The Moonflower

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  The Japanese man looked from Marcia to Laurie and back again, as if what he saw disturbed him in some way. He bowed and spoke again to the driver, pointing. Then he firmly closed the gate in their faces. The driver held the cab door for Marcia. There was nothing to do but get in.

  The cab followed the long bamboo fence to a corner, then turned up a still narrower lane until it came to a halt before another gate. This entrance was somewhat wider and more elaborate than the one at the other house. Again there was the business of bell ringing, and after an interminable wait a Japanese girl came to the gate, bundled into a quilted, padded coat, her cheeks bright with the cold, her breath steaming.

  This time Marcia got out of the cab quickly. “Talbot-san?” she said, making it as simple as possible.

  The girl smiled and nodded readily. “Hai, Tarbot-san.”

  Marcia motioned to the driver to take out their bags. But when she started through the gate with Laurie, the little maid barred their way, shaking her head and chattering to the driver.

  “Never mind,” Marcia said firmly, “this is the right place and we’re going in.” She pushed gently past the girl, pulling Laurie with her.

  Neat stepping stones curved through the snow toward an entryway where a lamp burned overhead. A large, oblong stone from which all snow had been brushed offered a step up toward the level of an entry hall with a narrow veranda ledge. The driver piled their bags on the ledge, accepted the yen bills Marcia handed him and escaped before anyone could have a change of mind. The maid was still protesting in Japanese.

  “It’s our shoes now,” Laurie said. “She wants us to take off our shoes.”

  So they sat down on the step and pulled off galoshes and shoes, while the maid brought them house slippers. The girl was still concerned about letting them come in, and she backed away uncertainly as they entered the wide, uncarpeted hall. A polished floor gleamed darkly beneath a shaded electric globe hanging far above from the high ceiling. It was almost as cold inside as it was in the garden and their breath misted the air.

  The girl made gestures which indicated they must wait there while she went for help. Plainly Jerome was not in the house, or he would have heard the commotion by now. In a moment the little maid returned, bringing an older woman with her. The second woman wore a brown kimono and a dull obi around her waist. Only her eyes, which looked curiously at Marcia and Laurie, were bright and lively.

  “I’m Mrs. Talbot,” Marcia explained, and found that she spoke a little too loudly, enunciating as if they were deaf. “I am the wife of Talbot-san. This is Laurie Talbot. We are here from America. Where is Mr. Talbot?”

  The older woman exchanged looks with the younger. “Tarbot-san not here,” she said. “You no stay.”

  “But we’re going to stay,” Marcia said firmly. “We’ll wait for Mr. Talbot to come home.”

  Again there were quick exchanged looks. The older woman spoke to the younger in the manner of one giving an order. “Horner Okusama,” she said. The girl smiled and nodded with an air of relief. Then she hurried out the front entryway.

  “It’s awfully cold in here, isn’t it?” Laurie said.

  Marcia nodded. “I know, darling. We’ll just keep our coats on till we find out what we’re going to do.”

  She looked about the bare wide hall. At the rear a flight of stairs went upward into darkness and near the bottom step was a small table of carved teakwood, with knobby claws for feet. The table held a brass card tray on which lay several envelopes.

  Marcia walked quickly to the table and picked up the handful of mail with a sense of foreboding. It was all addressed to Jerome Talbot and none of it had been opened. Halfway through the stack she found her cablegram from the States.

  Jerome Talbot could have had not the faintest notion that his wife had left home and was on her way to Japan.

  Marcia set the envelopes down with hands that trembled and turned toward the front door. She could hear voices as the maid came back through the garden, followed by a tall, rather angularly handsome American woman with a blue scarf tied over her head. She paused at the entry stone to kick off her shoes and then came into the hall. She was a thin woman, perhaps in her late thirties. Her face was broad at the high cheekbones and she had beautiful large dark eyes. Her expression was no more welcoming than had been that of the Japanese man at the other house.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Nan Horner—a neighbor up the hill. Sumie-san says you’re having a bit of language trouble. Can I help you find the place you’re looking for?”

  “We’ve found it,” Marcia said. “I’m Marcia Talbot. It seems the cable I sent my husband didn’t reach him in time, so he had no warning of our coming.”

  The woman pulled the scarf from her head and ruffled her short, gray-sprinkled hair. “That’s who Sumie-san said you were, but I’ll confess I didn’t believe her. Well, you’d better come in here, while I see if we can get some fires going in this icebox. The servants have their own quarters and they prefer a native hibachi to keep them warm.” She turned her attention on Laurie and this time flashed a quick smile that made her face seem suddenly alive and warm. “You’re Laurie, I suppose? I’ve heard about you.”

  She flung open a door into a great gloomy room and went briskly about switching on lamps. Over her shoulder she spoke in Japanese to the maid, who ran to light the fire ready laid in a grate.

  Marcia followed her uneasily into the room. Who was this Nan Horner that she came so readily into Jerome’s house to take charge and give orders to the servants? Somehow all her own confidence and courage was fading in the face of this woman’s assurance and air of being completely at home in Jerome Talbot’s house.

  Was this the one? Marcia asked herself bleakly. Was this woman the answer to the question she had always thrust away to the back of her mind?

  Nan Horner turned from the fire and looked at her appraisingly. “So you’ve finally come,” she said.

  3.

  Nan Horner’s words were a statement, not a question. What lay behind them Marcia could not tell and she resented their being spoken. She looked about the big room without answering.

  It had apparently been intended as a drawing room and was of drawing room proportions. In spite of its size, it was overcrowded with Victorian furniture that might have come out of a period play. In the middle of an ancient Oriental carpet stood a round table covered with a red plush cloth, an overflowing potted fern set upon it. There were two plush-covered sofas and one small one of black horsehair. Burdened whatnots cluttered every corner, and various stiff chairs and bits of bric-a-brac were strewn without taste around the room. From the ceiling an old-fashioned chandelier, now electrified, shed a dingy light from two or three bulbs. It seemed an improbable room to come upon in Japan.

  Nan Horner stood near the marble mantel, from which a gilded clock watched the room in silence. Her hands were thrust deep in the pockets of a loose coat and she wrinkled her nose as she looked about her.

  “What a dustbin! I don’t know how Jerry stands it. He has gone down to Hiroshima for a couple of weeks. Something to do with his work, I suppose. The ABCC’s down there, you know. Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission.”

  Jerry? Marcia thought. Jerome had never been a “Jerry” sort of person for as long as she could remember. Her sense of resentment toward this woman was increasing.

  “Do you know when my husband will be home?” she asked, a little stiffly.

  “He didn’t say. He never does. But before too long, I should imagine.” Nan Horner walked to a tall, narrow window and looked out at the snow-hidden sky. “Can’t tell tonight, but the moon’s due to be full in another week. And he’s always home by full moon.”

  That seemed a curious remark. “Why should he come home for the full moon?” Marcia asked.

  Nan Horner shrugged thin square shoulders. “Oh—we’re a moon-ridden people in Japan. We pay more attention to such things out here. In the meantime, let’s see what can be arranged for you.” Once more s
he spoke in Japanese to the two waiting women and then nodded at Marcia. “Tomorrow Sumie-san will clean the guest room and get it in order for you. Nobody’s used it for years. But for tonight they’ll make up Jerry’s bed and set a fire in his room. You’ll find it more comfortable than this mausoleum. Lord, what a place!”

  Marcia nodded in agreement. How strange that Jerome should occupy this big house, when his needs were so simple.

  “It’s like Jerome not to worry about his own comfort,” she said.

  There was wry amusement in Nan Horner’s eyes. “Yes, I know. I met Jerome Talbot when he first came to Japan. Before he married you, in fact. This house dates back to the ’80’s. It has quite a story. The man who built it belonged to one of the great ruling families of Japan, but he was educated abroad in Europe. By the time he returned to Kyoto he had developed an admiration for the Victorian styles of his day and he insisted upon building a big, foreign-type house.”

  Nan gestured, taking in the huge place.

  “But he had to satisfy the rest of his family,” she went on, “so he attached a Japanese wing to the villa. After he died in the early 1900’s the house was turned into a hotel for a while. So it’s had a history as mongrel as the architecture. Some of the furnishings in this room must be almost the original vintage. Lord knows what they did with it when the Occupation moved in. Anyway it suited Jerry’s purpose. Most Japanese houses are tiny, you know.”

  “Why should he want anything big?” Marcia asked.

  Nan was watching Laurie absently as the child explored the room, and seemed not to hear.

  “How did you find the place anyway?” she asked Marcia.

  Marcia held her hands to the blaze, letting the warmth seep into her, ready to be scorched a little after being cold and discouraged.

  “I showed the written address to a cab driver,” she explained. “But he took us to the wrong house first—around the corner on another street. A Japanese man came to the gate, but he wasn’t very friendly.”

  “That would be Ichiro Minato,” Nan said. “It’s all the same house, though Jerry has partitioned it off. The Minatos are … well, I suppose you’d call them tenants. They live in the Japanese half, and Minato-san has his own troubles, I imagine. He’s not a very sociable sort. What about food, Mrs. Talbot? You can come up to my place for dinner, if they can’t fix you up here.”

  It was not the warmest of invitations and Marcia shook her head quickly. “I’m sure they can find something for us. We had a big meal at noon on the train. Soup—anything at all will do.”

  Nan Horner spoke to Yasuko-san, the cook. The woman bowed and shot a quick bright look of curiosity at Marcia.

  “She’ll fix you up,” Nan said. “There’s fish and rice and vegetables, and you’ll find her a good cook. She’s been with Jerry for years. Anything else you need?”

  “No, thank you very much,” Marcia said. “I don’t know what we’d have done without you.” The words sounded stilted in her own ears, but she had lost the power to be natural.

  Nan Horner gave her a long straight look. “That’s all right Jerry’s an old friend. You can reach me by phone if you need me. But you’d better get Sumie-san to call the number, or you’ll never make it past the Japanese operator.”

  While the two women talked, Laurie had been circling the great museum of a room with curiosity and interest. Nan looked after her soberly.

  “Doesn’t resemble her father much, does she? Your daughter plainly, as far as looks are concerned. But she’s the nervous type like Jerry.”

  It was hard to accept the calm assumption that Nan Horner knew Jerome as well as his wife did, if not better, and Marcia stiffened inwardly.

  “Laurie has a good deal of vitality,” she said quietly. “She’s interested in everything there is to be interested in.”

  Nan Horner had a disconcertingly frank way of staring that made Marcia uncomfortable. She stared again now, as if Marcia were some sort of oddity.

  “So you’re his wife,” she said flatly, as if the fact were too astonishing to be accepted. “Oh, well, it’s none of my business. If you have everything you need, I’ll run along. Whistle if you want me. ’Bye, Laurie. Good night, Mrs. Talbot.”

  She took one hand out of her pocket for a casual wave and walked out of the room, while Sumie-san and Yasuko-san followed her, chattering in Japanese.

  She mustn’t let this outspoken woman disturb her, Marcia thought. It certainly wasn’t any of Nan Horner’s business what Jerome’s wife was like, and the woman had acknowledged the fact.

  Laurie came spinning back from a final inspection of the room. “It will be fun to live here! Can we explore the rest of the house now? It’s so queer and different.”

  Marcia smiled at her exuberant child. “There’ll be time for exploring tomorrow. Let’s see how the fire is coming in your father’s room and get ourselves settled.”

  “You’re tired, aren’t you?” Laurie said kindly, and Marcia squeezed the little girl to her. She was bone tired, weary to her very fingertips, yet she knew the cause was not the long flight across the ocean, or the train trip from Tokyo—it was an emotional weariness. She had been keyed up in anticipation for so long. All her forces had been gathered to meet whatever might happen when she came face to face with Jerome. Now there was nothing more to anticipate until Jerome himself appeared on the scene, and all the strength had gone out of her in a limp wave. There seemed to be no telling when she would see Jerome now. How odd it sounded to base his return on the full moon. There was something behind that remark she didn’t understand, but she had no energy to puzzle over it now.

  She and Laurie left the big room that would probably never be warmed by its single fire, and crossed the wide chill hallway, scuffing along in slippers that would not scratch or soil the beautifully polished floors.

  Sumie-san bowed them into Jerome’s bedroom with a wide smile that dimpled her plump cheeks. She had shed her padded coat and wore a patterned blue kimono, with short white tabi on her feet.

  The bedroom was smaller than the drawing room, though still of old-fashioned, high-ceilinged proportions. A fire roared and snapped and a portable electric heater had been turned on. At least it was a more comfortable room, though a bit on the austere side, like Jerome.

  The big double bed, well heaped with blankets, looked comfortable. Several pieces of modern cane furniture, of attractive Japanese design, were set about. The low chairs had runners connecting the legs so that they would not cut into floors or mattings. Jerome’s big walnut desk was set near a window and there was a huge, well-filled bookcase against one wall. A bedside table held still more books, and a lamp with a cylindrical parchment shade. This, at least, was a lived-in room.

  Laurie had gone to stand in fascination at the head of the bed and Marcia, sensing her stillness, turned to see what had caught her attention. In the center of the plain beige wall above the bed hung a Japanese mask, shadowy in the flickering light. It had been carved from dark red cherry wood with a skill that brought out every detail of expression in the face that looked down on them. Here and there touches of paint etched the red of the mouth, or the white gleam of teeth, the white of the eyes, but the forehead, the high cheekbones, the curved chin, were all highlighted in the polish of natural wood and seemed almost alive as firelight played over them.

  “It’s a demon, isn’t it?” Laurie asked in a whisper, as if those long-lobed ears might hear.

  Marcia knew what she meant. The face was utterly evil in its expression. The brows and eye sockets were set at an exaggerated slant with the eyeballs turning eerily down. The white above the eyeballs gave them a wild look of fury. The bushy black eyebrows were of real hair and black strands of hair hung from the chin. The nose was chiseled, but broad at the base, with wide, flaring nostrils which added a look of scorn and disdain. The mouth snarled, with lips apart, drawing menacingly down at the corners. Yet there were none of the conventional touches here of the demon mask. No fangs, no popping eyeballs,
or other distortions. This was the face of a man—proud, intelligent, dangerous, wicked.

  “I suppose it is a sort of demon,” Marcia said, not liking to think the artist had intended it as the face of a man.

  “Anyway it’s awfully spooky,” Laurie said and turned her back on it uneasily. “I like the picture over the mantel better,” she added. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

  Wearily Marcia sat down in a rocker before the fire and looked up at the Japanese print. The picture presented a snow scene in which two figures were walking under a snow-covered Japanese umbrella. The man was clad in a long black robe, showing gold and red only where the lower folds opened over a patterned kimono. A high black hood covered his head and one hand clasped the umbrella shaft just above the delicate hand of his companion. The girl in the picture was gowned all in white, except for the black and gold obi about her waist and the scarlet lining of kimono sleeves. A white cloth draped her head in soft folds, framing her face. Both figures wore high wooden geta which raised their feet above the snowy ground.

  “Who do you think they are?” Laurie asked, always ready to make up stories.

  Marcia recalled something she had read about the significance of a man and woman under an umbrella in a Japanese print. It was a symbol commonly used and meant that the two were lovers. The faces were typically expressionless, but there was a solicitous air in the man’s manner as he bent toward the girl, a seeming shyness in her downcast look.

  “Probably they’re two sweethearts out walking together,” Marcia said, and wondered at Jerome’s sentimental choice of picture for his wall.

  Sumie-san came in to set up a small table for them near the fire, and brought their meal on a red lacquered tray. The food was served in attractive blue-patterned dishes, a sprig of pine needles with a tiny cone attached gracing one corner of the tray. Marcia touched it and smiled her appreciation at the little maid. Sumie-san giggled in delight and hid her mouth with her kimono sleeve. Probably she had run out in the snow to fetch this twig fresh from the garden. She hovered over them as they ate and filled their cups with hot tea. Even Laurie drank a little tea, since there was no fresh milk on hand, and the food warmed and heartened both mother and daughter.