Chapter 25 The Mysterious Address
The Mysterious Address
My first daylight stroll around Kyoto led me into the traditional streets of the Gion district where my ryokan was located. Antique shops, boutiques and small cafés and restaurants were already showing signs of life.
Wandering around this area, I came to the narrow Pontocho Street, which runs parallel to the Kamo River.
Walking past teahouses and clubs that had a secretive air, even in broad daylight, I wondered whether the wabi-sabi workshop was in this part of the city.
I was still dazed after my journey and had forgotten to ask about it at the ryokan, but I had the evidence I needed with me: the postcards.
I leaned against a tree that sprouted from the cobblestones like a mushroom. On the back of the cat postcard, the blue ink of the words wabi-sabi seemed to glow in a special way.
I peered at the tiny inscription that said Atelier.
That was followed by some kanji characters and the number twenty-seven, so I imagined that must be the address.
I then started examining the Golden Pavilion postcard.
Apart from my name, nothing was written on it, and there was no address.
The only clue was in the postmark, which was the same on both postcards: a quarter of a circle with the same kanji characters and a four-figure number below it: 4,032.
That might mean they’d been posted in the same district.
They may have had the same postmark, but the two peculiar stamps couldn’t have been more different.
One showed an Akita dog (a breed I recognized from Richard Gere’s movie Hachi), with a curled tail and a glowing halo around it.
The other showed four women in mauve tunics standing next to an old telescope.
One was looking through it while two others observed her with interest and the fourth was gazing at the sky as if she trusted her own eyes more than the instrument.
While I was wondering about all this, a woman of around sixty stopped in front of me.
Dressed in a skirt and jacket, she bowed courteously and then held out her hand to take the postcard I was staring at—the one that had the workshop’s address.
It seemed she wanted to help, so I gratefully handed it to her, making a small bow in return.
Behind the very thick lenses of her glasses, her considerably magnified eyes opened wide in astonishment when she read it.
As if Satan himself had jumped out of that address, she hastily returned the postcard, bowed once more and scurried off down the street.
I was left standing there wondering what kind of place this workshop must be if it scared the woman so much. Curiosity made me scan the crowds of Japanese people filling Pontocho Street at this early hour of the morning to see if I could identify someone who might speak English.
I chose a long-haired boy who was carrying a folder covered with pictures of the Sex Pistols and went over to him.
“Excuse me, can you tell me the district where I might find this address?”
The boy took the postcard, leading me to believe he’d understood me. But he handed it back a couple of seconds later with an uneasy smile.
What was going on with this place? I was more and more bewildered.
“Sorry, I can’t tell you.” He shrugged and rushed away, his folder under his arm.