“Kawabata sensei—Jefferson Barbara desu.”
“Ah!” he said, laughing. “Fox call to me on telephone.”
I have lost something, she tried to say in Japanese—a paper—and then repeated it in English. “A paper, I have lost a paper.”
“You are lost?” he said.
“No—no. Sumimasen. Paper—do you have a writing I left behind? You were translating, with Okada Seiji. Do you have my paper?”
“No, no paper here.”
The 1961 paper was the one Seiji had read to himself that day in the apartment and would not translate. Maybe he had taken it.
“Okada Seiji—Mashiko no denwa . . .” She knew the words for telephone and have, but couldn't remember how to say telephone number. “Mashiko denwa arimasuka?”
“Mashiko denwa? Wakarimasen.” He didn't understand.
“Mashiko denwa,” she said again, almost shouting. “Denwa, please, onegai shimasu.”
Mrs. Ueda's door opened. She was wearing her pink bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her head. “Is there some problem?” she said.
“A paper . . . it's lost.” She said goodbye to Mr. Kawabata, and hung up.
“I am so sorry. Your paper was of great significance, I'm afraid.”
“Maybe I left it on the train.”
“If so they will have saved it for you. Shall I telephone?”
“Yes—I'd appreciate that so much.”
Mrs. Ueda made calls to several offices of the railway line and— just in case she'd lost the paper coming back from Tokyo—to the commuter train bureau for missing articles.
Mrs. Ueda hung up, shaking her head. “They have not been able to locate your document, I regret to say.”
Barbara looked past Mrs. Ueda. Seiji must have taken it.
“You mentioned an Okada Seiji, I believe. Is this the Okada from Takanodai?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“I happened to run in to him up there.”
Mrs. Ueda stared at her.
“I met him at the college festival. We had a lot to talk about, since he was Michi-san's student.”
“I see,” Mrs. Ueda said again.
“Well, goodnight,” Barbara said. “Thank you for your help.”
“Do take care of yourself,” Mrs. Ueda said.
“Please don't worry. I'll be all right.”
In her apartment, she looked through the bag again, and once more went through the papers she'd taken to Hakone, all the while knowing it was futile. The 1961 paper was gone.
17
Barbara spent the next morning trying to reach Seiji, using the phone in the classroom building so Mrs. Ueda couldn't hear. There was no answer at his house until noon. She was sorry, his aunt said in a cool voice, a telephone number for him at Mashiko was not available.
“When you do speak to him,” Barbara said, “would you please tell him I'm in Tokyo? He thinks I'm in Kyoto.”
“Not in Kyoto,” his aunt said. “Is there some further message?”
“No, no thank you.”
After she hung up, Barbara went to her office and sat at her desk. Maybe she could write a note to him about the missing paper and take it to his house. She took out a sheet of paper, wrote “Dear Seiji,” then crumpled it up. She'd find another translator, a professional with whom there would be no messy entanglements. Someone anonymous, discreet. Someone she could trust. That librarian Michi introduced her to at the International House in downtown Tokyo should be able to recommend someone. She'd spend the night there; it would be good to get away, no waiting for a call.
In her apartment, she pulled open the top drawer of the tansu. The 1961 bottle looked naked, bare dark glass in the row of wrapped wines. She took the papers from the 1960 and 1962 bottles, rolled them together, and put them in the black bag with her overnight things. At the last minute she added the 1951 paper, and headed for the train station.
The accommodations of the International House felt like home—twin beds, an armchair, a Western-style private bath with hot water. She lay down on one of the beds, exhausted; her body ached all over, as if she were coming down with something.
When she woke it was after five. The library would be closed. At least she could have a peaceful evening here. She took a long shower, washing her hair with the Prell Shampoo she'd picked up at the American pharmacy. The smell of the shampoo reminded her of Allen Haywood, her first kiss. They'd been standing on the front steps of her house, grinning at each other. Suddenly his mouth was on hers, and his hands in her hair. She'd been surprised by the way her whole body came alive. “I loved that,” she'd said.
The news came on as she was getting dressed for dinner. The Senate had rejected an amendment repealing the Gulf of Tonkin resolution. Defense Secretary Robert McNamara announced 20,000 additional troops would be called up, to join the 215,000 already in Vietnam. Allen hadn't gone to college; maybe he was in Vietnam. She snapped off the radio and went downstairs to the restaurant.
The dining room was crowded; there were no vacant tables. A Cambodian man sitting alone asked her to join him. He was handsome, in a rather fussy way, glossy hair, a brilliant smile, an ascot he kept straightening.
They exchanged names and occupations: he was in the diplomatic service, at the International House for a meeting that had just ended. “I'll be staying on a while, however,” he added. “May I ask you, are you entirely on your own?”
“I'm not married if that's what you mean.” There was no reason she shouldn't go out with him. He was probably intelligent; she'd learn some interesting things about Cambodia. She and Seiji had no commitment.
Their food came. He inquired after the quality of her meal in a seductive, mellifluous voice. After the waiter had cleared their plates he edged closer. “Will you have some brandy, Miss Jefferson? I have a fine Courvoisier upstairs.”
“No thank you,” she said, picking up her pocketbook from the next chair. He must think an American woman was an easy mark.
He put his arms on the table and leaned forward. “In that case, shall we explore the Tokyo night life together?”
“I have an early meeting in the morning.”
“Next evening perhaps.”
She shook her head and looked around for the waiter. “I'm very busy right now.”
“This is regrettable.” He leaned back in his chair, his arms across his chest. “If you have just one moment to spare, please tell me, if you would, Miss Jefferson, what is your opinion of American imperialist policy regarding Vietnam?”
She gave him her coldest look. “You practice a strange form of diplomacy.”
“Legislators of the world, America,” he spluttered, throwing up his hands. “America the all knowing!”
She signed her check and fled upstairs.
What a horrible man. She got into bed with her Time magazine to blot him out of her mind, but the lead article was about the Senate hearings on Vietnam. She flipped a few pages. Cassius Clay was complaining about being drafted. She threw the magazine on the floor and switched off the light.
More and more, people wanted to argue with her about the war; she needed to be better informed. She turned onto her other side. The bed wasn't as comfortable as a futon. The futon at the inn had been luxurious, thicker than the one at Sango-kan. She thought of Seiji beside her in the dark, his breath against her ear. Balabala-san. The missing paper could easily have rolled under the table, accidentally left behind. Or he might have borrowed it; he would feel he had the right. She thought back to their conversations about the tansu, how upset he'd been that she was the one to receive the papers. It was as if they were brother and sister, squabbling over an inheritance.
If only she knew what was on that 1961 page. The year, the weather: beyond that she could not imagine. She tried to remember what the writing had looked like, but she'd only seen it once, when packing for Hakone.
She dreamed she was sleeping with Seiji, their naked bodies covered with writing. The language seemed like
English, but she could not quite make it out. When she bent forward to decipher the words they began to fade, then sank into their flesh.
The librarian, a beautiful woman with a pale oval face and narrow eyes, remembered Michi's introducing Barbara to her in the fall. Yes, she had heard of Nakamoto sensei's death, she said; it had greatly saddened her. When Barbara explained—without mentioning the author—her need to find a translator for an ancient text, she began making phone calls. “I have found the perfect one,” she soon reported. “Mr. Natsume Wada, a scholar of Noh drama. He lives not far from your college, at Higashi Koganei. As it happens, he can meet you this afternoon.”
Mr. Wada lived in an apartment above a sweet shop called Golden Farce. He was a chain smoker, a sallow, plump, and tired looking little man. Barbara sat with him in a Western-style room in his apartment facing an open window. His wife brought tea and éclairs from the shop below. Barbara bit into the pastry—stale with a gluey yellow filling—and set it down again. “Not good,” Mrs. Wada said, mournfully shaking her head. “Oh no, it's good—excellent,” Barbara said, and with the tea, managed several more bites.
Mr. Wada invited Barbara into his study. They sat down, he behind his desk, she in an uncomfortable chair facing it. She looked through the papers—1960 and 1962, written before and after the missing page—and 1951, when Michi had apparently been in San Francisco. She handed him the 1960 page. “This isn't in kanbun,” she said, “but I may bring others that are.”
He unrolled the paper and smoothed it out on his desk, smoking as he began to read. Barbara watched the growing ash on his cigarette. When ash fell on the paper, she quickly leaned forward and brushed it away. “Please be careful,” she said, “this is a very important paper.”
He looked up at her. “How have you happened to possess this writing, may I ask?”
“A friend gave it to me.”
“I understand,” he said, nodding; he looked as if he understood something was not as it should be.
He put down the cigarette and spread his hands over the paper like a fortune teller. “This woman has a troubled heart. She speaks of Ume, a retarded daughter. There are some touching bits of writing, and a haiku as well, that is to say a Japanese poem written in a certain form.”
“Yes, I know about haiku—and haikai and tanka.”
“It is hard for a Westerner to understand the allusions,” he said.
“I'm quite familiar with Japanese literature.”
“But you don't read Japanese?”
“I'm afraid not. Only in translation.”
“Ah,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “Naturally this is not the same at all.”
“No,” she admitted, “It's not.”
He smiled, covering his mouth. “I offer lessons in Japanese language, should you care to undertake a study in the future.” When she did not respond, he looked back down at the paper. “I cannot promise to render haiku in precise form, syllable count and so on.”
“Just the general meaning would be fine. What does it say?”
“I will type out for you.”
“I have two others,” she said, pulling out the 1962 and 1951 papers.
He unfurled the papers and scanned each one. “California!” he said, smiling at her when he looked at the second page.
“Actually, could you do that one first?” The photograph of Michi and Ume by the Golden Gate bridge had been a clue, as she'd guessed.
“As you prefer. This will take some time, however, to make three translations. Shall you come back in say two hours or so?”
“I'll just wait if you don't mind.”
While he typed, she took out her Time magazine, but kept an eye on the cigarette, which he alternately held in his mouth and in his right hand, above the papers.
Finally he pulled a single-spaced sheet from his typewriter and handed it to her.
“January the second, 1951,” she read. “This New Year I find myself in Berkeley, California, where Professor Ota, my kind teacher at Kodaira, has arranged for my graduate studies, a pursuit of which Mother always coldly disapproved. Mother would be pleased, however, that I plan to look for Grandmother Ko, sent to San Francisco as a picture bride many years ago.”
“Wow,” she said aloud. When Mr. Wada looked up at her she said, “This is wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“I am sure is not so good,” he said with a little bow. “However I always try my best.” He gave another bow to indicate he wished to return to work.
She bent back over the page. “Before Father died in past year he gave to me a letter written by Grandmother Ko from California in 1940. Although the letter was sent to Great Grandfather Takasu, he later passed it to Father.
“Largest mistake of his life, Father said, was to show this letter to Mother. Father had thought it would be some comfort to know Ko was still living. Instead it drove her to dementia and Father thinks hastened her death. She could not believe her living mother would so forget her, not even to inquire after her well-being. Ko has been in spirit world for long time, she insisted, and from there made her many visitations.
“I am determined that I in Mother's place must find some trace of Ko, and understand her life. I think it is possible that Ko is still alive, for she would be in about her sixties. According to letter, she had two sons and one young daughter, and she had gained some reputation as poet of tanka and haiku. It seems her husband died just before the year 1940, and left her in state of impoverishment. Father told me that Great Grandfather Takasu sent money to her until outbreak of war with America.”
Great Grandfather Takasu must have been Ko's father-in-law. She thought of the early papers she and Seiji had read, the father-in-law opposing exorcism. He'd arranged the marriage to save her life.
“In spite of my resolve, I have made little progress in my search, only two phone calls to persons in San Francisco named Yokogawa.”
Yokogawa. Ko Yokogawa, a melodic name; she sounded like a poet. With growing excitement, Barbara read on.
“Both persons say they do not know my relative but one suggest to visit the Little Osaka area in San Francisco to make inquiries.
“I find myself too busy, and torn in bits, trying to research my thesis and attend my class, while knowing how Ume suffers. I have found young Japanese girl, Tomoe, to stay with her. Though she is kind and cheerful she does not have experience to care for such a child. When I arrive home Ume clings to me for life. I tell her not to worry, in summer we will explore beautiful California together, and maybe find Great Grandmother.”
Barbara read the page several times. She could picture Michi holding Ume, stroking her hair.
When Mr. Wada finished the other two papers, he folded them and put them in an envelope. In exchange she gave him the money envelope she had already prepared, with the amount of yen the librarian had suggested folded inside.
Outside she walked up and down the streets, not ready to read the other papers yet, or go home. She went into a noodle restaurant that reminded her of the one where she and Michi had gone in Kamakura. After ordering, she read the paper about California again. It was as if Michi were with her. She turned and looked through the window at people passing by, grateful to be present in this moment.
When she walked back to the station it was rush hour and the train going back to Kokubungi was crowded. She put the 1951 papers carefully in her pocketbook, then opened Mr. Wada's envelope and read his translation of the 1960 paper.
“This year I have helped Kondo-san make the mochi cakes.” Who was Kondo-san? 1960. Michi was in Tokyo by then. Maybe Seiji's aunt. “She said perhaps I did not pound adequately, but my arms are tired. I suggested to her that we buy mochi from shop if these were not good ones and she was very sharp to me in her reply. As I felt unwell, I went to my room to rest on futon. I can not help but cry. Ume lay down beside me, her face against mine. At moments such as these I cannot think of her as retarded. Understanding crosses between us like an electrical current.”
&n
bsp; “Then this haiku,” Mr. Wada had written, “composed at the bottom of the page: ‘White cloud of feathers / Captured by the trees.../ Suddenly two birds break free into the air.’”
The train stopped. With a whoosh, the doors opened, and people pressed off and on.
As they started up again, Barbara looked at the poem, thinking of the photograph of Ume and Michi at the egret rookery; it must refer to that somehow.
“Hello, Miss.”
She glanced up. Hanging onto the straps next to her were two American servicemen. They introduced themselves, Jim from Macon, Georgia; Coleman from Ames, Iowa, both on R and R from Vietnam. Barbara told them she was from North Carolina. “I just knew you was a Southern girl,” Jim said, grinning. “I bet you were Queen of the May at your high school, too. What are you doing over here?” When she said she was an English teacher, Jim said, “Uh oh. I better watch what I say.”
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 15