He picked up the ribbon and slid it beneath the rolled-up paper, then tied it with great care, looping the ribbon over his index finger to make a small perfect bow.
“Would you like to come see the wine chest?” she said.
“At this moment?” He looked up at her.
“Now, or whenever you want to.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I would like to go now. We can drive there together in my truck.”
8
Seiji was an impatient driver, honking, weaving through traffic. But he seemed competent, his hands sure on the wheel of his truck. He obviously knew the way to the college.
“When was Michi-san your teacher?” Barbara asked.
“I was twelve or so. She was just beginning teacher.”
“But you knew her later too, of course.”
“Yes. Her family lived near to mine in Koi, a suburb of Hiroshima.”
They stopped for a red light. Seiji took a cigarette from a pack on the dashboard and lit it.
“How old were you when . . .” she paused.
“Thirteen years of age.”
He peered up at the light, squinting a little through the smoke. She studied his profile; just a few years older and he'd have been a soldier.
The light turned, he stepped hard on the gas. She looked away from him out her window. As a child she'd known nothing about the atomic bombings; she hadn't even been aware of the war that she could recall. In college, she saw the film Hiroshima Mon Amour: the flashbacks of the flattened city, the charred bodies were still vivid in her mind and in the foreground, juxtaposed against the scenes of horror, the naked bodies of two lovers, the shapes abstract at first, like a shifting landscape. “I know Hiroshima,” the French woman said. “Tu ne sais rien à Hiroshima,” the Japanese man said, again and again, “You know nothing.”
When they reached the college he parked on the shoulder of the road instead of driving in. The gate was open; there was no one in the reception booth at the entrance. Still she felt tense as they walked past the library and the main building, following the gravel drive that wound through the trees to her apartment. They met no one on the grounds of the campus. At Sango-kan she was glad to see Mrs. Ueda's car gone; she was going on a brief excursion, she had told her earlier in the day. Miss Ota was still in Yonago.
Barbara and Seiji took off their shoes in the entranceway. She set out the guest slippers for Seiji. The students“ radio was playing in their room but the door was closed. They walked quietly down the hall and up the stairs. No one had seen them. She felt as if they had entered through a seam in the world.
In her apartment Barbara ushered Seiji into the Western-style room. “Please wait here,” she said, “I'm afraid I've left a bit of a mess in the room where the tansu is.”
In the bedroom she picked up clothes—rejects from the morning's indecision—and stuffed them into the closet. From the floor she picked up hairspray, rollers, a mirror. The unwrapped bottles were also on the tatami along with the two papers she'd decided not to take to Seiji's house; she arranged the papers beside the tansu.
She opened the top drawer of the wine chest, took out Michi's bequeathal letter, and laid it on the tansu beside the framed photograph of herself and Michi-san.
She walked through the sitting room—it was presentable enough—into the Western-style room. Seiji was by the window looking in the direction of Michi's apartment.
“I'm ready,” she said, “Dozo.”
He turned and smiled. “You have made the room tidy?”
He followed her into the small room and sat before the wine chest.
“Here's the note from Michi,” she said, picking it up and unfolding it for him.
He studied the paper for several moments, then put it back on the tansu. “You have visited Kamakura together,” he said, leaning forward to inspect the photograph.
“Yes—in October. These are the writings from 1964 and “63 bottles,” she said, nodding toward the papers beside the chest. “Would you like to read them now?”
“Yes. But first, may I look inside?”
Together they pulled open the top drawer. He put his hand on the first wrapped wine, and curled his fingers around it. After a few moments he touched the next bottle with his palm, then moved down the row of wines, laying his hand upon each one.
He closed the top drawer and pulled open the middle one. He gazed in at the bottles a long time. Very carefully he pushed the drawer shut and opened the bottom one. “Sah!” he exclaimed, looking in, then said something in Japanese.
“What?” she said.
His hand hovered above the oldest bottle—1930. She thought he was going to take it out, but he closed that drawer, and pulled open the top one again. He took out the 1961 bottle, untied the string, and broke the seal. He read silently, making no offer to translate, then reached for the bottle and began to rewrap the paper around it.
“Could you read it for me now ?” she asked.
“I think we shall take in order. We have read 1965, next one 1964.”
Bossy, bossy, she thought, but held her tongue.
They took the 1964 and 1963 papers into the six-mat room and sat next to each other at the kotatsu. Barbara opened her notebook and waited as Seiji read through the most recent paper. “Now I can translate,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“I believe I am ready, yes,” she said, in a tone of exaggerated politeness.
He didn't seem to notice her sarcasm. “This is labelled first writing of the year as before, but she has recorded some notes made earlier. ‘June 15. Plum ripening has surprised me. Being very busy with some things in absent-minded way I was late in finding the harvest. Most fruit had fallen from trees and made sour paste in the grass. Only those few on top were fine. Others I took from the trees in a careless manner. Tonight I am thinking of Mother in the garden of our house, many years ago, when Hiroshima meant nothing more than broad island.’”
He paused. Barbara looked at his erect back, his hands against the page, the fingertips white from pressing down so hard. This must be excruciating for him, suddenly forced to relive his memories of the bombing. She felt a little twist of guilt, thinking of her earlier impatience. “Can I get you something?” she said. “Tea? Wine?”
He shook his head.
“It's getting dark,” Barbara said. She turned on the overhead light. “Is that better?”
“Yes, thank you. Nakamoto is recalling how her mother used to put cloth under the trees so plums could drop there without bruising.” He cleared his throat, “She says, ‘One day when I was tidying in the teahouse she called to me from the garden, ‘Michi, come see the golden jewels.“ I can hear her commanding voice still, and see the plums on the cloth, a wealth of golden jewels, delicate skins shining in the sun. I knelt beside Mother and we gathered the plums. They were still damp from dew. Each one is feeling like a cool soft egg in my hand, an egg not hardened in its shell.
“‘When Mother was dying in hospital many years later she had some memory of those plums. For days she had been in a fever and since the bombing her only talk was of an evil fox trick . . .’”
“Michi-san told me her mother could understand fox language,” Barbara broke in.
“This is not language she refers to,” Seiji said. “It is what we call pikadon—flash and boom of atom bomb. Nakamoto's mother has attributed bombing to devil foxes. Also black rain after the bombs—this was fox weather of worst sort. Grandmother Ko had come to her mother from spirit world and told her this was so. Now I will translate Nakamoto exactly: ‘The ghost of Grandmother Kowas in the room with Mother constantly, sometimes by the window, sometimes seated beside her in a chair. When Father brought the urn of Shoichi's ashes, Grandmother told Mother to put the ashes on her burns. Only this would heal her, she believed. Mother looked like a ghost herself with the ashes smeared on her face. Her only talking was to Grandmother so I was startled when she turned to me quite suddenly and said in her oldvoice,‘Michi-chan, do you remembe
r the golden jewels?“ She laid her hand on my belly where the baby was growing and said ‘Golden jewel.“ So it was she who named her granddaughter Ume, golden jewel, fruit of plum tree. She did not live to see Ume born, but sometimes in the last years while Ume was in hospital I have felt Mother's presence with us in the room. I forgave her then for many things.’”
“Does she say what things?”
“This is the end,” Seiji said, “nothing more.”
He picked up the paper and slowly began to wrap it around the bottle. She watched as he replaced the string and painstakingly retied the knot.
“Maybe this is all we can read for one time,” he said.
“Yes, I think so.”
He stood in one easy motion and stretched.
“I wish I had something to give you to eat, but there's not much here.”
“I'm afraid you are not a very good housekeeper,” he said, grinning down at her. “What will your husband say?”
She stood, laughing with him, but felt tongue-tied.
“I think we had better go to some restaurant,” he said.
They saw no one as they left the apartment building. The sky was dark, just a sliver of moon and a few stars. The only sounds were their feet on gravel and the movement of tree limbs in the slight breeze. Barbara glanced toward the path where she and Michi had walked that last day, a shadowy opening in the trees.
Seiji took her to a restaurant she had never noticed before, the Kamiya, on a small side street in Kokubunji. It was a loud, cheerful place, with waitresses in kimono calling out orders and clattering back and forth to the kitchen on their wooden geta clogs. There were prints of Kabuki actors on the walls; they sat at a table beneath a picture of a grimacing, cross-eyed warrior. Their waitress and several customers greeted Seiji and looked curiously at Barbara; he did not introduce her.
Barbara looked at the menu—in Japanese, she could make out none of it.
“Do you enjoy unagi—eel?” Seiji asked.
“I've never tried it.” The thought of eel made her queasy.
“Another kind of eel—anago—is a specialty of my home, very delicious.”
“Then I'll have some.” She'd eaten jellyfish, like chewing a mouthful of rubber bands; eel would probably be no worse.
The waitress brought hot towels and tea. Seiji gave the order in Japanese.
Barbara wiped her hands with the hot towel; Seiji mopped his face and neck with his, then cleaned his hands.
“By home,” she said, “do you mean Hiroshima?”
“Yes.” He met her eyes. “Hiroshima.”
“Do you go back there often?”
“Only two or three times. It is a new city now.” There was a pause, then he said, “Where is your home in America?”
“North Carolina. It's on the east coast, in the South.” She drew a little map on a blank page of her address book: the east coast, the ocean full of fish, Florida with orange and grapefruit trees, North Carolina with many trees and mountains in the west and in the middle of the state an asterisk at Raleigh, which she labelled, “my house.”
“This sounds like very wonderful place. I hope I can visit.”
“I hope so too.”
They sat smiling at each other, then she looked up at the samurai warrior.
“This print is made by Sharaku,” Seiji said. “He was famous Japanese artist.”
“Yes, I know. Michi-san had a Sharaku of a geisha.”
Their food came, bowls of rice topped with dark, oily looking pieces of eel. Seiji had also ordered sake, which was brought in a small pottery bottle with two cups.
He poured sake into her cup. “Now you must do the same for me,” he said.
She picked up the bottle—warm from the heated sake—and filled his cup.
He raised it. “Kampai.”
“Do you like it?” he said, as she sipped the drink. “Yes,” she said, though she had never cared for sake, like warm, overripe bananas. The eel was surprisingly good, with a rich smoky taste. She ate quickly, holding the bowl close to her face, Japanese style.
He bent forward and looked into her half empty bowl in mock surprise. “I see you have a fine appetite.”
She laughed, and lifted her cup for a refill. The sake was improving.
“Did you know about Grandmother Ko,” Barbara said, “and the other things Michi-san wrote about?”
“Some particular details surprised me.” She waited for him to go on, but he said nothing more.
“Was the 1961 paper interesting?”
He nodded, not looking at her.
“What was she writing about? Did she mention Ume?”
“She told about several things, a miscellany of the previous year's events.” He concentrated on his rice, scraping the last grains from the bottom of the bowl.
“I've wondered so often about . . . Michi-san's death. Do you think it was really from a heart attack? Or do you think she could have—from despair . . .”
His head snapped up.
“Because of Ume?” she managed to choke out.
He laid the chopsticks across his bowl, lining them up until they were exactly even. His lips were tightly pressed together. “Perhaps it is not possible to know the soul of another.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Of course I have no idea. It was just . . .”
His face softened as he looked up at her. “You were friend to Nakamoto sensei—this is natural thought.”
There was another long silence.
“You don't ever call her Michi-san?” Barbara said.
“Maybe so, at times. But generally we refer even to friends by family name.”
“Should I have called her that?”
“You are gaijin,” he said with a shrug.
Gaijin. Outsider. She was reminded of that so often. At least gaijin were forgiven for most errors since little was expected of them.
“When are you free to translate again?” she said. “I could come to your house some afternoon next week.”
“Unfortunately I must to go Mashiko to make delivery.”
“Oh.” She could feel the disappointment showing in her face.
“The next week perhaps,” he said.
“I have to help with the freshman entrance exam—then I'll be travelling until graduation on March 18th.”
“I see.” She was glad to hear the regret in his voice.
“You won't be here for Nakamoto sensei's 49th day memorial service then?” she said. “It's on Friday.”
“Yes, I will be returned then. We could meet afterwards.”
“That would be great.”
“Yes, very good,” he said, nodding. “I will anticipate this.”
He got up and went to the back; she saw he was paying the bill. They walked outside toward his truck.
“Are you going to speak about Nakamoto sensei at the service?” Barbara asked him.
“No,” he said.
“But you knew her so well.” He said nothing.
When they got into the truck she said, “I've been asked to say something about her.”
“Ah so desuka?” he said, staring at her.
“It's strange, isn't it? I've only known her since last summer.”
For several blocks they rode in silence, then he said, “What will you speak about Nakamoto sensei ?”
“Her generosity, for one thing. One time she brought me a beautiful fish, a raw one with the head still on. She could tell I didn't know what to do with it, so she stayed and cooked it. Then she wrote out a whole little recipe book for me, with ‘How to Cook A Fish“ on the first page.”
“You did not know cooking?” He sounded shocked.
“Not Japanese style.” The truth was, she could cook very few things; her mother couldn't stand to have anyone underfoot in the kitchen.
“You were intimately acquainted with Nakamoto?” He glanced at her.
She had an image of the two of them at Michi's table, the round paper lamp a moon of light. Between the conversat
ions—while they ate, or simply sat together—there had been, even from the first, a warm silence. “There was a connection between us that's hard to explain.”
“Human feelings are mysterious, ne?”
They slowed in front of the college. “Shall I drive you to inside?” Seiji asked.
“This is fine, right here.”
He pulled to the side of the road beyond the gate. The gate light behind them shone faintly into the truck; she could just make out his face.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 8