You are our guest, she says. Excuse me, your dinner is ready.
He blushes. I’d like to speak with Hayashi. I have a favor to ask. He keeps ducking his head slightly to avoid her eyes.
I’m so sorry. My husband is unavailable.
He shifts from foot to foot. They stand there for a moment, neither one speaking. Finally he tells her, if she’d let him, he’d like to set up a small shrine in the garden. From the monastery gardens, he brought a small wooden statue.
How long are you intending to stay? she asks, and the instant after she speaks, she feels a tremor of embarrassment at her brusqueness.
He looks at the ground and fumbles with the edge of his sleeve. I’m so sorry. I won’t be a bother to you, he says. I’ll leave as soon as I can.
I didn’t mean—
While I am here, I’ll pay for my room and board with my services.
She studies his reddening face. He is so uncomfortable. She steps into the kitchen, finds a lantern, and they walk together out to the porch. There, a two-foot wooden figure, a statue of a bodhisattva in flowing robes, the hands clasped in prayer. The form is cracked and weathered, a relic from another time. The expression on the statue’s face, almost like the monk’s at that moment, a beautiful serenity, and a vitality and smugness that borders on boyish certitude.
Hayashi steps out on the porch. I thought I heard you.
The monk bows and repeats his request. I’ll leave as soon as I know where I’m going, says the monk.
Please, says Hayashi, waving his hand in front of him, as if casting aside smoke. We want you to stay as long as you want. Hayashi takes the lantern from Ayoshi and the monk picks up the statue, cradling it in his arms. The two men amble into the garden in the night air. Ayoshi is torn between stepping inside and following them into the garden. She’ll stay a moment, she tells herself, to see which spot he chooses. She walks over to them and hears Hayashi tell the monk to choose a spot. Anywhere, he says, gesturing with his arm to the expanse of the garden. And she can barely contain her surprise. How animated Hayashi has become; and his walk, almost graceful; how can that be?
The monk wanders around the garden, Hayashi following, as if this decision were the most significant event in a long time. Round and round, the monk meanders.
Finally he sets the figure underneath the willow tree. Hayashi places the lantern on the ground. The monk climbs down on his knees and carefully sculpts a level clearing with his hand.
He is soiling Hayashi’s good kimono, thinks Ayoshi, who returns to the deck, snatches up a straw mat, and marches over to the monk. For a moment she watches his hands caress the ground.
Please, she says, extending the mat to the monk.
He’s fine, says Hayashi, reaching for the mat, but the monk takes it and places it underneath his knees.
She steps back, and now she really should go inside. The maid is waiting for her to go over the list of goods needed from town for tomorrow’s dinner. With two guests, they will need more miso soup and white rice. Maybe she should buy something special, chicken for yakitori.
When she glances over at the monk, she sees he is watching her. His eyes, big and astonishingly bright. Her cheeks burn. He doesn’t look away. She is the one to avert her gaze. Her heart races. Perhaps, as Hayashi said, he’s never seen a woman before. She looks again. He’s still staring, enthralled, it seems. How rude to stare like that. So brazen and bold. She has the urge to jump or scream, though she’s not sure why. She shivers and hugs herself.
Are you cold? asks Hayashi.
Yes, she says. I should go inside. She walks briskly toward the house. When she steps inside, she sits at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. After a while, she rises and looks out the darkened window; nothing to see, only her reflection staring back. What was he looking at so intently? The front door opens and closes. Sato stumbles into the kitchen, his pupils large, his dark eyes darting.
Sleepy little Japan is waking up. I just sold a merchant in town seven bolts of silk from China.
Have you been drinking?
My new customer and I had some celebratory drinks, it’s true.
We have a visitor.
He stops, dropping his jaw. Is he here? Your man from Hokkaido?
No, she says, glaring at him, and don’t ever mention him in this house again.
He comes over to her. Maybe if you sit here a little longer, he’ll show up.
He’s breathing hard, as if he ran from town, up the hill to the house, and his breath smells of liquor. The monk and Hayashi step inside, still talking about the statue.
Well, says Hayashi, staring hard at Sato.
Sato props himself up.
Hayashi introduces Sato to their new guest and smiles, as if he’s just produced something he’s proud of. The monk bows and Sato stands there, slightly stupefied.
It is an honor to meet any friend of Hayashi’s, says the monk.
Sato shifts from foot to foot. Yes, yes. We must drink to that.
Hayashi’s face blanches as he watches Sato nearly dance in place. The maid comes out with a steaming hot plate of food for the monk.
Finally, says Hayashi, clapping his hands together.
The monk sits at the table and Sato takes a place across from him. Hayashi positions himself beside his new guest. Ayoshi stands by the doorway to the kitchen, watching the monk wolf down his food.
You have quite the appetite, says Sato.
This food, says the monk.
I’m sorry. It’s nothing special, says Ayoshi, feeling alarmed by his ravenous eating. If we’d known you were coming.
You don’t understand, Ayoshi, says Hayashi. After years of plain rice and barley soup, almost anything would taste good.
Then he’s the perfect guest, says Sato, stepping into the kitchen.
The monk laughs, and Ayoshi is shaken by the charming sound.
Now for a drink, says Sato, raising a bottle. He tells them he bought it in town. Sake from Tateyama. Ayoshi reaches for some of Hayashi’s sake cups.
No, get the good ones, says Hayashi.
The black glazed cups with small lines of crackling white. Hayashi explained to her the white lines came out so unique, so different, that these are his best cups, though to her, they all look the same. She pours them each a cup. The monk holds one in front of him, examining it.
I can see why they didn’t let you become a monk, he says. The slight hint of imperfection. There at the lip.
You see it? says Hayashi.
It’s a very delicate design, says the monk. You’ve captured the humanity of imperfection in a perfectly designed object.
Remarkable, says her husband. Not many people see the intent behind it.
My teachers taught me to look and see. That is the importance of education, I think. To learn to know where to look to see the truth.
And do you know the truth? asks Sato, pouring himself another glass, his smile slightly lopsided.
Hayashi coughs. The monk shifts uncertainly. It’s what I’m searching for. I don’t mean to say I know it.
I’ll show you my other work sometime, says Hayashi.
I’d like to see it, too, says Sato.
Hayashi nods politely and quickly looks away.
When the monk finishes his tea, he asks if he may go to the temple.
The monk is tired, says Hayashi, placing his hand on the young man’s back, gently coaxing him away from Sato, down the hallway toward the temple, where the monk told Hayashi earlier he would like to stay.
After they’ve left, Sato turns to Ayoshi, raising his eyebrows. Well, he says. An awkward boy, don’t you think? What? You look so worried. What is it?
I think it’s dangerous to have him here, she says. I told Hayashi that, but he won’t hear of the monk leaving.
Your life just keeps getting disrupted, doesn’t it?
It’s not that. If the government finds out—
He’s about to refill her drink, but she slips her hand over her cup. I’m
tired, Sato, she says, standing and rubbing her eyes. Ayoshi pads down the hallway, thinking she’ll go to the studio to paint, but when she steps outdoors, she walks to the front of the temple. She slowly opens the heavy wooden door, not wanting to disturb his deep meditation. He is there, lying on the floor, curled up in a ball, his head cupped into the cradle of his arms, and she listens to the sound of a man crying. What has happened? she wonders, barely restraining herself from going to him.
THE MONK CONVERTED THE main room of the temple into his home. At night, he unrolls a futon and sleeps in the corner of the room, and before the sun rises, he rolls it up again and tucks it in a closet. He diligently cleans the temple every day, dusting the Buddha, the thick molding around the floor, and the ceiling. After the temple is done, he scrubs the small bathroom located in the remote corner. These are only a few chores he would do if he were still at the monastery. Hayashi told him the temple has never been so spotless. The first time the monk opened the temple door for the villagers, Hayashi rushed over from the house, as if to stop him. The two villagers looked at Hayashi then the monk. Hayashi waited for a while, then returned to the house. This is how it’s been, only one or two people. But the prayers are over too quickly and the tasks don’t take very long; the monk’s never had such long stretches of time, and he wishes he had more work to do. The maid chased him out of the kitchen when he walked in one morning and begin scrubbing the dishes.
In the far gardens now, away from the house, he picks up a fallen leaf and absently studies the orange and red. As he lets it go, watching it fall to the ground, the memories from the mountaintop tumble down on him with sickening vividness. They wanted to die, he thinks. The monks who stayed in the temple calmly waited for death’s hand. True monks, loyal and pure, they died gracefully, with no trepidation, with conviction. And what did he do? He clutched to life and began to weep uncontrollably.
Go. The old monk would not look at him. Go.
The young monk sobbed.
Go, his teacher hissed. You are not ready.
There were only five who ran out of the temple. He led the way out the window.
The wind rustles the leaves. He looks up and sees a few green leaves still clinging to the willow tree. He can’t escape this horrible thought that he is a fraud, not worthy of wearing the robe. He is only a man, he thinks. Just an ordinary man, afflicted with the same spasms of doubts. And he recalls the time he was sick for a month, how wonderful it was when his teacher excused him from his grueling, monotonous life. He spent hours in bed reading literature and drawing whatever came into view. It was a good thing Hayashi stripped him of his robe. A very good thing. Despite his deference, Hayashi must have sensed it, all his flaws, like imperfections in a poorly crafted weaving.
He must pray more. No dinner because already he finds he loves to eat too much—the sweet bean cakes, anmitsu, and red bean pancakes. And he loves to smell the grass as it relinquishes underfoot. The piney fragrance of a tree branch on his hands after brushing up against it. His teacher said he still wore a veil over his eyes. Now he thinks the elderly monk was right.
But in some strange way, he feels as if only now he’s seeing the world; despite all his training to live awake and in the truth, it’s as if he’s never truly seen a fish, the darting sashays of color, orange, blue, red, and the one with green specks on black. Or tasted the wonderful display of flavors in food. If he could, he’d eat all day.
He walks over to a tall pine tree and lies on his back, staring at the branches swaying in the wind. It’s a wonderful motion, he thinks. It’s the way that woman walks. Her hips moving, as if a flame were spiraling up her spine. The same swaying swirl to her upper lip.
WHERE IS THE TEAHOUSE? asks the monk.
Hayashi hesitates. They are standing under a gray sky, the thin dull light casting short shadows. There was an accident, he says.
They walk toward the black spot on the ground and stare at it for a long time. Hayashi smells the soot in the air, puffs of it rising from the ground where the old teahouse once stood.
I could build you a new one, says the monk.
If he could have it back, thinks Hayashi, the way it was before, its simple elegance, a place of quiet refuge, perhaps it would be as if the fire never occurred. The whole problem with the officials would go away. And if that faded, perhaps the ring of his sister’s call for help might disappear, the echoes, like smoky black circles bouncing inside, and his mother’s screams, his father’s heavy silence. His feet, the coiled gnarled toes, what if they, too, surrendered their throbbing ache? Carefully he lets himself feel the lightness of hope in his chest.
The monk tells Hayashi he did most of the repair work at the monastery. This job, he could certainly do. As repayment for letting me stay here, he says, thinking how much it will distract him from all the new temptations and pleasures of the valley below the mountain. Please, you must let me do this for you.
Hayashi bows low and tells the monk he will buy all the best materials. If the monk is busy building, he thinks, he’s likely to discontinue the prayer services for the villagers. He’ll be so focused on the building. Whatever you need, he says.
And now the monk is sure this is why he was sent down the mountain to this wide valley. To build something new, a grand teahouse, something stunning, something that will dazzle Hayashi and his lovely wife.
FRANCE
SHALL I TAKE YOUR bag, sir? asks the butler.
No, says Jorgen, gripping the bag to his side.
You can take my overcoat, says Svensk, handing it to the butler, a tall man with thinning brown hair.
Jorgen and Svensk stand in the front hallway, enclosed in the jingle of voices. A burst of laughter comes from the first room. White marble tile lines the hallway and a huge chandelier scatters fragments of color on the pale yellow walls. There is the distinct smell of meat cooking—chicken or beef, Jorgen isn’t sure. Svensk leads the way into the next room, which overflows with elegantly dressed people drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. A cluster of people stand at a large oak table, picking at the plates of food, and two women with bare shoulders are stretched out on a red velvet couch. Lit candles flicker along the mantle and a well-tended fire burns in the fireplace.
Well, well, the Danish man arrives, says Daniel with a flourish.
Svensk laughs and tells Daniel that he is in the company of not one but two Danes. Svensk introduces Jorgen, whose head whirls from the chatter and the overwhelming stench of perfume.
I thought they tossed all the foreigners in prison for spying, says one stout man, clearly drunk, his voice booming.
That tall one is a soldier, my dear man, says a woman with a pink ostrich feather in her hair.
He fought for France, says Svensk. Wounded in the war.
Jorgen gives Svensk a nervous nod, hoping Svensk will make the introductions quickly and get on with the sale. Before leaving for the soiree, Jorgen told Svensk his plan to sell the extra inventory items. Jorgen offered Svensk a percentage, and Svensk laughed with rich delight and readily agreed to make the introductions. But Svensk is coupled already with a woman wearing a revealing black evening gown.
Where have you been hiding? asks one of the women reclining on the couch. She twists her fingers around a long string of pearls that swoop from her neck and stares at Jorgen. Next to her is another woman wearing purple satin.
Sit. Sit, says Daniel.
Jorgen sits in a big stuffed chair in the corner, and a servant hands him a glass of red wine. He sets his bag down so it touches his calf. Five empty bottles of wine crowd the table, along with caviar, bread, trout, green olives, and a platter of smoked oysters. All those boxes in the upstairs room end up here, he thinks, filling these people’s rooms and bellies. He is fascinated and disgusted by these people. He puts his hand on his empty pant leg and shifts and twists in the soft chair.
We’re lamenting the state of Paris, says Daniel to Jorgen. It’s certainly going to fall. Those dastardly Prussians will soon be
clamoring over the moat wall.
Poor France, says the woman in purple satin.
They’ll be here any minute, says one of the women with impersonal eyes, smiling.
Chennevières escorted shipments of artwork to Brest, said another man, leaning against the fireplace mantle. What would France be without its masterpieces? Prussia may have the thinkers, but we have the great artists and artwork, Degas, Monet, and Manet.
What a shame, says another woman with silver bracelets lining her arms.
The whole country is shamed.
Svensk tilts toward the woman, who tosses her head back, waving her blond hair behind her, laughing at something he’s said.
Jorgen studies the man leaning against the mantle. Young enough to have been recruited, he thinks. Who did he pay so he could stand here and eat this rich food and flirt with that woman with bright red lipstick? He decides he detests everyone here, and if he had a choice, he’d head home right now. Jorgen tries to catch Svensk’s eye, but he is fondling a gold bracelet on the woman’s arm. Jorgen reaches down and fingers the handle of his bag.
Daniel and his friends are discussing the moat around Paris and now the weaponry. A man with a big mustache tells them the Prussian cannons have a range of six hundred to eight hundred meters more than the French cannons. France could have had more power, but the emperor turned down the manufacture of Commandant Potier’s cannon. Yes, Potier’s cannon would have equalized the war.
A woman yawns and stares at the molded ceiling.
Our soldiers need women, says Daniel. Gorgeous French women.
Everyone laughs. Svensk turns and smiles at Jorgen, who points to the bag. Svensk nods, walks over to Daniel, and whispers in his ear. Jorgen seizes the bag, excuses himself, and shuffles down the hallway to the far end of the house. For a brief flash, he thinks of Edmond. He fought for these people, and now he’s on his deathbed. What a waste. He steps into Daniel’s study and there, rows and rows of books organized by subject—literature, cooking, religion, art. Jorgen traces his finger along the spines and stops on a Dutchman’s journal about the Orient. He pulls out the dark red covered book and splays its yellowed pages. This is Japan. A kindly race with courteous grace, their choicest gifts bestowing. You must leave your shoes at the front door and tread lightly on the straw mats that cover the floor. He stuffs the book into his bag. A souvenir, he thinks, and steps into the kitchen.
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