Haiku Master Chronicles | Komachi, to Dubai ①

The top floor of a skyscraper overlooking the Persian Gulf. A cold wind blows through the opulent, glass-walled VIP room.

Oil tycoon Rashid, sitting deep in a massive leather sofa, looked down at Komachi while his gold-embroidered kandura swayed.

"Haiku. A truly magnificent literature. Even the thirty-one syllables of Tanka are too wasteful. To capture a scene in a mere seventeen syllables is excellent time performance."

Rashid swirled the ice in his glass, making a cool, tinkling sound.

"I am thinking of introducing the philosophy of Haiku to my company as well. 'Short, without waste, conveying maximum information.' Don't you think it's perfect business logic? Tell me, Komachi."

Rashid was in high spirits. As long as he paid, he could order the four seasons from all over the world. He did not doubt that he, who could even make it snow indoors, was the one perfectly controlling elegance in this land.

Komachi closed her eyes quietly. Cutting out waste, time performance, business...?

What floated in her mind was the vast, reddish-brown desert stretching out just one step outside this luxurious room. There, there were no cherry blossoms, no autumn leaves, no light rain. The Japanese almanac of seasonal words was of no use. The raw, overwhelming harshness of nature existed there.

A man who buys the seasons with money and regards words as mere efficient data. A quiet, simmering indignation took root within Komachi.

If there is no seasonal word, there is only one thing to compose...

Komachi opened her eyes and stared straight into Rashid's pupils.

"Lord Rashid. I shall compose a haiku for you."
"Oh, excellent! A poem praising this collection I boast of, and my perfect air conditioning?"

Komachi straightened her back, and without even taking her folding fan in hand, she let the sound resonate sonorously.

Bought with gold, the phantom of the seasons, in a building of sand.

Silence enveloped them. The interpreter turned pale and, with a trembling voice, conveyed the nuance of the Arabic to Rashid's ear.

"No matter how much you counterfeit the seasons with money, the moment you step outside, everything is a castle in the sand. The efficiency and wealth you boast of are nothing but delusions before the scorching sand."

Rashid's smile vanished. His hand gripping the glass tightened. Komachi continued without hesitation.

"Haiku is not a tool for shrinking information. It is something that harbors the immeasurable nature that cannot be put into words, and the absurdity of humanity, in the gaps between the pared-down sounds. If you only seek efficiency, please have an AI write your words."

The interpreter gasped. The VIP room fell silent.

"Ha!"
A short breath escaped Rashid's throat. Following that, a roar of laughter that seemed to well up from the bottom of his belly echoed throughout the room.

"Hahaha! Magnificent! So, elegance was such a sharp knife after all."

Rashid clapped his hands, tears in his eyes.

"I surrender, Lady Komachi! It was I who was taking words lightly by talking about 'time performance.' To pierce me with such a short phrase, showing me an elegance that money cannot buy!!"

While listening to the billionaire's surrender, Komachi turned her gaze outside the window toward the real desert, which had begun to be dyed red by the setting sun.

Elegance, racing through the scorching building.

Komachi's true training in Dubai was just about to begin from here.

To be continued

Haiku Master Chronicles Series

Haiku Master Chronicles | 'The Narrow Road to the Deep North' Edition

Haiku Master Chronicles | 'Italian Training' Edition

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