The Pearl Diver

by Jeff Talarigo

  ARTIFACT Number 2083

  A small black-and-white television

  On this March evening, she passes by Building C-7 and hears it. She hears it but can’t believe it, stunned. Never before on Nagashima has she heard this. She imagines things that sound like it: a bawling cat perhaps—there have been a few over the years; the wind through the trees, but she dismisses this almost immediately; one of the musicians squeezing the likeness out of an instrument. It stops, but then begins again. She looks through the window and sees a gray glow, some patients and a couple of nurses watching a TV as a mother changes the diaper of a screaming baby. She stands there until her breath steams the window and she is no longer able to see into the room.

  ARTIFACT Number 2400

  A brochure of the Blue Bird Concert at

  Kyoto City Auditorium

  Three days before leaving Nagashima for the second time, Mr. Oyama gives her the key and she goes that evening. It is still an hour before dusk, but inside the windowless oval-shaped room, it is dark. She takes out the flashlight, goes past the rows of white urns from left to right, finds the one with Man, twenty-seven, on it, making certain that this is it; there is one other painted the same, but it is much more to the left, from the earlier years. She removes the urn, places it in the bag she has brought, locks the door, and goes back to the Lighthouse, where the Blue Bird Band is practicing.

  When Mr. Endoh, the director of the Blue Bird Band, asks her, she wants to accept, but doesn’t think she can do it. Memories of that trip to Mushiage are still very much with her; the doubts have singed her. “It would be for only two days,” he says, “and since you are our biggest fan, we would like for you to come.”

  And in May, she is here in the city that she passed through on the train with her uncle all those years ago. Now I am forty-seven; thirty-eight years ago I was here, she thinks. She sits, on this late morning, in the darkness of the empty auditorium, listening to the rehearsal. The band seems so small up there, not because she is that far away— she sits only eight or nine rows back—but because she is used to seeing them play in the Lighthouse, a room a tenth the size of this stage. She hardly listens to the music, has heard it all every night, over and over, for the past few years. Her mind is on something else this early afternoon in the Kyoto City Auditorium, sinking into the soft chair that flips up when her weight isn’t on it. The longer she sits here, the shorter her time is to do what she must do. Something she has been thinking of doing so much that she isn’t aware that she is thinking of it.

  And before she knows what she is doing, before she can talk herself into, or out of, it, before she can applaud herself, she is out the door of the auditorium and onto the street with all of them. All the people of this city, who in the next few minutes will know who and what she is, or none of them will know. Everyone or no one, that’s the way it will be.

  Outside of the auditorium, although it is an overcast day, she shades her eyes. This is when she realizes that she has left her hat on the seat. The hat she has been wearing her whole life, it seems. To keep the sun off. But today, she thinks, I am not one of them. I don’t need a hat or anyone to help me or tell me who or what I am or what I need or don’t. There are taxis lined up on the street, a half dozen of them.

  Ever since she accepted Mr. Endoh’s invitation, she has studied the maps of Kyoto. But now that she is here, she can’t move. Here, in the exact place where her finger started every one of those imagined journeys in this city. Started all of them here, finished all of them here, because this was the one place on the map that she knew for certain she would be. The Kyoto City Auditorium. From here, her finger stepped across great distances in no time: from the Heian Shrine, to the Golden Pavilion, to the teahouses, to the center of the city, to the Philosopher’s Walk.

  Now that she is here, not only a finger on a piece of paper, but all of her, she isn’t sure what to do or where to turn. Her first step is in the direction of the taxis, and after a few steps, she stops. She has never been in a car, much less a taxi. She moves a little closer and observes. A man goes up to the first taxi in line, taps on the window, and steps back from the door, which magically pops open. She observes. Some of the taxis sit with their back left doors opened; others don’t. She waits for the next taxi and then gets in. The door closes as bafflingly as it has opened. The driver turns to her. She wants to get out, run back into the security of the soft seats and the darkness of the auditorium, the music around her. She doesn’t know how.

  “Where to?”

  “What?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “The Philosopher’s Walk.” She blurts out the first place that comes to mind, although she had wanted to go first to the Heian Shrine.

  The taxi pulls away from the auditorium, and in a few minutes the driver glances at her in the mirror, asking, “Which end of the walk do you want to start?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which end? The north or the south?”

  “Whichever is closer.”

  She keeps her eyes on the little machine in the front by the driver, the numbers it clicks off—200 . . . 230 . . . 260 . . . 290. She clenches her small purse with the money she has saved over the years, and that which Mr. Shirayama gave to her before she left.

  “Is this your first time here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Okayama.”

  “The Bizen area? My family and I went there last year. My wife loves Bizen pottery.”

  “I’m from the Oku area, not far from Bizen.”

  She wishes the driver would stop talking, but she also doesn’t want him to stop. The more he talks, the more he may find out; but also, the more he talks, the more comfortable she becomes, because she isn’t being noticed. Maybe she could belong, could get along out here. Alone. The taxi stops and the door pops open, again surprising her.

  “Seven hundred and twenty yen.”

  She hesitates, then grabs the first amount of money she finds, hands it to the driver. He gives her back the change, pushes the little machine in the front, and the 720 disappears.

  “Enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you.”

  She gets out of the taxi and it pulls away. There is a small canal, running in the opposite direction—the Philosopher’s Walk. She had never heard of the place before Mr. Yamai mentioned it, when she went in for a fresh bandage and gauze on one of those mornings when her leg was infected. Maybe he was from this city; she isn’t sure why they were talking of it, but he said, “If you ever go there, go to the Philosopher’s Walk. Away from all the tourists and crowds. It is a place,” he said—and she remembers the words exactly, not because they made sense to her, but because they didn’t—“that smells of that most beautiful smell, the smell of thought.”

  And she stands there along the narrow canal lined with trees, taking a deep breath, and another, she smells nothing other than May trees, the flowers, the canal. He was always much too educated for her, with his intense passion for knowledge. Along the canal, there are not that many people. The ones who pass pay her no attention. She goes slowly, searching for the right place to do what she has come to do. After rounding the bend, she sees no people within sight. She removes the small velvet sack from her handbag, opens it, and begins scattering the ashes in the canal.

  “At least some of you has returned home, Mr. Yamai,” she whispers as the ashes float by. Some of them sink. A large orange-and-white carp opens its mouth, as if the ashes are food, then slips back under the water. She stands there until the last of the ashes are taken away by the slowflowing water. She follows them. And she continues on until a small waterfall carries them down and under the water to unknown places, where she can no longer go.

  By the time she reaches the end of the canal, she is thirsty. She is surprised by how tired she is. Maybe it is the vastness, the distance, she thinks. At Nagashima, she can walk its entire length and back, covering almost every part of the island in a
n hour, an hour and a half. But here, an hour’s walk, and she has only walked the length of the canal. She could continue on the entire day and still be in this city.

  She sees some people holding cups of drink; she looks around for a shop where they may have bought them. There are shops selling shirts and souvenirs, but she sees nowhere to buy a drink. She enters one of the shops, buys a map of the city, and asks, “Where are drinks sold?”

  “Those machines over there.” The young woman points behind her, and she turns her head and sees a machine.

  “Thank you.”

  She stares at the machines, pictures of cups, different names written on them. As with the taxi, she waits for a demonstration of what to do. Finally, someone comes over, and she concentrates on the steps he takes—money in the hole, push a button, open the little door, take out the drink. She removes a coin from her purse, slides it into the machine, and it’s gone. She then pushes the first button on the left, opens the sliding plastic door, pulls out the cup, and jumps back when the liquid splashes her hand. She stoops and looks into the machine, sees there is liquid spilling out from inside. She picks up the blue cup, which she has dropped, looks around to see if anyone is watching her—nobody seems to be—and takes out another coin, drops it into the machine. Again she listens to it drop, then pushes the same button, but this time she waits before opening the door, waits a long time, until the woman behind her tells her that it is done, to take the cup out. She removes the cup, spills a little on her hand.

  The woman does all the steps at the machine with ease, a naturalness that makes her feel clumsy, ridiculous, but at the same time victorious. She takes a drink from the black liquid and nearly chokes on its sweetness, isn’t sure that she can finish it. There is an empty bench and she sits on it, thinking about the drink in her hand and whether or not she wants to, or can, take another taste of it. Almost like that bitter black sugar she had once as a child. Something that one had to acquire a taste for, her father had told her. She goes over to the public bathroom, dumps the remainder of the drink into the sink, and throws the cup away.

  From the maps she studied back at Nagashima, she knows that she isn’t all that far from the Higashiyama district of the city and its old teahouses, streets and buildings from long ago. She opens the map she has bought, finds where she is, marks the place with her finger. Higashiyama is about half a finger’s length away. She marks off the route where she has gone—it is about the same, perhaps a little less—and then decides to walk.

  She sits on the tatami mats, her legs curled up under her, traditional-style. The woman in the beautiful navy blue kimono sets the tray with the thick green tea in the bowl and the sweet bean cakes in front of her. The shop is pristine, decorated simply but elegantly. Vases of all shapes, various kinds of flower arrangements, a shelf for displaying the tea bowls and cups. She feels rough, awkward. The tea is good, bitter, and the sweet bean cake is a nice balance to it.

  “How do you like Kyoto?”

  She is caught off guard by the fact that the woman knows that she is a visitor, although she thinks that it must be quite obvious.

  “It’s wonderful. I was at the Philosopher’s Walk this morning.”

  “Oh, that’s a beautiful place. I go there often, sometimes in the evenings. How long will you be here?”

  “Only for two days. I have to get back to work.”

  “What is it that you do?”

  “I’m a nurse at a rehabilitation clinic now. I used to be a pearl diver, until I had to stop.”

  “Are you from Shima Peninsula?”

  “No, down in the Seto Inland Sea.”

  “Isn’t it frightening, the diving?”

  “Just the opposite. When you are at the bottom and there’s no one else around, it’s the most peaceful of things. A friend of mine once told me about the Philosopher’s Walk and how he loved the smell of thinking there. I didn’t smell anything different there this morning, but I think I understand what he was saying. And that is the way diving is.”

  The woman excuses herself for a minute. She sits there drinking her tea, thinking with amazement at how in such a short time, she has begun to create a life for herself, a new story, a history. How easy it has been for her to talk to the woman. She can be or say whatever she wants, but she stays rather close to what she is, doesn’t want to step too far out of herself.

  With the woman over at the counter, talking to another customer, she finishes the last of her tea, eats the final bite of the cake. And she reaches into her left pocket and pulls out one of the coins, sets it on the lacquer tray that holds the empty tea bowl. She is sure that the woman will see the oval-shaped one-sen coin on the tray. The front: black, trimmed in gold, a hole in the middle, the amount, along with the kanji for Nagashima Leprosarium.

  She stands up and puts on her shoes, slides the door open, thanks the woman, compliments her on the tea, and slides the door closed behind her.

  She has arrived at the auditorium in time for the concert. Her seat is in the center section, on the aisle, five rows from the stage.

  She says good evening to the two women sitting on her left, wants to talk to them, but the emcee has come onto the stage. It is difficult for her to sit and just listen; she has so much energy, is enthralled by it, how she talked the whole time in the taxi on the way back here. And at the Heian Shrine, she asked questions she already knew the answers to, but she just wanted to talk. She adjusts herself in the seat, bumps the arm of the woman next to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, apologizing.

  “No problem.” The woman smiles.

  When the audience claps for the emcee, she follows their lead and does so, too. She listens as he speaks, but she is more curious about the people in front of her, beside her. There are more claps, and she does the same. The curtain is drawn, and there sit the members of the Blue Bird Band. Polite applause from the audience. As the band begins to play, she slides into daydreams of her morning and afternoon, and this is where she stays until the high-pitched voice of a woman snaps her back to the fifth row of the auditorium. She opens her program and sees that the woman onstage is a famous actress, all shy as the emcee talks to her, her voice a perfect high-pitched female voice. The two women sitting next to her laugh and smile at everything that the actress says, enraptured by her. So this is why they have come, she thinks. This is what dragged them here, this famous actress, not the Blue Bird Band.

  She is grateful when the emcee is through talking with the actress and the curtains close. As she is about to stand and let the two ladies out, she sees Mr. Endoh coming toward her. She doesn’t want to talk to him, knowing that if she is seen with him, everyone will know she is with the Blue Bird Band. He is there before the ladies can get by.

  “Where were you at dinner?” he asks.

  The ladies are trying to get past, but Mr. Endoh has blocked the row.

  “Just out sight-seeing.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Just the regular places—the Golden Pavilion, Heian Shrine, a teahouse.”

  “What do you think of the concert?”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “Do you want to come backstage and meet Miss Sugijima?”

  “No. No thank you. Maybe after the concert.”

  “Okay, Miss Fuji. See you after the show.”

  She can now step into the aisle and let the two women out.

  “Excuse us. Could you watch our programs?”

  “Of course,” she answers, looking over to their seats, where the programs are balanced on the armrests.

  The second half of the concert is a blur. She knows that she never had to stand up to allow the two ladies back into their seats.

  The concert is well past finished, the janitors are sweeping the stage, and the ladies’ programs still sit on the armrests.

  She is back at Nagashima, as if it never happened. As if she had never gone, had imagined it all, only another practice session in the Lighthouse, as if she dreamed ever
ything. But there is one thing that continuously reminds her that she actually did go to Kyoto—the confidence of knowing she could survive off the island. She knows her survival would depend on only one thing: that she go out there alone. She knows this, and she carries this knowledge with her for the next decade and a half.

  There are other trips for the Blue Bird Band: Nagoya, Osaka, Tokyo, Kanazawa, Okayama. Although Mr. Endoh asks her each time, she politely refuses, and as of late, those night practice sessions, she rarely hears them, even when the wind is blowing in from the southeast.

  ARTIFACT Number 1446

  A dried chrysanthemum

  The daughter, Satomi, now finished with nursing school, shares her mother’s passion for gardening. Together, they have started a small flower garden in the front of their house in Mushiage.

  They go into town to the vendor with the best flowers, Mr. Satoh. The daughter loves chrysanthemums, and Mr. Satoh has some beautiful ones this autumn.

  “For the past few years, these have won many prizes,” he tells them.

  Although they are clearly more beautiful than the others, the price for them is the same. They buy two of each color and take them home, placing them in the front of the house, along the narrow path leading to the door, so that anyone who comes to visit can see them. The whites and purples and yellows are vibrant and the girl finds herself, for long periods of time, standing there losing herself in their beauty. So it is with great disappointment that she sees, only three days after she has bought them, they have already begun to wilt. She waters them that third morning, tries propping them up with some thin metal poles, but by the next morning they are dead. The next day, Satomi bundles them up and takes them back to Mr. Satoh. He offers to replace them, but the ones he picks out are not as beautiful as the ones they had had.