They drank the warm sake, looking out into the garden. “This is so peaceful,” she said, though the silence was making her increasingly nervous. “Maybe we should begin our translating now?”
Seiji brought the bag to the table. “What do you have for us?” he said.
“Shall we start with Michi's mother's writing? I want to find out about Grandmother Ko.” She handed him the 1930s papers and took out her notebook and pen.
He made a low whistling sound as he unrolled the 1930 paper. “These kanji are old fashioned ones.” He scanned it, running a finger down the lines of calligraphy.
“This is Nakamoto-san's mother writing as we had thought,” he finally said. “She has put her name here, Takasu Chie—Takasu being family name. It is done on January 2, her first writing of the year. She says that the last year was her first time to make umeshu. She has hesitated to start in making umeshu as mother-in-law has told her it is bad luck to stop once beginning. Now she must make every year.”
“What would happen if you stopped?” Barbara asked.
“Plum tree will be unhappy,” he said with a smile. “Or maybe Chie will make a poor wife. In Japan, plum tree is associated with woman.” He bent over the page. “Chie writes, ‘Michi is eight years old this year. Very lively girl like monkey, more like boy than girl. I say to Fumio, you must be sorry to have girl rather than boy. He says no, but I think it must be the case. Michi has unusual gift for learning at the English school. She prattles in English to the foreigners at Nakajima Inn and they make a pet of her.’”
Barbara looked up from her translation book. “My mother would rather have had a son too.”
“Really? I am very glad she did not.”
“Thank you.” She could feel herself flush. “Is the Nakajima Inn in Hiroshima?”
“Oh yes, Hiroshima.”
“Do you—did you—know that place?”
“I think it was in mountains, near Koi.”
“It is gone now, though?”
“Perhaps. Though some places near Koi are still standing.”
“I would like to see them—see all of Hiroshima.”
He looked at her in silence, then said quietly, “You can go there. But it will be impossible for you to understand without native guide.”
“Maybe you can guide me.”
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking down at her notebook.
He cleared his throat. “There is one more part,” he said. “It is about Nakamoto sensei. ‘Not long ago,“ Chie writes, ‘Michi is late coming home for dinner again. I said, what if you had no mother, Michi-chan, what if I were to go away and never return? She looked at me and laughed. Papa would take care of me, she said. Unnatural child.’”
He put down the paper and lit a cigarette. “That is all of our oldest paper.”
The next paper was much longer; it made several thicknesses around the 1931 bottle. After studying it Seiji said the paper contained some difficult kanji called kanbun that would take him some time to translate.
They sat quietly, looking into the darkening garden.
“Maybe I should be getting back to the hotel,” she said.
He poured more sake, and moved a little closer, so that their arms were touching. She was hypnotized by the light pressure of his arm against hers and the rhythmic click of the water spout. In the distance there was a bird call, a mournful but lovely sound.
“What is that?” she said.
“Some love bird, I think.”
She laughed. He put his arm around her, kissed the side of her face, then put his face against her hair, murmuring something in Japanese.
“What?” she said, reaching to touch his face. “What are you saying?”
“I am sorry for you to go.”
“Me too. I don't have to right this minute.” But he was already pulling back, standing up. She stood unsteadily. He held her arm, then released it.
They walked out of the inn and down the dark hill. Their hands brushed together, then caught. When they were in sight of her hotel lit up below they stopped. He put his arms around her gingerly and kissed her lightly on the lips. She slid her arms around him; she could feel his heart thumping against hers. He said goodnight and began walking back up to the ryokan. She looked after him until his figure blurred into the darkness.
Only in the middle of the night, when she awoke with a start, did she remember the black bag. Michi's papers—and her journal with those lines about Seiji—and her diaphragm: she had left it all behind, in his room.
13
In the morning it was raining, a cold steady drizzle. Barbara woke at first light, but waited until nine before walking up the hill to Seiji's inn. Surely he wouldn't look in the bag before she came.
The front door was open but the hallway was dark and silent. She'd come too early. Though there was a light on down the hall, and she could smell something cooking. “Ohayo gozaimasu,” she called out softly. As she approached Seiji's room she was surprised to hear the faint sound of conversation inside, men's voices.
She slid the door open an inch. “Good morning,” she said, “I hope it's not too soon to begin our work.”
“Ah, Barbara-san.” Seiji walked toward her across the tatami. He wore a brown robe over his blue and white sleeping kimono; his feet were bare. “Please meet my friend, Mr. Kawabata,” Seiji said. “He is our innkeeper and also a poet.”
An elderly man with bright eyes and a long white goatee sat crosslegged beside the kotatsu. He bowed from the waist, gazing at Barbara over reading glasses perched low on his nose; in his hands was one of Michi's papers.
“You've opened the bag!” she said.
“Yes,” Seiji said, “I am fortunate to find Mr. Kawabata kindly willing to help with difficult kanbun in Chie-san's writing.”
Mr. Kawabata said something in Japanese to Seiji.
“Kawabata sensei thinks you are like apparition,” Seiji said, “golden haired woman coming into inn on a rainy morning.”
“Domo arigato gozaimasu,” Barbara said with a little bow, though she couldn't tell from the man's expression whether this was a compliment or not. “Please tell him I thought he was an apparition too.” She knelt beside the kotatsu and reached for Michi's bag while Seji translated what she'd said. The man burst into laughter.
“He thinks you are funny,” Seiji said.
“Yes, I see he does.” The man was now peering mischievously at her from the end of the table. He said something else in Japanese she didn't understand.
“Mr. Kawabata wants to know if you would please take some breakfast,” Seiji said.
“I've already eaten, thank you,” she said, bowing toward Mr. Kawabata.
“Please enjoy yourself at my inn.” Mr. Kawabata bowed, and waved her toward the kotatsu. He scrambled up, gave Barbara another of his impish smiles, and rattled off a few sentences in Japanese.
“He says please warm yourself at the fresh coals,” Seiji said as Mr. Kawabata left, still talking. “His wife will bring tea right away. Meanwhile I will go to dress myself. I did not imagine you would be such early waker,” he added with a smile.
“Really?” She smiled back at him as she sat at the kotatsu and slipped her legs beneath the quilt. “Did you think I was lazy?”
“No, just enjoying sleep, like a cat.”
Her face flushed. She watched as he took his clothes from a small suitcase. “Did you read anything else?” she asked, “Any of Michi's other papers?”
“Just one, from the 1931 wine, but it is quite long as you know. I could not have managed without Mr. Kawabata's assistance.”
After Seiji left, she unsnapped a side pocket of the black bag and saw with relief her journal and translation book seemed to be just as she had left them. And the diaphragm in its case, swaddled in the furoshiki. Of course he wouldn't go rifling through her things. She took out the translation notebook, then unfurled the 1931 scroll. Even she could tell that some of the characters we
re more ornate than Michi's. And the brushstrokes were more intense, clotted-looking in places. It was exciting not to know what Chie had written, yet to have the expectation that she would know. The process of translation—with Seiji as guide—had the quality of sexual anticipation.
In the garden, rain was splashing on a large stone beside the pine tree and soaking into the green moss. There were odors of wet earth and damp tatami matting and, from somewhere in the building, a hint of incense.
Mrs. Kawabata, a sweet-faced woman with white hair, brought tea and bean cakes. Just as she left, Seiji returned, wearing the same clothes he'd had on the day before. He was still barefooted, but his hair was carefully combed. He sat down beside her.
“You are reading?” he said with a smile.
“I wish I could.”
“But then you would not have my company,” he said. “I am very glad you need my assistance.”
She could feel herself smiling. “I am too,” she said.
Seiji took the scroll from her and cleared his throat. “Chie is here relating the life of Grandmother Ko,” he said. “I think you may recall Nakamoto's references to her grandmother.”
“Yes, of course.” This was Michi's history. She flipped through her notebook to a blank page.
“It was written on January 2 of Showa seven—your 1932. Here at first is Chie describing Nakamoto as a young girl. ‘Michi, your name means wisdom yet you are disobedient and wild. You do not listen to your mother. I will write this for you, for the day when you can understand. This is the story of your grandmother Ko.
“‘Ko came from Matsue in Izumo, the province of the gods.“ This is now called Shimane province,” Seiji explained to Barbara, “rural area on western coast beside the Sea of Japan.” He sketched a little map at the top of the page she was writing on. “‘Ko was eldest daughter of Matsudaira, a wealthy samurai,’” he continued. “‘In appearance she was elegant as goddess. It was said that her hair was a long black river that flowed to her knees and shone like the night. Her skin was the hue of fine pearl.
“‘Ko was skilled in tea ceremony and flower arranging, also classical dance. Her father had allowed her to study at home with a tutor so she knew how to read and write many kanji.“ This was unusual even for daughter of a samurai in those days of the last century,” Seiji said. “Chie writes next that Ko also knew some of the English language and Greek as well from a foreigner who was intimate friend of the family. Ko was almost twenty—quite old for girl in those days—‘and had received no offer of marriage. All attempts with gobetween were unfruitful. The problem was her family was believed to be kitsune mochi,“ which Mr. Kawabata translates as fox possessed.”
“What does that mean?”
“According to rumor, the family had seventy-five small foxes in their house who were responsible for the Matsudaira family's great wealth. Mr. Kawabata has explained that their methods are very cunning, going out at the master's request and bringing back the treasures of others. The foxes were considered a danger to any family Ko might marry with, for they would follow her and do mischief to in-laws. They would become robbers for Matsudaira clan.”
“Did people really believe this?”
“Oh yes, especially along the Japan Sea coast. If a girl is from fox-owning family she cannot find a husband.”
“Even now?”
“Mr. Kawabata has heard of some instances even in these days. However, Ko's father found a gobetween from Hiroshima who knew nothing of fox rumors. The gobetween made introduction to a samurai family with young son. The name of this family is Takasu.” Seiji wrote the name in Barbara's notebook. “‘Takasus lived in castle town area of Hiroshima and were proud family. They think Ko being from wealthy family and a beautiful, refined girl sounds like good bride for their frail and scholarly son Hiroshi. They do not know Ko's true age—gobetween tells she is fifteen years of age—and of course they do not know of foxes. So the match was agreed and Ko made long journey over the mountains and south to Hiroshima so far from her family.’”
Seiji continued the map he'd started in Barbara's notebook and drew a dotted line showing Ko's path from the Japan Sea over the mountains to Hiroshima.
“Now Chie says—” He paused to look at a small page of notes. “‘Young Takasu maid Roku who later took care of me told me story of my mother Ko arriving at family house in Hiroshima. She was wearing white bridal kimono with red kimono underneath and her dark eyes shone in white face of Shinto bride. Roku said young Hiroshi was struck dumb at first sight of her. Later, mother-in-law says Ko bewitched Hiroshi from the start, that she had suspicion from moment she saw her new daughter-in-law's prideful cunning face.’”
Seiji looked at Barbara. “Next part is rather intimate. I hope you will not mind.”
“‘From first night of marriage the union seemed unnatural to mother-in-law. The new couple spent many hours in their room both night and day.“ This is unusual behavior for Japanese married couple,” Seiji said with a quick glance at Barbara. “‘Hiroshi cared nothing for family business from that day on. He liked more than ever to write haiku and he learned to play a strange song on his shamisen, an Izumo melody Ko taught to him. They took bath together and could be heard laughing and making noises that mother-in-law thought unseemly. One late night in rain mother-in-law saw them unclothed in garden. Ko was riding his back and laughing like madwoman, her hair loose and wild down her back. Roku said mother-in-law saw sparks in the air around them.’”
Barbara could sense Seiji looking at her, but she kept her eyes on the page.
“‘Takasu son was much changed in way he behaved to his mother. Mother-in-law's husband took Ko's side at first, even though Ko was haughty and knew nothing of the household matters and showed no concern for learning how to keep the accounts of household or of the family rice business. She cared only for her vain pleasures. Roku told Chie how Ko could take all day at her toilette, with two maids to wash her hair in special infusion of herbs she insisted to have. When rumor floated down the mountains from Izumo about the fox-owning family and association with meat-smelling foreigner who taught Ko English, mother-in-law is not surprised.’”
“Meat-smelling?”
“This was an old way of describing foreigner. Especially in days before Japanese people ate meat they thought Westerners had peculiar odor. But this is only small point in story. Mother-in-law said Ko had face of fox with broad cheeks and pointed chin and her eyes were pointed like a fox. Takasu family had been tricked. This was fox trick and Ko herself was fox, mother-in-law believed.”
“Do you think she was jealous or she really thought that?”
“Maybe she persuaded herself to believe, desho? Nakamoto-san's mother writes in exact detail how mother-in-law set out fried tofu known to be fox's favorite food at every meal and everyone witnessed how much Ko enjoyed it. She ate a great deal of food, more than natural for human woman. Mother-in-law told Roku how once she followed Ko when she wanted to go to Inari shrine in secret. Mother-in-law watched from behind tree as Ko prayed at shrine before fox statues. She saw stone foxes wag their tails and snow fall in a circle around Ko, even though this was in summer. Very strange, ne?”
Barbara reached for the black bag, took out the foxes, and began to unwrap them.
“You have brought foxes!” Seiji laughed.
She put the little figures on the kotatsu in front of her.
“‘Father-in-law, being of scientific mind, could not agree Ko was fox,’” Seiji went on. “‘But Mother-in-law was insistent. She said one day she was walking down Hondori Street in center of Hiroshima and thought she was walking through desolate field, so she knew Ko was shape-changing fox, which has power to cause illusions.’”
The door opened. Mr. Kawabata came in with his wife, who set huge ceramic covered bowls on the kotasu. Mr. Kawabata touched one of the foxes, exclaiming, and picked it up.
Barbara looked at Seiji. “What is he saying?”
“He is humorously saying that his suspicion
is confirmed you are fox woman.”
She stared at Mr. Kawabata, seeing herself as he must: blond, foreign, not quite human.
“You may take this as his praise,” Seiji said. “He also says the foxes are antique.”
“Maybe they could have belonged to Ko.”
She was relieved when the Kawabatas departed. They began to eat, stew with homemade noodles and chopped vegetables and meat. Barbara glanced at her translation notes and at the foxes. She thought of Ko praying at an Inari shrine, her head bent, the long shining blanket of hair covering her face. Ko must have been frightened and lonely in an unfamiliar place: an outsider, almost a foreigner like herself.
“The next part of the story is very harsh,” Seiji said. “I am afraid you may be disturbed.”
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 12