The Painting

by Nina Schuyler

  What is he doing here? asks Hayashi.

  She stops. I don’t really know.

  MY HUSBAND IS HOME, she says. She stands at the door frame, her hands folded in front of her.

  Sato is sitting in a chair in the Western room reading a book. The light has shifted and the room is darker than the rest of the house.

  I thought I heard the front door open and close, he says, smiling. So finally I will meet him.

  She remembers that smile, and for the first time, she sees a hint of his former youthful elegance. When he left to study in London, she walked with him to the docks. She carried his satchel full of Western books and he lugged a huge trunk of clothes. They stood and stared at the gleaming English warship that would take him across the seas. Guns and cannons lined the deck, and from the mast, the British flag snapped in the wind. An official from the Tokugawa government was at the docks to see him off. One of the British sailors told them it was the fastest warship on the seas. Sato whispered to her that he already knew this.

  He rises, smoothes out his trousers. When was the last time you visited home?

  I haven’t gone back. Ever. Have you?

  He glances at the painting of the woman outside in the snow. Not for a while, he says. I’m surprised the government lets you keep the temple open. I walked in there and incense was burning. I’m also wondering why someone would choose to live here. The dead sleep right outside your window.

  She tells him Hayashi is a big supporter of the new government. He likes it here, she says. He’d never move. I do miss the red-crowned cranes. You remember them? I’d rise early to see them fly in the morning sky. If you walked quietly, you could stand on the edge of their resting grounds.

  He walks over to her. You don’t love your husband, do you?

  She blushes. His directness, a slap on the arm. Not a new trait, she thinks, but something she’d forgotten. I’m glad you’re here, Sato. I’m glad you’re here because I think it’s a good sign. She looks down at her tabi socks, trying to decide whether to say anything more. He is silent, waiting. Enough, she thinks. I’ve said enough.

  A good sign, he says. Of what? Or should I say, who?

  She looks away from him. Please, my husband is waiting for you. He is honored you are visiting our home.

  I hear many people, both men and women, have trouble in the beginning, he says. It’s understandable. What do you know of each other when you are first married? But it’d be easier if you accepted it.

  Her hard gaze strikes him, and she laughs contemptuously. That’s funny coming from you, she says. You’ve done everything you wanted. Accepted nothing else.

  I don’t have those kinds of desires.

  She laughs harshly. You were always so grandiose about yourself.

  From what I’ve heard, your husband is a fine fellow. We could become the best of friends. Then what will you do?

  Stop it.

  We might share stories about you. The way you click your tongue to the roof of your mouth when you are nervous. Does he know that about you?

  Stop.

  Or rock onto your toes when you’re excited.

  He starts to walk out of the room, but she grabs him by the elbow. You don’t know anything about me anymore. I had no choice.

  Of course. Of course. The matchmaker.

  She hesitates. Her eyes water and the loose strands of hair hang mournfully around her face.

  They hear her husband coming down the hallway. They turn together and watch him hobble toward them. Her body bristles, and she retracts within herself, as if she were a small animal burrowing down underneath her skin. Not until now, as Hayashi slowly makes his way to them, does she realize she’s dreaded this moment. How will they get along, and then she wonders, why does she care? She frantically searches for something to say, but her mind seizes, and she stands still, watching her husband. His walk, she thinks, is smoother, more fluid than usual. He seems in good spirits. But perhaps it’s only a momentary change and tomorrow he will be flat on his back again. She suddenly knows what it is: She’s ashamed Hayashi is her husband and Sato, with his brusque, rude manner, is her friend. They won’t get along.

  Sato cringes as he watches the man limp toward them. It looks as if every time he steps, something drives deep into his feet. Pitiful, he thinks, a tragic sight, feeling himself soften with sympathy for the injured man.

  Hayashi bows and apologizes for not greeting Sato when he first arrived. Sato exchanges the bow and, as he stands, extends his hand. Hayashi awkwardly takes it in his.

  An Eastern bow and a Western handshake, says Sato. The modern man’s greeting.

  Hayashi nods, smiling tentatively. When Sato glances toward Ayoshi, Hayashi studies Sato. He looks craggy and worn, thinks Hayashi. Some of his apprehension about this visitor dissipates. Still, there is the smart suit—he wears a silk scarf around his neck and Western trousers, his blouse is of the finest linen cloth with cuff sleeves, and his wool coat has a line of gold buttons down the front. And there is the full attention Ayoshi lavishes on him. He is her first visitor.

  Soon the government will issue an edict about that, says Sato.

  You’ve heard about the edicts? asks Hayashi.

  Sato bows again. It’s a great honor to meet you.

  And you, he says.

  There is an awkward moment. Ayoshi glances around. What are we doing standing in the hallway? she asks, laughing nervously. Sato has yet to see the gardens.

  We shall give him a tour, says Hayashi.

  They gather their coats and she leads them to the main gardens.

  Everything is well kept, says Sato, motioning to the yard, the house, the temple.

  Hayashi bows and says the grounds could use more tending. But any beauty you see has nothing to do with me. It’s the gardener’s skillful hand.

  She glances nervously at Sato, hoping he does not become insolent. The wry turn of the corners of his mouth has faded, replaced by something kinder and more grave.

  Do you need to sit? asks Sato.

  I’m fine, Hayashi says, abruptly, waving him off. They amble toward the cluster of bamboo.

  Sato hears the anger in Hayashi’s response. Something solid in this man, he thinks. A strong fiber underneath the pain. Perhaps their talk will venture beyond nonsense and trivia. And the government lets you keep the temple open for services? asks Sato.

  Of course, says Hayashi.

  Ayoshi stifles a scoff. What about the fire, she wants to blurt out. The burning of the teahouse? Hayashi hasn’t told her anything about it, but she figures it has something to do with the temple.

  It’s quite beautiful, the human soul striving for transcendence, says Sato. I don’t have such a soul. Mine wallows in its own muck. But such a striving soul, it must be uplifting to be around. Is that why you choose to live here?

  Ayoshi glances down at her hands, folded tightly in front of her, and feels her face blush.

  Hayashi pauses, puzzled and slightly offended by such a direct question. He looks at Ayoshi and sees her bowed head, her reddened cheeks. She’s embarrassed. I should welcome this old friend of hers; he is perfectly harmless and it’s only because of his travels that he has different ways. If an old friend came to visit me, I hope she would extend a welcome, no matter the nature of my visitor. He tells Sato this morning an old woman brought three jars of pickled vegetables as offerings for the Buddha. She probably cleaned out her cupboards, and now what will she eat? he says.

  I saw that kind of devotion in an English church, says Sato. Everyone got down on their knees, as if one big hand swooped down from the ceiling and pressed on their heads. What a thing to see.

  They near the rock garden, the small white pebbles and large gray rocks, islands floating in a white sea. They stand there, no one saying anything.

  Both of you know quite a lot about the West, says Ayoshi, hoping to ease the tension that she feels creeping into the elongated silences.

  What do you like about the West? asks Sato.
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br />   Hayashi gazes at the rocks, and his mind skips back to the Dutchman. Sato’s mind, his probing questions, shorn of politeness and circularity, so bold, this friend of Ayoshi. His mind is of the same fabric as the Dutchman’s. Why study the myths? asked the Dutchman one day. Why bother? Hayashi was stunned. He said he should because the Dutchman told him to. The Dutchman scoffed and made him write an essay to answer the question; he can’t remember now what he wrote, but he recalls how exhilarating it felt, and also how barbaric.

  She watches Hayashi’s face. He’s trying to contain his pain, she thinks, that’s why he isn’t answering. Now he’s gritting his jaws together, as if pushing the pain into a box for her to deal with later. They stand at the edge of the rock garden. Ayoshi has the urge to scatter the pebbles with her shoes.

  Excuse me, says Hayashi. What did you ask?

  I wanted to ask, What do you get for providing prayer services? says Sato.

  So few people come anymore, says Hayashi. And really, all I do is open the main door.

  We receive a stipend, says Ayoshi. She tells Sato they get some money for upkeep. The grounds are historical landmarks. And Hayashi receives assistance in selling his work to the West.

  I didn’t know our new leaders were so generous, says Sato.

  No, says Hayashi, flicking a pine needle from his kimono. Not generous.

  Sato raises his eyebrows, tosses his head back, and laughs. Then it must be part of the national pride campaign. I read about it in the English newspaper. He stands up tall and imitates one of the officials in a low, commanding voice, To generate respect for Japan, we will assist you in selling your ceramics. It will be good for you. More important, it is best for Japan.

  Hayashi laughs and some of the stiffness in the air sloughs away.

  Sato looks admiringly around the gardens, toward the house, the temple. The grounds are quite lovely. It’s a good investment for the government. To preserve this. Quite old, I would think?

  Hayashi shifts his weight to his heels, away from the balls of his feet, which burn now. He tells Sato the temple was built in the tenth century, a hermitage for the women of the Heian court to come and pray. It’s very precious to the Buddhists.

  I didn’t know that, says Ayoshi.

  I told you when you first came here, says Hayashi, his voice a whisper.

  Lovely, says Sato.

  Hayashi smiles wistfully. If you read some of these women’s poetry, you discover it was also a secluded place for them to meet their lovers.

  Sato takes a step toward the stone bench, hoping Hayashi will sit and rest. He thinks he sees Hayashi wince from pain, his upper lip tightening. Hayashi follows him, but stops short of the bench.

  Sato tells them he’s read some of the marvelous poetry of the famous Izumi Shikibu.

  She lived here for a while.

  Really? asks Sato.

  She came here after her first husband left her because she’d taken a lover, says Hayashi.

  The three of them stand underneath the pine tree.

  Just one lover? asks Sato, his voice lighthearted and teasing.

  Ayoshi looks away, out beyond the treetops.

  You’re right. More than one, says Hayashi. He tells them the brother of her lover courted her as well. He sent Izumi a gift of orange blossoms.

  Hayashi walks over to the stone bench and sits, stretching his legs out in front of him. Sato sits beside him. Ayoshi stands, trying not to listen.

  Fascinating history, says Sato, looking over the grounds, the house, and the temple, this time gauging their true value.

  Ayoshi realizes she’s been holding her breath.

  Hayashi picks a dandelion and twirls it around. Izumi knew how to peer into the human heart, says Hayashi. He rises and Sato follows. Ayoshi involuntarily steps backward. She looks at Hayashi’s flushed face. Strange, she thinks, how utterly left out she feels.

  Hayashi turns to Sato and formally bows. Our home is yours. Please, stay as long as you like.

  Ayoshi is a couple feet behind them.

  Thank you, says Sato, turning around to look at her. Ayoshi has already extended the same generous invitation. It’s been so long since I’ve immersed myself in such peace and serenity.

  Hayashi glances at Ayoshi, feeling his earlier apprehension return. She did not mention the invitation. The Western-dressed man is unpleasant, really. And it’s improper to have a man visiting his wife. If he had the nerve, he’d ask Sato how long he intended to stay. But he won’t. Of course he won’t.

  Now I’m remembering one of Izumi’s poems, says Sato. He closes his eyes. I used up this body longing for one who does not come. A deep valley, now, what once was my heart.

  Ayoshi’s face reddens. She bends down and picks up a leaf. The colors, she thinks, focus on the colors. The dark red in the leaf, the hint of orange. When that doesn’t work, she looks up at the leaves clinging to green life.

  You must know one, says Sato.

  Hayashi glances up to the sky. Although the wind blows terribly here, the moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house.

  Wonderful, says Sato. Marvelous. He claps his hands in delight. Sato turns to Ayoshi. You must have one.

  She offers a blank expression. No, she says. I don’t. In fact, I’m late for the baths.

  You’re going to town? asks Hayashi. He steps over beside her, touches her lightly on the shoulder.

  It is Tuesday, she says. And just because an old friend is visiting, I still need my bath.

  Of course, says Sato.

  If you’re hungry before I return, the cook will have dinner ready for you, she says.

  Ayoshi, says Hayashi, with an embarrassed laugh.

  Sato leans toward Hayashi, bowing his head in a conspiratorial way, and says, That’s how she was when she was a young girl. Strong willed.

  And he was the older brother who tried to boss me around, she says, buttoning the top button of her coat. That was a long time ago, but not much has changed.

  And everything has changed, says Sato. I tried to mold her into a proper lady, with proper manners, he says, feigning despair.

  Ayoshi walks to the house. She stands on the porch looking out across the garden at the two men. They have the same short-cut hair like the Westerners. They are about the same height. Both merchants, although her husband would never call himself one. Still, all those boxes he sends. They seem, oddly, mirror images of each other, the way they are standing, face to face, nodding, gesturing, as if long-lost brothers. She hears Hayashi ask, Have you read anything by Emerson?

  HAYASHI GLANCES AT THE gate and watches Ayoshi open and close it. Did she lock it? But of course not. The gardener will lock it tonight. That’s caution enough, he thinks. Sato offers him a Western cigarette.

  With Ayoshi gone, Hayashi closely examines this man. There is an air of enviable freedom to him, as if he’s unhinged himself from rules, customs, obligations of family, culture, and even a personal history. With that comes the power to mold his life, to take it in his hands and shape something grand and beautiful. And as this refined man discusses some financial device he’s never heard of, Hayashi thinks, This is what the West promises. That a man can do this, live like this, think like this. This is what his father spoke of. His face brightens. This man is his father’s vision. Not abolishing religions or throwing out Japan’s traditional customs and manners. It wasn’t any of that, but what this man embodies.

  Have you ever visited the Great Buddha? asks Hayashi, his voice excited.

  No, unfortunately.

  Hayashi tells him it’s near the Enoshima Island and the Kamakura bathing beach.

  You’ve been there with Ayoshi on vacation? asks Sato.

  No, says Hayashi, feeling again his earlier irritation at Sato, his blunt questions.

  Surely with your role in the government and your prestige, the government would let you move freely in the country, says Sato.

  I’ve never been there, says Hayashi. He doesn’t tell Sato t
hat many of the monks from the mountain monastery took a pilgrimage to the Great Buddha to pray, but he could never go because of his feet. When the monks returned, their faces were weary but filled with a formidable radiance. When they spoke of the Great Buddha, their words glowed.

  Why haven’t you gone with Ayoshi?

  Hayashi bristles. A red dragonfly alights on the surface of a willow leaf; it looks so menacing, he thinks, yet necessary, feasting on water bugs, keeping the lake clear. Sato is waiting. So sure of himself to ask such an unmediated question and expect an answer.

  Hayashi bows, and, apologizing, says he must return to the house. His feet have begun to ache.

  Of course. Sato follows him back to the porch. Where are you selling your work?

  Hayashi turns to the man whose eyes glimmer now as he rubs his hands together, as if they held precious coins. Hayashi tells him mostly to customers in England and France.

  Sato stops walking. Not in America? The Americans are in love with anything new. Such a new country, you see. Let me sell your work.

  I couldn’t impose.

  No, I’d be honored. They’ll love your work. They’ve never seen this kind of beauty. The simple beauty of Japan. They’ve only seen the busy, cluttered beauty of Europe.

  Thank you, says Hayashi. He bows stiffly. There will be proper recompense.

  Oh, no bother.

  I insist.

  We’ll find some agreeable arrangement, I’m sure.

  When they enter the house, Sato tells him how much he admires the house and the wonderful architecture and artwork. Hayashi gives Sato a quick tour, pointing to the bamboo running along the wall, telling him it was grown in southern Japan, the Kyushu area. The paper walls, from a mulberry tree, a grove outside of Kyoto. The paintings over there, they come from China; the Buddhist monks imported them in the fifteenth century. I’ve been told they are expressions of Taoism. You see the physical landscape in the painting, the tall mountains, the grove of trees, says Hayashi. These correspond to the inner landscape of the artist’s body and the celestial realm.

  They wander into the kitchen.