Umami
Too tired and confused to do anything useful, I decided that my best option would be to change my routine that Tuesday, so I went upstairs to see Titus, looking for a little human warmth.
Just like every other day of the week, including Saturday and Sunday, he was at his table, surrounded by books and tapping away at his computer keyboard.
Titus’s body seemed to have shrunk a little more every time I saw him, but he never tired of working.
His clean-shaven head made me think of Zen monks in temples like the Golden Pavilion.
Since I was still hurting too much from the blow I’d received, I started with the temple.
“I just got another postcard.”
I put it down on the table, trying to make him look up from his computer. After a quick glance, he took off his glasses, cleaned them and examined both sides of the postcard.
“Looks like you have a faithful friend in Kyoto. The first one was from there too.”
“Faithful friend? I don’t know anyone in Kyoto—or anywhere else in Japan, for that matter. It must be a mistake.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence to be a mistake.
Anyway, your name and address are written here.
This is no mistake.” I took a stool over to sit beside him, like a little boy wanting his father’s advice and protection.
I needed both. I was wounded, lost, a dog abandoned by the roadside.
Titus must have noticed something, because he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m going to make a pot of kabusecha, and then we can have a good talk. ”
I stayed where I was, staring at Titus’s trains. Crouched under the table where they were rattling around their tracks, Mishima—who’d followed me upstairs—watched us with expectant eyes.
Titus returned with a cast-iron teapot and two irregularly shaped cups. “They’re Japanese, like your friend.” He winked at me. “We’ll drink to his health. This is kabusecha, which is halfway between sencha and gyokuro. It’s all a question of umami.”
“I can’t make head or tail of what you just said, Titus.”
He sat down at his table, swiveling his chair round to face me, and filled the two small cups with the greenish liquid. The room now had a faint smell of fresh herbs.
“I recently started getting interested in tea,” he explained. “My body’s giving out, so I’m taking all the antioxidants I can to put off the evil hour.”
I remembered the heart attack he’d had some years earlier and how I’d been obliged to take over his work as a writer. I hadn’t shown the slightest talent.
“The three varieties I just mentioned represent three ways of growing the same plant.” He was proud to show off his knowledge about his latest passion.
“Sencha is the natural kind of green tea. It grows all by itself in the sun, from planting to harvest. At the other end of the spectrum is gyokuro, which is like the champagne of the green teas. It’s kept in the shade during its final growth period.
Between these two varieties is what we’re drinking now. Have a sip . . .”
I lifted the cup to my lips and tried the tea. It was mild and a little astringent.
“The kabusecha has just a touch of umami because its leaves are slightly exposed to sunlight as they grow.”
“What’s umami?”
“It’s a rich, savory taste. When used to describe tea, it can mean that the tea has a special, slightly bitter flavor.” Titus’s sunken eyes roamed over my face. “And, now that I think about it, there’s a strong symbolic link between umami and human affairs.”
He lifted his cup to inhale the fragrance of the kabusecha before taking a sip. I waited for him to continue.
“The less light the plant receives as it grows, the more umami it will have. The same thing happens with human emotions. If you don’t air your worries, they ferment inside you and end up making you bitter.”
“Have you read something like this in my face?”
“Yes. Out with it, Samuel. What’s the matter?”