She followed him to the tearoom and watched as he made tea. Maybe this was what he always did, courting women.
He set the bowl before her.
“I have something to tell you.” Her voice was more serious than she'd intended.
“Eh?”
“I'm going to be staying on through the fall—maybe even longer.”
“Ah so?” His eyes widened. “This is wonderful.” She waited for him to go on, but he said nothing more.
“You wouldn't be glad—to be free to go out with other women?”
“Go out?”
“Have romances with other women.”
He laughed. “I do not want another woman. Why do you have such a thought?”
“I don't know.” The knot inside her dissolved. “Some people at the college know I come here. We need to find another place to meet—an apartment or a room.”
“This will be expensive.”
“What will we do?” she said. “We have to be more careful.”
“We will find some way,” he said. He kissed her before taking the tea things into the kitchen. When he returned he looked at the black bag. “What have you brought for us?”
She took out the 1949 papers, three of them in one roll, and those from 1952 and “53.
“Wah. We will be busy,” he said. “Too busy,” he added, with a smile at her.
He picked up 1949 papers and read through them. It took him a long time to finish all three pages. Finally he said, “As you know, this is Nakamoto's first writing. It describes very difficult matter. I think it would be best for me to make this translation at leisure.”
He wanted her to leave Michi's writing. “That will be all right, I guess,” she said. “But please give them back to me soon.”
“Yes, I will do.” He rolled the pages together, and stood up. “Would you be interested to see my new work?”
She followed him into the pottery. There were several pieces laid out on a table. All of them had a jagged, unfinished look, a primal quality. “I have made by hand instead of on wheel,” he said, as she touched the sharp edges.
“They're powerful,” she said. “Strongly emotional.”
“Perhaps because I think of you as I make them,” he said. She took his hand and kissed it; he'd never expressed his feelings so openly before. He led her into a small room off the pottery. “No one can see us here,” he whispered. There was a cot, but no window. He closed the door; they were in total darkness. He kissed her. “Oh, Seiji,” she said. They felt their way toward the cot and lay down. He reached beneath her dress and pulled down her underpants; she could hear the sound of his zipper. They kissed again, both of them trembling. She wrapped her legs around him. “Kirēkitsu,” he whispered. Afterward they lay still, his mouth against her ear, their hearts pounding. “I love being with you,” she said. She wanted to hear him say he loved her. But he stood, pulled up his pants, and went to open the door. She lay there, looking at the rectangle of light for a few moments before she got up to compose herself for his family.
He gave her a cloth so she could wash off at the sink in the pottery.
There was no mirror. “Do I look okay?” she asked, smoothing out her skirt. “Of course,” he said, smiling at her, “very okay.”
At the entrance to the house, they stepped up onto the platform, took off their shoes, and walked into a large tatami room. The paper shoji doors were open all the way to the courtyard. Perpendicular to the door was a low table set for dinner.
“Tadaima,” Seiji called out. “I am home.”
Mrs. Kondo came out of the kitchen wearing an apron. “Please be welcome,” she said to Barbara, “we will be eating shortly.”
Barbara turned to Seiji. “Could you show me Michi-san's butsudan?”
Seiji and his aunt exchanged glances.
“I'm afraid that room is rather dusty,” Mrs. Kondo said.
“I don't mind. I'd really love to see it.”
He led her down a hall past several other rooms to a dark room in the corner of the house. There was only one small window; the only light came from it and from a bare bulb overhead. “This is where Nakamoto and Ume lived,” he said.
Michi's butsudan stood in the middle of the room. It was a tall wooden shrine with shelves holding brass incense burners, oblong tablets inscribed with Japanese characters, and clusters of small framed photographs. The white box containing Michi's ashes wasn't in sight; it must be in some closed part of the butsudan.
On the top shelf of the shrine was a picture of Michi as a young woman. She was standing before a flowering tree, a cherry tree heavy with blossoms. Without glasses, her smiling cat-shaped face seemed smaller and more delicate.
Barbara leaned forward to look at a sepia print of a family group: a woman in kimono with a baby in her lap and two little girls at her side. She studied the woman's severe face. “This must be Chie. And Michi,” she added, looking at the mischievous girl in the sailor dress. “And Haru and Shoichi.”
She looked at Seiji; he was staring down at the floor.
On the way out of the room Barbara noticed a recessed tokonoma, and a framed print hanging in the shadows. She stepped closer. A female figure in kimono was walking across a tatami room; her head, silhouetted behind a paper shoji door, was that of a fox. Crawling behind the fox woman was a small child, reaching out one hand to the departing woman. “This is the print described in Chie's journal—why didn't you mention that you had it?”
“I did not think to mention,” he said.
They went back to the main room. Seiji's aunt showed Barbara where to sit, in the place of honor where she would have a view of the garden. Seiji's mother, Mrs. Okada, sat beside her. It was going to be impossible to talk to her, since her head was turned at that permanent angle in the other direction. Seiji sat across the table from her. Mrs. Kondo was beside him, in the place closest to the kitchen. No one spoke while she ran back and forth from the kitchen bringing food, miso soup in covered lacquered bowls, pickles, cold spinach salad, and sashimi, slivers of raw fish. Seiji looked miserable. Finally Barbara broke the silence, speaking to his mother in halting Japanese, asking after her health. Mrs. Okada turned to face her, and reached for her arm as she talked. “Hai, hai,” Barbara interjected several times, though she didn't understand what was being said. Mrs. Okada's voice was touching, the way it quavered. She thought of her going for Seiji's toothache medicine, then the explosion, the glass in her eyes.
Mrs. Kondo returned to the table. She asked Barbara if she wanted to say a prayer.
“Not really—I mean yes, if you do.”
“I thought Americans liked to say some prayer before eating. What we say as you may know is ‘itadakimasu,“ let us eat.” They all said itadakimasu and started eating in silence. Barbara looked around the room; it seemed as though someone were missing.
“Oishi,” Barbara said, drinking her soup. “Delicious miso shiru.”
Mrs. Okada said something in her querulous voice.
“She is glad you like Japanese food,” Seiji said. “Please excuse us for not inviting you sooner, she says.”
“I'm just delighted to be here now.” She gave her best Southern smile. “It's such a pleasure to become acquainted with her, and your aunt.”
“My nephew tells me you are quite interested in the art of ceramics,” Mrs. Kondo said. “Tell me, what do you think of his pottery?”
“It's gorgeous...the shapes, the glazes...everything is exquisite.”
“Carol-san also admired his work,” Mrs. Kondo said. “She said it had strong force combined with refined air.”
“Carol?” Barbara stared at Seiji. “Carol Sutherland, who taught at Kodaira College? You knew her?”
“I only knew her slightly. She came to study tea ceremony with my aunt.”
They continued to eat in silence. Seiji avoided her eyes. Maybe Mrs. Ueda had been insinuating that Seiji liked to have flings with blond gaijin.
“Barbara-san is from the Southern part of A
merica,” Seiji said.
“In Washington, your capital?” Mrs. Kondo said.
“No, in the state of North Carolina.”
“Norse Carolina.” Mrs. Kondo closed her eyes as though to summon it up. “I have not heard of it,” she concluded.
“North Carolina is a little like Japan,” she said. “The climate is similar, and the manners—I'm glad I'm going to be staying on another semester or maybe another year.”
“I have heard this,” Mrs. Kondo said.
“You have?” Barbara looked at Seiji. He was staring at his aunt. “Where did you hear it?” Barbara asked.
“From someone at your college, I cannot recall whom.”
“Did you already know that, Seiji?” Barbara said.
He shook his head. “My aunt is always first with any gossip,” he said.
There was a tense quiet as they finished the meal. Barbara kept her gaze on her plate. What a strange family. “I guess I should be going,” she said.
“First we have special dessert,” Mrs. Kondo went to the kitchen and brought back a carton of vanilla ice cream. “Happi girl,” she said.
“Happi girl,” Mrs. Okada repeated, clapping her hands together.
Mrs. Kondo held up the carton of ice cream for Barbara to see: a smiling Japanese girl's face beneath what looked like an Eskimo hood; “Happi Girl” was written beneath the face in English. Mrs. Kondo dished the ice cream into bowls and passed a bowl to Barbara. “This was Carol-san's favorite. I hope you also will enjoy.”
“It sounds as if Carol came here quite often,” Barbara said.
Seiji's mouth was set in a thin line.
“We made quite a pet of her,” Mrs. Kondo said. “Very nice, pretty, happy girl.”
Seiji abruptly stood up and announced it was time to return Miss Jefferson to her college.
They walked out through the courtyard. He started to go through the gate toward his truck but she said, “Excuse me, I forgot my bag.” She ran to the teahouse, fumbled in the dark for Michi's papers and put them all back in the bag. When she came out he was standing on the teahouse platform. “I'm taking all the papers,” she said. “Maybe we can read them later.” She could feel his anger, but he made no comment.
They walked to his truck in silence. He didn't open the door for her as he usually did. Carol must have ridden in this truck. Their pet. She slammed the door hard.
They drove past the pottery buildings and bounced onto the street. “So,” she said, “did you have a love affair with Carol?”
“I only know her casually,” he said.
They rode down the streets of Kokubunji, past the pachinko parlor and their eel restaurant. “Did you and Carol go to that restaurant?” she said.
“Perhaps one time, with my aunt. You are too jealous,” he said.
“Am I?”
“Why have you taken back the papers of Nakamoto?” he said.“
Why shouldn't I? They're mine.
”He said nothing.
“Why didn't you tell me about Michi-san's fox print?”
“I did not think to mention, as I said.”
They didn't speak again until they reached the campus. He stopped the truck and sat staring straight ahead.
Her head was spinning. “Please tell me the truth about Carol.”
He sighed. “There is nothing to tell. Only that my aunt likes to make mischief.”
“What about you?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She pushed open the door and jumped out. Without a glance at her, he pulled the truck back onto the road and drove away.
21
Barbara sat in the Western-style room drinking plum wine. Light from the full moon illuminated the back of the house and glinted in the windows of Michi-san's apartment. A blade of moonlight lay across the floor. Tomorrow she'd call Mr. Wada, have the papers translated right away. She tried to imagine what Michi would think: there was nothing but silence.
She went downstairs and around the back of the building to Michi's garden. Mrs. Ueda's windows were open, but no lights were on; she must have gone to bed.
Michi's cabbages were silvery in the moonlight, the patch of daisies a ghostly white. The other plants, robbed of color, were visible only as shapes that threw long shadows onto the ground.
She lay on her back in a bare spot, removed a stone that was poking her shoulder, then put her hands under her head and closed her eyes. Her body began to relax. It felt good to lie here, on the solid earth, the moonlight against her eyelids.
She thought of the papers, the way Seiji had behaved. Michi would say have the papers translated by whomever you please. I left them to you, after all.
Early the next morning she called Mr. Wada, who said he was quite free to help. “My wife is doing some spring cleaning and will be glad to have me otherwise occupied.”
He greeted her outside his apartment building and led the way upstairs. Mrs. Wada turned off the vacuum to say hello, and Mr. Wada led the way into his study.
Barbara took out the roll of 1949 papers and handed them to Mr. Wada. He frowned as he read. “This may take quite some time,” he said.
“I don't mind waiting.”
He invited her to have a look at his bookshelf. “There are some books in English, including the translations I have made of Noh drama. Please enjoy the balcony if you wish,” he said, and took the papers to his desk.
Most of Mr. Wada's books were in Japanese, but there was a small shelf of works in English: Ivanhoe, A Crock of Gold, The Complete Works of Lord Byron, Anne of Green Gables—strange to see that here—and Collected Poems by Sir Thomas Wyatt. There were also six volumes of The Japanese Noh Drama, translated by Wada Masaro. She took down the Wyatt books and went out to the balcony.
She sat down in an uncomfortable metal chair. Across the street were a large pachinko parlor and a bar. Odors of restaurant food floated up to her from somewhere. Inside, Mr. Wada begin to type. She opened the book of Wyatt's poems; she'd liked them in college. “They flee from me that sometime did me seek,” the first poem began. She snapped the book shut, and went back inside.
Mr. Wada looked up, surprised. “I thought I'd just go for a short walk,” she said, “I need some exercise.”
“You may want to go for shopping,” he said. “This will require an hour or so.”
Mrs. Wada was struggling to take down some blinds in the living room.
“May I help?” Barbara asked.
“No, no,” Mrs. Wada said, “please don't trouble yourself,” but Barbara stood by while she removed the blinds and together they carried them downstairs to the back door. Mrs. Wada stepped into her wooden sandals. “Dozo,” she said, gesturing toward another pair. “Please wear my husband's geta.” They clattered down the outside steps to an asphalt area where there was a hose, washed the blinds, and hung them over a clothesline. Going back upstairs, Mrs. Wada told Barbara about her daughter now in Hokkaido and how much she missed her; she used to help with the spring clearing. Mrs. Wada insisted there was no more to be done today and Barbara must stop as she must be tired.
Mr. Wada came in, looking somber, and gave Barbara a sealed envelope. “Please read when you return home,” he said. Before she could ask Mr. Wada about the next language lesson or pay him, he bowed and retreated into his study.
Mrs. Wada went with Barbara down the flights of stairs. “Please excuse my husband. I am afraid he is not feeling so well. He suffers from lumbago and is easily tired. But thank you for being my daughter today.”
Barbara walked dispiritedly along the street. Mr. Wada was so crotchety; maybe she should find someone else to help her. She looked at the envelope in her hand; she wasn't going to be able to wait until she got home to find out what he'd written.
She went into a coffee shop. The decor was garish silver and black. She sat by the window and ordered coffee. The only other customers were two young men playing Go; they glanced up and went back to their game. The heavily made-up waitress brought her c
offee. She took a sip—it was awful, worse than the instant stuff in her apartment—and opened Mr. Wada's envelope.
January the 2nd, nineteen hundred and forty nine, Showa 24.
Today I take up Mother's habit of making a first writing of the year. I remember my mother Chie kneeling at her desk, her stern expression. There was some beauty in her face, however, perhaps like her mother Ko, with her heavy eyebrows and long pale face. Now that I have been reading Mother's writings, I can deeply understand her longing for Grandmother Ko. I have been infected by it. Especially as a child, I have in my turn been yearning for Mother. Now I can at least realize the reason for her absence.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 19