He tends to wear a teflon vest underneath his leather gear, and that impossibly tightly tailored leather coat he favours, though it eludes me how he can still move, encased in all those stiff layers. When he goes to train at the dojo not far from our place, he dresses in an odd array of clothes: his sharp coat plus straw sandals and a pair of tame black drawstring trousers. Nothing else. Not even undies – I ran into him in the bathroom where he was about to take a shower after one of his bouts. It brought me out in a cold sweat to think about it, so I tried not to, but I could not resist following him again to see him in action.
Barefoot, in nothing but those wide trousers, with a bamboo sword for practice – the sight knocked me breathless. A sliver of silver and crimson, a splash of darkness, moving forcefully, with deadly precision, the light bouncing off his skin and washing over him in a pale gleam, unceasing movement, no pause, no hesitation, no stalling. Every motion swift, powerful and utterly serious.
No one would spar with him except for the sensei, and even though the old man was a master, the few blows he landed on Aya appeared to be allowed rather than inflicted. I suspected it was this 'keeping face' thing Aya was acting out here. The sensei could not know it was no sport for Aya but his job. He fought without protection, and a few scarlet welts marked his ribcage, but he did not even flinch when he permitted the sensei's bamboo blade to slap home with considerable force. He took the blow, merely gasping, and kept moving, small, firm feet, a short, compact body, lean and muscular arms, hard hands... He had nothing of the light grace of a dancer, or the wooden elegance of a Noh-actor. He was fast, strong, and deadly, with an edge of contained brutality.
He spent hours repeating the same sequence of motions, honing them, glaring at his image in the wall of mirrors on one side of the dojo as though reprimanding himself for the tiniest imperfection. Sweat was dripping from his nose and flying in little sprays off his face as he stepped through his katas at lightning speed, with not the slightest sign of getting tired. I wondered whether I could outwait him, see him tire and finish. I decided to leave when I caught myself napping, my cheek against the post that held the lattice between the floor and the outer gallery where I sat so he could not see and skewer me for intruding on him like this. He turned up at the Koneko after more than six hours on the practice floor, and I suspected he only left because the dojo had closed for the evening.
Well, we all have our hobbies.
Next chapter: Scent