Cutting Back

by Leslie Buck

  There was more unpredictability to come that day. In the morning, the tray arrived bearing green tea and Twix bars. This made for a funny break from the subtle handmade desserts we’d been served for a week. I was raised on Masterpiece Theatre, and I simply loved English tea trays. Kei told me that, in the past, housewives served lunch as well as tea to the gardeners. Times had changed.

  On our third break, an even more unusual food item appeared. The men gathered in a silent circle around the tray, staring at a new arrival, mystified. They tilted their heads to get a closer look at one of the more unusual trays it seemed they’d ever received. On a black lacquered tray, painted with tiny pink flowers and golden leaves, sat six hot dogs, tiny wieners stuffed into baguette buns.

  One of my top childhood memories from Oklahoma was tasting homemade ketchup at a fourth-grade friend’s birthday picnic in the park. Rhoda was the only black girl in my very integrated class who dared to invite her shy white classmate to her party. I remember sitting at a picnic table and biting into a hot dog Rhoda’s mother had given to me. Flavor exploded in my mouth. I stopped eating the hot dog for a moment to savor the taste, a big deal for a nine-year-old. It was one of the first moments I can remember when I noticed that a simple ingredient could be improved if one spent time developing it by hand.

  But that day in the private Kyoto garden, the hot dogs held no appeal. A stale line of ketchup trailed the top of each. All of us felt disheveled and sappy from the pine work we’d labored on all day. The air hovered humid. There were six of us, one hot dog each. Nakaji, Kei, and Masahiro, the brave ones on my crew, nobly ate their hot dogs. I ate mine, of course. Two workers wouldn’t touch the tray. Normally we’d clear the tray, but with two hot dogs left, the situation looked truly dire. I felt guilty, suspecting this snack had arrived because an American was part of the crew. I reflected on how much effort the client might have taken to find them. I forced myself to eat one more salty dog, but I just couldn’t eat the last.

  At lunchtime our new client gave me a tour of her house, introducing me to the fine art of viewing the garden from inside a stylish Kyoto home. Much of the house was furnished with Western furniture. There was one special room in the back where the family did prayers and entertained guests. It was the garden-viewing room. The floor was covered in clean tatami mats, a gold-lined prayer altar sat in a corner, and a chabudai, the same kind of low table I’d seen at the Tokyo Gardens restaurant, rested in the middle. A cubbyhole shelf had been built into the wall near the entryway. On this little shelf sat a bowl filled with fresh chestnuts that were just popping open their bright green thorny summer jackets, with three orange persimmons resting next to them. The homeowner said that this fruit display, directly across from the altar, was created to remind visitors of the current season, late summer.

  Along the wall facing the garden, she showed me how two separate horizontal lengths of sliding shutters, one on top of another, opened to allow a view to the garden. These were the shutters that had clattered during the recent tremblor. She opened the lower section and showed me how the guests, as they entered the room, could see a hint of the garden through the long, low opening. This low opening made me think of flirtation. With less than half the garden revealed, the guest might sense an atmosphere of mystery and feel a subtle desire to see more. The homeowner invited me to sit down on a floor cushion in front of the table. As I did, I could see a bit more of the garden and the low pine I’d been working on. Then she slid open the remaining shutters, inviting me into full conversation with the garden. The landscape came together swiftly—waterfall, stream, hill, pines, and maples. Not only was the scene intensified by the gradual opening of the shutter’s frame, but my feelings were heightened as well.

  She mentioned that every season, the color red appeared in her garden: bright red azalea flowers in spring, deep red ilex berries in summer, great swaths of rust-colored maple leaves in fall, and scarlet camellia flowers in winter, striking against a snowy backdrop. Japanese gardens rarely emphasize color; this was unique to her garden. But I find that female clients love flowers. Her use of color in every season may have appeared more acceptable because each flowering plant symbolized a season. In the Japanese garden, a client would be more likely to spend money on styling the maple tree, which changes each season, than they would on buying flats of colorful annuals. The season ended and began again in this private Kyoto garden, but a consistent color theme made the landscape timeless, combining the past, present, and future for the viewer.

  I’ve had a few California clients call me, panic-stricken, saying, “My tree has died!” only to have me rush over and inform them, “That is a maple tree; the leaves fall off each year when it goes dormant. It’s alive.” I think their lack of plant knowledge compared to that of the typical Japanese homeowner was not a product of ignorance but of different values. Where do most Americans spend more money: on the kitchen remodel or on the backyard? Working for Uetoh that year, I saw homeowners willing to spend a fortune on yearly gardeners. For many Americans the garden is an afterthought, but for many Japanese it is an integral part of the home. My hostess, with her rumbling, double-tiered shutters, made her home feel much larger in a way I’d never seen before. Just before I left, she said her garden was about to change. How true, too, for my life in Kyoto.

  The day progressed very slowly, as we workers had the evening party in mind. The hill pine dissolved from a short, stocky Christmas tree to an open, stylized silhouette against a deepening blue sky. I cleaned up as fast as I could. According to our plan, one of the workers would drive us directly to Kei’s small apartment, where we’d change into our party clothes.

  The craftsmen knew how to work their tight schedule. We began our elaborate cleanup routine with gusto. First we piled cuttings into the baron bukuro, the round tarp, and carted them off to the truck. Kei switched on a blower that efficiently, and loudly, rounded up the debris. Finally we picked up every last remaining stubborn needle and leaf by hand and began folding the tarps, a signal that the evening’s excitement, away from plants and sweat, was about to begin. I’d survived my first six-day workweek in Japan. I rarely drank, but I thought, I’m going to stay up all night and get blasted. The disciplined schedule took its toll. I felt like I deserved a break from reality.

  Nakaji yelled something, and we all looked up. He pointed at the pebble stream surrounding the pine hill, to our tarps, and to the truck. His voice went up and down in consternation. He bent down, pushed pebbles aside impatiently, picked up some pine needles, and threw them off to the side with disgust. Apparently, a few pine needles had gotten into the dry pebble stream. Kei briefly instructed me on how to push aside the pebbles, a square-foot section at a time, brush out dirt and needles from the concrete bottom, and then return the rocks to the clean stream. This took three of us, working desperately quickly, about an hour to complete. Believe me, I didn’t leave a single pine needle behind. The work proved tedious and annoying. But when it was done, the stream did appear to sparkle, exquisitely transformed. I’m a clean freak, but when it came to Nakaji, I’d met my meticulous match.

  We zoomed off to the festivities. In front of Kei’s apartment door, I removed my muddy work boots and placed them next to a mosaic of high-heeled pumps, stylish tennis shoes, and leather boots. Kei’s apartment looked tiny and was packed with smiling faces. Uetoh secretaries had lined a table with trays of food. We walked into a combined kitchen and living room. Someone led me through a bedroom the size of a walk-in closet to a bathroom the size of an airplane restroom with shower squeezed in so I could change out of my filthy clothes. The floors were made of traditional tatami, but Kei’s furniture and large computer table had a decidedly modern flavor. I found a cookbook by Jamie Oliver on the kitchen counter, and, on Kei’s narrow balcony, a collection of potted herbaceous plants. I’d never met a man who grew tender woodland plants.

  I was thrilled to meet two American women my age, who would soon become my closest Kyoto girlfriends. Maya had lived
for many years in Berkeley before coming to Kyoto. She edited and translated formal Japanese art books. Jennifer, from Wyoming, had completed a formal multiyear apprenticeship in Japanese art restoration. It was explained to me that Kyoto life for an American woman could be lonely because Japanese men were shy at first and unaccustomed to treating women equally, as we American women had come to expect. Both women had wise, open-minded Japanese male friends and heartfelt, dedicated careers that held them in Kyoto.

  A young American man, Aaron, introduced himself to me. He studied landscape architecture at the University of Kyoto. Impressive, I thought; I still could speak only a few Japanese sentences. I thought about Taylor, wishing he were there with me, looking into my eyes, asking me how my week had gone. “Uetoh Zoen is one of the top landscaping companies in Kyoto,” tall Aaron stated. At least he looked right at me, instead of politely off to the side, as all my coworkers had done over the past week. “They’re maybe in the top ten percent.” “Really? Wow. Cool!” I said, enjoying my ability to use American slang for the first time in weeks.

  Feeling relaxed, surrounded by familiar-looking faces, I discovered the true advantage of tatami flooring as the evening wore on. Some people went home near midnight, but many slept over. If anyone got tired or drank too much, he or she could just grab a pillow from the bedroom and lie down on the tatami to sleep out the rest of the night. I felt a strange temptation to get completely drunk so I could escape from all the formality and respect to my seniors I’d had to adopt over the past week. I just needed a break for one night before facing another six-day workweek. Did my drinking coworkers feel a similar stress? I wondered. Late into the evening, we talked and laughed. One young Japanese man in a business suit lay down in the middle of the floor with his coat bundled up as a pillow. Another young woman lay next to the drink area, near fresh crumbs and empty beer bottles.

  Near midnight I lay down under a kitchen table, where I slept warmly and soundly, next to a toaster oven that had been placed on the floor because of lack of space. Sometime near dawn, I took a sleepy, and a tad nauseated, survey of the room. Light spread out over the tatami, turning guests a dreamy golden hue. Aaron snored loudly, flat on his back, with his huge legs and arms outstretched as though there could never be enough floor space for him. Across the tatami, I spotted Kei, who, despite being one of the most intense workers I’ve ever encountered, slept curled up like a kitten, with his head resting on a traditional rice hull pillow. These were my new friends, who would support me throughout my Kyoto journey.

  Surviving Masahiro’s Island

  The following Monday morning, Nakaji stuck to Masahiro like a mosquito for hours, issuing a steady stream of loud commands. If Masahiro didn’t do exactly as he was told, which invariably happened with the fledgling gardener, Nakaji would keep increasing his decibel level: “Here! Here! here!” Whoa. Masahiro remained unperturbed. He’d never storm off and quit, as most of my American friends would do if their boss used that tone with them. One of my Japan advisors explained to me, “You’ll be lucky if your boss yells at you. That means you’re being treated like one of the guys, not an outsider.” Masahiro reminded me of Gilligan on my favorite childhood television program, Gilligan’s Island. Gilligan is always attempting to carry out orders from Skipper, and there’s always some obstacle in the way. Following each critique session, Masahiro would bow his head repeatedly, saying, “Hai, hai, Nakaji-san.” Masahiro’s persona was a mixture of youth, naïveté, and hopeful intention.

  Masahiro spent ten hours that day cleaning up after me while I pruned. He didn’t seem to mind. Once, when I tried to haul my own debris, he shook his head and wrestled the tarp from my arms. I suspected he thought I wasn’t strong enough, so this goaded me on to haul an even bigger tarp load the next time. Never baby a woman raised by a feminist. I finally gave up after one more tarp wrestling match and let him do his noble duty. Gilligan faced his destiny with absolute determination. I just didn’t get it. What drove him? How long would I last in his place?

  The morning’s stomp-and-command drama took place while four of us worked on pines in a monk’s peaceful courtyard garden, one of the enclosed gardens of a larger monastic property of Tenryuji. Blankets of moss sat at our pine’s feet, with all sorts of green shrubbery and trees as neighbors. Nakaji decided to move on to Kei. “Hai, hai, hai,” Kei responded with a firmer, deeper voice, and with plenty of enthusiasm. I pulled pine needles like the dickens, reflecting on the fact that I was the only one left who hadn’t been yelled at. I waited my turn while my hands were tearing at the sticky, waxy toothpicks, and I tore some in my haste. Finally, I saw out of the corner of my eye Nakaji changing course, heading in my direction.

  Mind you, Kei and I were sitting on bamboo poles, fifteen feet up in the pines! The men had tied narrow logs between the trees, and extension ladders rested against the logs to allow us access. Not only could we reach complicated branches with ease, but Nakaji could reach us from pine to pine without ever setting foot on the ground. I saw him cross the log between Kei’s tree and mine like a seasoned tightrope walker. I followed him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to appear like I was watching. He was coming closer and closer, the pole creaking under his bulk, when I saw that just behind Bossman, Kei was waving at me frantically with his shears, trying to get my attention.

  With his eyes and hands he was telling me to remove a certain branch that was near my right arm. I had wondered about this branch earlier. It shaded another branch underneath it considerably. I often identify my pruning students as “aggressive pruners” or “gentle pruners.” I fall into the first category. If I need to cut out a branch to keep it from shading out a more desirable one, I won’t hesitate. The higher branch that Kei was motioning toward looked boring—straight and stocky. The beautiful branch beneath grew slender and sinuous. Toward the top of the pine, a smaller branch with more interesting curves made sense. Logically, I should cut the bigger branch, before it shaded and killed the smaller and more interesting one.

  “Some must die so that others may live,” said my native plant teacher, Stew Winchester, inadvertently quoting Winston Churchill when describing the oldest trees on earth, the bristlecone pines in California. These pines live as long as five thousand years and thrive in the scorched, remote mountain ranges of California’s eastern Sierra. Nature recognizes that plants have limited recourse. Apple trees, for example, drop a certain number of apples in spring to allow the rest to thrive. The pruner must also remove certain trees or branches so others can survive.

  “Here, then, is a disadvantage of great old age: persist too long and eventually the very ground you grow in will wash away!” said Ronald Lanner of bristlecone pines, in his book Conifers of California. The branch Kei was motioning me to cut could have been a hundred years old. Do I dare? Did I understand these two old branches well enough to decide which is worthier? I hesitated, my shears hovering over a straight old branch covered in poetic fissured bark.

  Nakaji still hadn’t reached me, and I tried to make up my mind. I stifled a giggle watching Kei’s pantomime and awaiting my approaching doom. I made up my mind and cut the branch—but only in half, as a compromise—seconds before Nakaji reached me. He crouched down a foot away, yelled his disapproval, forcefully grabbed the big branch I’d sawed only in half, and chopped it off at its base with one clean snip of his pruners. Nakaji was strong.

  He yelled something in Japanese at me, and motioned for me to remove another branch to my left. I was taking a second to reposition myself when Nakaji, staring at me intently, yelled the same phrase a bit louder—actually, way louder—while pointing aggressively to the target branch. I had a realization. When my Japanese boss says something, I need to do it fast! I got off pretty light with only one reprimand, yet I felt a certain pride. Yelled at for the first time! Whoopee! I rejoiced in my head, giving Nakaji a high-pitched yet firm, “Hai.”

  After my reprimand, I tried to stay more focused on my pine. But after about twenty minutes or so
, thoughts distracted me. While pruning pines, I’d cover just about every possible subject in my mind, except the branch in front of me. Most days my thoughts swayed toward my boyfriend. Why hasn’t he emailed me more? My landlord’s archaic computer system took time to work, so I checked emails only on Sundays. Taylor had written just twice since I arrived a month before. Was he working late developing photos, taking hikes in the hills, or spending time with a new friend? Each scenario demanded to be imagined in detail. We had a disagreement right before I left, and I’d tried to replay the difficult conversation in my head in dozens of ways since. I did not realize it yet, but despite the fact that I thought about Taylor a lot in Japan, I would have almost no contact with him during my apprenticeship. The pine, I’d correct myself. Focus on styling the pine or you may be hauling debris tomorrow like Masahiro. Occasionally, I’d look over at Kei’s pine. Reality dawned. My pine paled in comparison to the exquisitely stylized work of my coworker. Drat.

  Just before lunch, trying to make cuts while focused instead on thoughts and subsequent emotions, I noticed that Kei behind me was pruning with hardly any noise. I admired his smooth technique. Then I heard a funny sawing sound. I turned around and saw Kei slumped over a branch, asleep and snoring gently, fifteen feet up in the air! So I wasn’t the only one lacking in proper sleep. I quickly decided to vigorously clean my tree before Nakaji came around. With poles attached, if my tree moved, so did Kei’s. He woke up and began pruning again within a split second. We had to stay alert together to avoid the mosquito’s bite.