The Painting

by Nina Schuyler

  He sets the pail down and looks directly at her. You’re a painter?

  Yes, she says, jarred by his intense gaze, the pool of amber and brown fixated on her.

  He shifts on his feet and touches his hand to his forehead. One of my favorite teachers was a painter, he says. He did many ink drawings of Daruma. He said they were born, not made.

  That’s how I paint, she says.

  My teacher said they came as if the heart were speaking.

  If I were given one talent, I would choose to be a painter.

  You’d probably consider my paintings too cluttered, she says, reaching into the bucket and throwing another handful of pellets into the water. She points to her favorite fish. Not a simple one, she says.

  He searches the swarm and finds one. That one, he says, smiling. Red and orange and black and a fine thin line of pale blue.

  She laughs. Hardly simple.

  He smiles, and for the first time she feels his immense warmth, as if she’d stepped next to a fire.

  When they finish feeding the fish, they walk up the hill. She is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to show him her paintings. She leads him to the studio. Inside, there is only stillness. The monk stands at the doorway.

  Please, come in, she says.

  He steps into the studio and stands beside her at her drawing table. She pulls out a black folder. He looks at her birthmark, a pale red spot the size of a pebble on the side of her neck.

  She shows him a painting of the ocean and a small fishing boat. Another one of a large seashell.

  Do you know I’ve never seen the ocean, he says, his tone full of amazement, as if he can’t believe it either.

  She looks at him, jaw dropping. What a shame, she says. What a shame if you never see it.

  THE NEXT DAY, THE monk is up earlier than usual. By the time Hayashi steps outside, the monk has finished digging two deep holes and pounding in the main posts.

  Fine day for work, says Hayashi, picking up a handful of wooden nails and tossing them back and forth in his hands. A certain camaraderie has formed, Hayashi is sure of it. Did I ever tell you about the time I folded five thousand origami paper cranes?

  The monk stifles a sigh, pulls out a slab of wood from the stack, and sets it on the workbench. He is not used to such excited chatter. With a ripsaw, he makes the cuts, then wipes the shavings from his shirt.

  I made them for my favorite monk, says Hayashi, glancing over to the studio and seeing the top of Ayoshi’s head. The cherry-bark man, that’s what I called him. Strung them together with thread. Long chains of colorful paper birds. Good luck, they say. I hung them from his outside rafter and they flew in the wind, making a sound like bird wings. He was sick, you see, and he did get better. For a while, at least. A wonderful man.

  What do you think? asks the monk.

  As they stand studying the plank of wood, they hear the iron gate open and slam shut. Hayashi tenses at the sight of a Japanese man in Western clothes walking toward him with a sturdy, confident stride.

  Please do not say anything, says Hayashi to the monk. You are a construction worker. I’ve hired you to rebuild the teahouse. Please.

  Hayashi has seen the man before, what is his title? His responsibilities? Why is he here? The man has a lean, austere face and pale gray eyes, almost translucent, that look deceptively bored. His closely cropped hair is as smooth as an animal’s fur. Hayashi rushes over to greet him.

  Hayashi bows low, much lower than the official, and when he rises again, his face is flushed, his heart racing. What is the expression on the official’s face? Anger? Judgment? Hayashi does not know. Can I offer you tea or perhaps breakfast? Such a long hike up the hill. Hayashi turns quickly to locate the monk. The monk is standing by the stack of wood.

  The man looks at him shrewdly, his mouth tight. He declines Hayashi’s invitation and says he is here to deliver a letter. Who is he? asks the official, nodding toward the monk.

  Hayashi sees what he hasn’t noticed before. The monk’s bald head. Only a monk would shave his head. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? How stupid of him, and now what?

  A builder. I found him in town, says Hayashi. Hired him to rebuild the teahouse. You heard it burned down?

  The man stares at the monk.

  He seems quite competent, adds Hayashi. I’m sure he will do a fine job.

  The official turns to Hayashi, and now his eyes are dark and critical.

  He might have been a monk at one time, says Hayashi. I really don’t know. Hayashi feels a deep trembling, like a wound opening. He tries hard not to hang his head and stare at the ground.

  The official watches the monk. After a while, he turns to Hayashi and pulls a thin white envelope from his breast pocket. He tells Hayashi it’s an official notice to close the temple. No more services.

  Hayashi laughs nervously, clutching the letter in his hand. So few people come here anymore. I can’t imagine what harm it does to anyone.

  The official studies Hayashi. These are orders issued by the emperor’s cabinet members, he says, his voice steady and cold. The official doesn’t wait for Hayashi to respond, but turns and heads toward the gate again.

  Hayashi stands stunned. He waits until his breathing settles before he walks over to the monk. The monk sets down his measuring tool. Not yet, thinks Hayashi. Enough upheaval in my life already, in the monk’s life, too. We can enjoy today, work together on the teahouse. Perhaps the emperor’s men will change their minds. Yes, or I’ll convince them there is no harm done—what harm, really?—and in fact, with such change, it will retain everyone’s sanity to keep some things the same.

  He wanted to make sure I hired the right man to rebuild the teahouse, says Hayashi, still trembling from the encounter. I assured him you would do a fine job. Now, where were we?

  A white wagtail flies down and hops on a long plank. The pale quills, the quick jerk of its head, and this is so much better than thinking about that official and what he must do. How can he close the temple? Why must they make such a demand? There is the bird’s alert black eye. They stare at each other in stunned silence. His lungs empty and gasp and the moment elongates as everything falls away. The bird flies to an overhead branch.

  The monk resumes his sawing and Hayashi stands for a moment longer before he picks up the box of nails and searches for the strongest ones. That bird, he thinks, the gloss of its wings, the flutter of white as it flew.

  When the monk finishes with the board, he pulls out his drawing. The hearth will be between the two entrances and the picture recess, he says.

  The bird is sitting on an overhead branch.

  Look up, says Hayashi.

  The monk stops and peers up.

  He’s still here, says Hayashi, feeling the encounter with the official almost fade. It’s trying to say something.

  The monk almost speaks out, but instead, picks up a hammer and pounds in a nail.

  That piece of wood with the small stain, says Hayashi, it belongs along the perimeter of the window.

  The monk stops. I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.

  Hayashi gestures to the bird. So we can see the birds in the sky.

  I’m not sure that is the point of the tea ceremony.

  But a lovely addition, says Hayashi. We could make the window even larger than normal to see more of the outside. Not just the garden, but perhaps the tree branches where the birds land.

  The monk sets the hammer down. But the tea ceremony should be nothing more than boiling water, making tea, and sipping it. If you are busy watching the birds fly wildly by—

  But the birds—

  If you are watching the birds, are you truly sitting in the room drinking tea? asks the monk, watching Ayoshi step out of the studio.

  Hayashi looks away from the bird and down at the handful of nails still in his palm. Perhaps you’re right.

  The monk picks up his hammer again.

  Hayashi shakes some sawdust from his sleeve. But I think we should at least c
onsider it.

  SATO FINDS AYOSHI HUDDLED on the bench by the lake, throwing small stones into the water. Her face, grim and tight, the color of smoke. The cold wind rolls down from the higher mountains and into the garden. He buttons up his coat and sits beside her.

  Aren’t you cold? he asks.

  She says nothing. He picks up a stone and throws it to the fish. They swim toward the plop of the pebble.

  She throws another stone in the water and watches the smooth surface ripple. How many days has she been painting the same scene over and over? There she is on her back, floating in frigid water, and that current, that hideous current, dragging her to the bottom. She was sure it would be different this morning, but when she saw the same image, she felt a dead white glow in the center of her being.

  I have some news that might cheer you up, says Sato. He tells her he might have a buyer for one of her paintings. A rich American who arrived in the capital the other day and is spending furiously. The man bought an ordinary painting by a little-regarded artist for three times its value. The painting was of mediocre quality of a Kabuki actor.

  Oh? Which one of my paintings?

  The one in the temple. The one in shadows.

  She smiles faintly.

  I think you’ll get a lot of money for it.

  No one ever looks at it.

  Well, it’s settled. I’ll do my best to get a good price. And the person I have in mind to buy it, he’ll look at it. What will you do if you become a rich woman?

  Run away.

  He laughs and clutches her arm. Good. You can come with me.

  Of course she won’t run away. What if Urashi came for her? What if he finally came and she wasn’t here?

  Sato watches the long green grass strands teeter on each other. Your father would be proud, he says.

  Her face collapses. My father?

  He probably wanted you to be a famous artist as much as you did. Maybe more. Or have you forgotten how he always provided you with the best painting teachers, the best paints and paper?

  A fish rises and breaks through the still surface of the water.

  She wraps her arms tighter around her shins and places her chin on her kneecaps. You always liked him, didn’t you? For some reason my father could ignore your obsession with the West. I don’t know why. He thought of you like a son.

  Sato smiles fondly. He has always wanted the best for you.

  She frowns bitterly and throws another pebble into the water. I’ll never see him again and that’s fine with me.

  Sato pulls his coat tighter. Why?

  The cattails rattle and the surface of the lake creases. The clouds come hurling over the mountains and the air chills. A shudder passes through Ayoshi. The first raindrops break open the lake.

  I should get back to work, she says. She rises to go.

  What happened between you and your father? Come inside and sit with me. You’re cold. Look, goosebumps on your neck.

  No, I can’t.

  Then tell me about the baby, he says.

  She stiffens and throws a handful of pebbles into the lake. He waits and stands next to her.

  The fish’s body is a remarkable thing, she says. We’re not built that way, to move so easily with each current.

  He touches his fingertips to her hand.

  She moves her hand away. I’m not like you, she says, beginning to feel herself unravel. You come and go when you want. You do what you please. You don’t belong anywhere. Not here in Japan, probably not America or Europe or wherever you’ve gone.

  No, you’re right. I don’t belong. And maybe you don’t either. Has that ever occurred to you? That you’re trying to swim in the wrong current?

  She turns and faces him. Every day.

  The rain falls steadily, releasing and recreating the tension of the lake’s still surface. They stand there a long time, listening to the wind and the patter of rain.

  My father, she says. There was an old woman, her back so bent and brittle. Ayoshi has never spoken of these things. The woman’s breath, she says, in a half-dreaming, half-grieving state, when she stood over me, a sour bitterness seeped all over. I still remember that horrible odor. Ayoshi picks up a small twig and snaps it.

  It was the middle of the night, her father woke her. With a firm grip on her arm, he led her out the front door to the sleigh. The two horses were already strapped in. Where are we going? she asked, how many times did she ask? Her father sat beside her, staring straight ahead, just the constant clicking of his tongue at the horses. Ayoshi tipped her head back and fell into the sound of the horses trotting. The stars seemed to be falling out of the sky, extinguishing their light as they approached the earth. She thought the world was dying, one star at a time.

  The next day, I was emptied out, she says. She sits again on the stone bench, sinking below awkwardness or discomfort. The silence, strangely calming. I told myself there could be another, but I knew it was a lie. After that, I never saw Urashi again. Ayoshi leans over, tears off a piece of grass, and runs her fingers along the long green stretch of it. My mother threatened seppuku if I brought more shame. She wraps the grass around her wrist and tightens it. The wind blows stronger, tipping the tops of the pine trees. And the baby, she thinks, it would have been almost two years old.

  The rain begins to fall harder.

  Sato stands and pulls her up by the arm. She feels dizzy now for speaking of these things, as if they happened long ago, with the emotion teased out. A raindrop falls on her hand, magnifying everything. She stares at it, in a daze. Neither one says anything for a while.

  I’m sorry, Ayoshi. So sorry.

  She tightens her jaw.

  Does he know? Sato asks.

  She turns to him, slowly registering what he is asking, and then laughs bitterly. I don’t think Hayashi knows anything about me. He probably knows more about that monk than me.

  WONDERFUL WORK, SAYS HAYASHI. A real talent, you have.

  It’s late morning and Hayashi and the monk are taking their break, eating rice cakes and sipping tea. The heaviness the monk felt earlier now feels like dusk has entered his body, a shifting of day into night. His head aches. That man, Sato, he stepped out of the house and followed her down to the lake. They’ve been down there together for quite some time. Whatever are they doing?

  He stands, wiping his hands on his trousers, prepared to walk down to the lake. Hayashi asks if he’s ready to begin again.

  Yes, says the monk. He turns to Hayashi, who is still eating. Please, you finish your meal. He walks over to the pile of wood and picks up a board.

  You are a superb carpenter, says Hayashi.

  No, he thinks, I am a monk; it’s what his uncle did, and before that his great-uncle, on down the line for ten generations. And if he gives it up, what would he be? He senses, however irrational, that he would vanish. The thought makes him shudder. In the beginning, he admits he hated the monastery, he missed his family so, wondered how his mother could have left him there, but enough of that. He is a monk now. He pulls on the rope tied around his waist. He will always be a monk, and they can’t take that away from him. Do you know anything about the Kencho-ji? he asks. Is that temple still standing or have they torn that one down, too?

  Please don’t worry. This is not what the Meiji Restoration is about. It will pass. Please don’t concern yourself.

  He sets the board down. What good can come of this new government? he asks. They are founding it on Buddhist blood.

  I don’t think—

  They killed my teacher.

  Please, there is no reason—

  Someone must speak out.

  —to act rashly. Not now, says Hayashi, his face draining of color.

  I’ll speak against this government.

  These are difficult times. Misguided in many ways, I agree with you. But these things must be handled delicately.

  The monk’s face is red and his eyes fierce. Misguided is hardly the word for it.

  The first raindrops fa
ll and splatter on the porch.

  Hayashi hurriedly explains the new leaders will soon offer free education for everyone, even the peasant’s child will learn, but the monk is barely listening, the words fragmented, a stream of excuses. Reading. Math. Pottery. Learn anything. If a merchant’s son desires, he can become a religious man. An artisan, to a merchant. Like the West, the truth of every man.

  The gray day slurs with his gloomy mood. Except if you want to be a monk, he says.

  The rain comes down harder, a thick silvery sheet of metal. Hayashi gazes out to the green tea fields. I’ll speak to them, says Hayashi, his voice filled with resignation. His feet now throb. He says he must step inside to rest.

  A BONENKAI CELEBRATION, SAYS Sato, raising his glass to the monk, who walks in dripping wet, with his collar and the bottom of his pants frozen stiff by the cold. All day, he has worked alone on the teahouse, in the silence of the rain that eventually turned to snow. A pre—New Year’s party is well under way in the kitchen. A celebration to forget the past year’s misfortunes and welcome a prosperous new year.

  We’re celebrating early, says Sato.

  The monk stands there, bewildered and overwhelmed, trying to take it all in. Two empty sake bottles sit on the kitchen table, and bowls overflow with rice crackers wrapped in seaweed; there’s a plate of mochi, and the aroma of grilled fish swarms the eating room, reminding the monk of his hunger. Sato leans against the counter holding a blue bottle; Hayashi sits at the table, smiling, cutting designs out of washi paper and gluing them onto a wooden paddle. Ayoshi sits across from him, wearing a pale blue kimono with the figures of white cranes. Her face is flushed pink, her dark eyes brightly lit. She is so animated, so lively. Look! Her long hair streams down her back. He’s never seen it released from its binding. It reminds him of long meadow grass.

  Ayoshi hoists her design above her head and waves it. A magnificent yellow bird, its wings spread as if in full flight. Two alert black eyes stare at him.

  Water trickles down the sides of the monk’s face.

  Hayashi turns to the monk. Hot sake for the drenched man.

  The maid brings the monk a glass. Hayashi announces tonight they are making hagoita paddles for the new year.