He put on his glasses and bent over the page.
“This is first writing of the year, as before.” He ran his finger down the line of characters, then reached for the dictionary. As he turned the thin pages, Barbara looked at his hands, the fingers long, rather delicate, the nails scrubbed clean. “Will you please pronounce?” he said, pointing to the English word.
“Psychological.”
“Ah yes.” He leaned back over Michi's writing. “Now I can say for you.” Barbara picked up her pen. “‘Emperor's daughter-in-law, Princess Michiko, has recovered her voice after several months of being unable to speak. It seems she did not have some stroke or hidden cancer as some had earlier thought. She was suffering from psychological condition, as result of unkind treatment from Emperor and her mother-in-law following the wedding to Prince Akihito.’” He read ahead silently, then continued.
“‘The experience of the Princess has reminded me of Grandmother Ko, who suffered harsh treatment from her mother-in-law. Also I am thinking of Mother, who was only a few months old when Ko has disappeared. This is a cruel thing for child to suffer, to grow up with empty space where mother should have been. It has shaped mother in her turn. I must be forgiving, and always be mindful of this regarding Ume-chan.’”
“Does she say why Ko disappeared?”
“This is not explained.” He was running his finger down the lines of text. “But next part will be very interesting to you, especially regarding tansu chest.”
“My tansu?”
“Please listen. Nakamoto writes, ‘All this day and night, when I should have been finishing up my New Year cards, I have been in some other world, thinking of Mother and Grandmother. I have just read again Mother's stories about Grandmother Ko. Nothing else was so great treasure to her as papers containing glimpses of her mother.
“‘On day of her death Mother beckoned Father and myself to her and whispered we must take care of her papers, first writings of the year. She told us to look beneath a stone in teahouse garden where she had buried them to protect from bombing raids. Some few days after Mother's death, Father and I found these papers in a wooden box, tied together in one roll.’”
“Her mother's stories!”
Seiji nodded. “First paper was made January 2, of Showa 5, when Nakamoto was eight years old. She says, ‘Father and I read Mother's writing with great excitement, sitting together at her desk. That day in teahouse we also discovered, standing in a dusty crate, bottles of wine Mother had made from plum fruit. Each wine had pasted on it the year of its harvest. As writing and making wine were begun in same year, I had idea to wrap papers around the bottles. Father said yes, and he must make a special tansu to hold these wines and papers.
“‘There were in Koi many trees knocked down by atomic blast but not burned. One was ancient camphor tree that was in shrine Mother liked to visit. With his own hands, Father made tansu from camphor wood. It was many weeks of work and exhausted him greatly but also gave him heart to live. He must make this tansu. Although after finishing he said was only crude work, I can see he is proud. When we laid Mother'swine and writing into tansu I was very glad. Mother and Grandmother Ko will have some voice remaining in this mortal world. Then Father said to me, ‘You see, Michi-chan, I have made tansu large enough to contain more years of wine and first writings of the year. Please continue your Mother's tradition. This would please her very well,“ he said. And so I have done.’”
Barbara and Seiji rose and went into the small room to look at the tansu, glowing in the light of late afternoon. “Beautiful, isn't it?” Barbara said. “It must have been very difficult to make.”
“Yes. Mr. Takasu was not a craftsman of wood, yet this is quite fine.” They knelt beside the chest. Seiji ran his fingers along the edges of one drawer and Barbara laid a palm against the side of the chest; it felt solid and full. “It is very unusual to make whole chest of camphor wood,” Seiji said. “This is unique one, I think.”
“Were you familiar with that camphor tree?” she said.
“I knew it very well.”
They pulled open the bottom drawer again and looked at the oldest wines. Barbara touched the 1930 bottle with a shiver of excitement. There was so much waiting for her. “Shall we read this next?”
“Perhaps so.” He looked thoughtful, distracted.
“Did you know about her mother's papers?”
He shook his head.
“I guess you knew about Michi-san's writing, though, since she lived at your house.”
“No,” he said curtly, “I did not.”
“But the wine . . . did you . . .”
“Hai.” He stood abruptly and left the room.
“Seiji?” She must have offended him.
She found him in the Western-style room. “Is something wrong?”
There was a long silence. “Please excuse me. The tansu has stirred difficult memories.”
“Of course,” she said. “I understand.” He'd been close to her, her student. Then they had the tragic experience in common, hibakusha together.
She touched his arm. “Would you like some tea?” she said.
“Yes, thank you.”
She went to the kitchen, put water on to boil, and arranged cups and the Carolina Bourbon Biscuits on a tray.
In a few minutes, Seiji pushed through the bead curtain. He looked around the kitchen, openly studying every thing. He took a jar of peanut butter out of the cabinet, unscrewed the lid and sniffed it.
“Would you like to try some?” Barbara spread some peanut butter on a cracker and handed it to him; their fingers grazed. His face was humorous as he chewed. His mood had changed so quickly.
She carried the tray back to the sitting room. They took their places at the table again, and poured tea for each other. The biscuits had no bourbon taste that she could discern; they certainly weren't Southern, but they weren't Japanese either. When she finished her tea, she held up the bottle of plum wine. “Would you like some?”
“Hai.” They poured wine for each other. She sipped hers, savoring the rich flavor.
He downed his and held out the cup for more. “Very nice,” he said, smiling at her. He touched the foxes arranged side by side on the kotatsu. “I hope you have some wish.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling back at him. “Doesn't everyone?”
“I think so.” He turned, and looked around the room. “Is this where you sleep?”
“No,” she said, taken aback. “In the three-mat room.”
“You don't like a bed?”
“I had one, but now I use a futon.”
“Ah, very Japanese.”
There was a knock on the door. Both of them froze. Maybe she wouldn't answer, Barbara thought. But that would look worse; whoever was there must have heard their voices.
She jumped up and hurried to the door. It was Mrs. Ueda, wearing a long-sleeved white apron; a scarf was tied around her head. “Hello,” Barbara said, “I thought you were travelling.”
“No, I was only out doing my shopping. I happened to find a nice bit of meat at Takashimaya. Would you care to join me for dinner?”
“That's so kind of you . . . but I'm doing some work just now.”
“But I think you must stop to have your meal.” Mrs. Ueda lifted her head slightly, peering down the hall.
Barbara glanced behind her. Seiji was still at the kotatsu, out of sight. “A friend is here helping me with some translations,” she said, “but thank you. Maybe another time?”
“Ah, yes, another time.” Mrs. Ueda turned and quickly walked toward the stairs.
In the sitting room, Seiji was putting on his jacket. “I think I must go now. Perhaps you had better bring papers to my house next time. When can we meet again?”
“I was thinking of going to Hakone.”
“Oh? This is wonderful place. How long will you stay?”
“Two or three days, I think, maybe until the end of the week. I'm supposed to meet a student in Kyoto on Saturday.�
��
“Ah.” He paused, then said, “I like Hakone very much.”
“Do you? Maybe that would be a good place for us to continue our translation.”
“Yes, yes,” he said nodding, “I think this would be excellent. Where will you stay?”
“At the Hakone Hotel,” she said, remembering Miss Fujizawa's recommendation.
“I could stay at ryokan nearby,” he said.
“I'm going on Wednesday morning,” she said; that should give her time to make arrangements.
“Good. I will call for you at Hakone Hotel lobby at two o'clock in afternoon.” He bowed and walked quickly down the hall.
Barbara stood listening to his feet on the steps. When there was no sound of voices in the vestibule, she let out a deep breath. Mrs. Ueda hadn't come out of her apartment.
She ran to the window of the bedroom just in time to catch a glimpse of Seiji, his hands in his pockets, his head held high, as he hurried down the gravel path; how familiar he seemed to her now.
12
The Hakone Hotel, a large stucco building perched on a steep hillside, faced Lake Ashi. In her article about Hakone, Barbara's mother had written about the famous inverted view of Mt. Fuji reflected in the lake, but today Fuji was hidden behind clouds. Surrounding the water were large hills, their peaks sheared off by the mist.
The hotel lobby was packed with an Australian tour group. Barbara was quickly registered and shown to her room, which was large, Western, and antiseptic looking. There was no view of the lake, only the back side of a hill.
She was early. She unpacked and looked through the bag she'd bought for carrying Michi's papers. Made of stiff leather and shaped like a doctor's bag, it had kept the fragile rolls of paper from being crushed. In the main part of the bag were the six papers she'd brought, three written by Michi's mother and three of Michi's; beneath the papers was a bottle of Michi's plum wine wrapped in a towel. In one side pocket of the bag were Barbara's journal, with her mother's article on Hakone tucked inside, and her translation book; in the other side pocket were Michi's foxes, in their silks and papers, nested in a cashmere sweater, and—added at the last minute—her diaphragm.
It was bold of her to have made this arrangement, what amounted to a rendezvous. Though she did have the excuse of visiting one of her mother's “sites.” She sat on the bed and unfolded the brittle article her mother had written in 1938.
DISPATCH FROM HAKONE,
JAPAN'S FAMOUS BEAUTY SPOT
by Miss Janet Girard
My hosts were determined that I should not miss Hakone, considered one of the seven beauty spots of Japan. Located in the Mt. Fuji area, Hakone is known for its salubrious climate, its mineral spas said to cure everything from dyspepsia to impotence, and its spectacular views of Fuji-san.
We were just in time for luncheon at the sumptuous Hotel Fujiya—and what a feast it was! Squab, bass from nearby Lake Ashi, roasted quail eggs served on dainty ivory skewers. There was a platter of what I took to be some form of pickled eggs but which, one luncheon companion informed me, had been preserved in the ground for 100 years, and excavated in honor of my visit. (Oh you shouldn't have, I said, and devoutly meant it!)
Barbara skimmed the rest of the article, which ended with a description of the Hakone Shrine, a haven in battle for hundreds of years. There was an allusion to Japan's military activities in China, with one “mama-san” unable to hold back her tears at the thought of her son in battle.
Not a frisson of nostalgia or regret. She refolded the article. If Michi were here, she'd probably be sharing this room with her; they'd have talked about her mother. But then she wouldn't be meeting Seiji. She felt a stab of guilt mixed with excitement. What would Michi think about this meeting?
She took the journal out of the bag. “Dear Michi,” she wrote, “Here in Hakone to translate your writing with Seiji Okada. I feel so drawn to him. If I saw him on the street I'd turn around and follow him. It's frightening. . . .”
The telephone shrilled. She jumped. A gentleman had arrived for her, the desk clerk said in a neutral voice.
He was seated in the lobby, but rose, bowing, as she entered. He looked as nervous as she, his face solemn, his clothes carefully considered—the sweater vest, the good brown pants, shined shoes.
“Shall we go sightseeing?” she said.
“Yes. Many fine sights here.”
“I'd like to visit the Hakone Shrine where my mother was—it's across the lake.”
They walked outside. The large tourist boat was just departing, a large sluggish wake fanned out behind it. A row of people were leaning against the rail.
“I think we may hire a private boat,” he said.
They walked down the hill to the boat dock. There were low clouds and patches of mist on the water.
Inside the boathouse was a young man smoking and listening to a song on the radio. Seiji spoke to him in Japanese, then said to Barbara, “He can take us across to the shrine.”
They stepped into a small boat, an inboard with plank seats. The young man flicked his cigarette into the water and started the motor; they roared out into the lake. The water was choppy; spray flew up into Barbara's face. She and Seiji bounced up and down on the middle seat.
The clouds had slid further down the mountains.
She looked at Seiji, his fine profile, smooth skin. “I hope it won't rain,” she said.
“Very changeable weather here. It may clear.”
Around them were long drifts of mist on the water's surface, like sheer white fabric. They began to move through patches of fog. Barbara looked behind them; the shoreline was no longer visible. The landscape had become an intimate room.
He turned and smiled at her. She looked down at their hands, almost touching on the seat.
The boat nosed up against the dock. The boat was rocking; Seiji held her hand to help her out. The walked up the path lined with ancient cryptomerias toward the shrine. There were the long steps Barbara recognized from the photograph of her mother. “Michi was right,” she said. “It is the place my mother visited.”
They climbed the steps and walked around the shrine, which was made of ancient dark wood. It was open on all sides, except for one locked building. That must be the treasure house her mother had written about. There were no other visitors, no priest about. Seiji rang the gong and clapped his hands, a perfunctory prayer. She walked around the platform of the shrine, inhaling the odors of damp wood and age. The shrine had been here seven hundred years. She and her mother were tiny motes in all that time. Sacred space, layers of time—but she was aware only of Seiji's closeness.
They walked back down the steps. There was no railing. When she hesitated, he took her arm.
They returned on the cruise boat, standing close together at the railing. The fog had thinned; the lake and parts of the distant hills were visible now, though Mt. Fuji was still shrouded. Barbara looked at Seiji, the reddish tint of his black hair, the crease lines in his neck above his jacket collar. He turned and gazed at her, a steady expression.
After the boat docked they walked toward her hotel. “Where shall we do our translating?” she said. She looked behind them at the group of Australians moving up the path.
“Perhaps the inn where I am staying would be most convenient.”
At the hotel she ran upstairs for the bag containing Michi's papers. When she went back outside, Seiji was smoking, looking out at the lake where the fog had closed in again. He took the bag. “It's up the hill,” he said, “only ten minutes.”
He began to whistle softly, a little tune that sounded familiar. It was the song that had been playing on the radio at the boat dock. They did not speak as they climbed higher. The pine trees at the edge of the road were draped with mist.
The inn was small and quiet. There was no lobby or reception area. They took off their shoes at the entrance, and walked down the corridor to his room. In the center of the tatami floor room was an old fashioned coal pit kotatsu and above it a ta
ble covered with a heavy quilt. Seiji opened a sliding door that looked out into a garden. There were a few trees, a stone lantern, and beyond the trees a densely green hillside.
“Please sit at kotatsu,” Seiji said. “I will request some warm drink.”
She got beneath the quilt at the table, her legs dangling over the coals. The heat began to spread up through her body.
Fog moved through the garden like smoke, reshaping the plants and the view of the hill. There was an occasional clacking sound from a bamboo pipe at the end of a water spout, designed to make a pleasant cadenced noise.
Seiji returned and sat next to her beneath the quilt. A maid soon followed carrying sake and a plate of sembei crackers.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 11