The Lonely War

by Alan Chin

  From the train’s window at the Kyoto station, Andrew saw a long valley protected by high snowcapped mountains on three sides. At the base of the mountains were orderly clusters of cherry trees and random patches of bamboo. Further up the slopes stood a thick evergreen forest, which was powdered with snow. There are over a thousand temples in and around Kyoto. Most of these treasured sanctuaries were nestled into the foothill.

  A blue sky spread above the valley, as blue and vast as the ocean. A single cloud floated across the expanse like a lifeboat drifting aimlessly across a calm sea.

  The Kamo River cut down the east side of the valley. Clear, icy water tumbled over granite boulders. The rushing water sounded melodic, as if the river were singing its way through the valley. West of the river lay the city; its bustling town center was surrounded by finely manicured parks, temples, and immaculate neighborhoods where the houses had rooftops made with blue tiles overlapping like fish scales. The houses stretched from the downtown markets to the base of the mountains.

  Golden-red light toppled off the mountainside, intensifying the blue rooftops and causing the city to sparkle. This vision of tranquil beauty became painful as Andrew realized that this was the last leg of his journey. Tomorrow he would leave Kenji for the first time in over a year and dash to the finish line, alone.

  From the station platform, Kenji led Andrew east, over the Kamo River and away from the city. They wandered through the narrow streets of a suburb until they came to a traditional ryokan hotel. It lay in the shade of Mt. Kiyomizu, an arched mountain with a thick pine and bamboo forest that swayed in the wind like the mane of a lion.

  At the front door, an old man knelt to help them remove their shoes and then hurried behind the desk to check them in. Half a dozen antique lacquered lamps lit the lobby, giving the room a warm glow and veiling the corners and alcoves in shadows. Kenji held up an envelope with a local address written on the front. The note inside requested an audience with Mrs. Tottori on the following day. He asked the clerk if he would send a boy to deliver the note.

  The clerk graciously agreed, saying it would be delivered within the hour. He took the note and showed them to their room.

  Andrew studied the furnishings. In one corner stood a folding screen that displayed a mountain scene painted in the Zen style. In the alcove hung a scroll with Japanese calligraphy on it. Andrew asked Kenji to translate.

  Kenji read out loud:

  “No gambling,

  No prostitution,

  No majhong,

  No noisy parties,

  No credit!”

  The sliding doors were thrust aside and a woman knelt in the doorway. Her lavender kimono covered three undergarments that showed at her neck, framing her ivory-colored face. She did not wear her hair on top of her head like geishas; it fell about her shoulders and flowed down her back in a ponytail. Tabi socks covered her feet and a sash was tied around her waist with a huge knot in the back. She bowed low and rattled off a burst of Japanese.

  Andrew caught the words “bath” and “dinner,” but the only thing that he understood was that her name was Fumiko.

  She carried a bamboo tray into the room, and on it were steaming hand towels, a pot of green tea, and two cups. She set the tray on the low dining table and bowed again before leaving.

  An iron stove warmed the room. Andrew and Kenji shucked their traveling clothes and pulled on the blue-and-white-checkered kimonos that they found hanging in the closet.

  Andrew sat at the window overlooking the garden. He took two puffs of his pipe to beat down the voices in his head. A moment later he took Jah-Jai and played a meditative tune that Kenji’s father had taught him.

  Kenji sat at a low table, sipping tea and studying a book of English grammar by candlelight. Every so often he said a word or sentence out loud. “Ruvrey music.”

  Andrew corrected him, “Lovely. La. La. Lovely music.”

  “Ruvrey. Ra. Ra. Ruvery music.”

  Andrew smiled through his drugged haze, knowing that many Japanese had trouble with the English L and also understanding that he himself mangled the Japanese language equally as badly. “Okay, try saying beautiful instead of lovely.”

  “Andrew is beautifur!”

  “No.” Andrew corrected again, “Andrew’s music is beautiful.”

  “Yes, music is beautiful too.”

  “You did it. You pronounced the L perfectly! Say it again.”

  “Andrew is beautiful, and his music is lovely.” Kenji flashed a proud smile. “Now I sound rike American.”

  “Like an American. And yes, your English sounds perfect. I’m proud of you.”

  The sliding doors opened and Fumiko was on her knees, bowing.

  Kenji glanced up from his book. “Time for bath. After, Fumiko will prepare dinner.”

  In the tub room, Kenji was first to strip off his kimono and sit on the stool beside the cypress-wood tub. Fumiko dipped a wooden bucket into the hot water and poured it over Kenji’s head. With a bar of soap and a washrag, she scrubbed him from head to soles. Lather clung to his compact body like white frosting. A thorough rinse, and Kenji eased into the tub while Andrew sat on the stool and went through the same scrubbing. Fumiko was visibly shocked by Andrew’s thinness. She washed him as gently as a mother with her newborn.

  The tub was so hot it took minutes for Andrew to immerse himself. Once in up to his neck, he closed his eyes and drifted in the lovely heat. Over the past year he and Kenji had bathed together many times, and most nights they had shared the same bed. Andrew felt a deep-seated comfort in those intimate situations.

  Kenji’s coarse hair was slicked down like an otter’s pelt. Without his wire-rimmed glasses, his face took on new dimensions. Unveiled, his smooth face and huge black eyes made him look like a different person altogether.

  Kenji tilted his head to one side. “Why so sad?”

  “Bathing is the saddest time for me, because Hikaru and I had so much pleasure in the tub. In the cool water, he would hold me. I can’t help thinking of him.”

  “When I soak with you is hoppiest time for me. I never have friend to share bath before. Come, I hold you so you be hoppy.”

  “Happy. Ha, Ha, Happy,” Andrew corrected.

  “Happy,” Kenji said as he gently pulled Andrew into his arms.

  Andrew didn’t resist. He felt hard muscles under silky skin enfolding him. He closed his eyes and his mind reached back, feeling Tottori’s embrace. He laid his head on Kenji’s shoulder and sighed.

  They stayed nailed together until the skin on their fingers pruned. They toweled and dressed and returned to the room, where Fumiko was preparing dinner. She knelt beside the low table with two place settings. On the floor, a charcoal hibachi sat next to a large tray of raw fish, eggplant, and mountain vegetables. Another tray held bowls of soup, noodles, and tofu.

  A note lay next to one place setting. Kenji read it and told Andrew that it was from Mrs. Tottori. “She will send someone to meet you here at one o’clock tomorrow. He will take you to her.”

  Fumiko served them hot sake followed by bowls of miso soup. Andrew claimed he had no appetite, but Kenji scolded him, saying if he didn’t eat, he would get no more opium.

  They leisurely drank their soup while she cooked fish and vegetables over the hibachi. As she worked, she hummed a soothing song that no doubt had been passed from mother to daughter for a millennium. Both men studied her movements as she prepared each item in the time-honored methods of her culture. She was an artist. The strict economy of her every move seemed to emphasize restraint and simplicity.

  Andrew and Kenji looked into each other’s freshly scrubbed faces and Kenji tilted his head to one side. Their eyes returned to watching Fumiko’s artistry. For dessert, she sliced a sweet bean cake, which had the delicate shape and color of a plum blossom. She poured them each a cup of green tea and left the room to wait behind the door.

  Once they finished all their dinner and another flask of sake, Fumiko stacked all the dishe
s onto her tray and carried them from the room. She returned five minutes later to move the table against the wall, creating an open space in the center of the room. She pulled a soft futon quilt from the closet and laid it over the floor, then spread linen sheets and another lighter quilt over the futon. Finally, she placed two hard pillows at one end. All the bedding was as white as falling snow and had the same crisp scent.

  Fumiko shuffled to the door, bowed low, and slid the door shut.

  Kenji had not only drunk his share of the sake, he had polished off Andrew’s share as well. His face glowed with boozy pleasure.

  They hung their kimonos in the closet. Andrew blew out the candles, leaving the room drenched in the luminous moonlight drifting through the window. As they crawled between the sheets, Kenji drew Andrew nearer until they pressed together.

  Andrew smelled the rich scent of sake. He didn’t try to move away.

  “Don’t leave me tomorrow,” Kenji mumbled. “I don’t want to live without you.”

  Andrew lay in Kenji’s embrace. It was the first time Kenji had ever said something so personal to him. He groped for a response, but realized from Kenji’s deep breathing that Kenji had already drifted to sleep. Andrew lay awake, locked within Kenji’s arms, craving one more puff from his pipe, until morning light drifted through the shutters and penetrated his eyelids.

  AT ONE o’clock, a monk dressed in a dark gray kimono with white undergarments and a large straw hat came for Andrew. In the tiny hotel lobby, the monk bowed and introduced himself as Omi Tottori, Colonel Tottori’s nephew.

  Before leaving the hotel, Kenji caressed the back of Andrew’s neck and leaned over to kiss Andrew’s cheek. He said, “Meet me at Nanzen Temple after your visit. It’s the same Rinzai sect as Omi, so he can take you there. I’ll be waiting.”

  Andrew nodded but didn’t look at Kenji. He reached into his shoulder bag, where he carried Tottori’s swords and diary, and pulled out Jah-Jai. His fingers caressed the yellow grain weaving through the bamboo before he placed it in Kenji’s hands.

  “Keep this for me until I see you again.”

  Kenji’s eyes widened. He shook his head and tried to pass it back, but Andrew insisted, telling Kenji that it was only until they met at Nanzen.

  Andrew followed Omi along the Kamo River and through the narrow alleys of the Gion district. The last snow had melted, so the streets and sidewalks were dry, but it was bitterly cold. Andrew felt the chill bite through his overcoat.

  Kyoto is the spiritual soul of Japan because of its numerous temples and shrines, which were all preserved because the Americans refused to bomb the city during the war. But as Andrew made his way along the busy shopping streets and through the neighborhoods, he realized that if these manicured temples were Japan’s soul, then these wonderful shops and houses and people thriving in the city’s center were the marrow of its bones.

  The houses in the Gion district had high walls, tiny gardens, and bamboo blinds over the windows. The symmetry and simplicity of the latticework on doors and windows were beautifully picturesque. They passed shop after shop, wooden buildings with sagging beams and stone floors, which displayed the handmade wares that made these people unique, even in Japan: noodle shops, teahouses, tofu shops, broom makers, textile shops, flower vendors.

  They stopped at a bakery and Andrew bought a half dozen glutinous rice cakes, mochi, which were a traditional New Year’s food. They also stopped at another shop to buy pickled plums, umeboshi, which are used to make a traditional New Year’s tea. Both, Omi assured Andrew, would make fine gifts for Mrs. Tottori.

  While passing a knife shop, Andrew tugged at Omi’s sleeve and pointed, indicating he wanted to have a look. They ducked through the wood-frame doorway and Andrew inspected the array of handmade knives. Some were very elaborate, with mother-of-pearl dragons inlaid on the handle. Some were simple kitchen knives honed razor-sharp.

  Andrew selected a knife with a long, thin blade made for gutting fish. The image of a carp was carved into the wooden handle. He asked how much and Omi translated. Andrew pulled money from his shoulder bag and paid the asking price without attempting to haggle.

  Omi led Andrew through a narrow gate that opened onto a compact garden. Andrew heard the voices calling from the Changi graves, felt the buzzing at his temples, but he would not take out his pipe, he thought, until after.

  A path paved with square stones bent through the garden. They passed under the bare branches of plum trees and walked to the side of the house, where Omi pulled open a sliding door and bowed. Beyond the door was a large room with a traditional tatami mat floor, sparsely decorated with low-standing furniture.

  In the center of the room, a young woman sat on a yellow cushion beside a table. Her perfect posture enhanced her elegance, and her face displayed an expression of consummate dignity. Folded around her body and framing her face was the most brilliant long-sleeve kimono that Andrew had ever seen. Embroidered onto the golden colored fabric was an exquisite maroon phoenix. A lavender sash completed the outfit.

  No woman on the streets would dare to wear such a brilliant costume. Even a year after the war, they would have been rebuked for going against the tide of patriotic sobriety.

  Light bounced off the golden material, shining into Andrew’s eyes. He stood, bewildered, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He could not quite believe that this woman was substantial. She seemed too dreamlike, as if a master painter had created a silkscreen masterpiece to represent the tragic soul of all Japan.

  Andrew was captivated by how her black hair fell over her shoulders. Her head turned and he saw a plum-colored stain splashed across half her face.

  She studied him for a half second and bowed. She lifted her head and their eyes met again. Deep within her gaze blazed an absolute suffering.

  Those shattered eyes brought Andrew face to face with the purity of his own grief. Crushed by her actuality, he wanted to flee from this woman who shrouded herself in immense sorrow. But he knew that running away would be futile. He turned his eyes away, unable to look into the depths of those pupils that mirrored his own anguish. He desperately needed his opium, but it was too late for that. He had to find the strength to see this through without it.

  She said, “Please join me. I have prepared tea.” She spoke Japanese, which Andrew didn’t completely understand, but Omi acted as interpreter, telling Andrew in fairly good Mandarin what Mrs. Tottori had said.

  If she was at all shocked by his skeletal thinness, it didn’t show. It was as if she understood perfectly. She lifted her arm and pointed to a pillow across from her. Her long sleeve swayed beautifully as her arm made this graceful movement.

  Andrew, still not convinced that she was indeed real, remained speechless. He did, however, remove his clogs and step into the room. He walked to the table and lowered himself onto the pillow, all the time staring at her enchanting features.

  Omi removed his straw hat and shoes, and followed Andrew into the room, kneeling behind her.

  She spoke again and Omi translated. “We are honored that you have traveled all this way to see us.” She lifted a porcelain pot, filled a teacup, and set the pot on the table. She presented tea to Andrew according to etiquette, bowed, and poured herself a cup.

  Andrew studied her movements while he listened intently to the rustling of her silk kimono as she moved.

  “The honor is mine. Thank you for seeing me.” Andrew had difficulty modulating his voice while trying to keep his emotions in check. What was so painful, he realized, was that they shared a common bond of inexplicable guilt. Guilt that they somehow had failed to keep their man alive, that there was something they could have done differently but didn’t. Guilt became their union, the heartbreak that made them one.

  They raised their cups and sipped. The tea tasted salty. Mrs. Tottori noticed his surprise and explained, “On New Year’s, it is our custom to drink ‘Great Happiness Tea,’ which is made from green tea and pickled plums. The plums add a slightly salty flav
or.”

  Omi proved indispensable, for he was truly a well-intentioned interpreter. He seemed to disappear and Andrew felt as though he and Mrs. Tottori understood each other perfectly.

  A handful of seconds tiptoed by, each one separate and distinct, each one a burden. Time peeled away until it didn’t exist at all. She picked up a plate of mochi.

  He set down his cup to accept one. He took the bag of plums and mochi that he had purchased at the market and asked if she would accept his gift.

  She took the bag and peeked inside, making a show of seeming overjoyed. She excused herself, took two of the cakes, and laid them as offerings at the house altar where the family’s ancestral spirits were enshrined. She placed another two cakes on display in the tokonoma, the formal alcove, beside a hand-painted lacquer bowl. That done, she shuffled to her pillow and knelt.

  “I must say, Mrs. Tottori,” Andrew said, “You are younger than I had expected.”

  “Please to call me Ayoshi. There is no need for such formalities. We are brother and sister, brought together by the love of our husband.”

  “Ayoshi, you grant me too much honor. Hikaru was your husband. He loved you. I was merely a companion while he was away at war.”

  Ayoshi’s shiny black hair came alive as she shook her head. She told Andrew that, long ago, when she was hardly more than a girl, her family had sent her to Oregon as a picture bride, only to be rejected by her intended husband because of her facial scar. The man sent her back to Japan in shame. Her family was so humiliated, and her chances of marriage so remote, that they were ready to sell her into prostitution. That’s when Hikaru Tottori heard of her troubles and called on her family. He proposed that she marry him before he had ever seen her.

  Andrew’s eyes widened. He understood that she needed to tell her story, to say it aloud before putting it behind her forever. Warmth washed over him, gratefulness that he could perform this service of allowing her to release her immense guilt out loud. His eyes encouraged her to continue.