A boy in a black student's uniform sped past her on a bicycle, spraying her with muddy water. “Sumimasen,” he called over his shoulder, then kept staring back at her. He looked forward just in time, turned sharply to miss a tree. Barbara looked down at her splattered stocking and the spots on the edge of her rose colored silk dress. Even the tied cloth furoshiki in which she carried her gift of cookies for the Okadas had gotten splashed, brown speckles on the pink and grey silk.
She breathed in the crisp air, with its mixed odors of damp leaves and the subtle perfume of some winter-flowering shrub. Seiji wouldn't notice a few spots.
Far ahead she could see the retreating figure of the student, the fender of his bicycle flashing in the light. He passed a woman who was walking in the same direction, then the path curved and he rode on, out of sight. Barbara narrowed her eyes to look at the woman: short hair, and a small, sturdy figure. She was wearing a dark coat; at her side was a grey furoshiki. From this distance she looked remarkably like Michi-san. Michi must have walked here often, going to visit the Okadas. Barbara kept pace with the woman—she was striding along briskly, just as Michi had that last day she'd seen her on the path to Sango-kan. Barbara began to walk faster; she had to see her face. Soon she was almost running, slipping in the mud, keeping her eyes on the figure ahead as she moved along the path. Barbara had shortened the distance between them when the woman approached the busy street that led into Kokubunji and without pausing stepped into it. As Barbara ran to catch up a bus stopped in front of her; when it pulled away the woman had vanished.
Barbara stood looking at the streams of cars and people flowing in both directions, a hollow feeling in her chest. Of course it hadn't been Michi.
The woods on the other side of the street were darker and deeply silent. She took Seiji's map out of her pocket and studied it. There was the path by the canal, continuing toward Takanodai and beyond to Tachikawa; this must be the way.
She walked past a small wooden shrine with an overhanging roof; marking the entrance was a red torii gate, two poles with upcurving crossbeams at the top. Before the shrine sat a pair of stone foxes, their ears alert, looking right at her. The foxes had weathered to a dull grey and were splotched with black lichen. The fox on the right had a patch of the lichen over one eye; the other fox had lost part of its snout, so that it appeared to be sneering.
She hurried on. It was just a shrine to Inari, with his guardian foxes. She'd seen one on top of a department store building in downtown Tokyo with Junko; there had been that same red torii gate. Junko had told her that the fox was believed by some to be the god Inari's messenger and by others to be the god himself. Those foxes had been charming and well tended, with red votive bibs around their necks and offerings of sake and fried tofu set before them in little cups and dishes.
A breeze stirred in the evergreens; winglike branches rose and fell. There was something unsettling about these foxes and this path. She thought of the fox woman scroll in her apartment, the sly backwards glance over her shoulder. When she was a child that expression had frightened her, the way the fox seemed to be luring her on, into the distance. Now here she was, in that distance.
Just ahead was a clearing, a large field of winter wheat. Beyond the field she could see a road, and the thatched roofs of two farmhouses. There was a slight incline in the path; soon she saw open space, at the end of the trees. Below her was a small settlement with several shops and a cluster of houses, their tiled roofs shining in the sun. Beyond the village a road bisected a patchwork of fields, wheat interspersed with rectangles of dark brown earth. On the distant horizon was a cluster of round metallic buildings glinting in the sun and some huge airplane hangars: it must be Tachikawa Air Force Base. A plane jutted up into the sky, leaving a plume of white smoke behind it.
Barbara followed the path downhill and took out her map again. There was the tofu shop and the public bath just beyond. Several children were playing tag in the street. “Hello, Miss American!” one little boy yelled. “Hello,” she called back, smiling and waving; the children scattered, laughing.
Barbara went past a grocery with displays of fruits and vegetables and a barrel of dried bonito fish out front. A housewife putting a leafy cabbage in her string bag looked up at her in surprise. There were a few more shops and a public phone where a young man in a cheap looking suit was talking animatedly; his eyes followed her as she passed.
On the next corner was a small restaurant with a blue cloth noren curtain hanging over the entranceway. Labelled on the map as “Okada restaurant,” it was marked with an arrow, an asterisk, and the words, “Please come in.”
In the window of the restaurant was a large plaster cat, one beckoning paw raised. Barbara parted the noren and stepped inside. It was a small place, only five or six tables. A cheerful young woman in kimono called out a welcome and gestured toward a table.
“Okada Seiji-san?” Barbara said.
The woman pointed to the rear of the building. “Out-door,” she said.
Barbara bowed her thanks, ducked between the flaps of the noren, and walked around the side of the restaurant. In the back were two long shed-like structures on either side of a dirt yard. Through the open door of the building on the left she could see a long table covered with clay pots. Outside the building were stacks of large wooden crates.
She looked from one shed to the other. The waitress was watching through the window. Was she supposed to call out, or go looking for him?
Seiji suddenly emerged from the building on the right; he was carrying a heavy bucket. In the instant before he realized she was there, Barbara saw his drawn, somber expression. Then his face lit up, and he made a sound of surprise. He carefully set down the bucket, pushed back his hair with one hand, and came toward her smiling. He was wearing a heavy black sweater, loose monpe trousers, and black rubber boots. On his forehead and one cheek were smears of dried clay. He stood before her and bowed. “You are here,” he said.
“Yes.” His steady gaze calmed her. “I brought this for your mother and aunt.” She fumbled with the knot on the furoshiki and took out the tin of cookies.
“Thank you. My mother and aunt will enjoy.” He paused. “I am glad you have come. Now the sun is shining in this place.”
“Thank you,” Barbara said, smiling. “I am glad also.”
“Dozo,” Seiji said, “may I show you my studio?”
She followed him to the open door of the pottery shed and stepped inside. The odor of damp earth was strong. The only light came from the open door and one cloudy window; it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust.
Near the door was a pottery wheel. There were tables arranged end to end the length of the room, all of them covered with glazed and unglazed ceramics.
“These are my finished ones,” Seiji said, gesturing toward gleaming rows of tea bowls, larger bowls, and platters. Most of the glazes were dark, black with brown mottling, or dark brown with golden flecks. Barbara touched the rim of a black tea bowl, then laid her hand on a large black urn splashed with red. “Lovely,” she said.
“You have good judgment,” he said. “This one is by Hamada, number one potter in Japan.”
“Oh yes—at Mashiko. I've seen pictures of his work.”
“You know Mashiko?”
“Just from books.”
“I am fortunate I can study there, with Hamada sensei.”
She picked up a black tea bowl to admire, hoping it was Seiji's. “Are you going to move there, to study with him?” Maybe that was the reason for all the wooden boxes in the yard.
“To move there might be my dream. But I must stay home to take care of my mother. She is blind, and reliant on me.”
“I'm sorry,” she said.
He nodded his thanks. She wanted to ask more, but his face was closed.
He must be at least thirty, she thought. “Have you ever been married?” she asked. His mother's being blind shouldn't prevent that; a wife could help take care of her.
“No
.” He turned abruptly and began to rearrange the tea bowls at the edge of the table. “This has not been my fortune.” He glanced back up at her. “I think you ask frank questions,” he said, his eyes warming as he looked at her. “Beware, I may do the same.”
“Please ask,” Barbara said, smiling back at him. “Dozo. It's your turn.”
“Do you have a boyfriend in America?”
“No,” she said.
“Ah,” he said, smiling broadly. “This is good.”
“Yes,” Barbara said. She cleared her throat, put down the black bowl and picked up another, dark brown with a dusting of gold. It was smooth and heavy in her hands.
“You like this one? Please accept as my gift.”
“But you already gave me a beautiful one.”
“This is more considered than raku. May I make tea for you with this bowl?”
“Thank you,” she said, “I'd love that.”
She followed him to the next table, which was covered with fired but unglazed brown clay figures, torsos of warriors, horses, women with babies on their backs.
“These are haniwa,” he said. “Do you know haniwa?”
She shook her head.
“It is from a custom in ancient time. I make them for Mashiko sales. Here is a pamphlet of information I have written. Please tell me your opinion.”
Barbara held the paper up to the light. One side was in Japanese. She turned it over to read the other side, in English. “Guide of a haniwa, the history of clay idol. It is said that about 1700 years ago, when the Mikoto of Yamatohiko died, his people were buried alive in his grave. It must be beyond description, their miserable voices crying day and night. The custom of immolation with one's lord was popular from these times, until Noinosukune had idea of haniwa. When his empress died, he made men and horses from earth to lie with her instead of human being. Material of this haniwa is almost same as mud of old clay idol. We have been studying for many years and now we can make such a thing. The people who are interested in the classical art admire them. You may use them when you make a gift, or enjoy as a decoration of your room.”
“I am afraid my English is very poor,” Seiji said when she had finished.
“No it's really quite impressive.”
“Is there no way to improve?”
“Maybe just a few corrections. A little editing is all it needs.”
“If you correct me, I will be grateful.”
“I'd love to help you—if you would teach me some Japanese.”
“Oh yes, this is fine exchange.” He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at her. “I think you will be excellent student.”
“Actually,” Barbara said slowly, “there's something I've wanted to have translated.” She could imagine the two of them at the kotatsu in her six-mat room, sipping plum wine as they looked at Michi-san's writing. Seiji would be the ideal translator. Not only had he known Michi-san well, but since he didn't live at the college, the writings wouldn't become common knowledge. “It's something Michi-san wrote.”
His smile vanished. “Nakamoto sensei?”
“Yes.”
“What writing is this?”
“I think it might be a journal, or a personal history. Did you ever see the tansu where she kept her plum wine?”
He looked startled. “Wine tansu?” He glanced into the distance, then back at her. “Yes, I know this one. How have you seen it?”
“She left it to me after she died.”
“She gave to you?”
“Yes. That's where I found the writing, wrapped around the wine bottles, on the inside of the paper. There seems to be a page of writing on every bottle.”
She paused. Seiji was silent, frowning down at the ground. “Will you help me translate these writings? Since you knew her well . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“She left these writings to you to keep private,” he said, looking up at her. “I think this because you do not read Japanese.”
“But—don't you think she would have burned the pages, if she didn't want anyone to read them?”
His frown deepened; he was going to say no.
“It would be better for you to read what she wrote,” Barbara said, “than someone who didn't know her as well. I'd thought of one of my students—or maybe someone at a language school.”
“No language school,” he said, slashing the air with one hand. “No student. I will read.” He turned and walked out of the shed.
She followed him out into the yard. “I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry.”
He turned suddenly, and they stood looking at each other. “Sumimasen,” he said. “Please forgive my rudeness. I am glad to read these papers.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure. Shall we have tea now?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She followed him to a gate at the far end of the yard. They went past a high bamboo fence into a courtyard. To the right was a one-story house, its sliding doors open. Inside she could see a tatami floor gleaming in the sunlight, and one end of a table. At the other end of the courtyard was a smaller building with a thatched roof. In between was a garden, miniature evergreen plants set in raked gravel and a pond with shriveled black leaves on its surface.
“Please wait here while I take your gift, then we will go to teahouse.” He nodded in the direction of the smaller building, then turned and strode along the path to the house. At the entrance he quickly took off his boots and disappeared inside.
Maybe she'd committed a gaijin blunder by not introducing the subject of Michi's writing more gradually. There was no one she could ask; the only person who'd ever explained the rules to her was Michi herself. She thought of the time she'd taken her a huge bouquet of flowers and Michi had gently told her never to give so many; just three or five, she said, but never four, because the character for four, shi, is the same as for death. And now Michi was dead. The pure fact of it held her motionless for a moment.
She turned, startled, at the sound of feet on the stone path. Seiji was walking toward her, his head tilted back just slightly. She saw that he'd washed his face and combed his hair. He was carrying a dark blue jacket over his arm. When he came close he held it out to her. “I think you had better wear this,” he said, “It may be chilly for you in the teahouse.”
It was a silk haori jacket with a blue and white patterned lining. Seiji held the tea bowl while she slipped on the jacket. It was warm and soft. She hugged it around her. “That was so thoughtful,” she said. “Thank you.” She pulled her hair from beneath the collar and shook it out, conscious of him watching her.
“Now, please come.” He led her along a path that wound through the garden and looped around to the other side of the teahouse.
The ground in front of the teahouse was covered with moss. There was a gnarled, lightning-shaped pine tree in front of the building, and at the base of it, a large version of one of the haniwa, the ceramic woman with the baby on her back. They walked on flat rocks set in the moss to the entrance of the teahouse. As they stepped up onto the platform, their arms brushed together, almost imperceptibly, just the small whistling sound of his sleeve against her silk jacket. He moved quickly away and pointed out the small room to the left. “There is preparation area,” he said, and “this is tearoom, with low door to make us humble.” He bent down to enter, and she followed, keeping a careful distance between them.
Inside the small tatami room were two cushions and a gourdshaped charcoal brazier with an iron teakettle on its flat surface. On the left wall was a tokonoma, framed on one side by a tree limb that had been stripped of bark and rubbed smooth. An arrangement of three blue stones was on the tokonoma shelf. Above it hung a scroll, an ink painting of mountains shrouded in mist.
Seiji arranged a cushion for Barbara to sit on facing the tokonoma. “Try not to be bored while I am preparing,” he said with a little smile.
After Seiji went out to the kitchen, she sat gazing at the tokonoma, listening to the faint sounds of hi
m moving about in the kitchen. She wondered if Michi had knelt here, looking at the same scroll, the same blue stones.
Seiji ducked inside, balancing the tea things on a tray. He knelt across from her and made tea with carefully measured green powder, hot water, and a bamboo whisk.
He placed the bowl before her. “Dozo,” he said.
The tea was a frothy green, like puréed grass. She sipped, looking at him over the rim of the bowl. He gazed back at her solemnly. “It's delicious,” she said.
“Now you must turn the bowl two times to the left and place it down regretfully, as though you loved it.”
“I do love it,” she said, setting the bowl on the tatami.
Seiji made tea for himself, and they drank in silence. After she had put the bowl down for the last time, she noticed that he was looking at her intently; she felt a warm tingling in her chest and arms. She looked at his mouth, wondering if it was true what she'd heard, that Japanese rarely kiss.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 6