Chanoyu: A Tale of the Arts Department

“This is all my fault.”

Wei Zhao possessed uncommon but abstract compassion. Comfort was within her wheelhouse; consolation and absolution were anomalous amenities within her academic circle.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Wei murmured. Professor Deshpande, Saanvi, was still, serene, as usual. No help at all, for having dragged her into this drama.

“If I hadn’t talked her into getting out, meeting people, being more active and engaged, this would never have happened.” Akira Ostrander insisted. “She was living, I suppose, her version of a harmonious life,”. “But it was based totally in fear – no, terror. She wouldn’t go shopping or to church without me, and she was too intimidated by technology and afraid for her safety to have food delivered. I thought if she could learn to live in the world again…”

“I’m really sorry,” Wei interrupted, “but could we back up a step? I know the most of the details about your mother’s death and the fire from the news, though the police seem to be kind of tight-lipped about the details. Your mother immigrated here from Japan, right? About 10 years ago? Had she experienced some kind of trauma that prompted the move?”

“Not there.” Akira’s eyes hardened. “When COVID broke out five years ago, we invited Mother to shelter in place, but she was too obstinate, too independent-minded. She’d grown up in Shizukawa, -- Millington’s sister city -- but Dad had died in 2000, her friends were beginning to die off, and my brothers and sister had left to pursue careers and raise their own families. Mother didn’t want to be a burden, but we insisted she’d be welcome. Until COVID.

“One morning, she was confronted on her morning walk by a man. He may have been homeless, maybe somebody who’d lost his job or family during the pandemic, or just some angry redneck looking to vent his rage on the ‘foreigners.’ Mother was leaving when he charged up, started railing at her about the ‘Chinese flu’ and why didn’t she just go home or worse. She explained best she could that she was Japanese, not Chinese, and started to walk away. He grabbed her, a five-foot-four, 73-year-old woman. He broke her arm, and she suffered a slight concussion. The guy got away. After that, she wouldn’t venture out without me or my husband after that. Until… You see, some of the seniors in her neighborhood went cycling together a couple of times a week, to get breakfast or lunch or just ride one of the trails.”

The city had carved out an impressive network of tree-canopied, paved pedestrian/bike paths that traversed much of Millington. Wei and her significant entomologist Will had found the trails a fantastic wormhole that minimized potentially hazardous interaction between the driving public and Millington’s collection of students, helmeted fitness/Earth freaks, and weaving kids and seniors who presented all-too-tempting targets.

“I convinced Mother she needed some low-impact exercise, and the next thing you know, we’re shopping that pricey bike joint near campus. It’s been a year now, and the fresh air and social engagement seemed to reinvigorate her. Then, her short-term memory started faltering, she’d become agitated at the slightest suggestion of help, and she still wouldn’t go out alone but insisted on living independently. And there was the teahouse.”

The teahouse was on an off-branch of the main trail that ran parallel to University Avenue as it fed into the retail Beltway, and it tunneled under the four-lane parkway. A few hundred yards before Retail Row, the city of Shizukawa had endowed an open-air teahouse and garden path years before the Natsua car plant had bailed for Dallas. Emi would occasionally linger at the Teahouse at their indulgence or on an occasional solo jaunt.

“In the end, it was my fault,” Akira reiterated. “The night Mother rode out for the last time, she held a tea ceremony. She’d told me she’d meditated several times for present-mindedness. Apparently, she thought a more sacred space would amplify her spiritual energy. Instead, it--” She paused, replicated a wan smile. “Could you pardon me for a moment?”

The campus Starbucks shared space and amenities with the campus Radisson, and Wei nursed her matcha as Akira crossed the lobby and into a niche by the twin elevators. “Soooooo, what is this?”

Saanvi shrugged. “Akira texted me for coffee today. Of late, I’ve scarcely seen her outside Millington Women of Leadership functions. Something is amiss.”

Wei frowned. “Why me…?”

“Well, as our director of Asian Arts, I felt you might offer a crucial perspective,” Chairperson Deshpande smirked.

“On what?”

Saanvi smiled. “I suppose, the forensics of tea.”

**

“While Chinese Buddhists adopted Zen green tea meditation rituals, gongfu cha – Chinese tea art – is about method rather than meditation, you know, brewing skill, variety, and sensory pleasure. It’s a social thing, usually in bustling tea houses.”

Wil nodded intently, hands clasped in his aproned lap. Cooking and attentiveness were the entomologist’s dual love languages. But it was Netflix Wednesday, and Professor Zhao could feel his dutiful gaze in the back of her skull.

“Chanoyu, the Japanese tea ceremony, is more mindful, designed to engage all senses and help participants live fully in the present moment. Chanoyu literally means ‘hot water for tea,’ and Japanese tea meditation embraces the notion of wabi-sabi, which finds beauty in imperfection, impermanence. Japanese tea bowls are deliberately asymmetrical, to remind the user of their handcrafted origins. I could go on forever.”

Wil leaned further in.

“You are officially released to prepare the nachos,” Wei Zhao laughed. “Korean drama or Adam Sandler tonight?”

**

Given the choice of bottled water in camp chairs on Nedra Kingston’s driveway on one of the balmiest September days on local record vs. dark roast and a cinnamon-spiked, sugar-dusted Dutch Baby in a climate-controlled solarium, Wei opted a King Kong pancake.

“Emi was the life of the group,” Nedra informed her as the parfum of vintage sweat, Icy Hot, bacon, and maple syrup settled about the corner table. Four helmets occupied the eight-top’s remaining seats. “She was kinda standoffish at first, and I suppose I can’t blame her. We’re an old Boomer neighborhood, but I like to think a welcoming one. After awhile, Emi was just one of the gang, wouldn’t you say, guys?”

Wei reflected on Confucius’ purported proverb: “Don’t speak unless you can improve the silence.” She suspected the stork-like old woman’s philosophy was steeped more in Hobby Lobby or Hallmark. Janet Beaufort to her right was the kookaburra, squat and opaquely bright-eyed as she scrutinized Wei.

“I suppose so,” Janet murmured. “At our age, safety in numbers, you know. And Emi was always very polite.”

“Almost too much,” Darla Weimar asserted. She was the peacock, the only one of the Pine Street Pedalers to dare – and carry off -- contour-hugging Lycra. “It can be very annoying and more than a little passive-aggressive.”

Akira had shared her mother’s photo, revealing a striking woman in her pre-widowhood, pre-arson prime. Wei suspected Darla had sniffed fading limelight.

“Maybe a little distracted,” Janet added. “And she always wanted to stop for water or a break at that shrine thing on the trail. She’d always zone out there.”

“Yeah,” Darla smirked. “Whenever it was her turn to pick the route, she always chose the University/Beltway trail. Self-indulgent, you know?”

“No more than you constantly dragging us across town to get you a grande mocha latte,” Nedra breathed peevishly.

“The hell’s that mean?” Darla demanded, her artfully concealed wattle tightening into dual, freckled cords. The fourth rider growled softly as he roughly decapitated three sugar packs.

Neither Audubon nor Tso-Hsin Cheng could have conjured an avian metaphor for Rob Arbogast – he was carnivorous mammalian all the way. He ripped into his biscuits and gravy as Darla and Nedra bickered. Saanvi could better have read the storm in the corpulent old man’s brow. Professor Zhao could only theorize based on her brief tenure sharing a planet with old, burly white men. Perhaps, Wei speculated, Rob had nothing – or nothing positive -- to offer the silence.

**

Saanvi had pulled a few magical strings with the Millington Fire Department. The source of the blaze along the University-Beltway Trail appeared to be an overturned old-school oil-fueled tea warmer/incense burner, exacerbated by the theoretical contents of the empty sake bottle found a few feet beyond the teahouse just before the burn zone.

Using MFD fire scene photos and reports, Wei’d assembled the necessary elements on the dining room table. The ornate burner; the tea bowl, or chawan; the bamboo whisk, or chasen; the chashaku, the carved wood scoop; the lacquered natsume tea caddy, holding the powdered matcha. The sake, purchased by Will, was Gekkeikan Traditional Junmai, suitable for ceremonial or casual use.

Something gnawed at Wei. She glanced at the photo of the weathered washi paper scroll inscribed in Japanese. Wind speeds were nearly nil the night of the fire, and the elements had remained roughly intact.

“Awake, the scent of tea remains,” Professor Zhao murmured. “Even the forgotten name melts into the wind…” Wei turned to Will, across the table. “In this mindfulness ceremony, we begin by establishing presence. We kneel or assume a comfortable cross-legged position. We take a breath and allow the silence to settle. Finally, we bow slightly to acknowledge the space and the spirit of the ceremony.”

Will ducked his head. “Now what?”

Wei regarded him reprovingly. “Purification. Of the mind and the elements. We wipe the tea bowl with a cotton chakin and the natsume and chashaku with a fu—”

Will cocked his head, curiously concerned.

“The fukusa,” the professor explained. “The ceremonial silk cloth used to clean the utensils. Let’s put a pin in things.” Wei located her phone, paused, grabbed the sake, and disappeared into the bedroom.

**

Wei found him in a common Midwest ritual – the last autumn mow. The sweaty octogenarian ushered them to his back patio.

“My pop, we lost him early, when I was maybe two,” Arbogast finally rumbled after mulling the young scholar’s opening question. “That was 1941. December 7, 1941.”

Some days lived forever in the American psyche or, as FDR had put it, in infamy. Wei scanned the old man’s stolid features, his steel blue orbs peering off toward the back fence and the maples beyond.

“I was in diapers when we lost Pop,” Rob continued. “Whole thing was kinda, oh, abstract? And that’s when your mind starts painting in the details. You know I retired from the old Natsua plant, used to be Chrysler before the Japanese took it over?

“Mr. Sasaki, my floor supervisor, would come around end of shift to shoot the shit. One day after some pretty raw contract talks, I guess I was in a rare state. I told Sasaki about my dad, what I knew, anyway, which was a Japanese dive bomber blowing him off a Navy carrier.

“All Sasaki did for about five minutes was sit there, totally silent. Then he looked up, and I about fell off my chair from the look on his face. He tells me he grew up in Pasadena, his dad was an engineer, his grandpa’d been a florist until he and his folks landed in Arcadia, California during the war. Ever hear of the Santa Anita Assembly Center?”

Wei’d heard of Manzanita, Tule Lake, where Japanese-Americans had been warehoused after being stripped of their homes and businesses. All to keep America safe from the kind of nasty folks who rounded up folks, loaded them on trains, and shipped them to the camps.

“It was, and is, a race track. They cleaned out the stables for the ‘Japs,’ know that? Like livestock. Didn’t know any of that shit ‘til then. We never talked about any of it again, but I never forgot that look. It was the look on Emi’s face when Ned first brought her around. Didn’t say anything at first, just like Mr. Sasaki.

Rob suddenly smiled, staring off at the dying leaves. “Like Emi once told me, kiji mo nakazuba utaremai. Silence keeps one safe. So to answer your question, Emi was good people. Might be better off talking to Queen Darla. She’s the one owned Emi’s place ‘til her husband cleaned out their accounts and found hisself a new princess.”

Wei fell into a Confucian silence, watched a crow light heavily on a maple branch, then left Rob to his final few rows.

**

“Sake normally is reserved for chidori no sakazuki — the passing of sake cups between host and guest,” Wei noted. “But this supposedly was a solitary tea meditation.”

Akira and her husband Ray had admitted Wei and the surviving Pine Street Pedalers into Emi Tanaka’s petite, immaculate home after Ray rapidly negotiated a complex home security touchscreen following a frustrated attempt by his spouse.

“Akira, you told me your mother normally didn’t drink?” Professor Zhao asked as the ensemble settled in around a striking vintage chest repurposed as a tea staging area. The surface was now bare. “So, the sake bottle found at the scene of the fire…?”

Akira nodded. “A gift from the Shizukawa delegation that came to town eight years ago. Mother brought it out only for very special gatherings. Those were few and far between.”

“You want to look at the bottle the police found?” Wei dug out the MFD prints of the elegant green bottle with the green, gold, and red accents and the Gekkeikan crest. “Look at the label. Notice anything?”

“It’s charred a little around the edges, but torn at the bottom,” Akira squinted. “Like someone tried to, what, tear it off? Why?”

“Gekkeikan Traditional Junmai is produced in both Japan and California. Unlike the sake gifted by the Shizukawa delegation, imported or California-produced Gekkeikan must carry U.S. health warnings, importer info, and, of course, a U.S. tax stamp and distributor/retail barcodes. That’s what the killer removed.”

Nedra’s jaw dropped, Akira looked sharply to Wei and Ray to his wife. Rob turned to stone.

“Killer?” Janet squeaked. “When did this become murder?”

“The night of Emi’s death,” Wei stated simply. “Let’s begin with the bottle of sake that had no place in a solo meditation. The bottle which I believe you’ll find is not Emi’s original rice ‘wine.’ Emi was a purist who took her tea and meditation seriously. Yet, though nearly the entire tea ‘set’ was found undamaged, including the cotton chakin and a ceremonial scroll that could easily have blown away in the wind or fire, there was no fukusa.”

Akira frowned. “Mother would never have forgotten her mother’s fukusa. Purification was essential to her.”

“Understandable,” Professor Zhao nodded soberly. “Many vintage Chinese tables and desks, especially those from the Ming and Qing dynasties, were crafted with remarkable ingenuity and often included hidden compartments or concealed drawers.

“Japanese designers as well have incorporated hidden compartments into tansu chests, foldable desks, kimono cabinets, and merchant’s chests or zenibako like this, for secrecy or economy of space. In this case, if I recall, you slide this panel off, then lift the decorative front panel —”

An exasperated Akira nudged Wei aside, worked quickly, and exposed an unstained drawer near the base of the sturdy chest. She extracted a folded silk cloth embroidered with what the professor recognized as the Japanese character for harmony. A matching silk bag held a familiar green bottle with the Gekkeikan crest.

“Akira,” Nedra whispered in shock.

Wei waved her off. “When you realized your mother had gone missing, you had a pretty strong suspicion where she might have gone. The teahouse was her safe place.”

“She wasn’t there,” Akira sighed. Then her gaze shifted abruptly.

“The trail’s not always safe after dark. You asked someone who knew the trail, knew your mother’s habits, to find her. Now, I can’t believe you’d dispatch one of her elderly neighbors to brave the dark, hidden corridor. And even if you had, they wouldn’t have been able to access this house. Your security system is complex, and I assume it’s automatically activated when your mother leaves the house, in case she might forget to arm it?”

Akira was silent.

“You, clearly, have problems operating the system.” Wei heard the gasp, and it was Rob Arbogast who stepped forward to brace the faltering Ray Ostrander as Darla located a chair.

“You did find your mother-in-law at the teahouse, didn’t you?” Wei gently inquired. The sturdy, gray-haired man stared up, stricken. “It’s been a lot, hasn’t it? Watching your wife’s mom on the edge of dementia. When she resisted leaving her ‘safe’ place, when, she what, physically resisted being taken away, dragged away, in her view manhandled, did it all just come to a head? Did what started as a protective impulse turn rough or violent?

“And then you had to explain to the police and, far worse, Akira. Or you could devise a scenario that would save your marriage. You’d watched Emi perform tea rituals, but from a detached perspective. You came back to the house, disarmed the alarm, and gathered everything you needed for a tea meditation, including the oil-fueled warmer to be blamed for the ‘accidental’ fire. Then you wondered if an oil fire would be enough, and remembered the high-proof sake Emi always used in communal teas. But no bottle was in sight. Benji’s Liquor World on the Beltway has stocked Gekkeikan Traditional Junmai ever since the sister city visit. They sold a bottle on the night of Emi Tanaka’s death. You used your credit card.

“I suspect the police can retrieve LOCKBOXX Security’s log of comings and goings at the house the night of the fire. You could get in and out of your mother-in-law’s home without triggering any alarms, but you didn’t realize there was an added layer of security for her treasured fukusa.”

Ray didn’t speak even after Wei signaled the detectives at the curb. Secretly, the professor was relieved: Nothing Wei could imagine would improve this silence.