“You never answered my question about how you got into Hiroshima. Americans weren't allowed there, I thought.”
There was another long silence.
“I've gotten to know a couple of people who survived the Hiroshima bombing,” Barbara said. “It's been moving, beyond words.”
“Don't get sentimental about Hiroshima. That bomb saved thousands of lives—American lives. The Japanese were prepared to fight to the end. Hari kari, every one of them.”
“Hara kiri. Even if that's true, using the atomic bomb changed everything. It still hangs over us—all of us. And the way people died...”
Her mother snorted. “Ever heard of the Bataan death march? The rape of Nanking? Those weren't exactly glorious deaths.”
“You don't understand. You never have bothered to try to understand me.”
“Don't be absurd.”
Barbara was trembling. “So—could you please answer my question—how did you get into Hiroshima?”
Her mother did not answer.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“I had a friend.”
“A Japanese friend?”
“Hardly. No, he was Belgian. A journalist. Or so he claimed.”
“And he got you into Hiroshima?”
“Yes.”
She could hear her mother lighting a cigarette. “How did you meet him?”
“In the bar of the Imperial Hotel. He knew my name, said he was impressed by my writing.”
“And?”
Her mother sighed. “He offered to introduce me to people, to give me leads . . . so I . . . I travelled to several places with him, including Hiroshima.”
“You travelled with him?”
“He was very handsome.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Clark Gable with a European accent. And charming! Flowers, gifts . . . I was smitten.”
“You're kidding,” Barbara said. Her mother, with a lover. And all that talk about saving yourself for marriage. “What finally happened with him?”
“He left one day—for Belgium, he said. He said he'd be back. I kept asking around after him—finally a woman from the Trib told me he was German.”
“German?”
“I'm sure he was a spy. I must have been a great disappointment to him on that score—I certainly had no inside information.”
“Have you ever—do you know what happened to him?”
“No. When Pearl Harbor was bombed, I thought: he knew about this.”
Barbara remembered that day, her mother staring out the window after she'd heard about Pearl Harbor. She'd been thinking of this man. A spy. “What was his name?”
“He went by Jules André—his nom de guerre, I suppose you could say.”
“When you went with him to Hiroshima—did you write anything about it?”
“I actually did, some innocent piece on a place called the Cafe Brazil. It was the fashionable spot. But Hiroshima was the center of military activity—they were already at war, you know, with China. I'll never forget seeing them unload small white boxes from a boat— ashes of soldiers killed in Manchuria. I believe I may have tried to work in some mention of that. Anyway, my little article never reached the States—my so-called friend probably saw to that.”
Back in her apartment, Barbara looked at the fox woman scroll. She'd always pictured a shy, aristocratic young Japanese man running up to her mother, blurting out his compliment—beautiful as a fox woman—as he handed her this gift. But maybe Jules had given it to her. The fox woman seemed to look at her coquettishly, that backward glance more mysterious and alluring than ever.
She rummaged through her desk in the Western-style room for the picture of her mother at Kamakura, standing before the Buddha. Her mother was in her twenties then, just about her age, though she looked older, with her hair pulled up into the tight chignon that her father once described as having been worked out by a slide rule. She hadn't been a mother then, she'd been Janet, Janet Girard. Barbara imagined her turning from the camera, her face softening as she walked toward a man with black hair and a mustache, a smile like Clark Gable's. Then, in a hotel room, unbuttoning her suit, loosening her hair.
The rain had stopped by the end of the term. The last day of classes was warm and brilliantly sunny. The campus was full of people, parents come to pick up their daughters for the summer holiday.
Rie was given a mid-year diploma in a private ceremony in Miss Fujizawa's office, with her father and Barbara in attendance. Afterward, the three of them walked around the campus. Rie's father took pictures of them: beside the Venus de Milo, in front of the lotus pond, in one of the classrooms. Barbara felt desolate. “What will I do without you, Rie?” she said.
Rie and her father exchanged glances. “My father and I wish to invite you to our home in Hiroshima for O-Bon in August. Can you come?”
“Yes—of course. Now we won't have to really say goodbye.”
“No,” Rie said, “Never will we say goodbye.”
At Sango-kan, she said her farewells to Junko and Sumi, who would be returning in the fall, and Hiroko, who was leaving to finish a graduate degree in Chicago.
“I will send my impressions of America and capitalism,” Hiroko said. “Also I shall study hard to become a teacher like you.”
By evening, all the students had gone, and the campus seemed like a painting cleared of all figures, beautiful and calm.
Part Three
25
Toward the end of June, Seiji came to see Barbara at Sangokan. Miss Yamaguchi rushed up to tell her. “You have a gentleman calling,” she said, then skittered back down the stairs again.
He was in the vestibule, looking out at the misting rain.
“Konnichi wa,” she said.
Ah—konnichi wa.” They looked at each other, smiling. “Will you take a walk?” he said. “I have some news for us,” he added in a low voice.
She stepped beneath his umbrella and they walked along the little path through the woods. He seemed jittery, nearly burning his fingers as he lit a cigarette. “Shall we go see how the plums are doing?” she said. They went past the lotus pond and the Venus de Milo, glistening white in the rain, then cut across the sodden grass toward the trees.
The wet leaves shone in the pale light. Most of the plums had already fallen, small and golden, scattered in the grass. Barbara picked one up, remembering what Michi had written about the fruit feeling like a cool egg in her hand. “This is the first year Michi-san isn't here to make wine,” she said.
“Yes.” He looked away from her.
The rain dripped steadily onto their umbrella.
“What is your news?” she asked.
“I have found a place where we may go, in Asakusa. My friend, Kojima-san, has a florist shop there and once lived above it but does no more now that he has married. He says I may use this upstairs apartment as he has no need of it.”
“So—we can meet there—anytime?”
“As often as we like. On weekends we will have building entirely to ourselves. Already I have moved futon there.”
“Oh, that's wonderful,” she said.
“We can move the tansu there as well,” he said.
“You mean—Michi-san's tansu?”
“Yes, this will be more convenient for us, I think.”
“But I could just continue to bring the papers.”
“If we have tansu there it will not be such a trouble to you. And we can easily spend long time together, translating at our leisure. Kojima-san may take holiday in August, then we will have apartment in privacy for many days. Will you like this?”
She touched his face. “I will love this.” And you, she said silently, with such intensity that she thought he must feel it. “We'll be able to become so much better acquainted.”
He looked around, then gave her a lingering kiss.
“When can we move there?” she said.
“I think in July, after students and teachers have left for their holiday.”
They returne
d to Sango-kan in silence. Standing by the front door, she watched as he walked down the gravel path and out of sight. She held the plum to her nose; it had grown warm and fragrant in her hand.
She went upstairs, took off her wet dress, and lay down on the futon. Their own place. She imagined the apartment, tatami rooms, a tokonoma where they would hang a scroll and place Seiji's ceramics. The tansu could go next to the tokonoma.
But in the morning, when she awoke and looked at the tansu, she felt a shock at the thought of its absence.
By the end of the first week in July, many of the teachers who lived on the Kodaira College campus had left for the summer. Barbara had Sango-kan to herself, except for Mrs. Ueda.
Barbara had heard Mrs. Ueda say that she was going to spend a few weeks at the campus ski hut in Nagano. She and Seiji were waiting until after her departure to move the tansu. Days passed, and Mrs. Ueda showed no signs of leaving. Finally Barbara asked her one afternoon in the hall when she was going to Nagano. “Alas,” Mrs. Ueda said, “I have many things I must accomplish in Kokubunji, so I have had to delay.”
The next morning Barbara noticed that Mrs. Ueda's car was gone. She must have started on her list; with luck she would be away for several hours. Barbara called Seiji to tell him the coast was clear, and packed her overnight bag.
He didn't arrive until noon. With him was a young man whom he introduced as Hiko-chan; Barbara had seen him working in the restaurant kitchen and roaring down the street of Takanodai on his motorcycle. Hiko seemed a little sullen, but maybe he was just shy, Barbara thought, or uncomfortable about his task. She had no idea what explanation Seiji might have given him.
The two men were carrying the tansu down the stairs when Mrs. Ueda appeared in the hall; she had a string bag of groceries in each hand. Seiji and Hiko bowed to Mrs. Ueda as they went past with the tansu; she stared after them.
“Where is he taking Nakamoto-san's tansu?” Mrs. Ueda said.
“Just—out for some repairs.”
“Is it damaged?”
Barbara turned quickly, pretending not to hear, and walked toward the door.
Mrs. Ueda followed. “You must not allow this.”
“It will be all right, he's an excellent craftsman.” Barbara stepped off the platform and into her shoes.
“I see you have your bag. Are you spending the night out?”
“I might stay at the International House—in case I'm delayed.”
She hurried outside. Seiji and Hiko were wrapping the tansu in heavy cloth; they lifted it into the back of the truck. Hiko hopped into the bed of the truck beside the chest. She and Seiji got into the front seat and they drove through the campus. As the truck turned onto the main road towards Tokyo she felt shaky with relief.
“Mrs. Ueda is a busybody.” When Seiji looked at her quizzically, she said, “A snoop. A spy.”
“She does not like for you to leave with me.”
“No. She doesn't.”
Seiji was frowning, concentrating on the traffic. She put her head against the seat and closed her eyes.
The truck lurched to a halt at a stoplight. “Be careful,” Barbara shouted, looking over her shoulder into the bed of the truck. Hiko was gazing out at the sights of Tokyo, one arm draped casually over the chest as though it were there for his convenience. “He's not even holding onto it,” she said.
“Hiko is reliable boy,” Seiji said, “there is no need for alarm.”
The apartment was in the Asakusa section of Tokyo, on Kappabashi street. “This area is well known for its kitchen wares,” Seiji said, as they drove down the street lined with small shops. “Our restaurant buys its equipment here, that is how I came to know Kojima-san.”
“What did you tell him about us?”
“I have explained it was necessary to have a quiet place to do some important work of translation. Also, some writing about my tea bowls.”
“So he'll think the tansu is full of pottery.” She smiled, remembering that had been Miss Fujizawa's speculation.
“Kojima-san will not inquire.”
He pulled the truck into an alleyway. Seiji and Hiko carried the tansu into the florist shop. Seiji called out a greeting to Kojima-san, a man in thick, dark-framed glasses who was behind the counter helping a middle-aged woman decide between two vases. The shop was smaller than Barbara had expected, and the air damp and funereal, heavy with the mixed odors of flowers.
Seiji and Hiko headed up a stairway with the tansu. Barbara was disappointed; she'd imagined a separate entrance.
The apartment was small, just one tatami room, a tiny kitchen, and a bath. Seiji and Hiko put the tansu below the solitary window and after a curious glance around, Hiko left.
They went out to buy groceries for dinner. When they returned the florist shop was closed. Seiji opened the outer door with a key. She thought he might have a romantic impulse to take some flowers up to their room, but he headed right up the stairs.
She had decided to stir fry salmon and snow peas, as Michi had taught her. There was a skillet in the kitchen and a small thin pot, in which she cooked the rice. The gas burner was hard to regulate and she was nervous; the rice ended up scorched on the bottom. “It's terrible,” she said. “No, excellent,” he protested, but as they crunched on the rice, both of them began to laugh. “I'd better send you to cooking school,” he said. “What about you?” she said, “next time you can cook.”
“Oh this would be disaster,” he said. “I want to compliment you highly on your cuisine.”
They sat smiling at each other, then rose and took out the futon.
The next day was Sunday; the florist shop was closed. They slept late, and spent most of the morning in bed. It was afternoon before they began their work.
They opened the middle drawer of the tansu and took out the 1951 wine, the next one in the sequence they'd been following. It was the year Michi-san had gone to California, one of the papers Mr. Wada had translated.
“The seal is broken,” he said, glancing at her in surprise.
“It's not just this one.” She could feel her face reddening. “Actually all the seals are broken. I was trying to find Michi-san's fox print.”
“You have opened every wrapper?”
“Yes—to look for the print. I did find a few pictures.”
“Which pictures?”
“Photographs—there's one of Ume and Michi-san, and one of you. Then there's another of the three of you together—you and Ume and Michi.”
“Why have you not spoken of these?”
“I didn't think to—the time never seemed right.”
“Where are these pictures?” His face had gone rigid.
“It's nothing to be upset about—they're right inside the papers. There's one here—she touched the 1951 bottle—and another one in 1958, I think.” She unrolled the 1951 paper and took out the picture of Michi and Ume, holding it in her palm. “They're in California, in San Francisco,” she said. “That's the Golden Gate Bridge behind them.”
He studied the photograph. “How can you be certain?”
“It's a very famous bridge. I've seen hundreds of pictures of it.”
He pulled open the top drawer and took out the 1958 bottle. Inside the wrapping was the photograph of him at the pottery exhibit. He looked at it a moment, then scanned the paper.
“What does it say?” she asked. “I guess she wrote about the exhibit.”
“Yes,” he said. He put the picture inside the paper and began to roll it back up. “I cannot understand why you have not mentioned.”
“As I said, it just didn't occur to me.” She tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. She put her arms around him. “Please, let's not fight. Let's not spoil this lovely day.”
He kissed her. For a few moments they held each other, then moved to sit at the table. As he translated the 1951 paper, she wrote it all down diligently as though she'd never heard it before: Michi in Berkeley, enticed there by Ko's letter from California a decade earlier; K
o's children and her poetry; Ume's unhappiness. Barbara wished that she hadn't read the paper. It was so intimate when they made discoveries together.
As soon as he finished reading, she jumped up, went to the tansu and brought back the 1952 bottle.
He smoothed out the paper and went through it silently.
“Did she find her?”
“You will hear,” he said. She begins, ‘January 2, 1952. Even at New Year, California is sunshine state. It is too bright and cheerful, and abundant growth of plant life is strangely oppressive. In garden of apartment house are jumble of rose and wisteria vines, and huge avocado tree with fruit of unnatural size. There is plum tree in next yard, but it is not our Japanese plum. In summer, it makes purple fruit rather than our small yellow one. I am missing Japan very much and long even to see the grey sky, more in keeping with my present mood.”’ He paused. “‘At times, melancholy threatens to overcome me.”’
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 23