Sipping her tea, cold now and slightly bitter, Barbara glanced at the chair where the wrapped box sat, just out of sight.
“Do you think Michi would forgive me for my outburst?” When Seiji looked puzzled she added,“For speaking impulsively about her.”
He smiled for the first time. “Yes. This is your nature.”
They arranged to continue translating the next Monday at Sango-kan; everyone else would be gone on their vacation travels. They stood to leave. As Seiji carefully lifted the furoshiki, she could see the sharp corners of the box.
She walked home, taking the long way, up a side street and through the woods. It was almost sunset, with washes of dark beneath the trees. As she paused, looking down at the river, she imagined the white box floating slowly along the thin black ribbon of water.
10
Early the next morning there was a tap at the door.
“Rie!” Barbara stared. Rie's protest bandage was gone; her hair was freshly washed.
“May I speak to you, Sensei?”
“Of course. Would you like some tea? Or Coca Cola?”
Rie declined. They went into the Western-style room, where Rie stood looking at the books on the shelf. “You have many volumes of Japanese writing.”
“I studied contemporary Japanese literature with Nakano sensei at my university last year, and since I've come to Japan I've bought everything I could find. In translation of course. I know it's not the same.”
Rie turned to look at her. “I heard you speak at Nakamoto sensei's service. Thank you for your sincere effort.”
“I thought I'd disgraced myself, and Nakamoto sensei too.”
Rie shook her head. “In Japan we have two important words, tatemae and honne.Tatemae means appearance and honne, true feeling. Many Japanese are more concerned with tatemae, but you spoke your feeling. I admire this.”
“Thank you, Rie. Thank you very much.”
“I am thinking further on original sin and wish to do another writing on this subject. Can you agree to read it?”
“Yes,” Barbara said, with a smile. “I can.”
“Some say I also express my opinion too freely, ne?” Rie said, She laughed suddenly, showing dimples high in her cheeks. “I think we are in some way similiar after all.”
“I guess we are,” Barbara said. She followed Rie into the hall and watched as she ran down the stairs. Wonders will never cease, she could hear her father saying, and then her mother's inevitable rejoinder: “Oh but they will cease. Wonders will almost certainly always cease.”
That afternoon as Barbara was returning from the classroom building, where she'd recorded her grades, Mrs. Ueda asked her if she would please come in for tea.
Barbara had never been inside Mrs. Ueda's apartment before. It was laid out like Michi-san's with windows facing east and south. There was a pleasant clutter in the room, overflowing bookshelves and stacks of recordings.
Above one of the bookshelves was a print of a Japanese woman in kimono with a salmon-colored obi. Michi-san's Sharaku print.
“Dozo,” Mrs Ueda said, gesturing toward the table. Barbara sat down and Mrs. Ueda went to the kitchen to make tea. The table was by the back window where Michi's had been.
Mrs. Ueda returned with tea and bean cakes and settled herself opposite Barbara. She wasn't wearing the turban today. Her hair was pulled back into a tiny bun; when she turned her head to the side Barbara could see scalp beneath the graying strands. There were pouches beneath her eyes but her ivory skin glowed in the light from the window. From her fine, delicate features, it was evident that she had once been beautiful. “I noticed that you have one of Nakamotosan's prints,” Barbara said.
“Yes. She has given me her entire collection.”
“I'm glad—Miss Fujizawa said there were few individual recipients.”
“Most of her possessions were sold to benefit a certain hospital. But she has made her bequeathals first, has she not?”
“Yes.” Barbara shifted uneasily. “I was very grateful to receive her wine tansu.”
“I have never cared for umeshu, myself. I make it a habit to avoid all spirits.”
Barbara nodded, smiling. Mrs. Ueda knew nothing of the writing, then.
“I have been thinking of your talk about Nakamoto sensei,” Mrs. Ueda said. “Has she spoken to you of her experience in Hiroshima?”
Barbara paused. “I was aware of it,” she said.
“I am surprised by this.”
“My mother was in Hiroshima in the late thirties. Michi— Nakamoto sensei and I talked about that. Maybe that's one reason she didn't mind my knowing.”
“Perhaps that and the fact that you are non-Japanese.” She poured more tea into Barbara's cup.
“Thank you. Mrs. Ueda, I realize now that I shouldn't have mentioned that Michi-san was an hibakusha—but could you please tell me why? I don't understand.”
“The bomb survivors are associated with bad luck and death. Indeed with their exposure to radiation the victims themselves are considered a pollution. Hibakusha have become almost a pariah caste in Japan.”
“It's hard to comprehend how victims of bombing could be considered outcasts.”
“This has its beginning long ago in Japanese thinking. Any group which is different or in some way shamed may be regarded as outcast. Survivors of the nuclear bombings have trouble in marriage for fear their offspring may be affected. Though there are less rational fears too . . . the sense of some taint. Defeated Japanese soldiers were looked upon in this light, especially after war atrocities were learned. All Japanese soldiers carried this burden, even if they were innocent of anything but defeat. My own husband suffered in this way when he returned from the war. He became changed man.”
“I'm so sorry,” Barbara said. She tried to think of something appropriate to say. “You weren't from Hiroshima were you?”
“No. I was in my home city of Gifu at the end of the war.” Mrs. Ueda looked down at her cup, swirling the tea.
Barbara glanced back at the print. “The Sharaku is lovely, isn't it? It reminds me so much of Michi-san.”
Mrs. Ueda looked up, studying her for a moment. “I have some other things you may like to see, belonging to Ume-chan.”
“I would like to, very much.”
Mrs. Ueda went into the adjoining room and returned with a rice paper box which she set on the table. She opened the box and took out a framed photograph; Michi was squatting beside a young girl who looked toward the sky, her mouth wide open. Ume. In the background were white birds perched in trees.
“Did she show you this one?” Mrs. Ueda asked.
“No, I never saw a picture of her. When was it taken?”
“Ume had just turned seven years old. We made a visit to an egret rookery, the first year Nakamoto sensei taught at Kodaira.” She lifted a flowered red silk kimono from the box. “Ume wore this one for Shichi-Go-San Festival; that is day when parents take their children aged three, five, and seven to the local shrine. I also accompanied them there during the first year. Unfortunately I have no photograph of that occasion.” She stroked the kimono, picking at a stray thread on one edge. “It was a bittersweet day. Even at her young age it was clear Ume-chan was not developing normally. Nakamoto made every effort to help her but could do little. At that time there was no assistance for hibakusha living away from Hiroshima.”
“That must have been agonizing. But she was an extraordinary mother, wasn't she?”
“She was indeed, although she never felt herself adequate. I have never known anyone so devoted to her child. Or to her friend. I had a loss of a daughter some years earlier; Nakamoto always consoled me in my grief.”
Mrs. Ueda looked back down into her tea.
“That's very sad about your daughter. How old was she?”
“Two years of age. Cholera took her, during early years of the war.” Mrs. Ueda smoothed the kimono and gently returned it to the box. “There are a few other things here as well. Please have a look.”
Barbara leaned forward and looked inside. There were some carefully folded kimonos and a wooden doll.
She picked up the doll. It had a round head with a girl's features painted on it; the body was a simple wooden cylinder with some faded red stripes painted around the bottom. “Is this a kokeshi doll?”
“Yes, quite an old one. Perhaps it belonged to Nakamoto sensei originally.”
Barbara held the doll to her face, thinking of Michi's description of Ume in the hospital after their picnic, the kokeshi doll in her hand: “In her sleep she looks like an innocent whose life is just beginning.”
11
Monday morning, Barbara went into Kokubunji to buy food for Seiji's visit that afternoon: bean cakes and fine green tea, and for dinner—in case he should stay that long—salmon and snow peas. In the pharmacy, she tried to buy deodorant, using her pocket sized Japanese-English dictionary. There was no word for deodorant, only deodorize. The young female clerk showed her air freshener, cleansing powder, toilet bowl cleaner. Finally Barbara demonstrated, raising her arm and rubbing beneath it; the girl stared at her and shook her head. Barbara looked at her watch; she'd have to make do with powder. On the way home she stopped to buy flowers: three yellow chrysanthemums for the tokonoma, a single stalk of iris—one blossom half open, the other about to bud—for the tansu.
When she got back to the campus it was almost deserted, just one or two people walking in the distance. The end of the year holiday, delayed by Michi's memorial service, had begun. Although students and faculty would return for graduation in mid-March, classes would not resume until April. As Barbara walked up the main drive, Miss Fujizawa came by in her chauffeured car. The car stopped, and Miss Fujizawa lowered the back window. “Hello, Miss Jefferson,” she said, eyeing the flowers and groceries, “aren't you going to explore Japan?”
Barbara explained that she was meeting a student in Kyoto on Saturday, after she caught up on some work, then went on—before Miss Fujizawa could inquire about the work—that she might visit Hakone for a few days. “My mother was there before the war.”
“Indeed? Well, please take care of yourself, Miss Jefferson. We are responsible for your welfare. If we had known of your plans, my secretary could have made arrangements at the Hakone Hotel.”
“Oh, it's fine,” Barbara said, but Miss Fujizawa was already rolling up her window.
At Sango-kan Barbara was relieved to see Mrs. Ueda's car gone; she must be travelling too. Miss Ota had left for Yonago again and Miss Yamaguchi for Kyushu, to visit family there. She had the building to herself.
In her apartment she opened all the windows and sliding doors. It was an unusually mild day. She arranged the flowers in vases, then placed them on the tansu and on the tokonoma beside Seiji's tea bowls, which she'd already set out on top of wooden boxes. In the six-mat room, she put paper, pens, and her large Japanese-English dictionary on the kotatsu. The zabuton cushions were already arranged beside the table.
Exactly at two, there was a light knock on the door. She walked slowly down the hall, not wanting to seem too eager.
Seiji bowed solemnly. “I hope I am in good time.” He held out three pale green lilies and a package of cookies. “The flowers express Japanese sentiment,” he said. “The sweets are in memory of your home.” On the package of cookies were Japanese characters, and in English, “Carolina Beauty Bourbon Snaps.” In smaller letters the label read, “Beautiful things are beyond time. Women's history never cease to yearn for beauty.”
“I think these suit you,” he said.
“Oh yes—I mean thank you. Dozo,” She gave two quick bows, then led the way down the hall to the sitting room. “I thought we could work in here. Please make yourself comfortable,” she said, gesturing toward the kotatsu.
He gazed around the room as though for the first time. “Very fresh,” he said, nodding his approval. “Ah.” He looked at his tea bowls on the tokonoma. “I see I am in place of honor.” He turned, grinning at her.
“Well, of course.” She could feel herself blushing. “I'll go put these flowers in water,” she said, then added, with a smile, “Try not to be bored while I am gone.”
When she came back to put the lilies on the kotatsu, Seiji was no longer there. She found him in the smaller room kneeling beside the tansu. The bottom drawer was open. He pulled out a tiny package wrapped in white paper.
“What's that?” she said. “Where did you find it?”
“In some paper behind the bottles.”
He undid the package. Inside was another wrapping, worn red silk tied with a cord. Barbara reached out for it but he nimbly undid the cord. The silk fell away.
“Wah!” he said. “Kitsune!”
He held it between two fingers: a white fox, about three inches tall.
“Let me have it, please,” she said, holding out her hand.
He carefully placed the fox on her palm. “I think there may be another,” he said, and began to feel around in the wadded paper in the back of the drawer.
Carved from wood and coated with white lacquer, the small fox had darkened and chipped over time; the figure was simple but expressive. There was a suggestion of legs, haunches, and a tail, which was raised and flat against the back. The ears were small pointed triangles. On the protruding snout were painted whiskers and the mouth, a simple line that curved slightly down. There was just a single slanting brushstroke for each eye, but the face conveyed an uncanny wisdom. She remembered what Michi had said about the language of foxes. This one looked capable of speech.
Seiji had pulled out another little package.
“Let me unwrap that one,” she said, taking it from him. She put the fox on the tansu, and ripped the paper off the second package. Inside was a layer of purple silk. She slid off the cord and shook loose the silk to reveal another small fox.
“This is mate, just as I thought.” Seiji leaned close to her, his shoulder touching hers.
She picked up the other fox, holding one in each hand. They were identical except that one had a painted triangle for a mouth, as if it were speaking; the other mouth looked closed. “Do they have anything to do with fox language?” she said. “Or fox tricks?”
“Not the same. Do you know the Inari shrine with fox guardian?”
She nodded. “Like the one on the path to your house.”
“Yes, but larger one too—there are many such big shrines all over Japan. Inari is god of agriculture and fox is considered his messenger. Some people who go to shrine make a prayer for something and then ask priest to bless two foxes such as these. When their wish is come true, then they return foxes to shrine. So we call them wishing foxes.”
“Maybe Michi-san had some unanswered wish.”
“These may be ancient foxes, much older than Nakamoto-san.”
He glanced up at the fox woman scroll. “Has she given you this painting also?”
“Someone gave it to my mother when she was here—a man who said she was as beautiful as a fox woman.”
He smiled at her. “I think you must resemble your mother then.”
“Thank you.” She could feel her face reddening again. “Michi thought this picture illustrates the fox woman leaving her child. I don't know the story, do you?”
“We have many fox stories in Japan. Usually fox changes into lovely woman to trick man. Most popular one is fox wife. In the tale most schoolchildren know, a hunter spares the life of a fox. Next day a woman comes to his house and offers to be his wife. He agrees and they spend some happy years together with their child. But eventually the true shape of wife is revealed—perhaps as they pass by water. Always reflection in water will show true thing, fox figure instead of woman. So she must leave him and also their child.”
“What a sad ending.”
“This is very Japanese ending—we call it awaré, graceful sorrow. There are other fox stories I can tell you like this, perhaps some with happier ending.”
“I'd like to hear them,” she said.
“W
e have many things to tell. It will take us long time, I believe.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think so too.” She began to feel awkward, looking at him. She closed the bottom drawer of the tansu and opened the top one. “Shall we choose something else to translate? Maybe the 1961 paper that you read to yourself last time?”
“We should take them as we were going, I think.” Seiji said, reaching in for the 1963 bottle.
She shrugged; it wasn't worth an argument. She picked up the foxes from the tansu and followed him into the sitting room.
They sat together at the kotatsu. She put the small foxes in front of her and opened her notebook; he unwrapped the bottle and spread out the paper on the table. They moved closer together so she could hold down the left side of the paper, and he the right.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 10