The Painting

by Nina Schuyler

  He can’t feel his good leg or his stump, and now his body shakes. It feels as if he has been racing through ice air for hours.

  Another image, quick, something to hold onto. He grabs the image of a small-headed man wearing a violet vest and heavy gray coat. He looked at Jorgen as he climbed into the balloon and nodded, as if giving his approval. Behind the man, an ample woman with a pile of gray hair, she leaned toward the balloon, as if she wanted to touch it.

  The balloon drifts lower, and still blackness, as if he’s entered the interior of a huge animal. His mind clenches and cold slaps against his skin, burrows into his bones. He has never been this cold. His stiffened hand instinctively reaches for the cylinder and removes the painting. Under the stars’ flickering light, he slowly unrolls the painting and gazes at it, and not until it begins to happen does he know why he chose to do this. For now he is slipping away from the freezing night, away from the rocking basket, into the expansive blue sky dabbed with white clouds, warm sunlight on her limbs, the tip of her red lips curving into a smile. She is holding him, wrapping him in her elegant clothes, whispering words, taking her fingers and smoothing his forehead, his hair, touching warmth to his cold skin. Slowly Jorgen’s heartbeat settles into a regular warm rhythm.

  He traces the figure of the woman, a gesture of gratitude.

  He stands and looks over the edge of the basket. The balloon has fallen low enough to see the dark body of land. He returns the painting to its cylinder. He is sailing through the freezing air; he should sit down, but he can’t stop looking at the land.

  The jagged-edged horizon, a patch of forest coming up, and now he is hovering above the tree branches; like arms reaching for him, they almost touch him. What he can’t see from the balloon, he imagines: each thread of pine needle, the pale veins coursing a leaf, the dimpled bark, the soft green lichen, the spiderwebs woven between leaves, and there, a small brown bird, perhaps a finch, resting on a branch, its wings tucked tight against its frail body, asleep for the night. And on it goes, from tree to tree and the life below, for he’s never felt so in love with the land.

  NATALIA LIES FLAT ON her belly, and through the telescopic lens she mounted on her rifle, she glasses a Prussian sentry about a hundred yards away. She’s alone now. Most of her fellow soldiers are dead; others turned back or are missing in the nearby town. For days, perhaps more than a week, she doesn’t know how long, she has been alone in these woods, not certain which direction to go, so she just waits. The only other person with her, though he doesn’t know it, is the Prussian who has just discovered her backpack and is untying it. Her mess kit clatters against a rock, her notebook sprays loose papers and dried flowers, scattering them on the snowy ground. He plunges his arm to the bottom and pulls out her treasure, a hunk of cheddar cheese. She found it yesterday in the pack of a dead soldier. He breaks off a section and as he shoves it in his mouth, she smells its pungent rich scent waft through the air. She jams together her jaws, trying not to salivate.

  What makes her glance up? The stirring of tree branches, the call of a barn owl? Through the snow clouds, she glimpses a balloon drifting silently. Ghostlike, haunting, she thinks, and yet moving with such grace. She turns her lens to the balloon and now she can’t find it, hidden by a curtain of mist, and she thinks she might have imagined it, so lonely for human contact, just as she imagined God’s good graces. She shivers and the cold snakes over her. She’s about to put her glass back on the Prussian, but she veers it up again and spots a flash of red and her heart beats faster. Holding it steady in her glass, she watches; unmanned, she decides, but then a shadowy figure appears. A man, by his shape and his size; he must be freezing.

  Be safe, she whispers, and pulls her coat tighter around her neck. Be safe and ride far under the night’s cover. She prays that the man in the balloon will wake in the morning. Prays he will look down not at the steely sea but at trees and small whitewashed houses with cows and sheep in tidy pastures, the fresh skin of the day laid out shiny and smooth. How long has it been since she prayed? She prays he wakes to see the faint peach glow of another day lighting up the fields. She’d give anything to be up in that balloon, looking down. From up there, the earth must seem to offer herself up again and again with food and plenty; from up there, how stunning the world, the oceans and the green grass.

  Which way is he going? She looks at the tree branches swaying. A steady wind east. Perhaps she will find him, stuck in a tree branch or in an open field of wheat; or tucked in a crevice in a mountain or resting next to a campfire. Or maybe she will never find him; he will sail through the skies, never landing. She turns her gun to the Prussian sentry. He’s spotted the balloon. He takes aim, holding steady with his gun, waiting until it is exactly overhead so he won’t miss. There is the head of the man in the balloon, a perfect target. It must be done, she thinks. She pulls the trigger and watches the soldier fall.

  HE LOOKS DOWN FROM the balloon. He drifts along in a sunny, cloudless, morning sky; below, a herd of dairy cows, a man walking out to the pasture, a red handkerchief around the man’s neck.

  Years from now, on such a clear morning, Jorgen will linger, not wanting to leave the spring sugar beet fields, overcome by a desire to be with her, Natalia, his wife, who saved him twice, and she’ll remind him of the way he made her love the world again. Sometimes they stand in front of the painting. Here, she’ll say. These many years later, they find something new: in the right corner, pink petals, a rose blooming.

  JAPAN

  WHAT CAN POSSIBLY BE so fascinating out there? asks Ayoshi. Hayashi and Sato stand side by side, staring out the window at the night sky. She didn’t want supper, preferring to spend the evening in prayer for Urashi, but Hayashi came out to the temple and was uncustomarily insistent. You must have supper, he said. But now look at those two, she thinks, as rigid as stone statues, showing little interest in the evening meal.

  Everything, says Hayashi, his jaw hardening as he continues to gaze out the window. He turns toward her, smiling faintly. There follows a strange, heavy silence.

  Where is the monk? says Sato finally. He turns to go find him.

  No, I should, says Hayashi, and he shuffles down the hallway. Sato walks over to the table and sits across from her.

  I’ll be leaving soon.

  Everything seems to be happening so quickly, as if the release of Urashi has shifted her center of gravity—to where, she doesn’t know.

  A ship departs for Shanghai tomorrow.

  Why must you go now?

  I’ve been here far too long. He pauses. Haven’t you?

  She tugs on the inside of her cheek and feels the color rush from her face.

  Before she can answer, Hayashi returns to the room with the monk.

  The monk gazes at her with soft eyes. Ayoshi quickly looks away, feeling his desire run through her like a wild flame. She turns to Sato, who is watching the monk.

  No, no, says Hayashi. Ayoshi, you sit at the head of the table tonight. You’re the guest of honor.

  Ayoshi looks at Hayashi bewildered.

  Happy birthday, my dear. He leans over and kisses her lightly on the cheek.

  She examines the table again. At each place setting, a folded colorful silk fan. Her fan, the color of dark-red plum leaves. She opens it, and a snowy owl flies straight at her. Hayashi’s signature chop in the corner. She turns it round and round. She hadn’t forgotten, but she assumed he had. How did you remember? she asks.

  Hayashi smiles sheepishly and bows. We’re also celebrating the completion of the teahouse, says Hayashi, a forced cheerfulness to his voice.

  That’s right, says Sato.

  Hayashi motions for the monk to take a seat at the far end of the table, a long stretch from Ayoshi.

  We’ll have a viewing of the teahouse after dinner, says Sato.

  Hayashi sits beside Ayoshi, Sato on her other side. Sato opens a bottle of sake. The dishes of food are passed around and the room grows warmer. What is wrong with Hayashi? He’s so
jittery, fiddling with his sash and darting his gaze out the window again. Sato is saying something in his offhand, aggressive manner. Hayashi rises again, steps into the kitchen, and returns with another bowl of rice.

  Sato stares at the monk’s plate. Such a meager serving? asks Sato.

  The monk sets his bowl of soup down and taps his chopstick lightly against his plate.

  Your self-control tonight is remarkable, says Sato.

  Hayashi coughs uncomfortably. Ayoshi glares at Sato and twists her napkin into a knot.

  As I understand it, self-control is the usual path of a monk, says Sato, and yet you’ve shown little of it.

  The monk deliberately folds his hands. Sometimes a new path opens, one that could never have been foreseen.

  Ayoshi shifts in her chair.

  What do you want? asks Sato, turning to Ayoshi.

  What? she says.

  He points to the dishes on the table. More rice? More sashimi?

  She flushes again. I don’t know.

  He gives her a swift, critical look.

  Hayashi sits up and turns his head to the main entrance.

  What is it? she asks.

  Did you hear something? Hayashi rises and asks Sato to accompany him to the front door.

  The monk and Ayoshi are alone. She feels a cold shiver about her legs.

  I didn’t properly thank you for the funeral, she says.

  He bows, nodding. I’m glad I could do something for you.

  She leans toward him. Something is terribly wrong. I’ve never seen Hayashi so disturbed.

  The monk rises and comes to her end of the table. The funeral, he says. You’ve let him go. There is more room. An opening. Can’t you feel it?

  Perhaps that’s why everything feels so different tonight, she thinks. A spaciousness that wasn’t there before. So much room; how wonderful and how frightening. Here is the monk, gazing at her tenderly, presenting himself to her, like an offering. Isn’t that what she wanted?

  Hayashi and Sato return, and Sato is carrying a big glossy box tied up with a white ribbon.

  It was nothing, says Sato.

  Are you sure? asks Ayoshi.

  Nothing at all, says Sato, handing her the box. Your birthday gift. The monk slides down to his end of the table.

  She sits there, staring at the box.

  Open it, says Sato.

  She removes the lid, and there is the Western dress, a beautiful shade of blue. She holds it up against her body; the skirt is full and the neckline low.

  Try it on, says Sato.

  She is relieved to leave the room. Why did Hayashi remember her birthday this year and not last? she wonders as she walks down the hallway. He’s so anxious and solemn, not the least bit celebratory. She pulls on the new dress and, standing in front of a long mirror, smoothes down the fabric. Perhaps Hayashi is trying to figure out how to fashion a new porcelain bowl, she thinks. Twirling around, she sends the full skirt into a wide swirling circle around her ankles. She presses her hand to her exposed neckline and smiles at herself in the mirror. Enough exposed flesh to excite the imagination, she thinks, laughing nervously. Yes, a spaciousness, and now an opening for something else. She smoothes her hand over the flowing fabric of the skirt, and her eyes soften as she recalls the monk’s desirous gaze.

  Come show us! shouts Sato.

  She walks back into the eating room.

  Sato leaps up, his eyes filled with delight.

  The monk stares glowingly.

  You look beautiful, says Hayashi.

  It is too much, she says.

  Sato bows low. Do you like it? he asks.

  I do, she says, laughing with embarrassment at her admission. I didn’t think I would, but I do. She spins around and shows off the wide skirt. Sato claps and laughs loudly.

  I can see you in a ballroom in London, says Sato.

  Or entertaining guests right here, says Hayashi.

  She turns to the monk, half expecting him to chime in, but he shifts awkwardly and looks at the floor. Ayoshi glances at the dress and suddenly feels too exposed.

  I knew you’d like it, says Sato. You didn’t think you would, but I knew it. You should listen to me more often, Ayoshi.

  AFTER THEY FINISH EATING, Hayashi ushers them outside to view the teahouse. Hayashi takes Ayoshi’s hand, not letting go, and with her by his side, leads the way. They gather around with lanterns and comment on the pine wood, the black clay tiles, glazed and polished with mica powder for better sealing.

  I’m sure Hayashi will give you a wonderful recommendation, says Sato. It’ll be easy for you to find a job when you leave here.

  Of course, says Hayashi.

  Is that what you plan to do, asks Sato, now that you’ve finished here? Become a builder? There is a great need for construction workers.

  Hayashi tells the monk the country is busy redesigning itself. In almost every town near the capital, construction is furious and workers in dire demand.

  It sounds like a splendid idea, says Sato, his voice filled with sudden insistence. When do you think you might go? Tomorrow?

  That might be the perfect timing, says Hayashi.

  What? says Ayoshi.

  The monk looks pale.

  Ayoshi turns to Hayashi, incredulous. What are you saying?

  He’s been here a while, says Sato.

  And so have you, she says.

  There is a long, charged silence.

  I’m not sure what I’ll do next, says the monk. Perhaps go to another monastery. Maybe to Kyoto, he says, looking at her hand in Hayashi’s; he hasn’t let go of her hand. Nor has she released his. Or maybe back to the mountain. Or who knows? The capital. He holds up his empty hands in front of him, as if considering the possibilities.

  THE SCENT OF BLOWN-OUT candles and burned incense lingers in the eating room. Dirty dishes litter the table. After the viewing of the teahouse, the monk abruptly excused himself and left for the temple. Now the eating room feels empty, she thinks. The evening sags into disturbing solemnity. Sato brings out the playing cards and suggests they retire to the Western room.

  Ayoshi leans back on the couch and suddenly feels exhausted. She looks at Hayashi. From where is this new wellspring of power coming? she wonders. Hayashi keeps looking at his cards, as if refusing to meet her gaze. Sato wears a sardonic smile on his face, as if secretly pleased with himself. There is something between them that wasn’t there before, she thinks. She picks up her sake glass, looks at it absentmindedly, and sets it down again. The whole evening seems choreographed.

  Your turn, says Sato.

  What? she says, frowning.

  Play your card.

  She sets down her cards. Both of you were impolite to the monk tonight, she says, no longer able to stay away from the dangerous edge of the night’s strain.

  Hayashi flinches and holds his breath.

  It’s horrible the way you treated him. Sato’s behavior doesn’t surprise me, but Hayashi, what is wrong with you?

  I’m sorry, but I must insist that he leave, says Hayashi.

  She crosses her arms in front of her. Why must you insist?

  It’s my fault. I’ve put us in danger.

  How?

  The two men look at each other, and then she knows. Sato has said something to Hayashi about the monk. Not revealed the whole truth of it, but manipulated the situation to convince Hayashi to send the monk away. And with the monk gone, Sato must think he will have her. Sato. Such a selfish, arrogant man, she thinks. Always getting—by whatever means, it’s no matter to him—what he wants, but he won’t have her. The world may bend for him, but she won’t. She sits, transfixed by this new state, only now aware that she still clung to the fantasy of leaving with him.

  Hayashi tells her about the demand to close the temple. I shouldn’t have let the Buddhist funeral proceed, he says, shaking his head dolefully. I should have stopped it. To let the monk stay puts us in jeopardy.

  Well, what has happened? she says. Nothing. Sato
has you all worked up for no reason.

  I did nothing of the sort, says Sato, his tone weighted with feigned indignation.

  Nothing has happened yet, but there is the potential, says Hayashi, pulling at a hangnail.

  There’s the potential for anything to happen, she says, rising. I’m going to find him. I want you to apologize. Tell him he’s free to stay here as long as he wants.

  Ayoshi, says Sato. I don’t think that’s wise.

  She fixes him with a fierce gaze. I don’t care what you think.

  Sato imperceptibly jerks backward and then smiles bitterly. Hayashi hangs his head.

  She marches to the kitchen, feeling her cheeks heat up. She steps outside onto the wooden porch and walks to the temple. How dare Sato intrude like that. She won’t have it. Her heart beats louder. She opens the door.

  Enri?

  Only the stillness of the room. She feels herself quiver, her blood loudly pulsing at her temples. She steps inside. Where is he? There is his bedding and notebook. She walks briskly back to the house, feeling irritable, her new dress swishing like a cool wind.

  I can’t find him, she says, standing in front of them, forcing them to look at her.

  Maybe he finally figured out he overstayed his welcome, says Sato.

  You never liked him, she says. Where does he have to go?

  She turns to Hayashi. What has come over you?

  THE MONK RUNS TO the stable and saddles up the horse. He wants to go to town and get drunk. No, he wants her. The funeral ceremony was held so they could be together. How could it be otherwise? He drives the horse harder, digging his heels into its sides, and the horse snorts and stretches out its stride.

  As he heads to town, the thought emerges, what if he’s wrong? What if the funeral meant nothing? How many other lovers have there been since that man? The way she held onto Hayashi’s hand. But that can’t be. There is no love between Ayoshi and Hayashi, as distant as two rocks in a pool of white pebbles. As he rides through the night, he gathers her up in his imagination, kissing her, kissing her everywhere, the warmth of her pressed to him. Why should they live without each other, the days slipping by, colorless and bland?