It’s true. I’m not scared of dying. Not anymore.
Please. Stop. Let’s talk of something else. Talk about the light coming through the window. Talk more about that. Or the time when we were young, and we went to the house at the lake. Remember the small rowboat, the white one with the long oars, and how early that one morning you paddled us out to the center. The mist rising off the water. So quiet. You wanted to fish for carp.
She scoops his hand and it lies listlessly in hers.
I just wonder why he would leave his country and fight for France. It makes me wonder what mess he left behind.
She lets go of his hand. The soldier behind her whimpers. I wanted to help, she says, and he needed somewhere to go. He has no one.
Why doesn’t he go back to his own country? To his family?
You saw for yourself what bad shape he is in, she says. She feels her impatience, the stirrings of doubt. Maybe he doesn’t want to go home because he’s ashamed of his condition. Or he doesn’t have the money to return. Or he’s stayed to help France in any way he can.
You’re too good. Not everyone is like you.
But you’re good, too, Edmond. You’re superbly good.
He shakes his head. I’m just asking you to be more careful, Natalia, he says, pulling the blanket up to his chin. I can’t stand to be cold. Shivers are racing up and down my spine. I am so cold.
She presses a warm cloth to his forehead and tells him she will bring him more blankets. He nods and closes his eyes. When he settles into his sleep, she presses the cloth to her worry-lined forehead.
ON THE SECOND FLOOR of the storage facility at the end of the long hallway is Jorgen’s room, with barely enough space for a cot and a slim chest of chipped drawers. The floor is drab, beige tile with black scuff marks, and several squares of tile have loosened. Dust balls have shuffled into crevices and hang from the ceiling. The white paint on the walls is peeling off in strips, and beneath, he sees, the room was once painted blue.
He parts the curtain and stares out the window. The fires are still burning; there are more of them dotting the countryside, many more than when he was part of the battlefield. He is mesmerized by them, their flicker and lashes at the sky, and at the same time, he can’t stand to look at them. He wants to step away from the window and divert his attention to something else, but what? What is there for him to do but count and recount, unpack and shelve? How long he stands there, he doesn’t know, but he feels himself slipping into self-pity and despair, and if he allowed himself to look down at his empty trouser leg, he knows he’d fall deeper into self-loathing. When there’s a knock on his door, he’s almost happy for the distraction.
You finished unpacking the boxes?
It’s Pierre, his voice a cold clip. He lets himself in. His sharp, twitching eyes dart around the room. His bald head makes his nose seem even longer, and his ears flare out.
Jorgen tells him he will finish the rest by tonight. Pierre says he must have the inventory done by tonight to prepare for tomorrow’s shipment.
I have many, many customers, he says, taking a pen out of his pocket and twirling it round and round. The war has made everyone quite hungry. You will let me know promptly if you can’t keep up with the work. I can find someone else to replace you if there is a problem.
There won’t be a problem.
He turns to go, but stops. I only hired you because of my sister. And even that link, I must say, is rather tenuous.
When Pierre leaves, Jorgen sits on the cot and removes his dirty trousers. Where his thigh once was, there is a smooth stump, the skin translucent pink. He runs his hand over it, barely touching it for fear of inciting the shooting pain. Pathetic, pitiful, unworthy, nothing but a stump, he thinks, removing the rest of his clothes. Reaching up to the wall, he tears off a strip of white paint. Blue, the color of cornflowers, stares at him. He quickly looks away. He jumps at the sound of cannons going off. The window rattles. His bed shakes and shimmies as never before. The war is getting closer, he thinks, the Prussians pressing toward Paris. And this is what Bismarck wants; with the defeat of France, he will have his unification of the German federation. Another explosion reverberates. Jorgen smiles, the sounds and vibrations comforting him, for he is near the war, its dull angry roar.
He pulls on clean trousers and a shirt, grabs his crutches, and heads to the main storage room. The statue of Zeus is gone. Despite its crack, someone wanted it. Pierre must have packed it. Other things are missing, now in the homes of rich Parisians—bottles of wine, at least a dozen cans of meat, a Persian rug that was leaning up against the wall, and silverware. The bowl from Japan is gone.
When he finishes his work, he stumbles down the hallway toward his room. His heavy boot slams down on the wood floor. He stops halfway to catch his breath. Everything tires him. He almost feels the thing holding him back from the pulse of life. If he could stop himself from pushing against it, he would be fine; he could stay enclosed and what would it matter? But he can’t seem to help himself. He was going to fight for France, to redeem himself, or at least lose himself in the war, to die a hero. That would have been reparations enough for what he did. And now look at him.
Night roosts in his small room, and he lights a candle, a small flicker. He reaches under his bed and pulls out the gray cardboard sheets. The light shudders, like the pain in his stump, always there, always hunting him, but he won’t give in to it, though there are times when the throbbing extends to his toes, which are no longer there, or courses up the trunk of his body, sending fire flames into his brain.
He slowly removes the top cardboard. There is the painting, only from this view and in this light, it looks different somehow. He sets the candle on the cot and lowers himself so he is only an inch away. At first he thinks it’s the flickering candlelight, but as he leans forward, he sees the colors pulsate; they are tugging at him, swaying in front of him, the bright green of the hilltop, the purple plums in the tree, the blue of his dress, and the woman, dressed in dark red. His heart swells and softens. It is too much, he thinks, too much. He slams down the cardboard cover and slides it under his bed.
JAPAN
HOW LONG HAS IT been since he’s seen her? he thinks, his chopsticks poised midair, as if caught in two opposing winds.
He hears the man working at the sushi counter say her name again, then describe her, her flash of brown eyes, her graceful walk, as if floating on warm air. He just arrived from Hong Kong, where he purchased ten cases of brandy. By the time the bottles were packed into crates, he sold them for three times the price to a rich man in London. His next trip, as soon as he’s taken care of business here, is to Shanghai to buy bolts of silk for a man in Italy who makes fine women’s dresses. But if it is Ayoshi, how long has it been since he’s seen her? As he rises from the table, the cook behind the counter stops talking and turns toward him, as do several patrons.
Where does she live? he asks.
The cook’s eyes widen in alarm.
In his haste, he forgot the decorum of politeness, something he’s always despised about his native people.
Excuse me, he says, bowing low. So sorry to interrupt you. The woman. Her name is Ayoshi. Please, I have not seen her in so long.
The cook, an old man with deeply carved lines on his face and milky eyes, looks at him skeptically.
At least he remembered to remove his heavy-soled Western shoes before entering, he thinks, or the cook might have thrown him out. The cook glances at his suit and the newspaper tucked under his arm. An English newspaper. The old man’s expression is blank, but his eyes are darting, as if weighing his choices.
After a long wait, the cook reluctantly gives him directions. He bows, lower than he should to a cook, and as he turns for the front door, he almost knocks over an elderly man.
The woman, says the elderly man, his voice smoky. She ran away once. Maybe more than once, I don’t know. Someone found her wandering the streets, half dressed. That was right after she moved here. The coldest days of winter
and she might have frozen to death. She looked wild, covered with mud, twigs stuck in her hair, muttering to herself. My wife was the one who wrapped her in heavy blankets, put her in a cart, and took her home.
This house? asks the man, anxious to be on his way.
The elderly man shakes his head dolefully. Her husband is a splendid potter, but no one knows much about him. We’ve heard there are many days he can barely walk. He lowers his voice. It’s his feet. You should see them. Sometimes, he must lie in bed all day.
Thank you.
My wife went up there. She had a bad feeling about that house. So empty, so barren; she left as soon as she could. Something isn’t right.
He thanks the old man again, grabs his bag, his newspaper, pays his bill, and heads outside.
AYOSHI RISES, STRETCHES, AND looks out the small window of the studio. The wind swoons over the leaves. There is the cold lick of autumn air. Winter is nearly here. Out by the big, ugly gates—why did Hayashi put up those horrid gates—there’s an old man, his chin tucked deep into the collar of a heavy dark coat. Perhaps bringing his midday offerings, she thinks. He leans his shoulder into the gate to shut it. Not much strength left in his body. Her mind flits to the gates. What good did they do? The teahouse burned down anyway. They make her feel like a prisoner, and she is, isn’t she? Stuck here. The man is walking down the pebbled path, and she’s about to head back, but there is something familiar about his gait. Not an old man’s walk, but a smooth swagger, almost arrogant, as if he were not of this world, but hovering an inch above it. She steps outside onto the grass in her paint smock and watches him approach.
He didn’t shut the gate properly and now it swings open and slams shut, back and forth, metal crashing against metal. She has not seen him in years. The last time must have been when she was fifteen. Her childhood friend. A rebellious boy who turned each prohibition into a license to act. Whatever is he doing here? A shiver runs along her scalp, and a pang of panic. He left for England to study, and several years later, she met her lover. She is so different now.
Sato, she says.
Ayoshi, he says. Congratulations on your fortuitous marriage. I hear your husband is a famous potter.
They walk to the house. He tells her his life is wonderful, traveling to London, New York, Paris, Shanghai, all the places they talked about when they were young, all the places they dreamed of seeing.
She steps into the kitchen. The degree to which he has aged, she thinks. The thicket of gray hairs, the crumpled, nearly emaciated body, the wrinkled suit, the lines of worry crisscrossing his forehead. A tremor ran through his hand as he pulled his handkerchief out of his front breast pocket. The water boils. She picks up the kettle and wonders what he thinks about her, what he has heard.
She turns to peek at him through the doorway and pours hot water onto her thigh. Stifling a scream, she calls out for the maid.
Are you all right? he asks from the other room.
Fine. Tea will be ready in a minute, she says. The maid hands her a cold cloth, and Ayoshi presses it to her leg. She tells the maid to see to the visitor. She must change her clothes.
He walks outside and opens the door to the Buddhist temple. The smell of burning incense jolts the air, along with the scent of reed from the tatami mats and barley and wheat from the offerings.
He turns and sees one of her paintings hanging on the wall. He remembers her paintings from years ago. Even then, she was one of the few who used shadow. This painting is particularly dark, with lots of brown and black. A face half hidden in shade. A woman’s face. He steps closer. A woman stands alone under an umbrella in the evening rain. The sky steel metal, and the rain a silvery thick sheet. The woman’s parasol is golden, tinged at the edges with brown, as if faded from harsh light. She wears a black kimono, the kind worn at a funeral. Her glossy hair is pulled up high with engraved ivory chopsticks. It is the expression on the woman’s face that is spellbinding. On the side of the face that is lit, a swirl of haunted sorrow in the eye. And the woman is not looking at the viewer, but at something behind her, over her shoulder. She’s become quite good, very good, he thinks. Exquisite. I could probably fetch quite a sum for this one. He runs through his list of clients. There’s a man in England. What was his name? The tall one who soaks his biscuits in melted butter.
He hears her calling his name.
AS HE WALKS FROM the south garden to the horse stables, Hayashi hears her calling a strange man’s name. He is late for his meeting in town, and the gardener is waiting for him at the stables to drive him in the cart, the horse now properly shoed, bridled, and hoofing the ground. There is no way he could walk to town today. She is standing on the porch, looking out toward the forest and to the gardens. He hasn’t seen her all day, tucked away in the studio. She’s wearing her silk kimono; she never paints in such fine fabric. Who is she calling for?
You will be late, Hayashi-san, says the gardener.
He climbs into the cart, his feet aching; he could barely make it up the hill after feeding the fish.
He watches her pause and step tentatively into the house. Perhaps an old man from town has heard of Ayoshi’s healing hands and has come to her, hoping to ease stiff joints or bad digestion. Or someone who’s come to pray at the temple. The gardener drives the cart down the pebbled path. Hayashi cranes his neck to look again. No one. The gardener steps down from the cart, opens the gate, drives the horses through, then closes it. Maybe after all this time, she has finally made a friend, someone from town. But a man? Hayashi swivels around once more to see if he might see the owner of this name. She was calling for a man named Sato, but there is no one.
OVER TEA, SATO TELLS her the world is rapidly changing. She would love America, its openness, its informality, its eagerness to make a mark on the world. Brash, he says, there is no sense of history or tradition or protocol. Poor people become rich. Rich people become poor. Or maybe Paris, which is now at war, but after the war, she should go. It’s teeming with artists, writers, painters; or perhaps London with its theater and a king and queen. He sips his tea and gazes out the window. Japan is poised for a tremendous transformation. It’s certainly needed. How does she stand it? The silences, the politeness, the hierarchy, the pressure to conform. He shudders and hunches his narrow shoulders. That will change, he says. Fortunately. It’s all about to rip apart.
How did you know I was here? she asks, lifting her gaze from her steaming tea.
He says he was passing through. He heard she lived in the area and thought he’d stop by.
She’d like to ask how long he might stay, what he plans to do. She’d like to ask what is he doing here. It’s a surprise, she says, your arrival.
He sets his cup down. I remember that look, he says. That pout, the clamped jaw. You don’t want me here. He looks at her closely. Her face, pale and drawn tight. She looks older than her twenty-seven years, he thinks. He has been to the drought-stricken countryside of northern China and seen the victims, their skin stretched taut. Behind the vacant look lay ravenous hunger.
No, that’s not true, she says, prickling at his directness and feeling even more irritated by his presence. It’s surprising. I’m surprised you’re here. After so long. She sips her tea. Sato, you look so tired. Do you want to rest? Hayashi should be here in an hour or so. Why don’t you rest?
I won’t stay long, says Sato.
Please. Stay as long as you wish, she says, forcing a smile. And she tells him again, he is her guest. A welcome guest.
Thank you, he says. I think I will lie down and rest.
WHY HAS HE COME? she wonders, as she walks to the studio. Her delicately balanced life now feels thrown off, but by what exactly she couldn’t say. Your friend, she tells herself. He is your oldest, dearest friend.
She mixes water into a bowl and sprinkles in dried red paint, stalling, not able to paint. How can she, her mind filled with the image of Sato sitting before her, with his hands now blue veined and bony. And behind the man, the young boy swel
ling out, the precocious boy who was selected by the government, along with twelve other boys, all of whom were fluent in English, to study abroad. Sato always loved to tell this part of his story. He’d learned English when it was illegal to do so, and he was rewarded for disobeying the law.
He wrote her letters, saying he was staying on in Europe after his school program ended, even though his parents wanted him home and so did the government. The government paid his travel expenses and his tuition on the condition that he study military science. He took business courses instead and formed his own company. He insisted she come to Europe. And how she read those letters and reread them and dreamed of joining him, not as a girlfriend, always as a younger sister; he was eight years older than she and full of advice. Oh, maybe once there was the typical girlish infatuation, but that faded when he left. Here, you can live the way you want, he wrote. In the West, I see young women walking on the streets alone, working at jobs in public places, going to the cafés, smoking and drinking gin at round tables with bright white tablecloths. You would love it here, my friend. Buy a ticket—steal money from your father’s purse, if you must, and join me. Japan is no place for someone like you.
Her brush calls out for purple to deepen the red. The studio is quiet. The afternoon light will soon move across the sky and Sato will rise. He kept looking at her, as if expecting her to say something, but what, she wasn’t sure. She thought the house so empty, and now, with him there, it feels crowded and confining.
She swirls her brush around and around in circles. When the brush dries, she dips it in the black paint and spills circles all over.
AYOSHI WALKS INTO THE kitchen. Hayashi is finishing a bowl of udon. We have a visitor? he asks.
An old friend. A childhood friend. You might like him. You both know a great deal about the West. And you both speak English.
Hayashi reaches down and massages his feet. She turns her back to Hayashi, trying to hide her desire to do anything but touch his awful feet. She listens to the birds outside, their calling and singing. She rises and heads for the doorway. I’ll go find him.
The Painting Page 6