“You were well acquainted with Nakamoto sensei?” he said.
“She was the only person I've met here who was honest with me,” she said.
“Did she talk to you intimately of her own life?”
She hesitated. “Did you know Ume-chan?”
“Yes.” He looked away from her and began to wipe his tea bowl with a white cloth. “When she was younger she liked to fly a kite. Always I will remember her bright figure in field, flying a kite.”
He began to put the tea things back on the tray. “I am sorry I have no refreshment of cakes to offer. Please come again and I will make better tea for you. Today's is poor, I think.”
“Oh no, this was wonderful—but I'd like to come back.”
“Tomorrow afternoon perhaps?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised. “Tomorrow would be fine.”
He bowed. “Please bring papers of Nakamoto sensei at this time. I can write translations and return to you.”
“You mean—leave them here?”
“I am afraid my English is lacking. It may take me some time.”
“But—I can help you. We can do it together. I'll bring a dictionary. You read what it says and I'll write it down, okay?”
“Yes. But I think it may not be so simple.” He went to the kitchen and returned with a wooden box and Barbara's furoshiki. She watched his hands—such long, graceful fingers—as he wrapped the bowl in the cloth, then put it inside the box and tied it with a brown ribbon.
She accepted it with a bow and thanked him; her knee cracked as she stood.
They walked to the front gate in silence. She was not sure what they'd agreed on about the translation, whether or not he understood she intended to bring one sheet at a time and take it home with her.
At the gate, she said, “Why don't you come to my apartment tomorrow? I could show you the tansu—you could see how many papers there are, each one wrapped around a bottle of wine. Do you drink plum wine?”
“Maybe if I come with my aunt or mother one day this will be proper. Otherwise I cannot come to your room alone. Unless,” he said with a smile, “I come on a ladder in the dark night like Romeo.”
She laughed; she could feel herself blushing.
“In meantime,” he said, his smile suddenly fading, “can you arrive tomorrow at three o'clock?”
“Yes,” she said, “I will come at three.”
Only after she'd left did she realize she was still wearing the haori jacket. She looked back at the closed gate; she would return it tomorrow. She walked down the street, past the vegetable stand, the phone booth, the soba shop. People seemed to be looking at her more curiously than before. As she turned from the street onto the path toward the woods, she imagined how she might appear to them, with her long light hair falling over the collar of the haori jacket, like the fox woman walking away, disappearing into the trees.
7
Barbara took a taxi to Seiji's house the next afternoon. After a day of nervous anticipation, last minute indecision over everything—which of Michi's papers to bring, how to carry them, what to wear—had made her late.
He was waiting on the street, in front of the house. At the sight of him, the apology she'd worked out for forgetting the jacket yesterday and for being late vanished from her mind. “Hello,” she said, slightly out of breath.
“Hello.” His smile was radiant.
She handed him the jacket; he folded it over his arm and opened the gate.
“Dozo,” he said with a bow, and led the way past the house. He had dressed up for her visit; his shoes were freshly shined and he was wearing dark pants, a white shirt, and a plaid sweater vest.
They followed the path through the courtyard, past the small pond and around the teahouse. Walking on the flat stones across the lush green moss was like fording an artificial river. She stepped up onto the teahouse platform more gracefully than the day before.
“Please enter,” he said. “I will prepare tea.”
She bent to go under the low door. The tearoom was humid, from the kettle steaming on the charcoal brazier, and fragrant with incense. In the middle of the room was a low table, on it a Japanese-English dictionary, two pads of paper, and two pens, all neatly arranged at one end. Barbara knelt beside the table on the cushion that faced the door. The other cushion was catercornered to hers rather than across the table; he had planned for them to sit side-by-side.
Seiji brought in two plates of bean cakes, then knelt beside the brazier to make tea. They ate and drank in silence, except for her occasional “oishi—delicious” and his formal expressions of thanks. He seemed nervous, rarely meeting her eyes. She looked around the room, at the tokonoma with its scroll and careful arrangement of stones, at the way the low door framed the branch of pine like a painting. Everything had an understated elegance, shibumi, the Japanese aesthetic ideal Michi had explained to her.
While Seiji was washing the tea utensils and dishes in the kitchen, Barbara took from her furoshiki the single rice paper from the 1965 bottle. She had at first put in the 1964 and 1963 pages as well, but finally decided not to bring them. There was no point in continuing the argument about leaving the papers here, if they had time to translate only one. With a little flutter in her stomach, she put the paper—which she had rolled up and tied with string—on the table, then took out the blank book of rice paper she'd bought to record the translation. At last she would learn what Michi had written.
“I brought just one of the papers,” she said, when he returned. “The most recent. I thought that might be best to begin with.”
“Yes,” he said, but a slight look of displeasure crossed his face.
He picked up the scroll, gently untied the ribbon and spread out the long paper on the table. From his pants pocket he took two small black stones and put one on the right and left sides of the sheet to weigh it down. He reached beneath his vest, took out glasses from his shirt pocket, and bent over the page.
He was silent so long that Barbara began to wonder if he was having trouble with some difficult kanji. Then she noticed that his eyes weren't moving; he was staring fixedly down at the paper.
She cleared her throat and shifted on the cushion.
“Nakamoto-san is writing about her daughter,” he finally said. He took off his glasses and laid them on the table. “It is necessary for me to make some explanation first. Her daughter Ume-chan had a particular condition.”
“Yes, I know,” Barbara said. “Cancer. Miss Ota told me about it.”
“Ah, but before that . . .” He consulted his dictionary, then held it out, indicating a word with one finger.
“Microcephaly? What does that mean?” She squinted to read the definition. “Small head.”
“Yes, however Ume-chan's head was actually of normal size. This condition causes retardation. Though nineteen years of age at her death, her mind was that of five or six year old.” He closed the dictionary and put it to one side.
“That's terrible.”
“You are not aware of the cause for this?” Seiji said, looking at her directly.
“No.”
“Nakamoto sensei was living in Hiroshima on the day of the atomic bomb. At that time she was carrying the child Ume.” He touched his stomach. “As result of radiation exposure, she is born with this condition.”
“I had no idea,” she whispered. A silent television image of the huge, slowly unfolding cloud filled her mind. She thought of Michi looking at the picture of her mother in Hiroshima.
Seiji put on his glasses again. “I will translate for you now,” he said. “January the first, 1966.”
“But it's the 1965 bottle,” Barbara said.
“Yes, wine must have been made in 1965 but she made her reflections in the past year at New Year's. You see, she goes on to say, ‘Late and quiet in the house as I compose my first writing of the year.“ First writing of the year is a tradition with we Japanese,” Seiji said, then read on, “‘The air outside my window is black as ink. If I cou
ld dip my brush in the night, what a writing I would make.
“‘Had a living daughter been able to read the strokes of my brush I would make such a writing for her. I would tell her, to be a mother is not so easy. Always, she will make her error.’”
Barbara felt prickles on the back of her neck. Michi-san was addressing her.
“Are you reading this section?” She pointed to the writing at the top of the page that looked as though it were an afterthought.
“No this is only some weather condition. The day is mild, and so forth. As you shall see this writing concerns Ume-chan, and family matter she would wish to tell her. Next she writes, ‘This year of 1966 is Fiery Horse. My mother was born in last Fiery Horse year, sixty years ago. In superstition this is worst time for female to be born. Often I have thought this true of her. For she was tormented woman not well suited to be mother. Her chill toward me caused pain in my heart always. But I must also recall that on two occasions she gave me life.’”
Seiji paused for Barbara to catch up with the transcription. If Michi had lived, she thought, they would have discussed this directly. “Does she say what the second occasion was?”
He shook his head. “She goes on to write about her daughter. ‘Ume-chan died with leukemia five months ago, on 12th of July. Every day I am thinking of her. Often I see her face in my dreams.’”
There was silence as Barbara wrote. Her felt tip pen seemed loud on the thin paper. She glanced up at him; he had closed his eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Ah—gomen nasai—excuse me.” He found his place and continued reading. “Next Nakamoto is describing her shock, even though the doctor had made a warning to her. She says, ‘All I can think as I looked down at her poor face on the pillow was, Where is the true life she should have lived?’”
Seiji looked down at the page, two fingers resting delicately on one of the smooth black rocks. She wanted to put her hand over his.
He looked up at her. “Please forgive me,” he said. “But I cannot understand why Nakamoto has left this writing to you. I think there may be some mistake.”
They stared at each other. “She did leave it to me,” Barbara said. “She wrote me a note. It was taped to the tansu. There was no mistake—we had much in common.”
“I would like to see this note,” he said. “Also other papers in tansu—whole tansu with papers.”
“I thought you were uneasy about coming to my apartment alone. Since this is so upsetting to you maybe I should get someone else to read the papers.”
“No. Only I read these papers. I,” he said, hitting his chest with one hand, “watakushi. You must vow this.”
“All right.” She looked at him, startled. “But would you please translate that completely?” She pointed to the section at the top of the page.
“As I said, mostly weather condition. ‘This day is mild one, with heavy mist. Today I have walked to see plum trees. They are making bud too early this year. Frost will cut off their fragrance. I am remembering the blind anna . . .“ This means . . .” Seiji consulted his dictionary, “persons who give massage . . . ‘blind anna drawn to our house in Hiroshima by the delicate odor of Mother's plum trees.’”
Barbara bent close to study the crowded characters. “Is that all?” she asked. The passage looked longer than that. “Are you sure?”
“Hai. That is all.” He lit a cigarette, then returned to the main text. “Nakamoto sensei is recalling the last day Ume was well enough to go out. It was on a Saturday one year ago last May. She writes, ‘When I went to take Ume from hospital I noticed that she has gathered more flesh. This seemed strangely hopeful to me, as I thought the illness would make her thin, but nurse said it was the result of medication. Ume's sweater and skirt are fitting too tightly and her hair has become quite sparse. It made my heart sore...’”He paused. “‘. . . to see . . . kokoro . . . spirit . . . to see spirit of child caught in a stout womanly body which is now diseased.’” Barbara could see Ume's child-like face, a smaller version of Michi's catshaped one, set atop a fat body, swollen breasts and stomach.
“‘We went to Meiji Shrine and looked at iris flowers in bloom. Ume remembered that the iris are planted in a long curve line like a river. This pleased her very much. She ran awkwardly along the edge crying, Irisgawa . . . Iris river!’”
Seiji waited for Barbara to finish writing, then went on. “‘For picnic was some makizushi and sugar coated cherries that were Ume's favorite treat. As I was setting out lunch, not attending, Ume broke off iris heads and brought them back to me in her skirt. I scolded her severely. Now I am feeling so badly to make last picnic a misery for her, chiding her for such a small thing. Ume dropped to knees and cried. I put my arm around her and held her against my breast. At that moment I am thinking how she must have cried in my womb as I crouched by Motoyasu River on the day of nightmare.’”
There was a long silence. Seiji sat motionless, looking down at the page. Outside the teahouse door, the light had changed, the cold light of afternoon; Barbara felt a sudden sharp longing for home.
Seiji put out his cigarette in one of the plates. “‘We were to go shopping,’” he continued, “‘but Ume had wet her skirt. I took her back to hospital. She was overexcited by the outing and my scolding. I did shopping and took things to her. I found her asleep with old kokeshi doll in her hand. The bow on her head seemed like butterfly had just rested there. In her sleep she looks like innocent whose life is just beginning.’” Seiji let out a long sigh, and took off his glasses. “One more shorter section, then we will be finished.” He pushed himself up from the table and stretched. His sweater vest rose above his belt; she looked at his waist, how thin it was.
“You must be tired,” she said.
“Would you like tea,” he asked, “or maybe beer?”
“Beer,” she said, “Thank you.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, soon returned with two bottles of Kirin beer. “No glasses, I am sorry,” he said. “Can you drink?”
“Oh, yes.” She held up her hand for the bottle.
He grinned down at her. “Lady professor drinking beer! Like Nakamoto sensei,” he added, his smile fading.
“Really?” Maybe Miss Fujizawa had worried about the plum wine because of Michi; maybe Michi had drunk too much. She could have washed down her sleeping pills with plum wine, or something stronger: an accidental overdose.
“Is it considered wrong for women professors to drink?” she asked.
“In public you should not drink a beer. Sensei has much respect and dignified position in Japan, especially the woman sensei.”
Seiji resettled himself on the cushion and continued reading: “‘On this night along with Ume-chan I am thinking of Shoichi and little Haru, whose body was never found. I recall their faces most exactly from that day so long ago when we children went to gather chestnuts at Mt. Mitaki with father and mother.’”
“Haru was never found?”
He shook his head. There was a long silence; finally he cleared his throat and went on. “‘Yellow and wine colored leaves covered the ground like a Turkish carpet. Shoichi gathered chestnuts with great diligence while Haru scampered about to pester him. I remember her teasing face peering around a tree, so charming and lively. I can see her heavy eyebrows and her fine, rather sharp Yamato nose. When I imagine Ume's true face it is Haru's that I see.’”
Barbara wrote quickly, trying to picture Haru, Ume's true face.
“Here are final sentences,” he said. “‘In recent years my memory of that day at Mt. Mitaki is clearer as though I am moving closer to it rather than away. Perhaps if there is a land of rest as mother believed it will be that place, and we will all be together there, Ume and I along with father, mother, Shoichi, little Haru, grandmother Ko, Kenzaburo . . . and . . . others close to me in spirit.’”
Seiji took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “That is all.”
“Who is Kenzaburo?”
“Nakamoto sensei's husband
. He died during war.”
“Michi-san never mentioned him.” She looked at Seiji as he leaned against the table, his face in his hands. “This must be unbearable for you,” she said. “She was . . . your childhood teacher.” He raised his head, not looking at her, and began slowly to roll up the paper. She saw that his fingers were trembling slightly.
“You were there too.”
He went absolutely still. “Yes,” he said.
She tried to picture the mushroom-shaped cloud, Seiji somewhere beneath it, just a child, but she could not; her imagination failed her.
She watched as he continued rolling up the paper. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 7