“How is it—what's it like in Vietnam?” Barbara asked.
They were silent, swaying in rhythm with the train. Coleman turned slightly away and looked out the opposite window. Barbara stared at Jim's clean-shaven face, his thin neck, the Adam's apple that moved up and down as he swallowed. “There ain't no way to describe it.” His small marble-like blue eyes were fixed on the distance.
The train began to slow for the Kokubunji stop. “I'm sorry—I have to get off here,” Barbara said.
“You know what I think about?” Jim said, his face suddenly alive. “Barbecue. When are you going back to the states?”
“I don't know—maybe this summer.”
“When you get home, have a barbecue sandwich for me.”
“I sure will—I'll do that.” She shook hands with Coleman, then Jim.
Jim held onto her hand for a few moments, his palm growing damp. “Would you mind—” He swallowed hard, grinned at his buddy. “How about a kiss—for luck?”
Barbara glanced around the car; no one she recognized. “Sure,” she said. “Ok.” He put one arm around her, quickly pressed his lips against hers, and stepped back.
She squeezed his hand. “Good luck,” she said, “to both of you.”
The train had stopped. She went down the steps, and turned to wave. The soldiers leaned forward, their hands raised. She had a glimpse of their smiling, anxious faces, then they were gone. The orange train clattered away, leaving behind an unnatural silence. Strange to kiss someone, then never see him again. The crowd streamed past her, a mass of black-haired people with closed, anonymous faces. She turned, and let herself be carried along.
By the time the bus came it was nearly dark. She took a seat near the rear, opened the envelope, and read the second sheet Mr. Wada had translated.
“Showa 37, 1962
“A melancholy New Year, no calls or gifts. Outside my window, there is a steady drip of rain.
“Ume paces our room like an animal in confinement. A thorn grows in her heart. At night I hear her call out in her sleep, ‘No, No.“ When I wake her she begins to cry, but cannot speak. I am demon mother, to have caused her this.
“My own mother comes so often to my thoughts in these days it seems as if she wills it so. Absent though she was from me in life, with her face turned to the past, I cannot forget how she knew my gravest distress and succored me. I feel her attempt to do so once again.”
“As before,” Mr. Wada had written, “we have haiku in conclusion. ‘Plum blossoms drift / White as bone / The rain drives silver needles through my heart.’”
Barbara refolded the paper. What could she mean, demon mother? Maybe bringing Ume into the world in such condition. Not that she could help it, an atomic bomb falling on Hiroshima. She got off at the Kodaira College stop and walked slowly across the campus to Sango-kan, her body filled with sorrow.
18
The next morning Barbara found a telegram under her door: “Please come Mashiko. Ride Tohoku line from Ueno #13, then Mito line to Mashiko. There is Ryokan Shirakawa. Innkeeper will call to me. Come I am urgent. Miss Dear Jefferson. Truely, Okada Seiji.”
Barbara read the message through once more. Miss Dear Jefferson. He urgently wanted her to come. She pushed back the kitchen curtains. He knew she was in Tokyo. Maybe his aunt had told him. Or he had guessed. It didn't matter. The day was beautiful, the sky cloudless. She could be out of here in thirty minutes, at the inn by tonight. He'd explain about the missing paper.
She packed her clothes—enough for a week—and headed downstairs. In the vestibule she wrote a note to Mrs. Ueda telling her that she was making a brief trip and put the note in Mrs. Ueda's cubby. Maybe she should run back upstairs and get some of Michi's papers. He'd be interested in Michi's search for Ko in California. She could ask him to explain the background of the 1960 and 1962 papers, though maybe that was clear from the 1961 writing. She'd have to keep a neutral face when he translated the papers that Mr. Wada had already typed out for her.
A door opened at the far end of the hall; she slipped outside. Seiji hadn't mentioned the papers. It was her he urgently wanted to see. She sprinted down the driveway toward the street.
Mashiko was a couple of hours northwest of Tokyo. In Mito she changed to a train pulled by a steam engine. It was like going back in time, with cinders blowing in through the open window and, in the fields, farmers in straw hats planting rice. The inn would be oldfashioned, discreet, two futons placed together. There would be a bathtub made of smooth hinoki wood, and a real kotatsu in their room. They would sit with their feet above the coals, the warmth traveling up their legs.
In Mashiko, the streets were full of pottery set out on tables and benches; inside the open doors of houses she could see potters working at wheels, glazing, pounding clay. On the hillsides were rows of rounded low clay kilns. The inn was above the village, secluded in a grove of trees, as she'd imagined.
The innkeeper, a young woman in country-style pants, led Barbara to a large tatami room. Barbara sat at the table while the woman poured tea and set out some bean cakes. “Okada Seiji?” Barbara said. “He is expecting me,” she added in Japanese.
“Hai, hai.” The woman bowed and went to telephone him.
After about twenty minutes the door to her room slid open. Seiji bowed. “I am glad you have come,” he said “My feeling is unspeakable.”
She jumped up, laughing. “I am glad too,” she said.
They sat down on opposite sides of the table. “I have some gift for you,” Seiji said, taking a small ceremonially wrapped package from his furoshiki. She opened it, inhaling the delicate fragrance of sandalwood. Inside was a fan, an ink painting of mountains and clouds on heavy rice paper. “This is my impression of Mashiko,” Seiji said. “I hope you will find Mashiko beautiful place. More beautiful than Hakone.”
It seemed to be an apology. “Thank you,” she said.
The innkeeper came in with more tea and a cup for Seiji; she left without speaking, sliding the door shut behind her.
Barbara poured out the tea. “What shall we do first?” she said. “Will you give me a tour of Mashiko?”
“Unfortunately this afternoon I must return to Hamada sensei's studio—there is a kiln opening.”
“But—” She set her tea down so hard it spilled onto the table. “You said it was so urgent that I come.”
“Yes. I must see you.”
“Well here I am.”
“I did not know opening would be today. I am sorry. It is my fault you are angry.”
She said nothing.
He took out a scroll of paper from his furoshiki and set it before her. “I have made some translation for you,” he said.
“Michi's paper!” She reached for it. “I've been so worried.”
“In my haste to return to Mashiko I forgot to mention. I am sorry you had cause for alarm.”
“I'm just glad to have it now.”
She unrolled the paper. Inside Michi's calligraphy was his translation written out on a sheet of lined paper. “Thank you,” she said. “Daijobu,” he said, “It is nothing.” She read the translation through: The New Year was busy and the weather quite fine. The plums had been abundant that year. Michi had published an essay on Commodore Perry and had been invited to a conference in San Francisco, which she had been unable to attend. Ume was keeping well. There was no hint as to why Michi might have felt like a demon mother the next year, no expression of feeling at all.
“You were so interested in this one,” she said, looking closely at the page. “When you first read it you seemed fascinated, but you didn't translate it.”
“I don't recall,” he said, frowning. “Of course I was very shocked and surprised by these papers. This has made me unable to speak at first.”
“Yes, I can understand that.” She put his translation inside the paper and slowly rolled it back up.
He came to kneel beside her. She pushed herself up to her knees and looked into his grave, dark eyes. He kissed
her and they embraced, holding on so tight she could feel his heart against hers.
“I will return in evening,” he whispered.
She had dinner looking out at the light fading from the sky. By the time the maid came to arrange her futon it was dark. She undressed, got into bed, and tried to read. It was after eleven when she turned off the lamp. She'd been a fool to come running up here, at his beck and call, her mother would say.
She was almost asleep when she heard the outside door open.
“Seiji?”
His dark shape moved across the tatami; he shed his clothes and slid into the futon beside her.
“Kirēkitsu-san,” he whispered, putting one arm around her.
“What if I'd gone,” she said, “and someone else was here?”
He laughed. “This would be shock. Very sad shock,” he added. “All day I am thinking of you.”
“Then why didn't you come sooner?”
“I must wait until innkeeper is sleeping. Very long wait.” He whispered something in Japanese, and began to untie her yukata.
“What did you say?”
“I think you are possessing me.” He covered her mouth with his.
In the morning the shoji door glowed with soft light, the shadow of a pine tree just visible against it. He kissed the back of her neck. “Let us dress now,” he said in a low voice. “I will go out and enter ryokan through front entrance. I can say I have come to have breakfast with you.”
“They won't know you were here?”
“Perhaps. But they will not have to acknowledge.”
They turned away from each other to dress. He opened the door, jumped down, and walked around to the front of the inn. Soon Barbara heard the cheerful voice of the innkeeper welcoming him. Seiji entered the room.
While the innkeeper went to get breakfast they sat in awkward silence.
“How was the kiln opening?” she finally said.
“Very good. There are many fine pieces. Today I must help further.”
“Now?”
“I am sorry to say so, yes.”
“I can't stand your coming and going like this. Why did you leave so suddenly from Hakone?”
“This is my flaw. It cannot be helped.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am afraid I cannot love someone.”
She opened and closed the fan, willing back tears. “But yesterday you said your feeling was . . . and last night . . . I don't understand.”
“This is my flaw,” he said again in a low voice.
The innkeeper came in with the breakfast, then went out again.
They ate in silence. He avoided her eyes. She could feel him drifting away from her.
“Why don't I help you today?” she said.
“In kilns?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“This is dirty work. You will spoil your dress.”
“I don't mind.”
They walked down a side road toward the studio. Hamada was sitting at an outdoor wheel, studying a bowl he had just made. A large man with a broad smiling face, he reminded Barbara of a jolly monk. Seiji was nervous, introducing her, but Hamada seemed delighted, looking her up and down. “We have new apprentice,” he said.
Seiji and Barbara joined two other of Hamada's assistants at the kilns. It was difficult work, crawling into the low clay structures and bringing out the fired pieces one at a time. Each bowl and plate had to be cleaned and carried down the hill to the studio. She and Seiji fell into a rhythm, working together. By the end of the afternoon she was tired but content; he had let her enter his world. Before they left, Hamada presented her with one of his bowls, luminous black with touches of red.
That night Seiji again came into her room long after dark, through the shoji door. He was wearing a yukata and his hair was damp from the bath. There were traces of dried clay on his fingers, making them a little rough, like loofah, as he stroked her face, her arms, her breasts. She felt as if she were clay being reshaped in his hands.
They were still, their arms around each other, then he sat up and lit a cigarette. He looked down at her, stroking her hair.
“When you said you cannot love someone,” she said, “did you mean you are afraid to love someone? I think that's been true for me.”
He turned away to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray. “Maybe if I explain my life, you can understand me.”
“I want to understand.”
He lay beside her on his back. She could just make out his profile in the dark.
“As you know, I was born in the city of Hiroshima.”
“Yes.” She touched his hand.
“On the day of the bombing—there was something strange.” He ran his hands through his hair and gave a nervous-sounding laugh. “I had toothache. Mother tied warm cloth against my jaw and said I must stay at home. Usually I would go with Father and young sister Itsuko to center of city where we were tearing down houses to make fire lane. This was because of bombing which was expected every day—Hiroshima had not suffered bombing like Tokyo and almost every other place. Father thinks I can work that day but Mother argues I cannot. I keep my long face when Father and Itsuko leave house but really I am happy not to work so hard that day.” He sat up to light another cigarette, then lay back down.
“Of course you were happy not to work . . .” She propped herself on her elbow to look down at him.
“Don!” She jumped as he hit the floor with one hand. “Suddenly, whole house was shaking. Maybe some terrible earthquake, I thought. I ran outdoor. Next to our house Nakamoto's house had tumbled part way down.”
“Was Michi-san there?”
“No, she lived with in-law family, and her parents by lucky chance were away. Then I see huge black cloud rising high above city. Maybe ammunition plant has been bombed, but why no air raid noise? Soon whole sky is black. There is terrible silence. I ran down hill from Koi toward city. Everywhere was thick smoke, fallen houses. In city people in road dead or dying. Some people . . .” he paused. “I could not believe were human being—melted skin hanging from their arms. One of them spoke my name but I did not know him. He was burnt black as if fallen into hibachi.”
Shivering, she lay down, her face against his arm. She imagined him running through the smoke, hand over his mouth, just a young boy. “Did you find your family?”
“I ran toward place of fire lane but everything is gone, buildings fallen down or burning. Maybe Father and Itsuko have run to river where many have jumped in to escape fires. I look in rivers and along streets. Finally I go to hospital. There I am happy to find Mother, but she is blinded by glass from streetcar and badly burned. She cries because she cannot see to help me search for Father and Itsuko.
“Outside hospital cremation pyre is burning. I think to throw myself there. If I had not complained of childish toothache Mother would not be blinded. It should have been myself, not sister, in firelane. But I must take care of Mother and I must find Itsuko and Father. For weeks I walked through ruins of Hiroshima to find some sign of them but I cannot. Later we realized their bodies were incinerated in an instant.”
They lay without speaking. Her chest felt painfully full.
He stubbed out his cigarette. “Itsuko-san should have remained at home, not her big brother.” He put his hands over his face. “She has died in my place. Father must be ashamed of me.” He pulled on his yukata, and began to pace around the room.
“I thought I would find some remain of theirs, my sister's lunch box or Father's watch. This was my obsession. There were many scavengers, orphans, and thieves from other towns. I was sure one of them has taken my father's watch. I ask everyone I meet, even in black market, who has seen a fine gold watch with sketch of Inland Sea engraved on its cover?”
“Did you find it?”
“No. I cannot.” He came back to the futon and squatting beside it lit a fresh cigarette. He remained squatting, rocking slightly back and forth as he smoked. “One day I met a collector of shadows.”
“Some people—like Father and Itsuko—were vaporized in an instant by the bomb. Some left their shadows on the street or steps of buildings. Shadow collector chopped out some of these strange portraits and took them to his home. I began to help him with his work. I knew I would find shadow of at least my sister. I imagined how her silhouette would look, her head raised to see white parachute falling. I imagined she was looking at it closely so she could tell me later. Itsuko liked to tell her big brother things that she had seen,” he said with a catch in his voice.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 16