“No,” she said. “Your story is a gift . . . Thank you.”
Her lashes were thick and dark against her skin. Like black butterflies.
A peal of thunder rolled across the sky.
“This is my house,” she said suddenly. He looked up at the one-story building, leaning slightly to the right.
“So close to Tomiya Shokudo!” he realized aloud. They were neighbors. “Does the noise drive you crazy?”
“We’ve grown used to it.” She opened the gate and led him to the front porch. “Please.” Hana slipped off her geta and folded the umbrella as Taro struggled out of his boots. The door opened with a waft of savory scents.
“Okā-san, please meet Corporal Inoguchi Taro. Inoguchi-san, this is my mother, Benkan Hisa.”
An elegant woman bowed before him, delicately dressed in a salmon-colored kimono adorned with white cranes in flight. Hana seemed to stand a little straighter as her mother rose from her bow.
“You are most welcome in our home,” Hana’s mother said. Worry creased her face—a face so like Hana’s it was as if Taro was glimpsing the future. The same dark eyes, the same curved cheek. “I am sorry, was your friend unable to come?”
Taro bowed low. “I’m afraid so,” he replied. “He will be sorry to have missed such hospitality.” He rose and followed the women inside.
How strange to be in a real home again. To walk the tatami mats, to see a mother and daughter moving in symmetry. To see Hana, coat removed, no longer the schoolgirl in her monpé and blouse. She wore a daytime kimono of the palest purple, flowing with the same grace with which his own mother used to move. It made her look older, a gosling turned into a swan.
They bade him sit and poured green tea. He let the rich scent of the leaves envelop him, a perfume made sweeter by the setting.
The miso soup was delicious. “I made the tofu this morning,” Hana explained. “Okā-san made everything else.” She blushed.
The low table was covered in small dishes—steamed lotus root, sautéed okara with vegetables, red bean rice, and even millet dumplings with the sweetest red bean sauce for dessert—it was a celebratory feast. Taro ate each dish with a smile.
“It’s delicious, Benkan-san,” he assured her mother, who waved him away and seemed pleased.
“It has been two years since we’ve heard a man’s voice in this house,” her mother said, shaking her head. “I had forgotten how much they can eat!”
“Forgive me. The food on base is . . . Well, this tastes like home. My mother’s unohana is much like yours,” he said, pointing to the okara with vegetables. “And the millet dumplings! I’ve not had anko in ages.”
Hana was beaming. But from her mother, there was more waving of the hands. “Hana, you brought home a polite one. When she told me she had friends on the base, I was afraid it would be like those hooligans over at the inn. Singing and shouting. No respect for the neighborhood. No respect for their own positions.”
“That is not so!” Taro said hotly. He caught himself and was ashamed. “It’s just that . . . It’s very difficult. They are young. And war is a difficult thing.”
The way her mother looked at him, he lowered his eyes, embarrassed.
“Forgive me, Inoguchi-sama,” Hana’s mother said. “I know it. It is I who am being too sensitive. Too unforgiving. I cannot treat these special-attack pilots as boys. You are heroes. I will remember that.”
After that, Benkan-san rose to clear the dishes. “Hana, put on water for more tea,” she said.
For a moment, Taro was alone. He closed his eyes, listening to the two women in the kitchen, more homesick than he had ever been.
Hana returned first. “It will be a moment,” she apologized. “Perhaps . . .” She gestured for him to follow, and led the way into another room, where a koto lay in wait beneath a rich purple silk.
Hana stood back in the doorway as he approached it. “May I?” he asked. She nodded ever so slightly, and he lifted the silk away.
It was breathtaking. The wood a deep reddish tone that had layers of depth beyond those in his violin. The ivory bridges that lifted the strings were yellow with age. The air in the room seemed to sigh, or perhaps it was the koto—or Hana—breathing.
“Do you play?”
“I used to. It’s my father’s. We would play ‘Haru no Umi’ and ‘Sakura Sakura.’ They were our favorites, but now it lies still. Your violin kept it company.”
He turned to look up at her. “This is a good place for instruments.”
She shook her head. “It’s just a room.”
The faint hint of incense tainted the air. The presence of the altar, the photo of Hana’s father in his uniform. The rain. This moment. A stillness that could not last. She would live, and he would die.
“Will you play for me?” he asked.
She stepped farther into the room, then hesitated, one foot still on the threshold. “I—”
“Hana!” her mother called. “I need you.”
Hana turned. Taro would remember her this way, head turned, lips parted. “Coming,” she said, and it was a whisper. She turned back, apologetic. Her dark eyes tugged at him. It was too much.
A soldier must be loyal to his duty.
“I should go,” he said, and looked away. He drew the silk carefully over the koto and rose to his feet.
“Arigatō gozaimashita, Benkan-san,” he called out to her mother. But the doorway was narrow. Hana had not moved.
He slipped past her, an excruciating closeness that they could not allow. He could feel her breath, damp on his throat, her skin, warm and smelling of rain. Where was his shining spirit, his moral fortitude?
“Taro,” she said softly, so softly, drawing out his name. And then she was gone, into the kitchen, fetching the last of the bowls.
“Thank you for coming.” Hana’s mother was suddenly there, blocking the path to her daughter, a bundled furoshiki cloth in her hands. “It is only a little red bean rice, some dumplings and anko, but I hope you will enjoy it. We will remember you kindly,” she added, turning him toward the door with her words.
Taro struggled into his boots, hopping awkwardly outside the door. The rain was still coming down, and he had no umbrella of his own. He slipped from under the awning, lost his balance, and soaked his sock in the gutter.
“Apologies. I almost forgot.” He got his boot on at last and straightened himself up to something more respectable. “It is only a small token and inadequate compared to your hospitality.” He reached into his jacket and drew out the folded graduation sash.
Benkan-san’s eyes widened, then narrowed in professional appraisal of the cloth. Taro was surprised at the pleasure he took in seeing the older woman’s face shift from mother to professional tailor.
“Ah! Such a fine piece of work. Too fine. It is too much when we have offered so little,” she said, folding the blue fabric carefully and placing it on a low table inside the doorway. “Hana! Bring the ocha, please!”
A moment later, Hana padded out from the kitchen with a small earthen jar.
“And for you, Taro, and your friends, should they ever tire of beer and saké. Tea from the bushes behind our house. It is best drunk fresh, when the leaves are still tender and green. A tea for today, and today only.”
She smiled, and if she had not, Taro would have sworn she was saying something more. She gave him directions for steeping and stood in the doorway to see him off down the road.
“Sayounara, Benkan-san,” Taro managed, with a bow. His last sight was of the woman in her doorway like a sentry, and the pale shadow of her daughter beyond, the hallway a dark night, her face a distant moon.
CHAPTER 43
HANA
Okā-san is angry with me. She does not say so, but she is quiet this evening, bustling to and fro, gathering her things for the tonari-gumi ladies’ meeting. Okā-san h
as given her offering—the tea—to Taro. Now she has banished me to the backyard to pick some more. Not an easy task in the rain.
I have abandoned my umbrella to keep it from tangling in the branches. The first few plants have been picked over. I have to go farther into the yard to find more of the best leaves. They stand out bright and soft against the gray, aging shrub. I pinch them off carefully. The rain carries their biting scent as I break them from their boughs.
The bowl in my hand is half as full as it should be, my harvest rising on a slow puddle of rain. I tilt out the water and keeping picking, but it is getting dark. Behind me, a single light shines in the window where my mother gathers her notes. She will need to shutter the windows soon. She keeps the records for fund-raising and will be reminding each household what they owe tonight. I will not shame her. I move along the hillside, picking and searching as I go. With every step, I think, Taro, Taro, Taro.
How does it happen this way? One moment, I am a frozen pond, and now I burn. Inviting Taro was my idea. But I had planned on inviting Tomomichi, too. It was the only way Okā-san would have allowed it. If she had known he’d be coming alone, she’d have worried. But she could not deny offering what solace she could to two boy pilots who were willing to die so bravely for us. It is not my fault Tomomichi was not there, although I had hoped he would not be. Taro. He was all I wanted. But I should have known, as soon as she saw us in the doorway, as soon as I introduced him to her, that it was dangerous. Too dangerous, like Mariko said.
Okā-san could read it in my face. Perhaps she could read it in his. I could not, not at first. I sat beside him, pouring tea and trying so very hard not to tremble. Trying to behave as a Nadeshiko, as a little sister would. And yet . . . one can sit across the room and still feel so close. How is it that our sentences tripped over one another, but were in essence the same?
“Hana!”
My mother is in the back doorway, peering into the gloom.
“Coming, Okā-san!” I gather my last pinch of tea leaves and make my way to the house.
“There you are! It’s getting late. That’s all?” she asks, peering into my bowl. She flaps a hand. “Oh well, it will do. I’ll bring some tofu, too. Put those in a bag for me, yes? My sack is by the door.”
“But, Okā-san, I am coming with you, am I not? To serve?”
Okā-san’s mouth forms a line. “You have had enough revelry for one day.” Her face softens as she looks at me. “And you are soaked through! Where is the umbrella?”
“In the yard. I forgot it in my hurry.”
“Yes, well, at least it is made for rain. Go fetch it and then dry yourself by the fire. It won’t do to catch a cold. Mrs. Kawagoto’s girl will manage on her own.”
“Yes, Okā-san.”
And so I find myself alone after sundown, wrapped in a warm yukata, combing my hair and listening through a slightly open window to the boy pilots at Tomiya Shokudo.
I wonder if Taro is with them. My mother kept me busy so I could not see which way he went. I like to think of him strolling back toward the air base, thinking of me. But it’s too sad to imagine him lying alone in his bunk, staring at the ceiling, knowing what tomorrow may bring. No, it is better if he merely crossed the street to Tomiya’s and is surrounded by the warmth of his friends.
A tentacle of jealousy curls around me. He will be there, laughing and smiling with Reiko and who knows who else. He will eat new food, drink new tea, and it will wash away the flavors my mother and I worked so hard to prepare. The tofu I made with my own hands. He will forget about me. How could he?
And this is when I understand my mother’s warning. With attachment comes suffering. With joy, sorrow. With peace, war.
CHAPTER 44
TARO
Clack! Clack! Clack!
Taro stood in the rain, unsure of his next step, then he heard the familiar sound from his past. He followed it now just as readily as he had when he was a boy, through the garden gate and into the cool dimness of the Tomiya Shokudo. The shōji screens were pulled partially back to let in the evening air, the overhanging roof protecting those inside from the rainfall. The mouthwatering scent of roasting fish and the sound of laughter lured him inside.
Clack! Clack!
It seemed almost ridiculous, the loud snap of the old man’s clappers in the dining room. The clappers had summoned no one but Taro—the rest of the audience was already in the room, having just finished the afternoon meal. Tomihara-san and her daughters had removed all of the low lacquered tables. Still, the old man snapped his clappers in a way that said they could not convince him to do otherwise. And it seemed to have an effect. The soldiers grew quiet, and in the back of the room, the old men of the village seemed to settle in with a collective inhale of anticipation.
“You came!”
Tomomichi’s round face lit up, and he made room for Taro on the tatami beside him.
“Sweets! Sweets!” the kamishibai man cried. This one was even older than the kamishibai man from Taro’s childhood. He was missing teeth and looked like a well-used piece of leather. Like a belt, Taro thought, creased by tightening.
A few of the boys dug into their pockets to purchase what candy the old uncle had. After a moment, Taro bought a handful as well. He would give some to Hana and the other girls at camp, if the little boys in the front row didn’t eat them all first. They giggled and bowed, thanking him in deep, hoarse voices. One kept looking back at him, even as the first presentation began. He held up a small model Ki-27. Taro had to swallow hard. He used to be a skinned-kneed boy in shorts with a model, too.
“Kintaro!” Uncle Kamishibai cried, announcing the beginning of the children’s story. Kintaro, the Golden Boy, was very much like Momotaro, except Kintaro was meant to be real. The son of a samurai, he did brave deeds that made his parents proud.
Only this time, the kamishibai’s window did not show a brave boy in samurai dress. Tomomichi shoved an elbow into his ribs. “Oho! He’s dressed like us, Taro!” It was true. Kintaro was dressed as a boy pilot. Around his head was a white band painted with a blood-red rising sun. Beside him, also in army khakis, were his mates—rabbits and dogs, all dressed like soldiers. And instead of the traditional boat, they were flying to the demon island in an aeroplane.
The boys in the front row cheered as Kintaro and his companions parachuted out of the sky. The old man sang a battle song, and the children sang with him, red cheeked and smiling. The little boy with the model plane flew it over his head making zooming noises. As the story ended with the defeat of the terrible white demons, everyone clapped, and the older children in the room rounded up their siblings to lead them off to bed.
“And now, the news from Tokyo,” the old uncle said. This time, when he opened his candy drawer, he dug a bit deeper and offered a few dusty cigarettes for sale. Several of the townsfolk bought them. Taro had an entire pack in his bunk. He’d been planning on giving them to Nakamura as a mission gift, but had forgotten when the time came. Now he wished he’d brought them, with their better-quality tobacco, to share with the guests at the inn. Or perhaps he should burn them as an offering at the temple. Nakamura could enjoy them in the afterlife.
The colorful pictures of Kintaro and his rabbit buddies were replaced by an image of the Sea of Japan. Seven battleships sailed south—Japanese ships, defending the home islands.
The news was grim. There were no songs, no funny voices. At the end the old man replaced the last card with an image of the flag, and everyone in the room, Taro included, stood up and sang the national anthem. Taro felt his jaw tighten, his resolve set like cement around his heart. The world was getting closer. Time was coming to an end. He must be ready.
Like Kintaro. Like Momotaro. Like Nakamura.
Someone slid the garden door open wider, letting the overheated air and stale scent of cigarettes rush out of the room. Taro looked out into the fading light. Reiko wa
s there, and her sisters, and three other Nadeshiko besides, crouched on the edge of the veranda to make room for the soldiers.
It was then he realized how close he was to Hana. The Tomiya Shokudo garden shared a wall with her own.
“Taro, did you bring your fiddle?” Tomomichi asked.
“What? No . . . it’s raining.”
“Yoshimura here has the keys to the truck. Go fetch it. As long as it’s raining, we’re going to stay here and drink.”
“Is that wise?” Taro asked, but Tomomichi was already lifting another glass of shōchū to his lips. Taro scanned the faces of the boys in the room. And the garden wall outside.
“Yoshimura, wait for me,” he called, and followed the driver into the evening rain.
CHAPTER 45
HANA
I am drying my hair by the fire when I hear it over the drumming of the rain. The first strains of “Haru no Umi.” On a violin. The sweet notes rise up from next door. Taro is playing for his friends. But why this song, as familiar to me as my own hand? The song of my childhood.
And then I know. He’s playing for me.
Mother is across town at the tonari-gumi meeting.
The house is dark, and I am alone. With my father’s koto.
I go to the parlor, let slip the silken drape, and open the window despite the rain. The koto is almost as large as I am, so I am careful, very careful when I carry her closer to the window. I shield her from the weather with my body. Slipping the picks onto my fingers, I kneel before her and adjust the ji, softly tuning away months of neglect. Taro’s song pours through the window, rich and deep. I listen for the next bar of music, and begin to play.
Chiran listens. The town, the empty street, the raindrops, the clouded moon. The pine trees on their hill, the tea shrubs, picked and raw, the wind sawing through their branches. The sodden earth, the moldering bed of leaves, the temple with its new old monk and smell of ancient incense. The river, the mountains, the ocean, the island of Kyushu. Japan listens, and even my father must hear it, my mother in her meeting, over her notebooks, her numbers, her damp ocha leaves. Everyone must hear us playing, Taro and me.
The Blossom and the Firefly Page 17