Softly, a door slides shut. There’s a faint rustle of silk and the whisper of feet clad in tabi (split-toe socks) over tatami. After a pause, a bamboo ladle taps a small stand, its slender handle inaudibly dropping to the floor.
And it’s here — crouched in the garden outside of the tea room, holding my breath, eyes closed in concentration — that I sense my signal to quietly roll up the slatted sudare (bamboo screens) hanging outside the paper-covered windows.
I can’t see what’s happening in the tea room where the host and five guests are gathered, but it’s my responsibility to know.
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