Barbara shook out a dress and reached into the closet for a hanger. A face with bulging eyes stared out at her from a shelf. Then she realized it was just a clay head, a sculpture. Except for the eyes, it looked a little like Rie. A frightening thing to keep in a closet, though, and weird; the placement seemed almost deliberate.
Rie had tea ready at the kitchen table. Barbara asked for aspirin; Rie gave her some greyish powder mixed in water. Mr. Yokohagi sat down to join them. There was a discussion of what to have for dinner, then Mr. Yokohagi said something to Rie in Japanese.
“Hai,” Rie said.”Okada-san has telephoned for you.”
“Okada Seiji?”
Rie nodded.
“But—how did he know I'm here?”
“He is aware we are acquainted. So he thinks perhaps you will visit me, or I will know where you stay.”
“What did he say?” Her stomach tightened. “Is he coming here?”
“I believe so, yes.” Rie exchanged glances with her father. “I am afraid we have caused you some trouble.”
“No, no, you haven't.” She made herself smile. “Please don't worry. Everything is fine. Really—fine.”
“Shall we visit the Peace Museum?” Rie said. “Tomorrow will be too crowded, with many thousand of people here for the August 6 commemoration.”
“Yes—good—let's go right now.” If he came she wouldn't be here.
On the way to the museum, Rie pointed out landmarks from the streetcar: the Hondori shopping district with its famous lily of the valley lamps, the Fukuya department store, partly standing after the bombing, now completely rebuilt, the A Bomb Dome, the ruins of a huge building that had been preserved as a memorial.
They got off the streetcar and walked toward Peace Park, a grassy area full of trees and crisscrossed by walkways. Although most of the people in the park were Japanese, Barbara saw a number of foreign faces too. She kept looking around, expecting Seiji to materialize.
She thought of him in the Peace Museum, as she and Rie moved silently through the rooms of exhibits with a long line of people. There was a photograph of a man's back, so deeply scarred it looked like a topographic map, a schoolchild's lunchbox, its contents radiated, blackened into one mass, a watch without hands, but the shadow on the face showed the time: 8:15. She walked out exhausted, blinking, into the scouring light.
They walked along the edge of the Motoyasu River. “Here we have ground zero,” Rie said, nodding toward a stone tablet. As Barbara bent down to touch the marker, she felt electricity up her arm. She stood, and looked around her at people walking across the bridge, sitting on benches in the park. A little boy with a popsicle ran past, his mother hurrying after him. It was a hot day, August. Twenty years ago it had been hot too, an ordinary August morning, dust rising from the road. Seiji was lying down with a toothache; she imagined a cloth tied around his head. Michi was cooking, thinking of a slice of lemon. “What were you doing that day?” she asked Rie.
“I recall nothing, but Father has told me Mother's experience.” They began walking more slowly. “Mother was carrying me on her back as she weeded sweet potatoes in the garden. Then huge flash and such big explosion she fell to the ground. She cannot believe what she sees as she ran down the streets past Hijiyama hill to search for father. Everywhere people lay dead or moaning. One young girl held eyeball in her hand. Huge cloud with eerie purple lights was rising over city. She think world must be coming to its end. She wants to find Father so we can all die together but when black water starts to fall from sky she wraps me in her kimono and carries me home. Perhaps this has spared me from radiation disease of which Mother later died.”
Rie's stoical expression had not changed. “It must be hard for you not to hate Americans,” Barbara said.
Rie shook her head. “I know Japan is aggressor in war. And army was not pure. Here in Hiroshima, for example, Koreans were living almost as slaves at time of bombing. No one has even found their names. But how can atomic germ be cured? Maybe if people know consequence there can be some hope. This is why I write my father's story.”
“You said he was saved by an undignified miracle.”
“Yes. He was close to here. Less than ninety meters from ground zero, a soldier on parade ground. I have asked Father—he says he is glad for you to know his story. We can tell you tonight.”
In the evening Barbara helped Rie cook tempura while Mr. Yokohagi sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and drinking sake. They made awkward conversation during dinner, Mr. Yokohagi trying out his pidgin English and Barbara her scraps of Japanese. After they finished eating, Rie went to her room and returned with a manuscript. “This is my book I am writing.” She put it before Barbara on the table. “One section is my father's life.”
Barbara thumbed through the pages; they were written longhand, in calligraphy.
“You've done so much,” she said. “I hope you've made a copy.”
Rie shook her head. “I have no worry, I know this story by my heart. Will you hear it now?”
“Yes, thank you.” The three of them sat down together on the tatami.
“My father Yokohagi Shoichi,” she began, bowing toward him, “was of humble origin, as I have said. As a private, however, he was a favorite of his commanding officer. On day of the bombing as I told you earlier he was marching his drill with companions on parade ground. It was just a little after 8 A.M.. that father asked permission to visit the latrine.” Barbara glanced at Mr. Yokohagi; his eyes were fixed on his daughter. “The officer granted his request. The privy was a modest hut yet it spared his life. While he was inside the bomb fell with huge flash and sound like thunder from center of the earth. The privy collapsed and the tree beside fell, pinning him inside, yet somehow he was able to get free. He came out to find almost all other soldiers dead or dying, some burnt black like logs. Above is heavy dark cloud. He cannot see. Smoke singes his eyes. How is he still living? It could be nightmare dream. Or maybe he is a ghost. Everywhere are such terrible sights he thinks this must be Buddhist hell.
“But then he heard a comrade call out, ‘O-mizu, kudasai,’— water, please. He took him on his back and began running toward a river. Along the way a few of his fellow soldiers were weakly crying out—the last words on soldier's lips were supposed to be praise of emperor but in every case was for water or mother. He did what he could to help, though most died, then ran home to see about Mother and myself.
“Only later did he realize a nail has been riven through his back, and there are burns over all his body. But he went back to center of city and worked without cease for days helping victims and doctors, carrying out cremations, whatever needed to be done.
“So you see he showed his true valor, which rises above any class. Even after Mother died he has kept his pluck and tried to show me how to live.”
She said something in Japanese to her father, bowing to him again. He murmured something, and bowed back.
“You must be very proud of your father,” Barbara said.
“Yes,” Rie said.
There was a silence. Barbara and Mr. Yokohagi looked at each other. She was looking into the eyes of a Japanese soldier, she thought. The enemy.
Mr. Yokohagi rose, went to his room, and came back with a huge sword. He stood in the middle of the room and brandished it several times.
“This is samurai sword he wishes you to see,” Rie said. “It was given him for bravery during the war . . . an officer gave it to him afterwards, he says. He is not from a samurai family himself, of course.”
At the end of the sword performance, Mr. Yokohagi went back into his room and emerged with a small brocade box, which he set before Barbara. “For you,” he said. “Noodle.”
“These are from my father's own shop,” Rie said.
Barbara opened the box. Inside were several rows of needles, arranged by size. “Oh, thank you, these are wonderful, very useful.” She looked at Mr. Yokohagi and Rie, both smiling at her now. She restrained an impulse to hug them.
“Thank you most of all for telling me your stories.”
“Thank you for your listening, Sensei,” Rie said.
“I should call you Sensei.”
“We are both sensei, ne?” Rie said with a laugh.
Barbara helped Rie lay out two futons in her room. They got into bed and turned out the light. Barbara thought of the head on the shelf, staring into the dark. “Rie, what is that sculpture in your closet?”
“This is my self portraiture. We are required to make such a thing in mortuary school. Has it shocked you?”
“Well—yes.”
“Sometimes I think to take away but where can I throw it? Beneath clay are bones of some other person.”
“You mean—a skull?
“Yes. We must begin with this skull and add clay to reproduce our face. This way we can learn to make new face for dead man.”
“I don't see how you have the courage.”
“Courage is ordinary thing to people of Hiroshima.”
“What about love?” Barbara asked. “Is it hard for hibakusha to feel love—having gone through . . . all that?”
“All hibakusha are not the same.” She paused. “Do you have some hope for Okada-san to come tomorrow?”
“I don't know—he's done a cruel thing.”
“He has done?”
“Yes, it has to do with some papers that were very important to me.”
There was a silence, then Rie said in a soft voice, “I am sorry, Barbara-san.”
30
The next morning Rie painted several signs for the Peace March—“No More Hiroshimas” in English and Japanese— and Mr. Yokohagi nailed the placards to flat sticks.
“Will you go with me, Sensei?” Rie said, “or wait for Okada-san?”
Barbara looked out the window, scanning the faces of people on the street. I'm looking for Seiji, she thought. “I'll come with you,” she said.
“Your father isn't going to join us?” she asked, as they started down the steps.
“He does not like crowds—particularly at this time of year.”
On the last flight of steps they met Seiji coming toward them.
Barbara stopped, holding on to the banister.
“We are headed for the Peace March,” Rie said.
“I see.”
The three of them walked down the last steps in silence. Seiji was carrying a white furoshiki in one hand.
At the curb, they hesitated.
“I must talk to you urgently,” Seiji said.
“Why didn't you come yesterday then, if it's so urgent?”
“I hesitated to tire you further after your journey.”
Barbara turned to Rie.
“Go with him,” Rie whispered. “I think is important. I'll see you this evening.” She hurried off to the streetcar stop.
To avoid looking at Seiji, Barbara stared across the street at a tall mesh fence around new construction. “I broke your teabowls,” she said.
“Ah.” There was a long silence. “I understand,” he said. He gazed at her steadily. “I am going to lay Nakamoto to rest.” He lifted the furoshiki: it was the wrapped box of Michi-san's ashes. “Will you come? I would also like to make my explanation to you.”
“Okay.” They walked to his truck and got in. He put the furoshiki on the seat between them. She kept glancing at the furoshiki, the shape of the box inside.
When they came to the western part of the city, narrow streets winding up a hill, he said, “This is Koi, where Nakamoto-san and I grew up.” He pointed out a stone wall. “I ran beside that as a child.”
She leaned out the window to see it more clearly. “The bomb didn't destroy it?”
“No there are many sites still standing in Koi. Nearby was my house and Nakamoto-san's—shall we go there?” They got out and walked slowly up the street.
They stopped before a large wooden house with a curved tile roof; around it was a wall. “This is site of Nakamoto-san's childhood home.”
“Right here—she lived in this house?”
“It has been replaced.” He nodded toward a house next to it. “The house beyond was my childhood home, this same building.”
She looked at the tiled roof, a round window, tatami visible beyond the open sliding doors. There were morning glories spilling over the gate. “Have you been back inside?”
“No,” he said, “I do not care to.”
“You and Michi lived side by side.” She looked up and down the street. An old woman pushing a cart passed by; she bowed and smiled, showing a toothless mouth. “You were both born here.”
“I knew her my entire life,” he said. “Sometimes she watched out over we younger children as we swam in the river.” He pointed down the hill. “We cannot actually see from here—but the river is there, not too far.”
“The Koi River?”
“Yes—I liked to jump off the bridge and make a loud splash.”
She could see him. A skinny little kid, arms outstretched, yelling “Banzai!” as he hit the water.
“The teahouse has been torn down behind Nakamoto-san's house, but the plum trees are still there, I believe.”
They rang the bell, and he received permission to go into the garden.
There were three gnarled plum trees, all in full leaf. Barbara touched the trunk of the largest one. The bark was pinkish tan, and stippled with small nodules. She looked around her: mossy ground, a pond with a slightly askew stone lantern at the edge, some potted bonsai. Ume had been born here. “Where was the teahouse?” she said.
“This way.” He led her to the far end of the garden, to a place beside a stone wall.
“I wonder where Chie buried those papers,” she said.
“Beside the teahouse, I believe.”
“Why did they tear it down?” she said.
“It was in poor repair. Also the present owner is not much interested in tea ceremony.” He looked close to tears.
“Was it hard—delivering Ume?”
“After bombing, nothing could frighten me.”
They walked back through the garden—Barbara stopped to pick a leaf from one of the plum trees and put it in her pocketbook— then got in the truck and drove on up the hill. “Where are we going now?” she said.
“Mitaki Temple. This is where we will lay Nakamoto to rest.”
They rode higher up the mountain. Barbara caught the wrapped box as it slid, and took it in her lap. About a year ago she'd first met Michi, when she stepped up onto the platform at Sango-kan. “How tired you must be,” Michi had said, and took her hand, holding it for a moment in her firm grasp. Now, nothing but ash.
The temple grounds were green and deeply shaded by enormous trees. They walked along the paths looking at the graves. Seiji stopped before two statues of Jizo, the protector of children. “These Jizo commemorate children who were not found. He pointed to a small Buddha-like figure on the right, “This one is for my sister. Her name is there on the marker, Okada Itsuko.” They were silent. “The Jizo next to it is for Haru, sister to Nakamoto-san.”
“Side by side,” she said.
“Yes, just as in life.”
Inside the temple they met the priest, a bald, solemn man dressed in white and yellow robes. Seiji introduced Barbara in English. “Nakamoto Michiko sensei was like Japanese mother to her.”
The priest bowed. “I regret your sorrow,” he said.
He led them to an altar in a large tatami room. Seiji untied the furoshiki and took out the white brocade box; the priest placed it on the altar and bowing, chanted a sutra. Then he ceremoniously removed the box from the altar and settled himself on the tatami facing Barbara and Seiji. He placed the brocade box on the tatami, opened it, and lifted out anothe r, smaller box of white wood. Barbara leaned forward as he removed the lid and brought out a pottery urn. It was dark brown, mottled with black and gold. Seiji's work. He was looking down at the urn, his face drawn. The priest set a pair of long chopsticks before Seiji and spread a square white cloth on the tata
mi. His hand trembling, Seiji lifted the top from the urn. Barbara drew in a sharp breath: there were shards of bone inside, along with the ashes. Using the chopsticks, Seiji delicately removed a small bone and placed it on the white cloth. After saying another short prayer, the priest swaddled the bone in the cloth, and the three of them rose.
The priest carried the wrapped bone, leading the way from the temple, down the steps and toward the graveyard. “What about the urn?” Barbara whispered to Seiji.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 28