THE TRAVELING BOARD: Report from Shikoku
By Solomon SmilackWhenever I play go with Yokoyama-sensei in his home, Mrs. Yokoyama attends us with food and drink. She gives us each a cup of coffee during our first game, and endless cupfuls of green tea for the remainder of my visit. She usually plies us with small snacks – crackers, biscuits, hard candy – as well as traditional foods such as mochi (sticky rice cakes), anko-filled muffins (anko is a sweet bean paste), buntan and mikan (citrus fruits).
Each time that I arrive, I make an effort to talk to Mrs. Yokoyama. It is easy to simply launch into a game with her husband, but doing so seems almost rude. At first I was afraid that she and I would have little to talk about, but I recently found that we both enjoy choral singing. During my last visit I entered the living room and found her seated at the kotatsu (a table with a heater on the underside). She was sewing large, pink flowers, and she explained that they would adorn the choir robes at her next concert. When I asked for details about the concert, she gave me a complimentary ticket and a flyer. Mr. Yokoyama asked why I would want to listen to a choir of old women. I’m not sure if he was joking or not. My friends have mentioned that Japanese men insult their wives, but it is still hard for me to not be put off by his comment. I have trouble reconciling such harshness with his regular, gentle nature.
My handicap against Yokoyama-sensei shrank to two stones. It was a brief advancement, because I subsequently lost three games in a row, but I felt stronger nevertheless. My handicap shifts after each best-of-five match, and my progress feels tangible. After each of our games we talk about the winning and losing moves without fail, I smack myself in the forehead for having known a proper move but having played a poor one. I do not always have to wait until after the game to be told where I failed. Sometimes I know the losing move when I make it, and sometimes Yokoyama-sensei feigns indigestion. I thought, at first, that his groans meant that I had gained an advantage or found a tesuji; I quickly discovered that they were the laments of a teacher with an inept pupil. Now I fear them more than I fear losing.
April 12, 2004