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the aftertaste of apples in the mouth. With the coming of winter, tobacco shipments will be scarce, he thinks. This will be the last in a long time. Before the wars, before the incessant smoke and factory buildings, this garden had an unobstructed view of the entire region. Built atop one of the tallest hills in the area, it overlooks the river as it meets the sea, and even now if one turns to gaze inland one can see the patchwork villages, the bumps of the local mountain range, and the higher peaks that separate the coast from the interior. Once it had been a lookout post, a lonely collection of huts and a half-built cottage where soldiers took turns watching the sea for signs of enemy intrusion, then the grand mounds of black smoke where the precious coal plants were located,  |
then the passes in the mountain range that refused to budge. They would carry out these observations by strict timetables, point to point, day to night, year after year. But as with all things, maintenance became too expensive, and the hill was abandoned, the tea plants glad to run riot, and the master had done what he could to rehabilitate the remains of the cottage, the cypress trees that had been introduced by foreign visitors ages before. An outdoor courtyard with stone tiles had been laid down; lanterns lit every night. Not surprisingly, the garden has been mostly ignored. From the town below, one must follow a certain alley, climb one particular set of steps among the latticework of steps that lead to temples, obscure districts, and canals, and then know enough to ignore the rusty iron gate that appears to forbid entrance, and simply push on through. The master makes  |
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