“Did you think I would forget, Kenzo?” Matsu answered.
“No, not you Matsu,” he said, with an almost childlike enthusiasm.
Matsu turned, grabbed my shoulder firmly and pulled me forward. “This is Stephen-san,” he said. “And this is Kenzo-san, he makes the best rice crackers in all of Japan. He’s also the man who gets me bacon and whatever else I need.”
Kenzo and I bowed to each other.
“Come, come sit down,” Kenzo said, leading us to a table at the back of the large room.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, I noticed that besides us, there was a lone old man sitting in the far corner. The neat rows of tables were separated by simple wood panels, while sturdy wooden beams ran across the ceiling. The room felt comfortable and inviting.
“The usual for you, Matsu?” Kenzo asked.
Matsu laughed. “I didn’t walk all this way just to visit with you!”
Kenzo turned around and disappeared behind a doorway covered by two long panels of blue fabric. On each panel was printed a large white character, which when read together meant, “Great Harmony.”
“Is he an old friend of yours?” I asked.
“One of my oldest,” Matsu replied, his hand moving across his rough cheek. “Kenzo and I grew up together. This teahouse belonged to his family.” He smiled, as if the memory pleased him. “I remember the morning we first met. Kenzo came to your oj-san’s house while I was working with my father in the garden. Unlike me, Kenzo had always been very popular. He was the last one I had ever expected to see. I remember being covered in dirt. I barely said a word. Kenzo stood so straight, dressed in clean, starched clothes. Even as a boy, he was very proud and self-assured,” Matsu said.
“What did he want?”
“He came to ask me if I had time to work on his father’s garden. I was so surprised, I only mumbled that I would stop by his house and take a look. In the end, I didn’t accept his father’s job. My own father wanted me to spend more time on my studies. But soon afterward, Kenzo began to speak to me at school and we became good friends.”
“Is that the same time you met Sachi-san?” I asked.
Matsu shook his head. “Sachi was already the best friend of my imto, Tomoko. They were very popular. Most of the time they were off whispering and laughing, never paying much attention to me. It must have been hard for anyone to believe that Tomoko and I were from the same ryshin.”
“I guess you were the strong, silent type,” I teased.
“I was invisible to them,” Matsu said, softly.
I looked down and didn’t know what to say. “Kenzo-san seems very nice,” I finally said.
“Kenzo was smarter than all of us. He should have gone off to the city like the others. He would be a rich man by now if he had.”
“Why didn’t he leave?”
Matsu coughed and rubbed his cheek again. “As far back as I can remember, Kenzo’s father was always sickly. Being the only son, he felt it his responsibility to care for his mother when his father finally died. We were about seventeen at the time.”
I was about to ask Matsu why he hadn’t left Tarumi, when the panels of blue cloth parted and Kenzo returned carrying a tray. He placed it on the table and carefully distributed a bowl of rice crackers, a large brown bottle of beer for Matsu, and a pinkish colored cold drink for me.
“Dmo, Kenzo,” Matsu said, with a nod of his head. Then Matsu gestured for him to take the seat next to me.
Kenzo took the towel from his shoulder and wiped up the water beading on the table. He leaned over and arranged the bowl of rice crackers so that it was exactly in the middle of the table. When he slipped into the chair next to mine, he brought with him the oily smell of cooking, mixed with tobacco smoke.
Matsu had already poured out his beer, quick to drink down half a glass in one large swallow.
Kenzo pointed to the glass in front of me. “Dzo,” he said, watching me.
I smiled and bowed my head. The glass felt wet and cold in my hand as I sipped the pinkish drink. It tasted sweet and flowery. “It’s good,” I said, politely.
Kenzo smiled and turned to Matsu. “You see, the young man has good taste!”
Matsu laughed. “What do you expect, he’s just trying to be polite.”
“It’s good,” I said again, not quite understanding what was going on between them.
“You see, not everyone agrees with what the mighty Matsu-san thinks!” Kenzo said.
Then, before anything else was said, both Matsu and Kenzo burst into laughter.
“Kenzo has been trying to get someone to like that drink of his for the last twenty-five years,” Matsu explained. “He has tried everyone in Tarumi, with no luck.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Kenzo said, as he wiped away a new water mark left by Matsu’s bottle of beer. “He has always been jealous of me.”
“He’s crazy,” Matsu laughed, lifting his thick fingers to the side of his head.
I took another swallow of the too-sweet drink. Each sip let me know something new; it tasted more and more like flowers, with a strong scent of roses.
“What’s in it?” I asked Kenzo.
But it was Matsu who laughed and answered, “It’s his secret recipe that no one wants.”
Kenzo made a growling sound in his throat, but didn’t say anything.
In the dim tearoom, I once again saw Matsu as if for the first time, like someone I didn’t know, light and playful. I imagined they knew each other’s every move. Matsu was always the one who made the water marks, while Kenzo dutifully wiped them up.
I listened while their low, rough voices filled the open room.
“Did you hear our troops have captured Soochow? Muramoto-san just came to tell me the news,” said Kenzo. “Shanghai is as good as taken!”
Matsu looked over at me and then answered abruptly, “In times of war, there are always rumors.”
My heart sank with the news. I was grateful when Matsu changed the subject and spoke of the weather, business at the teahouse, his garden. My own thoughts began to take over. I knew deep inside that it was true that Shanghai would soon fall to the Japanese. Then they would continue south, destroying everything that stood in their way. I tried to change my thoughts, thinking how there might be a chance of my running into Keiko and Mika if I went for a walk. I was just about to excuse myself when Kenzo’s questions drew me quickly back into their conversation.
“Have you seen her?” Kenzo asked.
“A few days ago,” Matsu answered. “She’s doing very well.”
“Did you bring her the chicken?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ask about me?”
Matsu drank down the remainder of his beer. “No,” he said quietly. “But she gave me this note to give to you.”
Kenzo’s face lit up. He quickly reached across the table and snatched the note from Matsu’s hand, placing it carefully into his shirt pocket.
“It’s rosewater,” Kenzo whispered to me as we stepped out into the cool air. “Just a drop.”
I laughed and bowed, thanking him for the drink.
“What lies is he telling you?” Matsu asked.
“It’s a secret,” I answered.
Kenzo smiled, then looked toward Matsu. “You’ll tell me if she needs anything?”
“Of course,” Matsu said.
Kenzo bowed and put his hand over his shirt pocket to make sure the note hadn’t slipped out. He stood just a moment at the doorway of his teahouse, then disappeared back inside.
“I need to get the mail,” Matsu said, as I followed him back across the road toward another building.
“Does Kenzo know Sachi?” I quickly asked.
Matsu slowed down and turned to face me. “Tarumi is a small place. We all knew each other when we were young.”
“Then why doesn’t Kenzo go to visit her?”
“When we were young, Sachi cared a great deal for Kenzo, but the disease changed everything. After she lef
t for Yamaguchi, she would no longer see him.”
“Just like she wouldn’t see her family?”
“Yes.”
“But, she allowed you to visit her?” I asked, not knowing if Matsu would give me an answer.
“At the time,” Matsu paused, in thought, “it was easier for Sachi to see someone she didn’t care for.” His face was expressionless, as he turned and walked quickly into the post office.
It never failed to amaze me how much one post office was like another in different places, even if every other custom varied. Tarumi’s post office was identical to ones I’d seen in Hong Kong and Canton. A small, wiry man sat behind a caged window and became the messenger of words. The bare room was crowded with people who waited in line and whispered in low voices. Matsu gestured brusquely for me to wait while he went to collect the mail. I watched him hurry to the back of the room, down a narrow hallway, and stop halfway at what must have been his box. I hoped I hadn’t offended him by asking too many questions. When he returned, Matsu didn’t say anything, simply handing me an envelope which had my name on it.
NOVEMBER 20, 1937
The weather had changed drastically this morning. I could tell right away just by the heavy smell in the air. The sky was a dreary gray that hung so low and thick it felt suffocating. Matsu kept looking out the back door and up at the sky with such an intensity, it seemed as if it were night and he was looking for a particular star. He then mumbled something I couldn’t hear and returned to the table saying nothing.
After breakfast, I went out to the garden and read my mother’s letter over again. I had hoped that something overnight might have changed its contents. In it, she asked if I’d known anything about a woman my father was keeping in Kobe. The shock and disbelief I felt yesterday now gave way to a stabbing pain that moved through my body as I faced her words again.
“I have always known that there might be someone else,” my mother wrote. “A man can’t be so far from his family without seeking comfort elsewhere. In this I have never found fault in your father. He has always provided us with everything we needed. What he does during his life in Japan has always been his own business. But I have just learned through Mr. Chung at The Royal Hong Kong Bank that your father has been withdrawing large sums of money in the name of a woman residing in Kobe, Japan. Mr. Chung felt the need to tell me when your father asked to borrow against our Hong Kong house. It has been a great shock to me, Stephen. But my first concern must be for you children. Now that you are getting better, perhaps you should just return to Kobe early. You’re old enough to understand these things, and you’ve always been the closest to your father. Maybe you can find out what this is all about.”
There was little more to her letter, other than small formalities. Everyone in Hong Kong was fine, and Pie would write soon.
I sat, stunned by her words each time I read them over again. I swallowed hard and let my eyes wander away from her straight, neatly written characters. I knew my mother’s even tone masked the embarrassment she must have felt, and part of me wished I could be in Hong Kong to comfort her. I tried to imagine my mother after she first heard the news. She might have been standing on the front balcony of our house, overlooking the Hong Kong harbor, her fan moving the heavy air from side to side, her other hand raised to block out the sun’s glare. From the courtyard, the high, whiny voices of our servants could be heard, while Pie might be running in and out asking her question after question. All the while, I knew my mother could only have one thing on her mind: Who was this woman who had stolen my father’s love?
I put the thin sheets of paper back into the blue envelope and closed my eyes. The wind had begun to blow, stirring the heavy air. I wanted to cry. My mother was wrong, I didn’t feel old enough to understand any of it. My father never told me of another woman in his life. He was simply the man who wore immaculate dark suits, worried about my health, and sat on the beach waiting for me to listen to his calm voice. I never saw him give money to other women. I only knew one thing for sure, I wasn’t ready to leave Tarumi yet.
The wind started to blow harder by late afternoon. I sat at my grandfather’s desk trying to write a letter back to my mother when I heard the angry wind whistling through the house. It rattled the shoji walls and shook the floor beneath me. Matsu had disappeared after lunch without saying a word about where he was going. At the time I was happy to be left by myself, but as I stood up, I felt the floor vibrate and I began to worry.
All of a sudden I heard Matsu calling from the garden. I went to the front door and saw him hurrying through the garden to the house.
“A big storm is coming,” Matsu yelled. He came into the genken and told me to follow him.
In a small storage space next to the kitchen, Matsu began pulling out several large wooden boards. “These slide into place in front of the shoji panels,” he said, pushing one toward me.
We placed the wooden panels over the front shoji windows first. It began raining and the wind had increased so we could barely walk straight. I couldn’t imagine Matsu having to do this by himself. We moved as quickly as we could around the house, until all the shoji panels were covered and the house appeared entombed. We were soaking wet, running around securing everything we thought might be washed away. When I stopped to catch my breath, I could hear the ocean rise up and crash against the road in front of the house.
Matsu stood at the open gate, watching the waves thunder up and over the dunes onto the road. “Do you think it’ll come any closer?” I shouted.
“It has before,” he answered.
“What should we do?”
“We’ll wait and see. Sometimes the storm just dies down,” Matsu said, turning back to watch the road.
It seemed like the storm would last forever, as it steadily grew in strength. The wind and rain continued, and the noise of the violent sea was deafening. With a wire net, Matsu carefully scooped up his fish from the overflowing pond into a wooden barrel. I watched as the waves crept closer and closer to the house, sliding under the bamboo gate and into the garden. Each time a wave receded, it left a foamy white line marking each advancing step.
“The waves are getting stronger,” I yelled over to Matsu.
He nodded his head in acknowledgment. “You better go into the house,” he yelled back, working frantically. I started toward the house, then stopped and turned quickly back to help Matsu catch the last of his fish. Just then the first wave crashed over the fence, drenching us. I saw several of his fish washed out of the barrel, squirming on the dirt. The next wave was even more powerful, and the one after that roared over the bamboo gate so fast and strong that neither of us had the chance to hang on. The wall of water swept us both off our feet, knocking us solidly against the house. I hit the house so hard the air was knocked out of me. I tried to get up, but the next wave slammed me back down before I knew what was happening. I grabbed onto a post by the genken and tried to stand up again. I could hear Matsu yelling to me, but he sounded strangely far away, like we were already lost, deep under the water.
NOVEMBER 24, 1937
I woke up lying naked in my own bed. I opened my eyes to the dim light of a flickering oil lamp. My wet clothes were on the floor next to me. As my head cleared, I remembered the last thing I felt was the strong punch of the rushing water and then nothing; blackness. It was just a miracle that the house still stood, somehow having survived the crashing waves.
When I tried to raise my head, I felt an intense pounding that forced me down again. I closed my eyes until the throbbing quieted, then opened them cautiously, hopeful that the gradual light wouldn’t hurt my head.
The boarded shoji windows gave no hint as to whether it was day or night. The house was completely still. There were no sounds of Matsu anywhere. Outside I could hear rain falling, but the fierce winds seemed to have died down. The strong, sweet and sour odor of the dank tatami mats filled the room. All I wanted was to steady myself enough so that I could get up and see what was going on.
It was the sound of voices that reached me first, followed by footsteps that entered the genken. I recognized Matsu’s voice immediately, but the other was barely audible. From the ease of Matsu’s words, I could tell it was someone he knew well. The sound of footsteps continued down the hall until the shadowy figures stopped in front of my door.
“What are you doing?” Matsu’s voice boomed across to me as he slid open my door.
I smiled weakly up at him as he stood in the doorway. Across his left cheek was a long, white bandage.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“That’s what I was wondering about you,” he laughed. He touched his bandaged cheek.
“My head hurts,” I said, holding myself steady.
“You were knocked out when you were thrown against the house by a wave. It felt stronger than a tsunami,” Matsu said, stroking his cheek again.
I lifted my weak legs back onto the futon and quickly covered my nakedness.
“Someone’s here to visit you,” Matsu smiled.
Only then did I remember that there were two voices that had entered the house. I looked up just as Sachi stepped out from behind Matsu.
“Sachi-san!” I said, surprised. In the flickering light, I caught a slight smile from behind her scarf. I tried to sit up again as the throbbing in my head became stronger.
Sachi bowed. “I decided to come down when the storm finally passed,” she said. “We were hardly touched in the mountains. But I remember from my childhood how violent the waves can become.”
The Samurai's Garden: A Novel Page 6