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as if telling the world, Yes, I am angry and everyone will understand that I am angry. As he sets the tray with pot and cup down, the master regards the stranger with the practiced nonchalance that is required of all teahouse managers. The stranger's face is confounding in its lack of definable features -- he could be a man of over sixty, but he could also be a man of thirty. It is impossible to tell with those furrows in the skin that may be merely signs of exhaustion, the dark beard that could be gray underneath the dirt, the stolid limbs underneath the coat. The master can smell alcohol on the stranger's breath -- no doubt he has whiled away the entire day at one of the pubs down the road. The man has propped up a sword in its scabbard against the edge of the table, within easy reach.  |
Who carries a sword these days? the master scoffs to himself. An affectation, like he's from … Care to have some? The master offers him the hookah pipe. The man shakes his head in a manner that suggests he does not wish to be disturbed by friendliness. Abashed and a bit angered by the dismissal, the master shuffles back to his seat. Maybe I misspoke, he thinks. Maybe he is a rebel, after all. My wife will never let me hear the end of it… They sit at their separate tables for a spell, and the sun disappears behind the mountains. Above, a few scraps of cloud crawl across the vermilion skies. A peaceful, windless evening,  |
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