The Samurai's Garden: A Novel

by Tsukiyama, Gail

  “You look very well,” my father said, pleased. “We have a short time before our train departs. Let’s get something to drink. Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Matsu packed some rice cakes,” I answered, “but I wouldn’t mind something to drink.”

  My father smiled, then leaned over to pick up his baggage, but I grabbed his valise first. He led me through a throng of people and I noticed many more soldiers lingering around the station than the year before. They eyed us up and down when we passed, gripped their rifles tighter, but said nothing.

  We came to a small, standup bar to one side of the station which served drinks, beer, and small snacks. Both of us ordered coffee.

  “How was your trip?” my father asked, as he sipped his coffee.

  I finished spooning sugar into my coffee, then answered, “It was comfortable. It’s hard to believe it’s my first time out of Tarumi in over a year.”

  “You’re certainly in much better health now than when you left here a year ago.” My father added, “I see you’ve put on some weight.”

  “Let me show you,” I said, taking off my jacket so he could feel my arm. I was proud of how solid I’d become.

  My father squeezed my arm and laughed. “You’re catching up with Henry,” he said, referring to my large younger brother.

  “I’m feeling well, Ba-ba. I sometimes wondered if I ever would again.”

  My father left his hand on my arm, giving it another squeeze. “Drink up,” he said, “then we’d better catch that train.”

  OCTOBER 20, 1938

  Tokyo seems enormous. Yesterday, after we arrived at our hotel I went out for a walk before dinner. My father had some business to attend to so it gave me a chance to look around. We stayed near the Ginza, a willow-tree-lined street more spectacular and flamboyant than anything I’d seen before. Even Hong Kong paled compared to the number of shops and restaurants that lined this large street, branching off to alleyways housing more shops. Long strips of cloth hung from doorways, characters announcing what each shop offered, from sushi and dumplings to souvenirs and tin windup toys. Women and men were dressed in both kimonos and Western clothing as they elbowed their way from one place to another. Compared to the slow-moving Tarumi villagers, they appeared sharp and humorless. And though the sounds of Tokyo felt flatter than Hong Kong, they were just as frantic. Large trolley cars rattled down the center lane as Western horn-honking cars and hand-pulled carts inched their way up the street. Noodle peddlers stood by their pushcarts playing their flutes in time to the clock of the wooden sandals against the pavement. And everywhere there were military vehicles and groups of Japanese soldiers who appeared young and excited, but who were none-the-less menacing with their rifles hanging loosely from their narrow shoulders.

  I kept on walking. The Imperial Palace loomed up ahead, stately and imposing. It had stood majestically in the middle of Tokyo for centuries, housing the Imperial Emperor and his family. I walked around its outer walls, built mostly of wood and tile, surrounded by Japanese who came religiously to honor their Emperor. Groups of young boys and girls marvelled at its sheer size—not its modest height, but the vastness of its spread over so many acres, protected by moats and walls, housing hundreds of servants and workers in addition to the Imperial family. It felt strange being so close to the one person for whom an entire nation would go to war and die.

  I walked by a group of young women dressed in kimonos who were sitting together on a bench by a fountain. They were talking quietly, sewing scraps of brightly colored cloth with dark threads. When I returned to the hotel later, I found out from my father that they were making senninbari, amulets made from embroidered material, which were then cut out and sewn together for the Japanese soldiers fighting overseas.

  We ate dinner in a restaurant near the hotel where my father said they served the best marinated eel in all of Japan. We ordered steaming rice to eat with it. The small room was crowded and noisy with discussion. It wasn’t long before I realized most of the conversations taking place were about the war in China. Even my father refrained from speaking Chinese there, and spoke only Japanese in his soft, measured tones. Toward the end of the meal he told me that perhaps I should return to Hong Kong before Christmas.

  “Are things getting bad?” I asked in Chinese, keeping my voice low.

  “You’re well again, and your mother will be pleased to have you back with her,” he answered in Japanese.

  “Will Hong Kong be safe?” I continued to question him. I knew he heard things through his business connections, so he had a clearer picture of the situation than any of us.

  “For now it is,” he answered, this time in Chinese.

  OCTOBER 22, 1938

  Canton fell yesterday. The news came over the wireless and was announced from a loudspeaker at the hotel. For a moment it seemed as if everyone and everything froze, listening. After months of continual bombardment, the Japanese had simply executed a surprise landing in Bias Bay. I imagined the Cantonese, already anesthetized by constant bombing, dazed by the defeat.

  My father and I were having lunch at the time, and the news felt like an unexpected blow to my stomach. All the Japanese in the restaurant cheered to hear news of the last major Chinese port to be captured, while I struggled for air and simply couldn’t say anything. I watched my father look up from his plate sadly. Then shaking his head slowly, he simply said, “We’d better go.”

  With those few words, everything changed. I knew it was time to leave Tokyo. I no longer felt welcome. On the way to the train station, I sensed I was being watched. Even as the men and women passed me on the street and tried to keep their eyes lowered, I knew they couldn’t help noticing that I somehow didn’t belong.

  Last night I stayed at my father’s apartment in Kobe. We arrived on the evening train and I wasn’t able to catch another train back to Tarumi until this afternoon. It felt good to spend even a short time with my father, to see him in the shadowy light as he sat in his leather chair uncertain of what he should do. He appeared older and tired, cradling a brandy in one hand. He stared out into the darkness for such a long time I thought he’d forgotten I sat across from him. Then in the end, having decided I should return to Hong Kong alone, he looked up at me. He would stay a little longer in Kobe to finish up some business while he waited to see what the Japanese would do next.

  Matsu was waiting for me at the train station. He looked uncomfortable as always as he stood there alone, but once he saw me step off the train I could see his face relax.

  “I received a message from your father saying when you were to return, so I thought I would meet your train,” he said, taking my bag. “How was Tokyo?”

  “Big and crowded,” I answered. “It’s really good to see you and be back in Tarumi,” I said, admitting how much I had missed him.

  “It was quiet here without you,” he said, as he turned to leave.

  “I’m sure you heard about Canton,” I said, catching up to him.

  He grunted.

  “I have to return to Hong Kong soon,” I said.

  I wondered if my father had also told him in the message that I was to sail back to Hong Kong in the next week or so. My father felt there was no need to wait any longer if he were able to book passage back.

  Matsu simply looked at me and said, “I thought as much.”

  OCTOBER 24, 1938

  There never seems to be enough time to do all the things you want to do. I hadn’t expected it to be so difficult to leave Tarumi, but just the thought of it can make my eyes begin to water. This evening as Matsu prepared dinner and listened to his radio, we heard that Hankow had been captured by the Japanese. It was still hard to believe what was happening to China, and how swiftly it was occurring. Matsu quickly walked over to the radio and turned it off.

  “Would you like to go to Yamaguchi tomorrow?” he asked.

  I could barely answer, “Yes, I would.”

  “I think it would be better if you saw Sachi alone,” he said.r />
  OCTOBER 25, 1938

  I found Sachi at work in her garden this afternoon. She looked up when I came through the sleeve gate, but she didn’t seem at all surprised. I was carrying a gift I had bought for her in Kobe. It was a burnt-sienna-colored yakishime vase protected by old newspapers.

  The night before, I had dreamt about Sachi. She was wrapped in bandages, sick, and all alone. And though she cried out for help, no one came. I wanted to know where Matsu was. But I could only feel afraid for her, without any voice that could be heard in a dream.

  “Stephen-san.” Sachi stood straight and bowed. She didn’t ask where Matsu was.

  “I wanted to bring you this gift,” I said, returning her bow. “Matsu thought it better that I come to see you alone this afternoon,” I quickly added.

  Sachi smiled. “I am very honored,” she bowed again as I handed her the vase. “What brings you all the way up here, and with such a serious face?”

  “I’ve come to say saynara, Sachi-san. I’ll be sailing back to Hong Kong in a few days.”

  I looked down at the stones as Sachi slowly began to rake through them, still cradling the vase in one arm. When she stopped a moment later, she stood silent. She looked so fragile I wanted to put my arms around her.

  “Perhaps if the gods smile upon us, Stephen-san, we will have the chance to meet again,” she said. Sachi put down the rake and bowed low to me. When she stood up again, the damaged side of her face seemed to glow in the sunlight.

  I swallowed hard and touched the sleeve of her kimono. “I know we will,” was all I could say.

  Then Sachi bent down and, picking up the rake, handed it to me with a gesture. I began moving the rake through the stones, pulling it back and running it through again. The crackling sound it made was strangely soothing.

  “There’s something that has been bothering me,” I said, as I stepped back and stood at the edge of her sea of stones.

  “What is it?”

  “Who will take care of you if something happens to Matsu?” I asked.

  “What makes you think of that?” she asked.

  “I dreamed you were all alone,” I finally said.

  “I am,” she said, without hesitation.

  “But Matsu was gone and you were sick …”

  “Matsu will be gone one day, or perhaps I’ll leave first. Either way, one of us will be alone. There are no guarantees of anything, Stephen-san.”

  “But what will you do if Matsu should leave first?”

  “I’ll live the rest of my life the best I can,” Sachi said. She gestured around the garden. “Look at all that I have to keep me busy,” she smiled.

  I nodded, then slowly began to rake through the stones again.

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Stephen-san. I’ve had a good life.” Then Sachi held out her hand to stop the rake. “You have given us the one thing we’ve lacked.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Sachi’s fingers closed tightly around the wooden rake. “You have been the musuko we lost so many years ago.”

  “There was a child?” I asked, astonished.

  “It was a difficult birth, and in the end he was stillborn.” Sachi’s words hung heavy in the air.

  “I’m sorry,” I heard myself say.

  I couldn’t imagine how terrible it must have been for her. It seemed too unfair that Sachi should bear such a loss after all she’d been through. How could the gods take away the one person who might have made their lives easier? I grew angrier with each thought. And in my mind I saw Matsu lift his dead son in his hands, knowing that he would soon have to bury him in the cold earth, never to see him grow.

  “Come with me,” Sachi said, her voice startling me. She let the rake drop where we stood.

  I followed Sachi back to her house, still feeling the shock of her words. I removed my shoes before I stepped in. The familiar room warmed me immediately, easing my anxiousness. Sachi walked to the low table where she pulled an arrangement of pine branches out of a dark vase. Then she unwrapped her new vase and carefully arranged the pine branches. Placing it on the table, Sachi stood back and smiled. “It adds new life to this room,” she said.

  “It’s beautiful,” I agreed.

  Sachi turned and bowed to me again. “Thank you again, Stephen-san.”

  Then before I could say anything, she leaned over the table, and said, “Now I would like to give you a very small gift in return, to carry back on your journey home.” She reached for my hand and held out her closed fist. In the palm of my hand Sachi placed Tomoko’s two shiny black stones, collected so many years ago for their magic powers.

  The only time I said good-bye to Sachi was when I first arrived in her garden today. Yet, the finality of the word seemed to echo through the air all afternoon. I sipped the green tea Sachi brought me and ate several red bean cakes, checking from moment to moment to be sure the two smooth stones were still in my pocket. I couldn’t stop looking at Sachi’s face every chance I had, even when she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. She was still very beautiful. Then when her face slowly faded in the darkening shadows of late afternoon, I began to grieve.

  OCTOBER 26, 1938

  I spent the entire day on the beach. I swam in the cold water and lay on the last strip of sun-warmed sand. In a matter of weeks it would be too cold to swim. I tried to imagine what my life would be like when I returned to the noise of Hong Kong, and how I’d thought I would never be able to adapt to the quiet here. But just thinking about going back was stifling.

  All day I’ve wanted to see Sachi again. When I left her yesterday, it was as if part of me stayed behind. I felt like I needed to reclaim that part, ease the misery I was feeling. I daydreamed of what it would be like to stay in Tarumi and take care of Matsu and Sachi, make a quiet life for myself away from the noise and war. It would be so simple.

  I opened my eyes and lifted my head when I thought I heard something in the distance. I almost dismissed it as just another phantom sound or vision that I had had a few times when I was alone on the beach. I once heard that if you really wanted something, your mind could create it. And I felt lonely for company. I sat up and looked at the dune and waited. I always expected to see Keiko come up and over it, half-running to meet me. But I knew deep inside it was just one of those waking dreams. It was like waiting for a letter that would never come. Only this time I wasn’t wrong, someone slowly emerged over the top of the dune. In the next moment I could see Matsu walk toward me carrying a furoshiki filled with lunch.

  OCTOBER 27, 1938

  Today I began to pack. My father booked passage for me on a ship that departs in three days. The day after tomorrow I’ll catch a train to Kobe and the following day I will sail for Hong Kong. It doesn’t seem possible that I’ve been in Tarumi for over a year, but in packing up my belongings, I’m amazed that I’ve gathered so many possessions—my grandfather’s paintbrushes, clay pots, shells from the beach. What I’d originally brought seems to have grown three times. Still, I hoped to get most of my packing finished, so Matsu and I could spend my last day in Tarumi without extra burdens.

  My grandfather’s house feels heavy with silence. Matsu brought me a few boxes this morning, then lingered in the doorway to watch. He hasn’t said much since my father wired my departure date. Most of the time Matsu and I don’t know what to say to each other. He wanders from one room to the next trying to keep himself busy, but I know we both feel lost. It’s as if the house is slowly becoming a stranger to us. Matsu stares hard into each room as if he already sees it as it once was, silent and uncluttered.

  Sachi came down from Yamaguchi to be with us this afternoon. It was like a wish come true. The gate creaked open and she walked into the garden unexpectedly, daring all in the bright light of day. Yet, somehow it didn’t surprise either one of us as we watched her lower her veil and smile, reassuring Matsu that everything was well.

  “I just wanted to see you and Stephen-san” was all she said.

  Neither of
us asked another question.

  Later, as I lay in my bed, I tried to hold on to every moment of our evening together. Sachi had brought back a strange lightness to us. Matsu talked and laughed with ease. I couldn’t stop watching them together as we sat down to eat around the old wooden table. I wanted Sachi to stay the night, but she insisted on returning to Yamaguchi. As always, Matsu accompanied her back. At the gate, Sachi bowed low to me, saying nothing more. It was only after I was alone in the house again that I realized that this time she had come down for Matsu.

  OCTOBER 28, 1938

  By the time I woke up this morning, Matsu had left breakfast for me on the table and was already gone. He didn’t leave a note telling me where he went and I couldn’t help but feel let down that he had disappeared on my last day in Tarumi. But this thought soon passed when I heard the gate open into the garden. I stepped into the genken just in time to see Matsu walk in carrying two parcels wrapped in brown paper.

  “I thought it was better to take care of my business in the village early today,” he said, walking over to me. He lifted up one of the packages. “I went to buy our dinner.” The other package stayed safely tucked under his arm and remained a mystery. He appeared much happier after Sachi’s visit.

  “I thought you were trying to get rid of me a day early,” I tried to joke.

  Matsu suddenly stopped. “It never crossed my mind,” he said.

  Matsu prepared lunch while I cleaned up the last of my belongings in grandfather’s study. The brushes and paints were neatly stored back in their cases, the empty white canvases left for Matsu to pack away until my next visit. I looked up at my only completed painting of the garden which had sat on the easel since the day it was finished, so many months ago. I decided then I would give the painting to Matsu.