‘Daiki-san was kind enough to lend me this to copy.’ Isamu had mentioned before how he and his fellow students were encouraged to copy the works of other artists as a way of learning. ‘It’s called Bamboo by Moonlight.’ He unrolled the scroll and laid the first sheet of paper before us.
‘How beautiful!’ exclaimed Misaki, but I was struck speechless.
It was a simple scene — a small grove of bamboo rendered in black ink and stretching towards a silvery moon — yet it was so much more. The way the light fell on some leaves, illuminating them, while others were faint and shadowy, the sense it gave of a slight movement of breeze rippling the foliage, aroused in me a feeling I hadn’t had in a while; not since I’d last stood in the forest near my home and felt the kami of the trees, of the wind: a feeling of deep connection to the natural world.
‘And this is a painting by the friend I was talking about.’
Called The Poetry Gathering, it showed a pavilion by a stream with a group of scholars drinking and writing poems.
‘Is that it?’ Misaki asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why haven’t you brought one of your own paintings to show us?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, those are not good enough yet for such critical eyes.’ His teasing tone matched Misaki’s, but it was me he was looking at. He thought I was critical? It seemed Isamu was another who considered me too outspoken.
‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ I said stiffly, trying to conceal my hurt.
After the ikebana teacher, I expected someone similarly small and fussy, but the painting master was a big barrel-chested man with a deep voice. I couldn’t imagine how those big hands had produced a work of such delicacy as Bamboo by Moonlight.
He was modestly dressed in a blue kimono and came unaccompanied, carrying a wooden box.
We sat together in the reception room, Misaki and I with the tools Isamu had brought arranged on two low tables in front of us. Between us stood a bowl of water.
Daiki withdrew his own tools from his box. ‘You see here? This is all you need to paint, just four things: the ink stick, the ink stone, some paper, a brush. Well, as you improve you’ll need several brushes, but for now we’ll just use an all-purpose one. And this paper — again, it’s just for practising. I’ll let you know when your work is worthy of better. If it is.’ His words were delivered in such a jovial tone it was impossible to feel insulted.
‘To begin, you need to make your ink.’
He showed us how to grind the ink stick on the rectangular stone, which had a smooth surface and a small depression for water.
‘We put a little water here — not too much — then hold the stick straight and grind evenly. Now you try.’
I ladled a small amount of water into the depression until it was half full, then tentatively began to rub the stick on the stone.
‘Round and round,’ Daiki encouraged me, ‘so that the water and ink mix well.’
Misaki was doing it as easily as if it were second nature, the movement of her stick on the stone smooth and confident.
‘You’ve had painting lessons before,’ I said accusingly.
‘No, I haven’t.’
When we each had blue-black ink on our stone, Daiki directed us to pick up the long thick brushes with firm bristles, holding them in the middle. From his box he withdrew a single green reed.
‘Think of the brush as an extension of your hand, your hand as an extension of your mind. If you paint a reed, use the hand and the brush to express how the reed makes you feel.’
Uh-oh. Expressing my feelings through ikebana hadn’t exactly been a success.
‘Watch.’
I had found his size intimidating, yet once he held the brush in his hand a great stillness settled over him. He reminded me of the hill behind my home, its great bulk a safe haven, somehow reassuring rather than threatening.
‘A single reed, a single stroke,’ he murmured, his deep voice hypnotic. His hand glided over the paper, neither quick nor slow but sure and steady.
He turned the sheet of paper around to show us.
I studied the reed. It was not an exact copy of the reed in front of us, but somehow it captured the particular character of the reed. I was seeing the reed through his eyes, I understood, and the reed expressed some part of him; they were connected, and they had come from the same hand, the same mind, the same eyes — the same spirit — as the picture of the bamboo grove beneath the moonlight.
‘How did you do that, sensei?’ I asked, looking from the painted reed to the master’s face.
His eyes looked into mine with a deep knowing, as if reading there the feeling his painting had given me. ‘It’s simple,’ he said. He raised his left hand to touch first his forehead then the fingers that still held the brush. ‘The mind, the hand — that’s all you need.’ He smiled. ‘And a good teacher, of course.’
Before he would let us attempt to paint the reed ourselves, he insisted that first we practise making brushstrokes on the paper.
‘Vary the speed, the movement of the wrist, get a feel for the sensation of brush on paper. Make thick lines, thin lines, straight, curved.’ We filled many sheets of paper in this way before at last we painted the reed. I tried to empty my mind of everything but the slender stalk of green. I studied the slight crease in the centre, the broad base and the tapered tip, and I tried to express all that I had learned about the reed through my brush.
When we were done I felt tired but pleasantly so. I was surprised to find that nearly the whole afternoon had passed.
‘That was . . .’ I shook my head.
‘Even better than ikebana?’ A smile played on Misaki’s lips.
‘So much better than ikebana,’ I said emphatically.
Misaki said nothing, and I noticed she looked not so much tired as strained.
I could hardly wait for the next painting lesson. In the week after the first lesson, I practised grinding ink so often that Misaki joked we would need to send Isamu out for more supplies before we’d even had our second lesson. I also suffered through an ikebana lesson in which we had to create an arrangement using waxy-leaved lilies and cascading spirea branches. While Misaki’s looked both artful and spontaneous, mine looked like it had been flung together in a typhoon and happened to accidentally be blown into a vase.
When at last the time for our painting lesson came, I almost groaned aloud when I saw Daiki was carrying a bunch of irises. Ever since my first ikebana lesson I had considered the iris my enemy.
‘You’re glaring at these flowers like they mean you harm, Kasumi-san,’ the painting master observed.
‘Kasumi has had a disagreement with irises. But perhaps painting them will help her to forgive them.’
It really was stupid to hate a flower, I had to admit. As I watched the painting master demonstrate how to splay the bristles of the brush for the curve of the bloom, twisting his wrist in a fluid motion, I began to see the flower through his eyes. Grinding the ink stick on the stone, watching the water turn black, I found myself eager to paint it.
With the brush in my hand, I gazed at the flower for a long time, until I felt that I had absorbed the soft texture of the petals through my skin, felt their shape fill my mind. Then I took a deep breath and let the flower out through my brush; instead of fighting the iris I was moving in harmony with it.
Peace settled over me like a blanket and I allowed my mind to drift with the movement of the brush; there was no need for words here, and I could be . . . the flutter of a petal in a building breeze, the sharp line of a leaf.
‘I see you are grateful to hold the brush in your hand.’
I woke as if from a dream at the sound of the master’s voice. He and Misaki were both looking at the page in front of me. I had filled the paper with irises.
‘These are good,’ said Daiki.
Misaki nodded. ‘They are, Kasumi.’ She looked at her own page and wrinkled her nose. ‘They make mine look lifeless.’
�
��Yours are technically very proficient, Misaki-san,’ the teacher assured her. ‘But these . . .’ He tapped the corner of my page with his forefinger. ‘These speak of the spirit of the iris.’ He gave me a considering look. ‘Why is that I wonder?’
I couldn’t explain it exactly. I only knew that while I had been painting I had ceased to be conscious of my mind; for once, the voices in my head that told me how to be, who to be, were muffled. For once I had been only myself.
Chapter
Eleven
Swarming butterflies
Disturb the calm of the pond;
The catfish awakes
The seventh month began hot and humid, the air clinging to our skin, dampening our clothes and hair. We spent a lot of time in the garden, but on those days when the heat made us languid or the mosquitoes were swarming we stayed indoors, calling to Ishi for amazake and fanning ourselves. We’d grown addicted to kaiawase since we’d first played, and often had clam shells spread across the floor of the reception room.
‘I’ve found a match,’ I called one afternoon, reaching for a shell, then yelped in surprise as I saw a foot hovering playfully above my hand. It was Isamu.
‘I was just on my way back to Daimyo Alley and thought I’d call in. Do you have a cold drink for a thirsty guest?’
‘Of course. I’ll tell Ishi you’re here.’ I started to get up but Misaki said, ‘I’ll go, Kasumi. You tidy up our game.’
Still kneeling, I began to gather the shells, sorting them into the octagonal box. ‘Where have you been today?’ I asked.
‘I was at a temple in Ryōgoku, not far from where we saw the fireworks. Look.’
He unrolled a scroll of paper he was holding. I had grown accustomed to the muted delicacy of ink paintings, but now I saw the vivid colours of an ukiyo-e, a woodblock print.
‘Can I have a look?’ I had never had the chance to examine one up close.
He held it out and I took it, studying the composition. In the foreground was a tall bamboo tower, in the background a sunrise, a river with boats. Mount Fuji was visible in the distance.
‘That doesn’t look like a temple,’ I observed.
‘Ekōin temple is where the sumo tournaments are held. That’s a drum tower; someone beats the drum to let everyone know a match is about to start.’
I pointed to the words written on the page. ‘What does this say?’
‘“Ekōin Temple in Ryōgoku and Moto-Yanagi Bridge”. It’s from a series called One Hundred Views of Edo by the artist Hiroshige.’
‘So there are a hundred pictures like this?’
‘Not yet, but eventually. Many of the great ukiyo-e artists have painted series like this of places in the city or famous beauty spots; there have been series about the highways too — even the Nakasendo.’
‘You know a lot about ukiyo-e.’
‘I’ve been collecting prints like a tourist. They were invented here in Edo, you know. My uncle doesn’t approve of ukiyo-e at all; he considers them common, a low form of art. But they’re really very striking, aren’t they? The subject matter is quite different from traditional art, but I like the way these pictures capture life right now, the busyness, the movement and the colour. That can also be beautiful.’
‘I think so too,’ I said. I remembered the euphoria I’d felt walking to the fireworks-viewing party. I had been distracted by the activities we did at home, painting and ikebana, shell-matching and strolling in the garden, but recalling that night made me want to be out in the life, the colour, of the bustling city. Other than the fireworks festival we had been nowhere.
As I handed the print back to Isamu, I realised there was a second page beneath the first. ‘What’s this other one?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said, his hand closing on the picture.
But I had already grasped the second page by the corner and tugged it free.
I was expecting another city scene, but instead it was a portrait of a beautiful woman. It was night-time, and she was alone in a room lit by a lantern in the corner. She was half turned to look out the window at the dark night, and one had a glimpse of bare skin at the nape of her neck.
The words stuck in my throat as I felt an unexpected surge of jealousy.
‘Beauty prints are very popular,’ Isamu said. A flush was rising up his throat to colour his cheeks. ‘They’re almost as popular as kabuki actor prints.’
I kept my eyes fixed on the picture, hoping it looked as if I were studying the technique, that my feelings weren’t written on my face.
‘As an artist, I’m interested in the composition,’ he explained, when I still said nothing. ‘I’m not collecting them or anything.’ His brow was furrowed slightly as he took the beauty print back and concealed it again beneath the temple picture.
‘Thank you for showing me the temple print,’ I said. ‘Do you have any more? Pictures of the city, I mean.’
‘Actually I do have some that might interest you: I’ve bought a couple of fireworks prints.’
‘Oh, I’d love to see those. Are they of the festival we went to? Do they show the same fireworks we saw?’
Isamu laughed. ‘I find it hard to distinguish between fireworks, but maybe you can; I’m told you have a good eye.’ Told by whom? I felt a rush of pride, followed almost immediately by a sudden rush of embarrassment at the memory of the day I had met Lord Shimizu. What had my father said? She has very clever eyes . . . It is a pity that in all other ways she is stupid. The stake that sticks out gets hammered down, I reminded myself. My pride was misplaced.
But there was no hint of insult in Isamu’s manner as he said, ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to recognise the fireworks we saw. I’ll bring the prints the next time I come.’ The awkwardness of the beauty print was passed over as if it had never happened.
Misaki returned with more amazake and, seeing that most of the shells were still spread across the floor, said, ‘Let’s take our drinks outside.’
When we were sitting under a camphor laurel tree, Misaki poured, handed Isamu a cup and asked if he had any news of her husband; Shimizu had returned from a fortnight away only to leave again within a few days. It had been four days since we’d seen him.
‘One of Shunsho-san’s men saw him in Shimoda the day before yesterday and all was well.’
After he’d finished his tea, Isamu stood to leave.
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ Misaki said. ‘Will you finish putting the shells away in the reception room, Kasumi?’
I carefully gathered the valuable shells, putting them into the top compartment of the lacquered box. As I was putting the box away in the cupboard, it was obstructed by a sheaf of papers. It was an odd place for them, I thought, as Lord Shimizu stored all his documents in the other part of the house; perhaps he had misplaced them. I pulled them out, thinking that they might be needed, and saw that they were in fact pictures: woodblock prints. Hadn’t Isamu said that his uncle didn’t approve? Even more odd, when I leafed through them, I discovered they were all variations on the same theme: namazu, the giant catfish. I knew what the catfish meant: he was the one who caused earthquakes. In the first picture the kami Kashima, who was responsible for keeping the namazu contained, had fallen asleep on the job. In another, the namazu was grinning as the city burned. Why would Shimizu have a collection like this?
I walked through the dining room towards the entryway, still studying a picture of Kashima threatening an evil-looking catfish with a sword, thinking to show them to Isamu, but as I reached the doorway I heard Misaki murmur, ‘Will you take this?’
Something in the tone of her voice made me look up. She was holding out a letter. I stepped back so that they couldn’t see me and peered around the corner.
‘With pleasure,’ Isamu said, his voice equally low.
‘You won’t — you won’t tell anyone, will you?’ Misaki asked.
‘No! Misaki-san, I would never tell,’ he said urgently. Then, more softly, he added, ‘I would never put you in danger.’ He un
rolled the woodblock prints he was holding and slipped the letter between.
Misaki gazed at the prints, her brow furrowed. ‘Is that . . .?’
‘It’s just a print I bought today. I shouldn’t have brought them. I hadn’t intended to drop in. I just happened to be passing and . . .’ He shrugged.
‘My husband wouldn’t be pleased,’ Misaki said, her eyes still fixed on the prints. Or was she thinking of the letter rolled up inside?
‘I know. I shouldn’t have come. I just wanted . . .’ Again, he left the sentence hanging.
He had wanted to see Misaki, I realised. I thought of the beauty in the print he had tried to conceal; she was alluring, but not half as breathtaking as my mistress. Of course Isamu, with his artist’s eye, couldn’t help but be moved by such loveliness. And hadn’t I suspected before that he had feelings for her, when he’d defended her so vehemently against the slurs of the women from his domain?
I hurried back to the reception room, unwilling to hear more.
Behind me, I heard Misaki say, ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Isamu. I hope we’ll see you again soon.’ Her tone was artificially bright, and I suspected her words were meant to carry to me, to Ishi in the kitchen and anyone else in earshot.
‘I’ll call by again in a couple of days,’ said Isamu, his voice, too, unnaturally loud.
In the reception room I shoved the prints back into the cupboard and the shell box after them, just as Misaki entered.
She said nothing of the exchange, merely observing, ‘It’s hopeless playing shells with you; you always find the match so much quicker than me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ But my mind wasn’t on the shells any more than hers was. What was in the letter she had handed Isamu? It was obvious now that she had deliberately sent me to the reception room so I wouldn’t witness it. Yet I couldn’t believe that Misaki would betray her husband. I had seen the way she looked at him, heard how her voice changed when she spoke to him; there was no question that he was the only man in her heart. She was clearly fond of Isamu, and enjoyed teasing him, but she wasn’t in love with him.
The Peony Lantern Page 10