She instinctively bows her head.
Pierre finishes his glass and sets it on the table with a flare. I have one small favor to ask.
Jorgen watches her carefully.
A small request, really.
She lets out her breath. Go ahead.
I’d prefer if you didn’t use our last name, he says. It can’t be good for my business to have my sister join the army. It is against custom and protocol for a woman of our social class to do such a thing. You must understand, don’t you?
Of course. Whatever you want, Pierre.
Pierre feigns surprise. Whatever I want? Whatever I want? Someone, please take note.
Svensk looks up from his pile of food.
Then I want you to change your last name. Use something else. How about Uchard or Zeller or Bocher or Capoul or Bourbonne? Our honorable father is crying in his grave to think his daughter is doing such a thing.
Fine, she says, the slightest irritation crossing her brow. Edmond would never demand such a thing.
No, he was a saint and I am the devil. But you’ve always thought that, haven’t you? So easy to divide the world up into stark contrasts. The mind of a simple girl.
Jorgen picks up his fork and fights the urge to plunge it into Pierre’s pudgy hand. Pierre sits there now, smiling sarcastically, while his sister seems to have left the table, flung her spirit far from this miserable dinner. She’s going to leave any moment, and why shouldn’t she? Jorgen shifts in his chair uncertainly and announces all the lofts are almost done.
Pierre’s mood shifts magically, and he is jubilant and triumphant again. Wonderful! The Danes are good workers, after all. For a while, I had my doubts. Natalia, did you know Jorgen threatened to walk off the job? He was going to try to stop you from leaving. God knows what he planned to do.
I’ll be quite fine, she says, her face expressionless.
I told him it was a lost cause. Once you put your terrible mind to something, it is done. Do you know when she was a young girl, she pleaded with my father to give books to the poor children in our neighborhood, but my dear father wouldn’t support such a thing, so Natalia took up tailoring, sewing coats and trousers for the people of our small town. With the money she made, she bought them books. It was utterly embarrassing. These people didn’t want books. They wanted food or liquor or medical supplies and so they ended up hanging around our Chaumont estate, waiting for handouts. Which she proceeded to give them from the back kitchen door! It was abominable. I charged at those beggars with a pitchfork to drive them away.
Natalia sets down her wine glass, her hand trembling.
Jorgen is the same way, says Svensk, pouring himself more wine and stabbing his dirty fork in the air at Jorgen. Not giving things to people, but putting his mind to something. He was the smartest in our class. The teacher helped him get into the university. Didn’t you get some money? A scholarship? But he dropped out or got kicked out, I’m not sure.
Jorgen doesn’t say anything.
He could have done anything. The teachers were always praising him. His father was a mean son of a bitch. His mom got sick, and his father was never around—always at work, at the bar, or gambling. Debtor’s prison for a while. Everyone thought Jorgen was going to take care of his mother, since his father was no good. But you just took off one day. You just left. Even your mom—
That’s enough, says Jorgen, scooting his chair from the table.
Pierre tells Natalia he saw a huge bull mount a cow this afternoon. He’s had too much wine, thinks Jorgen, and he’s trying to shock her.
Thank you for the meal, she says, setting down her napkin and rising. Now I should be going.
You never forget your manners, do you Natalia? says Pierre. A redeeming quality and it makes it difficult to dislike you completely. Oh, you are quite welcome. A cause for celebration. Your leaving and all. Before you go, you must see my newest acquisition. Go and see the birds, the ugly bunch of pigeons shitting in the backyard.
She hesitates.
It’ll take just a moment, says Jorgen.
She follows him out the back door and they stand on the porch. The blackness of the sky is speckled with stars and the melody of gentle cooing comes from underneath the blankets. They walk to the first loft and peer in. Jorgen stands beside her. The air is filled with winter cold. Something pools in his throat and stays there.
They will wither if left unseen, she says solemnly.
He feels flimsy and shaky and she feels so solid, so sure of herself. What could he possibly say that would make her pause and reconsider?
Look at their wings, he says. Their feathers are so dry and clean. And somewhere in that body, they know how to fly home.
She doesn’t say anything.
I’ve always thought of them as dirty birds, says Jorgen. Scavengers. Living off garbage and far away from their natural cliff homes, but up close they are quite beautiful. He tells her this batch comes from Tours.
The thunder of cannons rings in the far off hills.
You didn’t eat much dinner, he says.
No.
He means well. Pierre. Giving you a dinner.
No he doesn’t, she says, directing her dull eyes at him. He is despicable, but that is how he means to be. Natalia’s hand is resting on the cage. One of the pigeons pecks at her palm. He gently takes her hand and moves it away from the cage.
Your hand is cold, he says.
She puts it in her pocket, turns to him, and fastens her eyes on him. What were you going to say to make me stay?
He leans against one of the lofts. What can he say? What should he say? He pauses. She is standing, waiting. I just want to make sure you know what you are doing, but I guess I already asked you that.
Yes, you did.
You’re going, aren’t you?
She nods.
She buttons her coat to the top. Her face is blank and steady. He searches for the words he meant to give her. She is shivering now. What can he say?
Your brother Edmond once mentioned someone named Henri.
She looks at him bewildered and slowly begins to shake her head.
This Henri. A boyfriend. Edmond told me. Jorgen says it before he knows what he’s doing.
Edmond mentioned him, says Jorgen. Your brother told me about him.
She drops her head down and hugs herself. Henri was never a boyfriend. A good friend, yes, but not a boyfriend. And—she hesitates. He’s gone. In the war. Like Edmond. I never told Edmond because I didn’t want him to lose heart. She pauses and looks across the dark yard.
Jorgen feels something break inside. He grabs his hands together and cracks his knuckles. Clouds are racing in from the north.
Maybe I shouldn’t have prayed so hard for Edmond to live, she says. He was in such pain at the end. Maybe I should have prayed for him to die.
He touches her shoulder and she stiffens.
What else is there? he thinks. What else is there to do? I have something for you, he says finally.
He leads her upstairs through the back door. There, in the corner, his well-kept rifle. He tells her it has a farther range than hers. Better than the majority of guns used by the French, or the Prussians. Along with the rifle, he hands her a bag of metal cartridges.
She lifts the gun to her shoulder, walks over to the window, and aims at the tree. She pulls the trigger of the unloaded gun. He feels the ripple of excitement upon hearing the gun’s cocking and firing.
I have come to love the smell of gunpowder, she says, her voice dreamy.
He nods, knowing the intoxication of the smell.
She recocks the gun and fires again. Thank you, she says, and touches him lightly on the forearm.
For the first time all evening, he feels her presence. She is here, he thinks, she is finally here, and he reaches underneath the bed. The laughter of Pierre and Svensk rings up from the first floor of the house. I wanted to show you this, he says.
He sets the painting on the bed and lights another lantern. His heart bea
ts faster. Yes, this is what he meant to show her, not the birds or the gun, but this. She will see and something will shift inside. She steps closer to the bed. He slowly lifts the cardboard covering, and there is the green of the hill and her lacquer black hair, her ivory complexion, and the shading on her face. So much more vibrant than the last time he looked. And look! The dark red leaves glossy and fluttering around her body and his. A wonderful spring day, look at the yellow flowers all around them, it must have just rained, everything shiny and full of color. There, the tiny village down below. Is that a rice farmer with his straw hat and hoe? The air smells of flowers and honey, he is sure, and her kiss, the bow of her pink mouth, so tender. Her feet are bare, and her toes, such small feet. And the way the man is gazing at her, such tenderness, and yes, such love. An aliveness to everything, a vitality uncontained, and not just the man and woman. The trees are singing and swaying and the long grass is rubbing up against the flowers. The sun is melting on the world below and the sky holds everything, a thick, blue container. And there’s a small bird. He smiles. A brown bird with a tinge of orange on its wings. He thought the couple was parting. But no, he was wrong. They are in love, they can’t bear any part of their flesh not touching. He has never drawn anything in his life, but if he did, if he could, he would want to be the maker of this painting.
Pretty, she says, leaning away from the painting. She pulls out her pocket watch. I should get going.
His soft face tightens and his jaw drops. Her eyes are distant and glazed, as if she’s considering something remote.
What? he says.
It’s a fine painting, but I’ve got a lot to do before I leave.
He quickly covers it up again and slides it underneath the bed. She turns to the door. He follows her numbly down the hallway. They reach the top of the staircase, the gun clutched to her side. He keeps following her as she steps down the stairs and outside.
She stops on the front porch and turns to him. Well, I’ll be going.
I’m sure you’ll be fine, he says. He leans over to pat her, but she steps toward him, into the open arm, and now he is hugging her, she is lingering there, in the nest of his arms. Natalia and Jorgen stand under the burning streetlight. She thanks him again for the gun. What is the scent of birds? she asks.
I don’t know. Wind. Air.
That’s your smell, she says. I will remember it.
THE AIR BITES AT his ears and exposed hands. The cold freezes his nostrils. He watches her lonely figure walk across the park, the bright gas lights highlighting her slender form, his gun slung on her shoulder. He wants to call out, say something, but instead, he just watches.
His stump aches and he’s about to follow her, but he hears them, calling louder, demanding him. He’s learned their sounds; this one is hunger.
He steps inside, grabs the feed bag, and heads to the backyard. Between his fingers, he rolls the polished, shiny seeds around and around. He didn’t mean to give her his gun. Why did he do it?
They cry again. All right, he says. All right.
One bird has rubbed off a patch of feathers against the metal wiring of the cage. The bird wants to fly, he thinks. He wants out, and who could blame him? So what if his wages are docked; Pierre, so preoccupied, probably doesn’t yet know how many birds he has.
He unfixes the metal notch and slips his hand around the body of the bird. Feels its heat, its small heart beating. He stares at the bird’s bright orange eyes. Like the color of the bird’s wings in the painting. Or the small touch of lichen on the rock by the Japanese woman’s foot. Natalia did not truly see the painting. Is it excitement of the unknown that pulled her away, or despair? He knows the answer. He returns the bird to its cage, pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket, and writes, Paris will lose, but there is a woman who will fight without fear because she believes she has already lost everything.
He reads what he’s written, shuddering at this bald truth. He rolls the message up tightly and ties it with a thread to a tail feather. Tossing the bird into the air, he watches it flutter against the wind, flying up to the tree branches, up and up, and beyond.
JAPAN
SHE WILL LOOK STUNNING in such a gown, thinks Sato, casting an approving gaze at the picture of the Western-style dress. He sets the picture on the tailor’s cutting table and glances around the shop for fabrics. Why shouldn’t she have a beautiful gown? Japan is changing, and Ayoshi should shed her dusty kimono and wear this full-skirted dress with the tight-fitting waist.
The old tailor rests his age-spotted hand on the table and shakes his head in dismay. So many curves for everyone to see, he says. He looks again at the picture, then out his storefront window, as if the sight of the Western dress is too much to bear.
Soon every Japanese woman will want one, says Sato, opening his wallet.
The tailor refuses until Sato offers him triple his rate.
At the house the old man takes Ayoshi’s measurements. She stands atop a small wooden crate in the receiving room, which is covered in ten tatami mats. What if she began the painting with wildflowers? she thinks, searching the swatches of colorful fabric lying on the floor, a palette beckoning for a spring painting. The tailor measures from her hip to her ankle.
Soon, this will be what everyone considers beautiful, says Sato.
Her arms are extended out from her sides. I don’t know. Do you really think beauty is so whimsical?
Smart girl, mumbles the old man, a straight pin clenched between his two lips. The tailor excuses himself, reaches for her wrist, and measures the length of her arm.
Sato paces around the room. Japan is in the midst of a great upheaval. And yes, indeed, I think something can come along more beautiful.
She lifts her arms above her head for the tailor. The tailor marks the cloth with chalk. How disconcerting, she thinks, and the more she considers it, the more agitated she becomes. What happens to the old beautiful object? she asks. Is it tossed in the garbage? How horrible for one so easily to usurp the other.
Sato stops pacing. No, no. The old beauty is treated with generosity, he says. Remember when you danced as a girl, you undid your obi so the bottom of your kimono swirled? I am imagining that now. Your dancing in this Western dress in a large ballroom. I’ll escort you and when you enter the room, everyone will stop and look at the new beauty.
You wouldn’t know what to do with me, Sato, she says.
What do you mean? We’d have a grand time, a wonderful time. I’d show you the marvelous sights.
And if I didn’t want to see them? If I wanted to stay in my room and paint all day?
Oh, you wouldn’t do that. You’d want to see everything.
I’m not going anywhere with you.
He smiles a secret, knowing smile and resumes his pacing.
Thin, she thinks, studying herself in the tailor’s long mirror. Too thin. My face has more angles to it. I am becoming old. She puts her hand on her cheek and pushes down hard. Soon my hair will have streaks of gray. And there, a hint of a line running from my nose to my mouth. She turns away from the mirror.
Hayashi walks into the room. You’ve ordered a new kimono? he asks.
No, a gift from Sato, she says.
Sato hands him the picture.
Sato, you are too generous, says Hayashi, his brow puckering. Much too generous.
It’s the least I could do for your hospitality, says Sato, bowing.
Ayoshi looks at Hayashi gazing at the picture of the dress, his face flushing, his mouth bending into a frown. He’s probably thinking it’s too revealing. How will someone know the status of a woman? she wonders. Will the dress come in different styles, like a kimono, some with regular-size sleeves to show the woman is married? Will only the younger women wear bright colors? And where will the family crest go?
She’ll look lovely, don’t you think? says Sato, looking at Ayoshi with admiration.
Of course, says Hayashi, his voice curt.
She sees Hayashi wince. Still not recov
ered from the night of dancing and the long day of construction work. Today he did not have the strength to work beside the monk.
Go away, she says. Both of you. She steps down from the crate and picks up a blue-and-peach-colored fabric swatch.
We are not worthy of such generous—
Oh, I’ll hear none of that, says Sato, interrupting Hayashi.
She picks up a patch of fabric. An abrupt blue, she thinks. This one, she says, handing it to the tailor.
Yes, says Sato, his hands jittery and tapping his sides.
For the first time this morning, she hears the hammering of nails. Her heart pounds. Suddenly nothing in the house or the garden feels right. She walks over to the window and watches a Japanese maple relinquish a leaf. She’s growing old and can’t stand another minute in this house.
HAYASHI LOOKS DOWN AND without hesitating smashes the left side of the bowl. It’s too excessive, this gift of a dress, he thinks. A bottle of sake, sweets from the bakery, those are fine, but this gift costs thousands of yen, he’s sure. He pinches the clay and tries to imagine that different bowl, the one Ayoshi said she liked. Did it expand at the midpoint or below that?
Excuse me, says Sato, stepping into the studio. I hope I’m not interrupting.
No, not at all. He punches in the other side. We are surrounded by the gardens from the Heian Period, a time when Japan was seeped in beauty, and I can’t seem to make anything that’s close to that.
Sato stands by Ayoshi’s desk and fingers a piece of blank paper.
From 794 to 1185 there was the development of calligraphy, the painting style yamato-e, and the golden age for poetry, says Hayashi. The most compelling work, Lady Murasaki’s epic, Tale of Genji.
The clay is now collapsing on itself, returning to its original shape. Sato stares at the dilapidated bowl. Yes, an interesting time, says Sato. I hope you will accept my gift to Ayoshi.
Hayashi mashes the bowl into a lump of clay. It’s rather extravagant.
We’re old friends, you know. She’s my dearest friend. Sato sits in Ayoshi’s chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles.
Yes, says Hayashi, too loudly. You’ve already told me that. Truthfully, I am partial to the kimono. I think we ought to honor and respect our past. This Western dress seems rather objectionable.
The Painting Page 19