No one says no in Japan
It was in the Yoshida machiya (merchant house) in Kyoto that I first came to admire those qualities of Japanese architecture that continue to intrigue me. The exposed clarity of post-and-beam structure; the open-plan flow of space, always able to be modified to suit seasonal need by shoji and fusuma screens; the use of patterned wood; the ranma (transoms) that divide ceiling space between rooms; and, of course, the soft, grassy, sweet-smelling tatami. The centre of such a Japanese house is always the tokonoma, a slightly raised, timber-framed alcove with a tatami floor on which a single valued object might be displayed.
I have been in so many houses of this kind in the years following yet never once have I failed to be moved by their quiet, subdued elegance. No book can convey the experience of simply walking in these rooms through which the partially screened light from outside seeps through various shading devices.
There is no music or extraneous noise, just the sound of foliage rustling, rain falling, wooden doors softly rattling or crows calling.
Once, at the temple of Entsu-ji in Northern Kyoto, famous for its use of Shakkei – the borrowed landscape – in this case of sacred Mt Hiei in the far distance – I had to beg for silence. The monks had 'helpfully' installed a sound system over which one of them broadcast a droning, continuous commentary. I could not believe my ears. One of Japan's most famous places for anyone interested in the relationship of buildings to landscape ruined by jabber! I asked for reprieve but only succeeded in having the volume slightly turned down. In New Zealand I would have made more of a fuss but in Japan one does not. This would have incurred the silent stare of incomprehension. Mokusatsu: death by silence.
No one says 'No' in Japan. Neither do they give an unequivocal 'Yes'. I had to train my Auckland friend Motoharu that the reply to the question 'Would you like a cup of coffee?' was not 'Are you having one?' I call it the culture of 'maybe'. It takes some getting used to but once one realises that disagreement of any kind in Japan implies some lack of respect for another, then, especially if one is mostly restricted to English, it is necessary to change gear a little.
Sometimes in a restaurant – before learning that there is no deviation from what is on the menu – a non-Japanese might ask if the Kewpie mayonnaise on a Toast Morning breakfast salad could be held. Just a moment.
The staff member will then disappear and return a short time later with another who will ask you what seems to be the problem. You repeat your request. Ah! Smiling. Just a moment. When the third employee arrives you realise that this is a Committee of NO – however, the word will not be uttered. Never ask for anything that is not on the menu.
Insistence never works in Japan; one must simply become Japanese, conforming to established etiquette as politely as the Japanese do themselves. I have watched Americans and Australians yelling and gesticulating at bewildered hotel front desk staff before retreating in anglophonic shame.
Nachi: the tallest waterfall in Japan.
Etiquette is not a concept about which much is heard nowadays, yet second-hand bookshops used to be filled with solemn volumes on the subject. In the 1970s when table manners came to be regarded as social class indicators many New Zealand parents stopped teaching them. It was never so in Japan. Once, in a Gion restaurant, I watched entranced as a perhaps 20-year-old man manipulated his hashi (chopsticks) and napkin with an elegance bordering on the balletic. After raising food to his mouth he covered it with his cupped spare hand so that the act of chewing was obscured. Then, in slow motion, he would raise his napkin to his face, pat it lightly and then place it on his lap again before beginning the same seamless ritualistic movement for the next mouthful.
In November 2014 I went to look at Kengo Kuma's elegant OMI Steak House in the now demolished Kokusai Hotel in Kyoto and decided that it would be a crime not to eat there. Seated, like everyone else, above the spotless central cooking area I had a perfect view of the culinary processes and of the other guests. Soon I became aware that an ancient lady was looking at me with some interest, smiling. I returned the gesture eventually raising my glass, as she also did. It crossed my mind that she must be a former geisha, such being the delicacy of her movement and facial expression. When the white-uniformed chef brought me another glass of chablis I asked him who she was.
'That is Sumiko. She is 90 years old. She comes here once a week.'
After some further glass raising I got up from my bench and moved over to sit beside her. She seemed delighted, placing her hand over mine while we talked in both languages and did a lot of silent smiling and bowing. Lacking the financial resources ever to contemplate visiting an establishment where I might have been served by geisha I determined to enjoy this one encounter to the full. Yes, she did indeed like champagne, so I bought us both a glass. The graceful arabesques she drew in the air with her hands as we eventually said goodbye were as entrancing as the way in which she had used her chopsticks.
Taken with kind permission from the extraordinary new travel memoir Japan: An autobiography by Peter Shaw (Six Point Press, $45), available from selected bookstores or direct from the publisher.
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