by Tan Twan Eng
I led her into the bamboo trees. The gardeners of Istana had done their weekly duties and the place was well kept and lush. We came to the house and she let out a soft cry. “It looks exactly like the guest cottage on his father’s estate,” she said. She stopped to take in the house. “You have taken care of it well.”
I helped her into the house. I had left everything almost as it had been. The old and torn tatami mats had been replaced, but Endo-san’s ink drawing of Daruma, the monk with the lidless eyes, hung in the same alcove as it had when Endo-san was alive.
I found a futon mattress in a cupboard and unrolled it for Michiko to lie on. Her breathing was worse and I tried not to show my worry.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I am afraid,” I said. It had been so long since I felt such intense emotion that I stopped to consider it, to feel it. “I’m frightened to tell you the rest of what happened. I want, I need to tell you, yet I am so afraid.”
She saw my bewilderment and the tender compassion in her expression made me believe what she said next. “I am not here to judge you. I am not here to condemn you, or to forgive you. I have no such right. No one has.”
It was now her turn to hold my hand. “I am here because I once loved a man, and I never stopped loving him, that is all,” she said.
She squeezed my hand harder and a smile appeared on her face, and I knew I need have no fear. She alone, of all the people in the world, would understand.
“Tell me,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-One
The monsoon returned like a family guest, to be tolerated by some, hated by others, loved by one or two, and the brilliant sunshine of our days became a clouded memory again as fleets of storm clouds sailed in and anchored themselves in the sky.
I ran on the beach before sunrise every day, through the morning drizzle, always keenly aware of the island on the edge of my vision. Once I saw a small sampan heading for it and my heart quickened. But as it broke though the veil of rain I saw it was only a fisherman braving the choppy waters, his cormorant sitting on the prow. He waved to me and I returned his greeting, wishing him a good catch.
It was less than a week since General Erskine’s visit and Endo-san still had not been found. I was not unduly worried: Endo-san was capable of taking care of himself, and would probably have a safe place in which to shelter. I would wait for him, however long it took.
“May I speak to the master of the house?”
I gave a tiny start. It was already dusk and a soft rain was falling. I was sitting on the terrace beneath an umbrella, holding the letter informing me of Edward’s death four months earlier, and staring at the sky, looking at the overburdened clouds that were trying to bend the line of the horizon. The words, although spoken softly, jolted me out of my thoughts.
I placed the letter on the table and looked up to see Endo-san.
So time—mischievous time, cruel time, forgiving time—plays tricks on us again and again.
“I would like to borrow a boat from you,” he said.
He held out his hand and I reached across the table, reached across time, and gripped it as hard as I could. He pulled me to him and embraced me. Then he stood back a little and reached out to touch the top of my head.
“You have grown so much since the day I first saw you,” he said. “You looked so sad, that day, sitting here, unmoving, your eyes on the sea.”
“You were right, you know, when you told me we would have to endure terrible things,” I said. “There were times during those years I hated you and could have killed you. I had to remind myself of my true path. Some days I failed. I failed everyone.”
He could not argue with the truth of what I said and so he merely asked, “What are you going to do now?”
I shook my head. “I’m not certain. I suppose I’ll rebuild the company, rebuild my life.” I paused, then I said, “It all depends on you.”
“I cannot be with you now. This is where we set out on different roads.”
“I can walk the same road as you.”
He shook his head. “That would be to delay our fates.” He turned to me and held my hands, his eyes studying my fingers, my palms. “We must achieve harmony now, find an equilibrium, so that the next time I see you, the sand will have been wiped smooth. And then we can walk, on and on, toward the horizon of an endless beach.”
It was difficult to accept his point, yet somehow it was as clear as a bird in the sky to me.
The clouds had moved away and we went out through the garden of statues. At my father’s grave, Endo-san bowed, his heart speaking words I could hear so clearly, resonating like echoes across a canyon.
We took shelter under the casuarina tree, the lonely tree that still looked so steadfastly toward Endo-san’s island. Water dripped down on us, carrying with it the essence of the leaves.
“You have the most beautiful home in the world,” he said.
I was breathing heavily, my breath choppy as the wind-tousled sea.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
I gripped the wet bark of the tree as though trying to cling to it, to fasten myself to its unmoving presence so that I did not have to take another step. But I saw the pain in Endo-san’s expression and I could not deny him his wish.
There was nothing to pack except my white gi and black hakama—both had been gifts from Endo-san. I rowed once more across the water, and he sat facing me, facing his island, his expression unchanging as the boat navigated the confluence of currents that ran hidden beneath us. And I felt, too, the confluence of time. The oars vibrated and seemed to sing with each pull and dip. I saw, from a great height above, our little vessel, two figures in it that I knew were us. We looked so small as the boat stitched the fabric of the sea like a needle, leaving a flowing white thread behind. And I saw the green island in the immense sea, the borders of the sea curling with a lining of light, like a vast piece of rice paper, its edges alive with weals of red embers, ready to burst into flame.
From the sky I fell back into myself in the boat. I felt the spray as the swells rose up like hands to push us back. Still he looked to the open sea, his eyes open but unseeing.
Silence closed in from the edges of the sky; the wind became a memory and the persistent swells melted into flatness. But I continued to row; there was no drag as we moved closer and closer to the island. We left no wake, no curls of water spreading out in a silky V as the boat slid forward. The confluence of time shifted and entwined, merged and diverged, but did not separate. I knew Endo-san and I were partially responsible for this psychic tear.
Then I heard a wave spread itself out on the sand in the immense cathedral silence and time resumed again. We had rowed past the line of protruding rocks and were now being gently pushed in by the waves. The boat slid into the sand with a rasp, like a knife cutting into soapstone. I got out and pulled it high up on the beach. Endo-san stepped out onto the soft sand.
We walked up the little pebbled path that wound around the grove of bamboo. Birds sang in the chorus of the leaves. He stopped. “Listen to that,” he said softly. “How I have missed them!”
I wanted to ask him what had happened on the boat, that inexplicable silence, and how he had managed it. He raised his fingers and stopped me before I could say a word. “I do not know,” he said. “Accept that there are things in this world we can never explain and life will be understandable. That is the irony of life. It is also the beauty of it.”
We approached his house and again I admired its simple elegance. Endo-san had once told me that it had been built like an aikijutsu movement, and only now could I truly understand what he had meant. A strong base, effective, lyrical, in total harmony with the world.
We slid open the door, exposing the musty smells and dampness within. A light layer of dust lay on every surface. I was relieved that General Erskine and his men had not discovered the place. Endo-san moved to the alcove, knelt, and bowed to it. Reverently he opened his hands as though in supplica
tion and gently lifted my Nagamitsu sword from its cradle. It was the only weapon there and I wondered what he had done with his own.
He opened the katana a notch and I thought I heard a sigh, an exhalation of breath coming from it. Even in the dimness of the house it seemed to snatch a sliver of sunlight from outside and throw it into the room, lighting it with disdain. He sheathed it and placed it on the mat before me.
We changed into our cotton gi and black hakama and we went through the ritual of tying the cords around our waists, each stroke, each insertion and pull and knot signifying the movements of the universe. The back piece of the hakama pushed into the small of my back, forcing me to stand up straight.
I picked up my sword, my Nagamitsu sword, brother to Endo-san’s, crafted by the same swordsmith. It had a comforting weight. I slid the blade open an inch, as Endo-san had done. There was now a point of light in the shadowed room, the sole star in a universe of darkness. I pushed the sword back into its scabbard and it went in without a sound.
We went out into the sandy enclosure where my physical lessons had always been conducted, the lessons that had given me so much, but had demanded so much more in payment. As my bare feet touched the cool, damp sand, the memory of those lost days surrounded me and the enormity of what I had to do hit me like a blow.
“I cannot do this,” I said.
He lost his temper. “Do not be a child! You ceased to be one the day you became my pupil.” A sigh leaked out from him, tired and despairing. “If you fail to complete what is necessary, we shall have to go through all the pain and suffering again. You will have failed me.” He knelt on the sand and, for the first time since I had known him, he appeared defeated.
I held the sword in my hand and stood there without moving for a long time. I remembered that day on the ledge up on Penang Hill, and I had to accept that he was correct, finally, at this point. I had to extend my trust in him another step forward, into another life.
I went into the house and came out with a towel. I knelt before him and gently cleaned his face; he sat there, turning his face this way and that to facilitate me. The sun had found a hole in the clouds and the sand gleamed brightly, white as angel bones.
He lifted a fistful of sand and let the breeze carry it away. “Shirasu,” he whispered, as though giving voice to the slipstream of escaping sand.
When I had finished he reached out and touched my face.
“So much to tell you,” I began to say, but he silenced me.
“Do you think we still need words, after all this time?” he asked.
I shook my head. He pulled me to him and held me tightly. Then he kissed my cheek, his hand stroking my head. I wanted to capture every element of him, every scent, every feel. And I tried to, but it was so hard. I infused my lungs with his smell, trying to lock it there. I opened every nerve in me to feel him, to imprint the sensations within me forever. But of course it was futile.
He pushed me away gently as I struggled to hold on to him. “Let go,” he said. “Let me go.”
I knew he was right, so I released him. I picked up my sword and went into the ancient happo stance. He closed his eyes and said into the wind,
“Friends part forever
Wild geese lost in clouds.”
My hands stopped trembling and I felt him steadying me, guiding me. The purest, clearest emotion I would ever experience filled me. A golden light sang within me and I felt it all the way to the tip of the sword. I closed my eyes and absorbed the beauty of the moment. Then I opened them again, saw his gentle smile and met his eyes for the last time.
Endo-san was right. In the end, we fellow travelers across the continent of time, across the landscape of memory, we did not need words.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was done, this tale of mine. I stood up heavily. I was sore: my body, my bones, my heart.
“You did not fail him,” Michiko said. Tears glazed her cheeks.
I could not find the answer to that. As I wiped my sword clean, sheathed it, and knelt beside his body, I felt very certain that I had not disappointed Endo-san. After all, I had risen to the occasion, as he had demanded, as he had prepared me to. Yet as the years passed, a sense of failure had gradually corroded that feeling of certainty.
“Will you do the same for me?” she asked when I did not speak.
I had not anticipated that, and I moved away from her, pretending to polish my empty cup with a cloth. “I will not.”
She was surprised. “Why?”
I was suddenly angry with her for placing me in a quandary. “Has my telling you of Endo-san’s life not indicated anything to you?”
“It has shown me that you are willing to perform the ultimate duty for a friend, for someone who holds your highest affections.”
I shook my head. “I would never again do what was asked of me. Not a day goes by when I do not in some way regret my actions.”
“You had no choice. It was all determined a long time ago. Accept that. Endo-san did. So did your grandfather.”
“I cannot accept it. It is too easy. We all have the power to choose. I made a series of wrong choices and it all culminated here, on this island, with Endo-san kneeling before me.”
“You had two roads to walk on and they had been created before you set foot on them. Does not the Christian God say, There is none like me, declaring the end from the beginning, and from ancient times the things that are not yet done?”
“Never heard of it,” I said.
“Isaiah, Chapter Forty-six, verse Ten,” she replied, quick and sure. “It goes on: My counsel shall stand, and I will do all my pleasure ... I have spoken it, I will also bring it to pass; I have purposed it, I will also do it.”
I went to a chest carved from Paulownia wood and opened its lid. I lifted out a bundle wrapped in cloth and untied the cords around it. My own Nagamitsu sword lay inside, snug as though it had been sleeping all this time. It appeared as priceless as it actually was. I brought it to Michiko and knelt before her.
“I have not used this since that day,” I said. “And yet every day I’m aware of its presence. There were some days when I wanted so badly to row out to sea and drop it into the depths.”
“Why have you held on to it then?”
“Because I was frightened,” I said, and stopped. I forced myself to continue. “What if I forgot him, forgot everything that had happened?” I felt I was not explaining myself with sufficient clarity and I clenched my fist in frustration.
She nodded her head gently and I saw that she understood what I was trying to say. “You will not forget. He gave you the greatest gift he could. He taught you everything he knew and it has kept you strong and safe and unafraid all your life. All your life,” her voice became firmer, emphasizing the words.
I stroked the hilt of the sword, absorbing what she was telling me.
“Remember what he said when he first showed you how to do an ukemi?” she continued. “He said that if he failed you, then at the very least you would be in a position to protect yourself, to fall safely and to stand up again.”
In spite of the circumstances I was impressed with the strength of her memory. She seemed to be able to recall everything I had told her.
“That is his legacy to you. Not your guilt and pain and sorrow,” she said and I knew that she was telling me the truth. I had not seen it all this time, but now my eyes were open again.
She took my hands in hers. “Do you not recall what you told your sister? The mind forgets, but the heart will always remember. And what is the heart’s memory but love itself?”
At first I did not know what it was, this flow of damp heat that seethed in my eyes yet cooled the skin around them. And when I realized it was tears, a lifetime of habit and discipline made me attempt to stop them, to hold them on the rim of my eyes and refuse them release.
Michiko saw my struggle and with both her hands reached out for my face. Using her thumbs she ruptured the trembling skin of my tears and I welcomed them.
Finally, they came.
I made no sound, but stood there like a statue in Istana’s garden, feeling the accumulation of grief flow out of me, accompanied by a rush of images that could have been forgotten memories or remembered dreams. I felt myself lifting up, on the arches of my feet, then on my toes. Michiko reached up from where she lay on her mattress and grasped my hand.
I was wrong; the burden could be lightened, the weight could be lessened. I closed my eyes once, for a long time, knowing the tears would never return.
She made herself stand up with some difficulty. She had been— and still was—a woman of great beauty, but illness had imprinted its mark upon her. Hard as she had tried to fight it, I could feel her weariness of the battle.
She brought out Endo-san’s own katana and set it next to mine. “These should always remain together.” She managed a rueful smile. “It is their fate.”
She was right. I saw now what I had been waiting for, the true reason why I had kept my own sword all these years. I pushed them closer together, almost touching: Cloud and Illumination, shadow and light.
She placed Endo-san’s letter, the letter that had brought her to me, on the tatami mat. “You have not read this.”
My eyes stayed on it for a long time, until the weave of the tatami began to move like waves in my unblinking vision. I looked away and said finally, “I do not think I wish to now. I think it is time I let him go.”
I helped Michiko to the door and she leaned against its frame. I pointed out to her the ground beneath the tree where I had buried Endo-san. “I left no marker, no gravestone. Once I am gone no one will ever know where he lies.”
She turned her attention to the unmarked grave and, for a moment, swift as a stone skipping across the smooth surface of a lake before it sank, I saw the memory of her love for Endo-san.
I held her as she wept. We felt Endo-san’s presence, felt his arms encircle us, and for the first time since the end of the war, half a century before, I knew we were all finally at peace. Nothing could harm us now.