Grief Lies Onward

By Ju

My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

- Sonnet 50, William Shakespeare

It was so easy to fall into a rhythm.  In the small, cluttered space that they shared, they would move around each other smoothly, with only the slightest of contact as their shirt sleeves brushed.  Every morning Isumi would wake with the sound of the alarm clock at seven-thirty, while Yang Hai would lounge in bed for another half hour, listening idly to the noises that came from the bathroom.  They would play a game every night, two if Isumi so requested, and as each night passed he would slowly close the gap between them, the gap that distinguished between pro and amateur.  Their toothbrushes, blue and green, would sit alongside each other on the bathroom counter, just as their underwear hung side by side on the shower rod.  Their silences were comfortable, pensive, but never awkward, and Isumi eventually stopped feeling embarrassed about changing his clothes while Yang Hai was facing him.

The room began to smell like the two of them, an amalgation of Yang Hai’s soap and Isumi’s shampoo.  It was a comforting smell, a smell that differed from the rich cooking of the dining room and the impersonal disinfectant of the playing area, and Isumi began to associate this smell with his home away from home.

But the fact was that Japan was his home; not wanting to leave China, this Go institute, this very room, was absurd.  He had already been here for two months, separated from his family and friends, and perhaps it shouldn’t be too much to ask to feel a little homesickness.

They sat facing each other in their little room, surrounded by things that belonged to the both of them; Yang Hai’s clothes were strewn carelessly over a chair, Isumi’s pajamas neatly folded up at the foot of his bed.  Although the empty goban lay between them, neither made a move to nigiri, and Isumi’s hands clenched around the smooth wood of the goke as he waited nervously for Yang Hai to speak.

And when he finally did, his words caused both relief and apprehension.  “Have you enjoyed your stay here, Isumi-kun?”

Isumi deliberately forced his hands to relax, and directed a tentative smile towards the other man.  “Yes, very much so.  Thank you again for your hospitality, Yang Hai-san.”

Yang Hai didn’t frown, didn’t wave a hand dismissively, didn’t do anything other than slouch further back into his seat, but somehow Isumi received the impression of disapproval.  Japanese and Korean weren’t his only talents, it seemed; Yang Hai’s body language often told Isumi what the man couldn’t be bothered putting into words.

But then their routine fell into place again, like the right piece in a puzzle, as Yang Hai indicated that they should begin to play.  Isumi focused his attention on the game, the unfolding pattern of black and white, his concentration never wavering until Yang Hai paused unexpectedly and broke the smooth rhythm that their hands had been silently creating on the board.

“Have you felt homesick?”

Yang Hai’s voice was deeper when he murmured; Isumi had first discovered this when the older man had suddenly started a conversation with him one night, when the lights were out and they had been lying in their separate beds, listening to each other’s breathing.  Yang Hai had spoken of his family, his Go master, his home in Yunnan, a girl he’d once liked who had never forgiven him for leaving her there; and in exchange Isumi had spoken of his family, the Nine Stars Club, his fellow Insei, Waya.  In this darkness, the world consisted of only the two of them, the sounds of their breathing and the soft whirring of Yang Hai’s computer.

“No, not at all.”  Isumi shook his head, and kept his eyes lowered.  He watched Yang Hai’s hands, but they remained still, and after another pause Isumi’s gaze flew up defiantly.  “Not at all, not even for a single moment.  Isn’t that strange?”

Yang Hai’s eyes appeared to hold all the answers that he sought, but even as Isumi searched them with his own he couldn’t grasp the meaning behind the other man’s expression.  Then Yang Hai placed a stone down, the distinct pa-chi sound almost a shock to Isumi’s senses.

Later, he would look back and wonder why he kept speaking, even as he could feel Yang Hai’s silence becoming so terribly cold.  “Don’t you think that’s strange, Yang Hai-san?  This isn’t home; home is Japan.  My family, my friends.  Waya.”

“Yes.”  That was all Yang Hai said, before he waved a hand at the goban to remind Isumi that they were still in the middle of a game, their last one.  The next morning Isumi would pack up his things, reclaim his toothbrush and underwear from the bathroom, fold up the covers of the spare bed precisely, and leave with the scent of his shampoo lingering in a suddenly too large and too empty room.  He would return to Japan, his home, and his own bedroom would seem too neat and orderly.  He would hear a sound and turn abruptly, expecting to brush up against another person, only to encounter air that smelled unfamiliar.

That last game made Isumi’s heart wrench, but afterwards they went about their routine like any other night, smoothly sidestepping each other, their sleeves brushing ever so slightly.  He kept his gaze down and avoided Yang Hai’s dark, knowing eyes, and he would never be able to understand why his first and final victory that night left a bitter taste in his mouth.

~ fin