The bent figure with the cane was older than the sidewalk, older than the cold concrete buildings that lined the road. The squat brick houses of his childhood had crumbled or been torn down in the ninety years he had been away. His leather bag contained a few necessities including his glasses, a pad of paper, a pencil and a small sharpening knife. Carefully stored in a side pocket lay a tattered drawing of “the tree,” the one that had set him on the path that now finally led back here.
He had been inquiring all day, but no one remembered the bonsai master who used to live in this town. By now, several generations had come and gone. New neighborhoods had become old neighborhoods only to die away and be reborn as industrial shops or shopping centers. The chances that he would find the master’s tree still here were probably slim, but this was the only place he could think of to start. He showed people the drawing. Some thought they recognized the tree, but no one could be sure.
“They all look alike, don’t they?”
A tea shop offered some relief from the early winter chill. The old woman who brought him hot water seemed familiar, but how would he know? He was only eight when he left.
“Has your family lived here long?” he asked, hopefully.
“A hundred and fifty years,” she said.
“Mine, too,” he replied; “but they’re all scattered now.” He looked up at her. “Do you remember the old town square? I can’t find it.”
“I do,” she said. “You wouldn’t recognize it. They rebuilt it when I was ten.”
“If you don’t mind, how long ago was that?” he asked. “Pardon the impropriety.”
She smiled. “Seventy six years ago.”
Gingerly, he pulled out the drawing and laid it on the table by the steeping tea. “Did you ever see this bonsai tree behind a gate in the little alley just off the square? Was it still there when you were a girl?”
She put on her glasses. “No,” she said. “I was very young when they tore down that neighborhood.”
He sat back, deflated.
She touched his arm. “That rock—the one that juts out over the little pond—the old hotel used to have a beautiful tree in a pot with a rock just like it, but that tree was taller than the one in your drawing.”
The old man brightened. “Is it still there?”
“The tree or the hotel?” she asked. “Neither, actually. They put up a new hotel after the earthquake, and I don’t know what happened to the tree. Why are you looking for this tree? Are you a bonsai master?”
“No,” said the old man. “But I used to visit the bonsai master when I was a boy. I watched him caring for his trees, day after day. I used to pester him while he watered and pruned them, while he pinched the new growth from the tips and brushed the moss off the roots. Though he was a quiet man, he laughed a lot. I liked him very much.”
“Surely, he’s no longer here,” said the woman. “Why do you look for this particular tree?”
He smoothed the edges of the drawing on the table. “This one was his favorite, a tree that was even older than he. ‘A majestic, unruly mess,’ he called it. A farmer was going to rip it out and burn it, but he allowed the bonsai master to dig it out carefully and replant it. The master had to go deep into the mountains to find the rocks on which to plant it, and he commissioned the pot just for this tree. It took three men to move it to its proud position behind his front gate.”
“The tree in the hotel was grand indeed,” she said. “You have told me why it was special to him. Why is it special to you?”
“The bonsai master loved to draw trees,” said the old man. “He might draw the same tree many times before deciding how to train it. He would lend me a bit of charcoal and some paper, and we would sit together and draw. At first, my tree drawings looked like sticks in the ground, but he encouraged me to look deeper. He showed me how the trees reached around to grip the rocks, how they sought the water down below and stretched skyward for the light and the rain, how they grew strong in one direction and died off in another, how one strip of cambium was enough to feed the branches far, far from the roots. My thin sticks became trunks, limbs, bark and foliage. My rocks morphed from shapeless lumps to boulders, crags and talus.”
He took a sip of tea and she poured the last from the pot into his cup.
“I was eight years old when I drew this,” he said. “I had drawn this tree many times and was never satisfied. This time, I was satisfied. I brought it to the bonsai master. I wanted to give it to him, to say goodbye.”
“Why goodbye?” she asked.
“My father was moving us to the city,” said the old man.
“Did the bonsai master accept your gift?” she asked. “Why do you still have it?”
The old man shook his head. “He would not take it. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘Guard it as a reminder of who you are and where you came from. Remember me whenever you look at it. Imagine me sitting on that rock under that long bough, enjoying the shade and the reflections in the water as the breeze rustles in the branches. I’ll be laughing at something you said.’”
He looked up at her again. “So I’ve kept it all these years,” he said. “Since then, I have drawn thousands upon thousands of trees both large and small, each of them unique, each of them a reminder of the bonsai master. My love of these sacred beings has taken me all over the world, up into the high mountains, along the rugged coastline, and deep into ancient forests and steamy jungles. My drawings have filled gallery walls and can be found in beautiful homes and grand lobbies. They have made a good life for me. I wanted to find the tree that inspired it all, just to say thank you.”
She helped him out of his chair and into his coat. “Come with me,” she said. “Maybe we can find your tree. My grandnephew works at the hotel.”
They waited in the hotel lobby while the young man made a few inquiries. When he returned, he was escorting a well-dressed businessman whom he introduced as the owner.
“I think we have what you’re looking for,” said the owner. “If you’ll follow me, please.”
He led them around behind the hotel to a fenced-in area filled with potted plants and landscaping tools.
As they passed through the gate, the man said, “The pot is too fragile to be moved, so this tree has been kept back here for as long as I can remember. Our gardeners love it, and they have cared for it the best they could. It’s a pity, really: such a beautiful bonsai out of the public eye. Is this the one?”
The old man trembled as he came to the far corner. There it was, ninety years older, still strong. Even in the cold of winter, it seemed to sleep with quiet vitality.
“May I have a chair?” asked the old man, putting on his glasses.
“Certainly,” said the owner. The grandnephew returned with two chairs and bade the old man sit in one and the old woman in the other.
The old man positioned his chair thoughtfully and sat down. Out of his leather bag, he brought his sketchpad and pencil. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he began to draw. Stroke by stroke, shade by shade, the tree appeared on the page.
He looked more deeply. Yes, the bark was more wrinkled, the roots more gnarled, and the trunk even burlier. A few of the old limbs had died off, but others had grown thicker and longer. It was taller than before; another tier of branches now reached for the sun. He drew them all. He drew each crack and crevice in the rocks, each bit of moss, every shadow on the water in the old, fragile pot.
Then he paused. He took out the knife and sharpened the tip of his pencil, just a little, not too much. He studied the tree again, studied the rocks. Taking one more look at the water, he resumed his drawing.
As the pencil scratched along the surface, the image of the bonsai master emerged, looking up at him from the shady spot on the rock under the long bough, quietly laughing.
