Mrs. Wada returned with a tray, on it a ceramic bottle of warm sake, two small cups, and on a fan-shaped plate, sembei crackers wrapped in seaweed. She poured out sake for each of them and set the plate of crackers in front of Barbara. “Dozo,” she said. “Please eat,” then left the room.
Mr. Wada drank two cups of sake before he started to work. Barbara held the book he'd given her but could not read; she watched as he examined the characters on each paper. She kept his sake cup filled but took only a sip of hers; it made her think of Seiji and the Kamiya restaurant. But she ate all the crackers, one after another without pause, monotonously crunching; when they were gone she wanted more. Mrs. Wada reappeared, took the plate and refilled it. Mr. Wada continued drinking, and she eating. Finally he began to sort the papers, resting his palm lightly on each one as though making a diagnosis through touch. He divided them into piles and made notes on a small pad of paper.
Looking up at her with a triumphant little smile, he said, “Now I have some conclusion. The solution to your mystery, I believe.” He laid the notes before him, and began writing on a fresh sheet of paper. Barbara watched, reading upside down as he wrote:
Years 1930–1943, First Hand. This is Takasu Chie.
Year 1949, pages one and two, Second Hand. Nakamoto Michiko.
Year 1949, page three, and Years 1950–1965, Third Hand. Our fox.
He turned the page around before her. “Three writers,” he said. “First writer makes some nonsense writing in final pages, but still her hand. Second hand composed only two sheets, first two pages of 1949. This is in very different style from third writer.”
She stared down at the spidery handwriting. Her mind labored. “You mean . . .”
“Our fox has made an error, you see. He did not write over pages one and two of the year of 1949, only the last one where he wished to omit some passage.”
“Are you saying . . .”
Mr. Wada laid a hand on one pile of papers. “Years 1930–1943, old fashioned writing, very distinct. Year 1949, page one and two, also distinct.” He held them up toward her. “Different writer, you see.” He laid the two pages on the table and touched the remaining pile with one finger. “All the rest, third hand.”
“You are certain?” She thumbed through them. “These are all Michi-san's writings.”
“Yes, I am afraid so, quite certain.”
“Then someone copied—all her pages. Except those two.”
“It would seem to be the case,” Mr. Wada said.
The room spun; for a moment she thought she would faint.
“I am sorry to have brought you a troubling solution.”
“It's all right. Excuse me, I have to go.” She started to gather the papers, but he said, “Wait, wait,” pushed himself up from the table and went to a tansu in the corner of the room. She fumbled in her pocketbook for a money envelope, put a large bill inside, and laid it on the table.
He walked across the room. In one hand he had a pair of scissors, in the other two balls of silk twine, one white, one black. “Just a moment, I will arrange for you.” He sat down, laid the scissors and twine on the table, and picked up the pile of third hand papers. She watched him roll the copied papers together and tie them with the white twine; then he took Chie's papers and Michi's two pages from 1949 and bound them with black string. “Now you can easily tell true papers from the false. Black is true, white is false.”
She took them, and burst into tears.
Mr. Wada hurried out of the room ahead of her; when Barbara came out, he was talking to his wife in a low voice.
Mrs. Wada ran to her side. “Not okay. You sleep here.”
“I've got to go home.”
“You stay. I am worry for you.” She turned to her husband and began talking to him in an angry voice.
“Ah, ah,” he said, ducking his head, then turned to Barbara. “I am very sorry I have injured you. Perhaps I am mistaken in my conclusion.”
“No, I don't think so. Please don't be upset, Mr. Wada, this isn't your fault.” Her tears had stopped abruptly. “I'll be fine, but I really must go.”
There was another consultation between the Wadas, then Mrs. Wada went off toward the kitchen. “You must take taxi,” Mr. Wada said. “My wife is calling now. Only a few moments. Please sit and rest yourself.” He knelt, and smoothed a cushion, indicating for her to sit there.
He looked so abject that Barbara sat down next to him. Mrs. Wada returned from the kitchen. “Taxi soon,” she said, and lowered herself to the tatami beside Barbara.
They sat in silence, both of the Wadas looking at her. “I am grateful for your help,” she said, “Please don't worry—I'm all right, really.”
The Wadas began speaking to each other; Mrs. Wada rose, went back to the kitchen, and soon returned with a tied furoshiki. “More o-sembei for later,” she said. “Also some fresh bean cake.”
The buzzer sounded. “Taxi has arrived,” Mr. Wada said in a relieved voice.
The Wadas went downstairs with her. Mr. Wada opened the taxi door and gave the driver lengthy instructions. Barbara heard him say she was a sensei at Kodaira College and not feeling well.
“Hai, hai,” the driver said, stealing occasional glances at her.
Then the door closed, Barbara raised her hand in farewell, and the driver pulled away from the curb.
The outside light was on at Sango-kan, but all the windows were dark. Inside, it was pitch black. Fumbling along the wall, she found the electric switch. Pale yellow light bathed the hall. She walked to the telephone, picked up the receiver, listened to the dull rasp of the dial tone, then put the phone down and went upstairs.
In the three-mat room she stood holding the papers, staring at the space where the tansu had been. The pair of foxes in the corner of the room and the fox woman on the wall gazed back at her. What a fool she'd been. Outfoxed.
He'd deceived her so completely. And elaborately. But why? She knelt on the tatami and unrolled the false pages. The paper looked no different, the same nubby grain, the same texture that she remembered. But he'd have had to make new seals. She looked closely at the bits of wax on the edges of the 1950s and 1960s papers. The wax was new, there was no doubt of it, the bright red color of fresh blood.
The next morning she put all the papers in her black bag and took the subway to Asakusa. She wanted to be there when he arrived, have the evidence spread out waiting for him. But he was already there, kneeling at the table. Behind him, the drawers of the tansu were open.
She put the black bag on the table.
“Where have you taken the papers?” he said in an angry voice.
She opened the bag, took out the roll of false papers and threw them down in front of him. “These aren't Michi's papers,” she said. “You wrote them.”
He raised his chin slightly. “All Nakamoto sensei's papers were written by her.”
“Maybe. But they were copied by you—with parts left out.”
He said nothing.
“A very good translator has looked at every one of the papers yesterday.” She pulled out the other roll and laid them beside the copied papers. “Some parts that were on the page before are strangely missing. For instance,” she added in a sing-song voice, “In this moment, Sei-san has become a man.” They stared at each other. His nostrils flared out, making him look almost ugly. “Also,” she went on, “there are three handwritings.” She took Mr. Wada's note from her pocket and gave it to him. “You made a little mistake—you forgot to copy pages one and two of 1949.”
He crumpled the paper, and threw it to the floor. “You have done this behind me,” he said.
“What was I supposed to do, just pretend everything was fine, when you were leaving out parts of Michi-san's writing?”
“Ah—but how did you know of such parts?”
She looked away from him, at the tansu. “From a couple of pages I had translated—1960 and 1962, for instance, with some haiku that are now missing.”
“As I thought,
” he said. “Therefore I could not trust you.” He slowly stood up.
“But you had no right . . . where are Michi's papers? I want them.” He stared silently back at her. “They're mine,” she said. “How could you do that?”
“There were some references Nakamoto made to me personally.”
“So what?”
“She has forgotten that she wrote these parts.”
“How do you know she forgot? Are you reading her mind—her dead mind?”
He made no answer.
“You admit it then,” she said. “You copied the papers. Forged them.”
Silence.
“You don't even have the courage to say it. Okay. Just give the original papers back to me.”
“This is not possible.”
“What do you mean, not possible?”
“I cannot give you.”
“Why not? She left them to me. They're all I have.”
“Do not shout, please,” he said. “Kojima-san is below.”
“Oh, Kojima-san might hear. That's all you care about, what people think. Appearances. Tatemae, isn't that the word?”
He stepped around the edge of the table and began walking across the room.
“Where are you going? You have to give me those papers first.” She reached out for his arm; he pulled away and headed for the door.
“Seiji, stop. . . .”
But he was going down the stairs. She ran to the window in time to see him get into his truck and roar off down the street.
28
Barbara had seen a large roll of brown wrapping paper in Mr. Kojima's shop. She went downstairs, and through a combination of pantomime and elementary Japanese, asked for thirty sheets of the paper. Mr. Kojima complied quickly, muttering numbers under his breath as he tore off the sheets. “Ie, ie,” he said, shaking his head, he would not accept money. He just wanted her out of there, Barbara thought.
Back upstairs, she wrapped all the bottles in the paper so they wouldn't break on the return trip to campus, and went outside to flag down a taxi. During the drive she made a plan; she'd go to Seiji's house right away and—in front of his aunt and mother—demand the original papers.
At Sango-kan she and the driver carried the tansu upstairs. An elderly, grey haired man, he was surprised by her strength, but she was not; she felt invincible.
She took all the bottles out of the tansu and removed the brown wrappings. Using scissors and notebook paper, she made labels for the 1950–1965 bottles and taped them onto the bare glass, then put the unspoiled papers around Chie's wines and the 1949 bottle. The roll of false pages went into the bottom of her closet. Finally she rearranged the bottles in the chest, reversing the order, with Chie's wines in the top and middle drawers. The others followed chronologically, with the 1965 bottle where the 1930 wine had been.
She replaced Michi's picture and the foxes on the tansu. The fox with the open mouth painted in as a triangle reminded her of a little bird waiting to be fed. The other looked reproachful. Her energy began to ebb. It was mid afternoon, as hot and humid as the most miserable summer days in North Carolina. She thought of her room in the house on Stone Street, the fan in the big window by her bed, afternoon naps with the shades drawn. Rest was what she needed. She pulled her futon and pillow from the closet and fell instantly to sleep.
It was morning when she woke, groggy and soaked with perspiration. She forced herself up and into the kitchen, returned with tea. As she made tea she reviewed her plan for confronting Seiji. Perhaps it would go better in private, though still within earshot of his family. She could appeal to his sense of honor. If he was difficult she could raise her voice; he wouldn't want them to hear. She dressed and left her apartment. Downstairs, she stopped at the phone. Maybe she ought to call and make sure he was home.
Mrs. Kondo answered. No, Seiji was not in, she didn't know when he would be returning. Was he out of town? Perhaps so, it was possible, she had not been apprised of his exact whereabouts.
Barbara went outside and walked up and down the drive. There seemed to be no one else on campus; even Miss Fujizawa's car was gone. There was a low monotonous thrum of cicadas, almost a sinister sound.
She returned to her apartment and slumped onto the futon. She tried to envision another one of his telegrams, or a gift of flowers left downstairs in the entranceway, along with Michi's original papers. He must realize what he had done to her; he wouldn't want it to end this way.
She drank a large glass of wine, then another; she lay back down and fell asleep.
When she awoke in the dark, she sat up and looked at her watch: 3 A.M. She turned off the light and, guiding herself along the walls, went into the Western-style room and sat on the window seat. The protruding ell of the building, which contained Michi-san's empty apartment, was a blurry coffin-like shape against the dark sky. She thought of Michi's photograph on the funeral altar, her head cocked to one side. She had to get those papers back.
Moving to her desk, she turned on the lamp and got out some paper and a pen. “Dear Seiji,” she wrote, “I am sorry that I lost my temper. Michi was very very important to me, I hope you can understand that, so her papers are most precious to me. I ask that you please return the original papers to me as soon as possible. I will even agree to your painting out the parts you do not wish me to read. Although this would be extremely painful to me, anything is better than not having her papers at all. I do want to understand, however, why you didn't want me to read those parts. If you can tell me this, then maybe I can understand your actions better. We must meet and talk as soon as possible. Sincerely, Barbara.”
The next morning Barbara walked to Takanodai with the letter. She rang the bell by the front of the house. When there was no answer, she went into the restaurant. Hiko was inside, sweeping the floor. She asked if Seiji was there; he shook his head, not looking at her. Kimi came out of the kitchen. “Okada Seiji-san?” Barbara said. Kimi also shook her head and, covering her mouth—Barbara couldn't tell if she were laughing or crying—ran back into the kitchen.
She went out and walked into the pottery area, peering into the shed and the studio. On the pottery wheel was a lump of clay he had begun working. She touched the clay; it had turned hard. There was a film of dust on the finished tea bowls set out on the tables. She glanced toward the small room where they used to go. The door stood partway open; she could see one rounded corner of the cot, like an elbow. She headed toward the house, willing herself to go past the gate and across the courtyard.
The sliding doors at the back of the house were pulled all the way open; from inside she could smell something cooking.
“Konnichi wa!” she called out.
Mrs. Okada came into the tatami room and began walking toward her, one hand outstretched in her direction, saying something in a quavering voice.
Barbara said hello and identified herself in Japanese, then put the letter into Mrs. Okada's hand. “Please give to Seiji-san,” she said.
“Sei-san,” Mrs. Okada said, nodding and giving the envelope a little shake. “Hai, hai.”
Mrs. Kondo emerged from the depths of the house. Her hair was sticking up at a wild angle; she looked as if she'd just gotten out of bed.
“I'm sorry to disturb you,” Barbara said. “I gave Mrs. Okada a letter to give to Seiji. I don't suppose he is here?”
“No. He is not.”
“Is he in Mashiko?”
“Perhaps so.” Her face was even less friendly than usual.
“Well, please give him the letter when he returns.” She hurried through the courtyard and out to the street.
She walked home on the path through the woods As soon as she got back to the apartment, she'd call Rie and work out travel plans for next week.
The front door of Sango-kan was open but the building was deserted. It had never seemed so lonely. If Miss Ota were here she'd knock at her door. She could picture herself at the table with a cup of English tea, Miss Ota's kind, perceptive gaze fixed on her. She took h
er address book downstairs to the phone; the first person she called was Miss Ota.
A young woman answered at the Yonago number. Oh, yes, her aunt was available, just one moment, if you please.
“Dear child! How delightful that you have called. I hope that you are coming to visit. We are quite ready for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Ota.” She could feel herself smiling. “I am quite ready to come. How about next week, August 7? I could come after O-Bon in Hiroshima.”
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 26