Soldiers in Hiding by Richard Wiley

began to fear that he might also have a sword or a knife stuck somewhere under his robes and when he finished he’d pull it out and cut the cat. But when he did stop the cat crawled up on his lap and he merely put his heavy hands around it and began to stroke.
    â€œYour playing is so beautiful,” I said. “Though I have never lived in Japan it made me feel at home.”
    â€œMy playing is part of it, but the calico cat that sleeps across the center of the instrument is part of it as well. This shamisen itself once purred in my hands, once caught mice under the Buddha and lapped up the milk the monks gave it. Its hide is so wondrous that it can contain a cat of any size. It will stretch. It could accommodate an even larger shamisen ”
    â€œWhy not just leave it alone?” I said, hearing a certain whining in my voice.
    â€œDo not fool yourself into thinking that the cat cares. Life and death are one to it.”
    The master waved his hands above him and laughed, somehow ending the discussion. I picked up the cat and tried to look at it in the dark. “If this cat were yours would you kill it?” I asked.
“Would you fatten it up and then steal its skin so that you could have another shamisen as fine as the one you played tonight?”
    â€œCertainly not,” said the priest.
    â€œYou see. Once the cat got close to you you’d give it a name and there would be no more talk of killing.”
    â€œNo,” he said. “It would simply be silly to have two shamisen . And if the cat were mine I’d be very surprised. This shamisen is mine but the cat could not be.”
    I sighed and decided to stop. What kind of repartee could I accomplish with this man?
    â€œForget the cat,” I said. “It is people we are supposed to care about.”
    â€œCome what may,” said the priest.
    I was thinking suddenly about Kazuko and Jimmy again and was surprised when the priest said, “Of course the secret of receiving is in not wanting.”
    I sat there again, smiling a little. This man made his living saying things like that to all the new monks of the temple.
    â€œYou’ve been very kind in caring for my wound. Do you think the doctor would mind if I went home now?”
    â€œHe would not mind,” said the master.
    I stood, knowing after only a few hours that I could not lead a life like this. The master moved a bit to the side and stood in one motion. I was surprised by how short he was. “Take your cat,” he said. “It could come in handy.” He laughed a little and so did I.
    The master motioned to the others as we walked back through the building, so they all fell in behind. The Buddha was brighter than I expected it would be at night, and I worried that maybe that man was still out there somewhere, waiting to wedge his knife into me once more.
    â€œThe moon is up,” said the master.
    The little cat was tucked inside my shirt, sleeping around the soft edges of my wound. I decided to say one thing more to the master.
    â€œI don’t not care for the cat. You don’t think that, do you?”

    This time I made him laugh hard so the other monks laughed too. For a moment they held their laughter in, then it burst, echoing a little way over the fragile garden, over the low trees.
    â€œGood night,” called the master as I started down the steps.
    I didn’t like their laughing, so without saying anything I started to walk away. The moon was everywhere and I forgot my fear. The night air was invigorating. It was cool. Even the cat must have felt it, for within my shirt it began to stir. It stretched a little and pushed its head between the buttons. It wasn’t a bad cat, its eyes wide, its whiskers white. When the monks stopped laughing the cat seemed startled. When I stepped onto the main street it was inside my shirt again, but its claws were wide now, and pushing a little into the flesh around my wound.
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    WHEN I