“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, stepping inside. “You have foxes. I am astonished.” She turned to Barbara. “In my home of rural Yonago there is much fox superstition even to this day, but I do not know how you have found such things in Tokyo. How did you become interested in Japanese fox?”
Barbara told her about the fox woman scroll, how it had been given to her mother and passed down to her.
“I think fox woman has brought you to Japan.” Miss Ota touched the little foxes on the tansu. “We call these wish or prayer foxes, as you may know. These seem quite an old pair. Has your mother also brought these home to America?”
“No—a friend gave them to me.”
“Ah so?” Miss Ota looked at her expectantly, but Barbara volunteered nothing more.
Chie's journal, 1939
Shoichi has been born. It is my shame that birth of boy did not give me pleasure I have expected. For some time I have found myself in state of melancholy. One day I said to Fumio, do you consider life of male child more treasure than Michi or Haru? He looks at me in surprise. I confess that I have kept from him the true year of my birth, that I was born in unlucky year of Fiery Horse and might have been “a one-day visitor”— killed because a girl—except for Grandfather and Roku. He is shocked at first but must come to his senses as a modern man. I see he has some pride in himself for this. I tell him that I may be in fact be something stranger at my birth than human girl; maybe I am fox child. I confide the history of my parentage. He turns to look out into garden for some time then laughs and slaps his knee. Later I hear him say to Roku that he fears my worry over baby and the war has made me ill.
One Saturday morning Junko tapped on Barbara's door. “I have some problem, Sensei,” she said. “Can you advise me?” Her eyes were swollen and red; her long hair was tangled.
“What's wrong? Please come in,” she added, looking at her watch; she planned to arrive at Seiji's house early. She was going to surprise him by dressing in a kimono she had just bought at Takashimaya.
Junko shook her head. “You may know I have some special boyfriend.”
Barbara nodded. Junko had mentioned him in conversation class, a student at Keio University.
“We want to marry in next year but my parents say I shall have arranged marriage. It is very hard for Japanese girl to defy her parents. But I cannot live in this way.” She looked up. “Jefferson sensei, what shall I do?” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
Barbara leaned forward to take Junko's hands. “Obey your feelings. How can you give up someone you love?”
“I cannot give up.” She began to cry. “Sumimasen,” she said, “sumimasen, I am sorry.”
“Please ask someone else, Junko. Maybe I was wrong to say that—I can't know what it would be like.”
“Nakamoto sensei would say the same. She was like you in passionate nature.” Junko said, then ran down the stairs.
Barbara took a taxi to Takanodai. She didn't see Seiji on her way to the teahouse. Crouched in a corner, she took off her clothes and put on the green silk kimono. She smoothed out the material of the kimono, pale green silk scattered with delicate sprigs of plum blossom, pine, and bamboo.
She heard his light footsteps on the stone pathway, then on the platform. “Very lovely,” he said in a low voice. “Kimono is becoming for you.”
“Do I look Japanese?” she said with a smile.
“No,” he said with a laugh. “Not at all,” and went to make tea.
She looked down at the sleeves of the kimono, feeling foolish and sad—absurdly sad, she told herself.
They had tea in one bowl, as was their custom these days, then he unrolled the 1940 paper. He sat reading it, a peculiar expression on his face.
“What is it?” she said.
“You will be startled,” he said. “Chie writes, ‘In this year I had a shock. Woman claiming to be my mother Ko has written to Fumio asking for money. She does not ask about me, only speaks of a young daughter who is hungry. She says she lives in state of California, in America. Her husband has died and she must make her way on her own.’”
Barbara arranged her face in an expression of surprise.
“‘Fumio wants to help her but I say no. This is trick of evil fox at war with my own fox mother. My real mother must be dead or she would come to find me. I explain to Fumio that bad fox can do many things. Only last week there was tragic accident in Iwakuni caused by fox taking shape of a train. Fumio cannot understand me. He is angry I have read his letter.’”
“That's really interesting,” Barbara said. “Ko in California.” She could hear her voice, flat from guilt. She'd never been good at keeping secrets. “How do you suppose she happened to go there?”
“It does not say.”
“Maybe that's why Michi went to California.”
“Did she speak to you of this?”
“Don't you remember, Miss Ota mentioned her studying in California, at the memorial service? Maybe her real motive was to look for Ko.”
“She has gone there to study,” he said.
He looked so sure of himself that she felt like arguing. But she watched silently as he unrolled the next paper. “Chie writes that this is fox language as spoken by her mother Ko. Please have a look.” Barbara bent over the page with him. “Most is a mishmash of something like hiragana,” he said, pointing out several characters, “and the rest, all meaningless strokes.”
“Poor Chie. She went mad, didn't she? Her obsession with foxes—and her mother's desertion.”
They unrolled the 1942 paper.
“The same?” she said.
“Yes, the same.”
“Other people lose their mothers but don't become insane,” Barbara said. “It must have been the possibility of her existence—and all the fox stories Roku told her.”
“I think she felt much guilt and shame,” Seiji said. “It was because of her being born that her mother was banished.”
It was growing dark. He poured wine into their teabowl. A light wind had come up, moving in the grass and brushing a limb of the pine tree against the wall of the teahouse.
“Next we'll be reading Michi-san's writing,” Barbara said.
“Hai.”
She took a sip of the wine and handed him the bowl.” One of my students said I remind her of Michi-san because of my passionate nature.”
“Eh?” He looked startled.
“Passionate opinions, she meant,” she added with a smile.
“Nakamoto had strong opinion,” he said.
“You must have felt very close to her.”
He was silent so long she thought he wasn't going to respond. “If not for her perhaps I would not be living,” he finally said.
“Getting you to the right doctor . . .”
“Yes and before this as well. When I was invalid in Fukuyama she came many times to visit. One day I remember especially is time she has brought my schoolbooks. It was the first term of school after the war. American law was there could be no mention of emperor as god or Japan's military victories in textbooks. So first day of school children took calligraphy brushes and marked over passages as teacher told them with their black ink. This was necessary for new democracy—but for many Japanese this was more shocking than defeat in war. Can you imagine?” He drew his hand through the air as though holding a brush. “In one stoke, all our history, blackened out.”
He let his hand fall on the table. She took it. “I can imagine— almost.” For a few moments they looked at each other. “Dear Seiji,” she said.
He rose and came to sit closer beside her, then slipped one hand inside the kimono. “Ah,” he said, touching her bare breast.
She untied her obi and let the kimono fall open. He kissed her, the taste of wine on both their mouths. She put her fingers in the teabowl and put wine on her nipples. He bent to lick them, gently sucking at her breasts, cupping each one in both hands as though it were a bowl. As they lay down together he whispered, “Sometime I wonder which is dream—thi
s time with you, or my former life.”
20
Michi's garden, behind Sango-kan, had been untended all spring. Barbara noticed the tangle of plants and weeds one morning when she was taking out her trash. Along one edge of the garden, beside the stones, were hyacinths, pendulous stalks of blossom, blue and some white, dense with fragrance. A large patch of daisies occupied one corner. A leafy shrub was covered with round fat buds.
The garden was divided by a curving line of rocks. The other side was dominated by weeds, except for a row of feathery stalks— carrots, maybe—and another row of dark green plants she didn't recognize. Kneeling on the dirt, she worked a carrot loose from the soil. It was tiny, as long as her little finger. She laid it on one of the stones and began pulling weeds.
As she was tugging at a clump of grass she looked up, surprised to see Miss Ota standing beside her. “I am glad to find you caring for Nakamoto-san's garden,” Miss Ota said. “She would be very pleased—and you look to be quite at home.”
“I feel at home—in many ways.” Barbara stood up. “I wish I could stay on at Kodaira,” she said, with a rush of feeling that brought tears to her eyes.
“Is this so?” There was a pause, then Miss Ota said, “Perhaps I could speak to Miss Fujizawa on your behalf.”
“Oh, could you? I would be so grateful.”
“I suggest you speak to Mrs. Nakano—meanwhile, I will work behind the screen.”
A few days later Barbara was summoned to Miss Fujizawa's office. She took an artfully arranged small vase of hyacinths and daisies and set it on the president's desk. “From Nakamoto sensei's garden,” she said, with a little bow.
“Very pretty.” Miss Fujizawa gave the flowers a brief glance. “Thank you. Miss Jefferson, I understand that you are getting on rather more agreeably now. As it happens, our foreign candidate for the next session has fallen through. Would you be willing to remain with us for another term?”
“I'd be thrilled, and honored. I love Japan and the students and the college—everything. Everyone has been so generous to me. Thank you so much, Miss Fujizawa.”
“You're quite welcome, I'm sure.” She allowed herself a little smile. “Your youthful enthusiasm is infectious. And how are you coming with your study of Japanese?”
“I've found an excellent teacher, Mr. Wada, in Higashi Koganei. I'll be going there several times a week,” she added, though she had yet to make an appointment. From her office she called Mr. Wada and scheduled a lesson. Eventually she would talk to Seiji in his language, no translations necessary. For now, though, she'd keep it as a surprise.
In the late afternoon as she was leaving the library, Mr. Doi fell into step with her. “Mistress mine, where art thou roaming? Perhaps to some place in Takanodai?”
“What . . . ?”
“You have been spied, with a certain gentleman.”
“What's wrong with that?” she managed to say.
“I mention this only for your sake. As a female professor of Kodaira College you must be discreet.” He bowed and walked away.
“I am discreet,” she called after him. Two passing students glanced at her and ducked their heads.
He had a nerve. Mr. Doi would never warn a male member of the faculty to be discreet. She wouldn't let him spoil this. Seiji could find another place for them to meet. But while she was fixing supper she began to worry that Mr. Doi might speak to other faculty members, even Miss Fujizawa. Miss Fujizawa might change her mind about continuing her appointment.
The next day she dropped by the president's office to ask what courses she'd be teaching the next semester. As she was leaving, she added that her Japanese had progressed so well that she was helping someone translate some material into English, an article on haniwa. That should explain the Takanodai rumor, should Miss Fujizawa get wind of it.
During Barbara's American literature class, her gaze kept falling on Rie. Maybe she should talk to her, to make sure she wouldn't break her confidence. Rie looked steadily back at her, her expression unreadable. A conversation with her might only complicate things.
That night she went to the public bath with Junko, Sumi, and Hiroko, and said casually, as they were soaking in the hot water, how busy she'd been lately, working on a translation.
“Oh,” Junko said, looking disappointed. “We thought perhaps you had some romance.”
“Always Junko is thinking of romance,” Hiroko said.
That night Mrs. Ueda came to see her. “There is something I have been intending to speak to you about. May I?”
“Yes, of course.” A flutter started in her stomach. “May I offer you some tea?”
“No thank you.”
Barbara led the way to the six-mat room. They sat at the table.
“Mr. Doi has said something to you, hasn't he?”
“He has done so. He and I agreed together that it would be best I speak with you woman to woman.” Mrs. Ueda met her eyes. “Forgive my frankness, but I feel I must warn you, now that you are lengthening your stay—please take some care in your connection with Mr. Okada.”
“What Mr. Doi doesn't know is that Mr. Okada and I have been translating some things—about ceramics.”
“Must you go to Hakone to make your translation?”
Barbara's face went hot. Mrs. Ueda had overheard her distraught conversation with Mr. Kawabata, perhaps other conversations too. “We were staying in separate places—and no one saw us.”
Mrs. Ueda said nothing.
“I'll be more discreet,” Barbara said. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone.”
“You are a young woman alone here, without a mother to guide you. Therefore I feel it my responsibility to speak to you about Mr. Okada's reputation.”
“What about it?”
“Perhaps he is not entirely loyal.”
“You mean . . . ?”
Mrs. Ueda patted her hand awkwardly, as if it was a gesture she'd never tried before. “Maybe you had best wait to find romantic interest until you are returned home—it will be less complicating for you.” She stood up.
“Wait—please tell me.”
“I am sorry to cause you worry. I only wish you well,” Mrs. Ueda said, and walked quickly down the hall.
Not loyal. It was Mrs. Ueda's tactful way of saying he was unfaithful.
She thought about the waitress in the Okada restaurant. Kimi, her name was. Kimi-san, Seiji called her. In the restaurant they spoke to each other in an easy, confidential way.
There could be women at Mashiko. His going to Mashiko so often might be an excuse, a cover. That's how it had been with her father, business trips, late nights at the office.
The memory of being with Seiji at Mashiko washed over her, that night he'd talked to her about his life, and the afternoon in the studio, their intimacy as they sat looking out the rain.
By Saturday, when she was to go to Seiji's house, Barbara was ill with anxiety. She had trouble deciding what papers to take. They had finished Chie's writing and were to go on with Michi's but hadn't discussed where to begin. Chronologically the next writing was 1949 but she wanted to read 1952, when Michi was still in California. Finally she put all of Michi's papers in her bag. Maybe she ought to show him the deformed bottle; she'd never mentioned it. She put it in, then took it out; he might not want to be reminded.
As she walked down the street of Takanodai, a woman addressed her by name. “I am Mrs. Taki Kondo,” the woman said, with a bow. “Seiji Okada's aunt.”
“Oh, how do you do.” Barbara returned the bow. She recognized the woman now, regal looking, with heavy-lidded eyes and a mole on one cheek. “I was just going to visit your nephew.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Kondo said. Clearly this was no news to her. “Miss Jefferson, would you be free to take supper with us this evening?”
“Oh—thank you,” she stammered. “I'd be delighted.”
They began walking toward the house. “This is our restaurant of course,” Mrs. Kondo said, as they went past.<
br />
They went in the front gate and into the courtyard. “Sei-san is expecting you, I imagine,” Mrs. Kondo said.
“Yes, I told him I'd be dropping by today.”
She walked through the courtyard, trying not to hurry or look anxious.
He was in the kitchen getting the tea things ready. He turned and kissed her; she pulled back from him. “I just met your aunt in the street. I told her I'd love to come for dinner.”
“To my house?”
“Isn't that all right?”
“Very nice,” he said, “I am glad.” But he was frowning slightly; he didn't look glad.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 18