon
, as black pottery was called in this community. It wasn’t new pots that had been lost in the typhoon, I realized; those shattered urns were close to the houses, where I could see they’d held things like farm tools, umbrellas, or plants. What lay underneath me, I thought with a thrill, was the town’s centuries of life as a pottery village.
I raised my eyes a bit higher and started scanning the houses for something that looked like the studio. From the brochure, I knew it was located on this road, about an eighth of a mile away. Vacant, overgrown fields stood on either side of the houses; here, undeveloped space—which was a luxury in most of Japan—was running rampant with weeds. I’d seen very few people as I’d walked, just an old grandmother in baggy
monpe
work trousers pushing a wheelbarrow packed with freshly pulled
daikon
. She’d offered me a bag to take back to the city as a souvenir, and I’d been caught un-prepared. People didn’t usually solicit that way in Tokyo, and I was unsure what the right, unmemorable response should be. In the end, I agreed to take a 500-yen portion, which I hoped would make her think favorably of me, though I had no intention of taking them back to the city.
“Are you going to see Sakurai-san’s studio?” the woman said while tucking the coin I’d given her into her blouse. I’d nodded, and left it at that. It made sense; the only reason anyone from far away would come to this one-street town would be for a glimpse of the Living National Treasure.
Sakurai’s studio was marked only by the
kanji
characters making up his name, placed on the wall surrounding the house, which looked to me like a typical middle-class tiled-roof house—except that many tiles were missing. They lay haphazardly scattered around the garden. As I approached the door, I realized that a thick black snake was lying in front of the steps. I halted, wondering how in the world I could bring myself to step over it.
As I stood deliberating, a young man with a rakish hairstyle, baggy jeans, and a black sweater turned the corner with a wheelbarrow of his own; it was filled with broken tiles and debris. The apprentice, I guessed.
“Good day. Excuse me, but are you Miss Matsuda?” he asked. His accent was different from the Kyushu dialect I’d heard spoken in the train station and aboard the bus. He was probably a transplant like myself.
When I nodded, he bowed. “The master is expecting you. How was your journey? You must be very tired.”
“Yes. I mean, no. It’s just—” I gestured toward the snake.
“Oh, I’m sorry! In Kyushu, these snakes are everywhere. So annoying.” He rolled his wheelbarrow toward the snake, and I caught my breath. Was he going to run over it?
That turned out not to be the case; the snake raised its head and slithered off into the bushes.
I gave a sigh. “Thank you.”
“There’s a peaceful way to do everything, the master says.”
I smiled and said, “This is turning out to be a very exciting day.”
“It is also an excitement for us. When one of Harada-san’s friends comes to call, it is a special opportunity indeed,” the apprentice said effusively.