“Thank you for the dinner,” she said. “I enjoyed it very much. I look forward to reading more of Michi-san's papers together.”
He bowed, then held out his hand. “Goodbye American style,” he said. They shook hands with an exaggerated flourish and laughed.
“It is strange how fate has brought us together . . . like arranged marriage,” Seiji said, with a smile. “I hope we will get along.”
9
That night Barbara awoke suddenly, her heart pounding. A fox had been speaking to her in a language she'd understood in her dream, but the content was gone. All that remained was a sense of danger.
She turned on the light and looked at her scroll. The fox woman's face was enigmatic but benign. Her translation notebook lay beside the chest. She picked it up and thumbed through the pages. Seiji hadn't wanted to read that one paper. She'd had to prod him to translate the most important looking section in the 1965 entry. She pulled open the top drawer of the tansu, releasing the pungent odor of camphor into the cold air, and took out the 1965 bottle. The loosely wrapped paper slid off easily. She studied the squeezed-in lines, then looked at her notes. Why would he have been reluctant to read about the weather on New Year's? Only I read these papers, he'd said, hitting his chest, I, Okada Seiji. Maybe she should have someone else have a look at that section.
She poured some wine into a cup already beside the tansu and arranged the electric blanket around her shoulders. She could take the paper to the International House—Michi-san had introduced her to the librarian, who would probably know of some translators. Though it would be much quicker if she found someone on campus. She went through the possibilities she'd considered before . . . one of the students, Miss Ota, Mrs. Nakano. Mrs. Nakano's office was just across the hall from Mr. McCann's.
Mr. McCann. Of course. He was fluent in Japanese. Several times he'd urged her to call on him whenever she had any difficulty. “Anything I can do for you, dear.”
After drinking the wine she straightened the blanket and lay beneath it, turning from one side to another. Seiji would be furious if he knew she was going behind his back.
The next morning she went to Mr. McCann's office. The door was open. She looked in at him bent over his desk, reading a student paper. “Ah, Barbara.” He looked up at her, then stood, brushing back his unkempt grey hair with both hands. “Come in, come in—I was just about to make some coffee.”
She took a seat across from his desk. He made instant coffee, smiling at her several times, as if to hold her in place; there was always a slightly desperate edge to his friendliness. Mrs. Nakano had told her that Mr. McCann's wife had returned quite suddenly to the states last summer, unable to make the adjustment to Japan.
He arranged the coffees, then set a box of Whitman chocolates in front of her. “Dozo,” he said, “A little indulgence from home.”
“Ah. Miss Fujizawa's source.” She bit into a chocolate covered cherry.
He rustled through the candies, chose two, and sank back into his chair. “So tell me, Barbara-san, how goes it?”
“I'd like to ask you a favor.” She eased the rolled up paper out of her briefcase. She noticed that her hand was shaking.
“Fire away.”
“I wonder if you could translate a little piece of something.”
“It would be a pleasure.”
She unrolled the paper, took a deep breath. “This is confidential.”
“Aren't you the mystery woman?” When she hesitated, he said, “Of course, I understand.”
She put a blank sheet of paper over the manuscript so that only the squeezed-in section showed, and carefully laid both on the desk between them.
“Would you read—just that little part?”
“Only this?” He tapped the edge of the paper with his middle finger, then lifted the notebook paper with a fingernail.
“Only that,” she said.
“A billet-doux?” He waggled his eyebrows.
She said nothing. Maybe this had been a mistake.
He leaned closer to the paper and followed the calligraphy with one finger. She could smell the coffee on his breath.
“Composed recently, I see. January 1 of this year—only instead of 1966 it reads Showa 41. This is the Japanese form of dating—using the Emperor's formal or death name—in this case Hirohito's name, Reign of Peace. Some irony there, eh?”
“What else does it say?” she asked, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.
“The language seems feminine, I'd say, quite a poetic little description of walking after writing—I assume she means this.” He laid a hand on one of the papers. Barbara resisted an urge to push it off.
“Yes,” she said, “she is referring to some other writing on the page—which is in rather delicate condition,” she added.
“There is unseasonable warmth, there is a mist. And the plum tree buds are quite large—plumped out, we might say—much too soon. She wants to close the plum buds shut with her hand. She is recalling Hiroshima. Hiroshima?”
Barbara kept her fingers tight on the papers. “Please go on.”
“Hiroshima, where the blind masseur would be drawn to her home by the most delicate odor of plum blossoms. See what I mean? Rather poetic. She fears . . .” He hesitated; she nodded him on. “She fears that the plums may be blasted by the frost this year, and never bear fragrance.”
He straightened.
“And—that's really all?”
“That's all. Unless you'd like me to read on.”
“No, that was perfect . . . thank you so much.” She slid the papers away from him, almost giddy with relief. “Please don't mention this,” she said.
“My lips are sealed.”
At Michi's 49th day memorial service, Barbara sat in front of the temple with other members of the faculty who were going to speak. Coming in, she'd seen Seiji seated alone near the back of the dark room.
The temple looked much the same as it had for the funeral, with the large photograph of Michi on the altar along with an arrangement of flowers and the urn of smoking incense. But instead of the coffin there was, in the center of a table, a small box covered in white brocade; this must contain Michi's ashes. The box was shaped like a coffin, as though it was the result of some bizarre process of reduction. Barbara thought of what Michi had written in her journal about her brother's ashes, their mother putting them on her face to soothe the radiation burns. Now she was nothing but ash and bits of bone. Junko had told her that one particular bone, called the throat Buddha, was usually picked from the cremation ashes with chopsticks and put into the ceremonial box along with the ashes.
What was the throat Buddha? She'd been too upset to ask.
She forced her gaze from Michi's wistful face and concentrated on the priest chanting sutras at the altar. He had a bald head, wrinkled as a bloodhound's, and an austere, ancient face; he looked wise, but who knew? She was tired of not understanding anything. Even the simplest utterances—a customer discussing prices with a store clerk, the announcements that came booming out over the loudspeakers in train stations—seemed mysterious and profound.
The priest bowed, turned, bowed again, then murmured something to the audience, evidently an introduction of Miss Fujizawa. She pushed herself up from her chair with her cane and strode to the front. Imposing in her black dress and pearls, Miss Fujizawa spoke in rapid Japanese, from time to time frowning at the audience over her glasses. Platitudes, Barbara guessed: what a fine teacher Nakamoto sensei had been, an esteemed colleague, a great loss for Kodaira College and the community. Barbara stared at Miss Fujizawa's broad face, the roll of flesh beneath her chin. She'd probably known about that empty pill bottle; what would she have concluded?
Miss Fujizawa sat down, slightly out of breath, and Miss Ota rose to take her place. Barbara glanced down the row—after Miss Ota, only two more speakers before her, Mrs. Nakano and Mrs. Ueda. Her stomach tightened.
Miss Ota was speaking in English. Barbara looked up, surprised, listeni
ng closely to Miss Ota's soft voice. “. . . not in the least of doubt,” Miss Ota was saying, “that Nakamoto sensei was becoming a leading authority in the notably complex field of Japanese and Western relationships. Alas, this was never recognized in the world at large, since she was of the female gender. But we had many a discussion on these topics. One of the prominent opportunities for this was two days we passed together when she was a doctoral student at the University of California in the city of Berkeley, and I was en-route from London.” Barbara leaned forward; she hadn't known Michi-san lived in California. “We spent several hours exploring historical archives in Berkeley,” Miss Ota continued, “in regard to a research Nakamoto sensei was pursuing.” She lifted the page she'd been reading and placed it beneath the others. “As well, we visited collections of Asian art and on one particular afternoon enjoyed a lunch in that sector of San Francisco which is inhabited primarily by persons of Japanese descent.
“It was Professor Nakamoto's great regret,” Miss Ota said with a glance toward Barbara, “and our considerable loss, that she was not able in her brief lifetime to complete her written study of Commodore Perry and the Western incursions into Japan. Be that as it may, her students and those other of us who knew her well were much improved by the breadth and depth of her knowledge, not to mention her selfless generosity.” Miss Ota gave Barbara a little bow as she sat down; Barbara returned a bow of thanks. The English had been for her benefit.
Barbara was disappointed that Mrs. Nakano did not also speak in English. She read from notes written on thin sheets of paper: a carefully constructed biography, perhaps, like those Mrs. Nakano had written out for each of the writers they'd studied in her class.
Mrs. Nakano's talk was over too quickly. Mrs. Ueda rose, leaving an empty space beside Barbara. She rubbed her damp palms on the sides of her skirt. Mrs. Ueda began speaking with evident emotion. Her eyes were swollen and she held a balled-up handkerchief to her chest. Barbara watched her face, ashen beneath the black turban, and tried to remember what Michi had said about her: a tragic life, a difficult marriage. She'd like to talk to Mrs. Ueda about Michi-san, though Mrs. Ueda had always seemed cool, almost unapproachable. They had exchanged only a few polite sentences.
Mrs. Ueda bowed; her speech was finished. Barbara's heart thumped wildly as Mrs. Ueda made her way back to her seat.
She stood unsteadily and walked to the front.
“Gomen nasai,” she began, “for not speaking in Japanese.” She looked down at the paper in her hand. It was trembling quite obviously. “Nakamoto Michiko sensei,” she began, “was like a mother to me. When I first arrived here, she greeted me at the door of Sango-kan so warmly. I found later that it was she who had prepared my apartment, filled the cabinets with food. She had given me her window seat cushions, her clock radio, even the pillow from her own bed.”
Barbara glanced down at the page; she had already covered everything, much too quickly. “To tell the truth, I know little about Michi—excuse me, Nakamoto sensei—in comparison with the rest of you. As a child knows almost nothing about her parents“ real life when she is young, so it was with me regarding Nakamoto sensei.” She looked out at the audience and plunged on. “I was recently very surprised to learn that she was from Hiroshima, a survivor of the atomic bombing. . . .” Her words hung in the air; the shocked silence came toward her in waves. In the front row everyone but Miss Fujizawa—who scowled up at her—lowered their eyes. A few rows back, Junko and Sumi were staring; Sumi's mouth was half open. She looked toward the back of the room, at Seiji; he was gazing at her steadily. “And—I—gomen nasai—all I can really say is—as you all know—that she was extremely kind and generous. Thank you.” She walked to her chair, her face burning.
The priest returned, said a few more words, then everyone stood. There was little talking. Barbara could hear a low-pitched murmur and the scraping back of chairs.
Miss Ota waited for her at the end of the aisle. “Your emotion was most touching,” she said. She patted her hand, in consolation, Barbara felt. Miss Fujizawa gave her a chilly “Thank you, Miss Jefferson.” Barbara turned to look for Mrs. Nakano, but she was gone, lost in the flow of people moving toward the exit.
Seiji had remained in his seat. On her way out, Barbara stopped and whispered to him, “Is it still possible to meet? I really would like to talk to you.”
“I have some business with the priest,” he said in a low voice, “but I will see you after in the Kamiya restaurant.” He did not meet her eyes.
Outside, Junko, Hiroko, and Sumi were whispering among themselves. As Barbara walked toward them, they fell silent.
“You think I said more than I should have.”
“We are surprised, Sensei,” Sumi said. “We did not know Nakamoto sensei was hibakusha.”
Oh God, it was worse than she thought. “It was a secret, then,” she said.
“Some hibakusha are in the public eye, speaking for peace,” Hiroko said. “Others prefer to remain anonymous. She must have trusted you much, to confide this to you.”
“Excuse me,” Barbara said, “I must go do some errands—I'll see you later.”
She walked quickly through the crowd; she had betrayed Michi and disgraced herself. Mr. McCann gave her a knowing smile; he'd made the connection between Michi-san and the paper. A sick feeling edged into her stomach.
In town, the Kamiya was empty of customers except for a workman at the bar. Even in midafternoon the restaurant smelled strongly of eel. She sat down beneath the print of the cross-eyed samurai. The waitress looked out from behind the back curtain, then appeared with a hot towel and tea. Barbara managed to convey in Japanese that she was expecting someone. The waitress discussed this piece of information with the man at the bar, and they both turned to look at her.
In the light of afternoon the restaurant was shabby; there were cheap vinyl covers on the tables and plastic flowers. Barbara drank her tea slowly. Seiji was taking a long time with the priest.
When Seiji finally arrived, he was carrying a package tied in a white furoshiki. She felt a moment of irritation; he'd stopped to do some shopping on the way.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello.” He put the package on the chair beside him.
The waitress returned; he ordered a Kirin beer.
After the waitress had disappeared behind the curtain, Barbara blurted out, “I feel terrible. I shouldn't have said that about Michi-san—the students didn't even know.”
“Although you are ignorant about hibakusha's reasons for silence, you have meant no harm.”
“Thank you. It's true I meant no harm.”
A waitress brought Seiji's beer. Barbara watched him drink, tipping back his head, his eyes half closed.
“I'd appreciate it so much if you could explain it to me—the hibakusha's reasons for silence,” she said.
“Maybe one day I can explain.” He set down the bottle and glanced toward the chair beside him. “I have brought the ashes of Nakamoto sensei.”
“What?”
He touched the furoshiki; she leaned forward to look. The rectangular shape of the box was visible beneath the cloth.
“Michi.” Tears stung her eyes. “Where—what will you do with the ashes?”
“I will place in her butsudan—ancestor shrine—for now. At some later time I will take to Hiroshima.”
The butsudan had been in Michi's small tatami room. Barbara had seen it once, the night Michi showed her the wine tansu. A large dark piece of furniture, she'd hardly glanced at it.
“Where is the butsudan now?”
“At the house of my aunt.”
“At your house? She left it—bequeathed it—to you?”
He looked down at his beer, swirling it in the glass. “Nakamoto lived at our house for several years, when she first came to Tokyo. And Ume-chan.”
“So—you knew her very well.”
“Yes.” His hand went still; he continued to stare at the beer. His face was tight, his jaw working.
She felt a twinge of guilt, for having mistrusted him.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
He nodded. “Thank you.”
“I can understand why you feel—about the papers—that it's surprising she didn't leave them to you.”
He looked up at her. “I am glad you can understand me now.”
“My mother was a foreign correspondent in Japan before the war—even in Hiroshima. Maybe that's one reason she chose me.”
“You have not mentioned this. What did your mother write about Hiroshima?”
“I don't know. At my apartment I have the only writing salvaged from my mother's correspondence days, a visit to Hakone. Everything else is lost.”
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