Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction)

by Angela Davis-Gardner

  Barbara awoke to the sound of Seiji sneezing. He got up and left the room. When he returned he was wearing a contagion mask. He looked pathetic, his mouth and nose covered with the mask, his eyes bloodshot. “I shall be poor companion, I am afraid,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “Don't worry,” she said. “I'm just sorry that you're sick.”

  Breakfast came, miso soup and rice with fish and seaweed. He took off the mask to drink the soup, then put it back on and continued to read his newspaper while she finished eating.

  “Would you rather go home?” she said. “Maybe you don't feel like translating today.”

  “No, I am able.”

  After the dishes were cleared away he unrolled the papers he had brought and she took out her notebook. She felt queasy, tasting the seaweed from breakfast.

  He read haltingly, his voice so faint behind the mask that she had to lean forward to hear him. She wrote down everything, and tried to make appropriate responses as he narrated the story of Michi's mother stepping up onto the porch, the house falling, then her carrying Michi to the river. When he came to the part about the man at the side of the river, so formal in spite of pressing his intestines inside, she said, “Isn't that amazing?” Seiji did not look up. Following the calligraphy with one finger, he read more slowly about Michi and her mother making their way to Koi, finding their teahouse still standing but the house destroyed. He started coughing, raised his mask and took a few swallows of tea, then blew his nose and lowered the mask. The next section was about his family, the lost sister and father, his mother blinded on the streetcar. “It's terribly sad,” she whispered; there was a tangled pain in her chest.

  He paused. She waited for him to go on reading the part about Ume's birth, the miracle of it, and the moment when he became a man. But he slowly put the three pages back together and began to roll them up.

  “Was that everything?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him as he tied the papers together with a piece of string. He had deliberately left out that section.

  He lifted his mask and lit a cigarette. As soon as he inhaled, he began to cough.

  “You really shouldn't smoke,” she said, but he waved one hand at her, jumped up and went down the hall to the toilet.

  When he returned he proposed going out to do some sightseeing.

  “Do you feel like it?”

  “Of course. I am not so ill.”

  She took her camera out of her suitcase and they went out to the truck. There was a sharp wind from the ocean and the sky was a smudged looking grey. “It's going to rain,” she said. He shrugged, and said nothing. She could feel sadness sinking into her.

  They drove slowly along the coast looking out at the iron-colored water. The road curved away from the ocean and into a little settlement of houses and shops. Seiji went into a pharmacy to buy another mask, then they walked down the streets looking into windows: pans of shimmering white tofu in one shop, brushes and writing supplies in another, then a display of cheap Western-style clothes. There was a restaurant with plastic replicas in the window of food offered there.

  As they walked, she glanced at him. He looked vulnerable from this angle, with the mask string looped around his ear. There was something poignant about his censoring that part of Michi's writing, the moment he'd become a man. A weak man, alive only because of toothache, he'd said.

  They found a restaurant at the edge of the ocean. The waitress seated them on the porch, so close to the water that they could feel the salt spray against their faces. He took off his mask to eat. The food was much better than the inn's, several kinds of raw and baked fish, which they washed down with beer.

  “I wish to make apology for my aunt,” Seiji said. “It is her bitter nature that makes her speak in such a way about Miss Sutherland. She only wished to cause you envy.”

  “So—you really didn't . . . ?”

  He turned to look at her. “Carol Sutherland is no one to me.”

  “I believe you.” An enormous wave crashed against the rocks and receded. “Why would your aunt want me to be envious?”

  He drained his beer. “Aunt is soured from her experience of life. During war with China she was married to a soldier and went with him to Manchuria. When husband was away fighting she must protect herself from Chinese men by dressing in trousers and cutting her hair. She wanted to stay on but eventually she must return.” He turned the empty glass in his hand. “After war she learned her husband has married another.”

  “Without even divorcing her?”

  “Hai. She has heard he lives in Tokyo. That is why she first moved to Tokyo, to find him, but she never has found.”

  “Why would she want to find him?”

  “For divorce settlement. She had some little money from parents“ family, enough to buy restaurant, but never any from her husband. This is a shame of behavior, ne? I have had severe difficulties with aunt but I cannot forget her hardship in life. Also she has been kind to my mother and myself, supporting us from after time of war until I could assist in restaurant.”

  She thought of Kimi, the two of them talking together yesterday.

  “Is there anyone else—now? Some other woman?”

  “Why do you suddenly ask these questions?”

  “There was—a rumor.”

  He sat straight up, staring at her. “Who has spoken against me?”

  “Mrs. Ueda said something.”

  “Ueda Setsu?”

  “Yes, do you know her?”

  “My aunt knows her, I believe.”

  “So—she doesn't really know you.”

  He shook his head.

  “That's what I thought,” she said. They sat gazing out at the water. When she looked at him again, she felt a rush of tenderness. “It's so nice to see you without the mask,” she said, taking his hand beneath the table. “Why don't you just leave it off ? If I'm going to catch your cold I will anyway.”

  “This is our Japanese custom,” he said. “We think it inconsiderate otherwise.” When they stood up to leave he put the mask back on.

  After they returned to the inn, Seiji took a nap, woke up for dinner, then as soon as the futons were brought out, changed into his yukata and got beneath the covers. “I am sorry to be so much fatigued,” he said. She kissed his forehead and he turned onto his side. She lay with her hand on his back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath; she felt an impulse to tell him everything. “Seiji?” she whispered. He did not respond. “If you didn't feel like reading all of Michi's writing . . .” His breathing seemed to change. “It's all right,” she said, “I understand.”

  23

  Rie was absent from conversation class on Monday. When Barbara asked where she was—Rie had never missed a class before—there was some giggling but no one answered.

  At lunch Junko told Barbara that Rie had an accident on Saturday, “a tumble into the Tamagawa Canal.”

  “Is she okay? Was she hurt?” Barbara asked. “She must have fallen off her bicycle,” she added, thinking of all the dips and holes in the path along the canal.

  “No, she had stopped to pick some flower too close beside the stream,” Junko said. “She is in infirmary, but is hurt mostly in her pride, I think. Some students have unkindly said she tumbled in because she is too fat.”

  When Rie did not appear in class the next day, Barbara went to visit her in the infirmary, a dark room in the basement of one of the dormitories.

  Rie was lying in a bed at the far end of the room, her eyes closed.

  There were four other beds, all unoccupied. Barbara thought there might be a nurse, but there was no one in sight. She hesitated by the door. Maybe she would write a note and leave it on the little table beside the bed, along with the dried squid, which Rie had once said was her favorite snack.

  She tiptoed towards Rie's bed. The room seemed like a prison: windowless, with a cement floor. There was dim light from a globe in the ceiling. Barbara carefully set the squid on Ri
e's table, and felt in her pocketbook for a pen and some note paper.

  “Sensei!” Rie sat up. One hand was wrapped in a bandage and there was a dark bruise on her forehead. Her eyes were puffy and red.

  “I'm sorry—I woke you up.”

  “I was not sleeping. I am surprised you have come.”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “No one else has come to see me. I have no friend. And I am buffoon.” Tears began to dribble down her face. She rubbed her head furiously with the knuckles of her good hand. “I think I shall kill myself but I am coward.”

  “All you did was fall in the river—it could happen to anyone.”

  Barbara touched Rie's shoulder. “Sometimes it takes more courage to live, doesn't it? I'm sure you have more friends than you realize. Junko is very worried.”

  Rie did not answer; her back had gone rigid, as if she were holding her breath.

  “Does your hand hurt?” Barbara said. The bandage was grimy and unevenly bound, as if Rie had put it on herself. “Maybe we should have it x-rayed.”

  Rie sat up, and shoved the hand beneath the covers. “I am ashamed to tell you this is my excuse not to attend class. If I cannot write I cannot do my lesson.”

  “But you'll fall behind—wouldn't that be worse?”

  “Already I am behind. My class is graduated last March. I have been senior for over a year.”

  “In a few years that won't matter at all. Meanwhile, you could do your schoolwork here for a couple of days. What about your senior thesis—how is that coming along?”

  “I have not begun. I am poor student, disgrace to my family.” She started scrubbing her head with her knuckles again.

  “Stop.” Barbara caught her hand. “Write it now. Just a rough draft. You can pour out whatever you want to say—later it can be rewritten.”

  They were holding hands on top of Rie's head. Rie pulled her hand free and looked up at Barbara, a hint of a smile in her eyes. “I will write as you say.”

  “Good—and I can bring your other assignments to you, or Junko—would you mind if Junko came?”

  “No,” she said in a small voice, “I will not mind.”

  “I've brought you some squid.” Barbara put the package on the bed beside her. “Well, I'll go now—do you have some paper and a pen?”

  “Please ask Junko-san to bring me. Thank you, Sensei. I can never forget.”

  Two days later when Barbara was going to her kitchen to fix breakfast she saw a brown envelope that had been slipped beneath her apartment door. “Jefferson sensei, In Confidence,” was written on the outside. Barbara ripped open the envelope to find several sheets of paper covered with Rie's distinctive spiky handwriting. At the top of the first page Rie had written “Some Rough Idea for my Thesis,” then began,

  First I will tell you Sensei what is my job in Tachikawa. I go there to repair dead bodies, faces of American soldiers killed in Vietnam. Are you shocked? I do this because it is job which pays very good wage. And if you do this job you can understand, for not many people would have strength to perform this work like mortician. But I can. Because of my inheritance I have strength to bear this work for my education and graduation from Kodaira College which my father is daily praying for. What you said about shame in not graduating pierced me. It is true. I must to do well for my family.

  But let me tell you some guilty part of my job foremost. This repair of faces is attempted by American military so that bodies of soldiers may be sent to families in the U.S. looking less violent in their deaths. I believe this is dishonest and hypocrite. It would be best for family in America to see true face of war. But for my own selfish end I am making this job. Now it is my shameful secret but I have decided to have courage to some day write about this and about other things I have experienced for the world to learn. Not that I am so wise, but I know some things which world in general does not be aware of I believe.

  Another surprise for you, Sensei, is that I was born in Hiroshima and was two years of age at time bomb was dropped. We were living on far side of Hijiyama hill in one small section of the city where rows of houses are left standing. My mother and I seemed to be unharmed though some time later my mother died from radiation illness.

  My father was soldier on parade ground near ground zero. Through an undignified miracle his life was spared. Thinking of his fearless living in spite of indignity helps me find some courage.

  I admire Father very much. After the bombing of Hiroshima he worked hard at many things and finally owned his own store selling needles. His mother, my grandmother, was a poor widow and seller of fish on the street without even a shop. So you see I come from class of people unlike other students at Kodaira. You know because of Nakamoto sensei there may be others on campus who have experienced the suffering of Hiroshima or Nagasaki and also many bombing raids in other cities, though most do not say, particularly hibakusaha which means atomic bomb victim. It is new breed of untouchable class in Japan. But in strange way the bombing of Hiroshima helped my family rise in fortune since class boundary after war was not so important. Only living and feeding oneself became of importance. Still we were not rich but we had a house and I had for some years both mother and father though I later grieved my mother very much. In primary and high school I studied hard and my teachers encouraged me to come to Kodaira. They raised money for scholarship for me.

  Though I do not have personal memory of bombing my family and city and fellow people are affected in most horrible way to befall humans and other creatures since beginning of time on our planet. Yes, Japan to her shame was aggressor in war both in China and America and this ending was brought upon us for this reason. But I think worst thing is use of split atom, human discovery of nature's secret, to destroy. Perhaps Japan would have dropped same type bomb on Washington if possible. You asked me, what is Japanese idea of sin. For Japanese there is no original sin. In Buddhism, belief is that human in original state is pure and our effort should be to return to the pure nature. Wrongdoings are committed through ignorance and lack of compassion. We are all brothers, ne? There is the saying, that dog could be your mother. This suffering woman could be yourself.

  However there is some interesting point in your Adam and Even myth of human curiosity which I have been thinking of. Maybe we can say that split of atom caused by human curiosity is the original sin of mankind. Other things may be done or learned from same curiosity for good or bad reason. But Adam is like atom, do you agree? The tragic result of split atom will affect all people from now until end of time.

  Miss Jefferson, I heard you speak on day of Nakamoto sensei's memorial service. I have felt your sincere emotion. You have learned about we hibakusha at closer hand than you can do in America. Some time if you are willing I can tell you more things and even show Hiroshima to you. Our once Garden of Eden city is now only a memory beneath false face of modern buildings.

  I have told you my idea of original sin. I hope you will accept me.

  Sincerely, Rie Yokohagi

  Barbara sat stunned, holding the paper. Then she ran down to Michi's garden, picked some red peonies that had just come into blossom, and carried them in a vase to the infirmary. Rie was not there; another girl who was in bed, sick with bronchitis, told her that she was in her dormitory getting ready for class. Barbara went up to Rie's room and knocked on the door.

  Rie pulled open the door. “Sensei!” The bandage was gone from Rie's hand and the bruise on her forehead had faded to a purplish yellow. She was dressed in a clean white blouse and dark skirt and her black hair shone.

  Barbara held out the flowers. “I am very moved by what you've written.”

  Rie took the vase and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Sensei.”

  “Once I had a bad fall from my bike,” Barbara said. “My father made me get right back on—I hope you will too.”

  “I must do so, ne, to reach my job.” Rie paused, then added in a tentative voice, “One day maybe you can ride with me.”

  “I'd like to
—but I don't have a bike.”

  “I can find for you.“

  The next afternoon Rie knocked on Barbara's apartment door. “Will you take ride now, Sensei? I have bicycle for you.”

  The bicycle was black, with rusted spokes and fat tires. Barbara swung her leg over the seat and tried the rubber horn; it made a tired, asthmatic sound.

  “Will you fit?” Rie said.

  “Perfectly. Thank you.” They set off pedalling up the drive. Barbara's knees came almost to the handlebars as she pumped. It was difficult going up the slight grade of the driveway; there was only one speed, no gears to change. They crossed the street and rode down the path by the Tamagawa Canal, Rie leading the way.