The Samurai's Garden

by Gail Tsukiyama

  I lay down on the cool blanket of moss and closed my eyes. I might have fallen asleep, but sounds outside the fence revived me. At first I thought it was Matsu, so I lay my head down again. Though he was nice enough to leave me some of his magazines, I was tired of trying to get the simplest conversation out of him.

  But the sound of whispering voices grew louder. I sat up to see two shadows moving around on the other side of the fence. I tried to make out what was being said, but they spoke in hushed, hurried tones. I was about to get up when I felt something brush the top of my head. I looked up to see a shower of white petals fall in my direction, scattering on the ground around me, dropping like little boats into the pond. I jumped up and could hear two girls laughing aloud as I rushed to the gate. But by the time I swung the gate open, they were already running down the dirt road away from me. I yelled for them to stop. I only wanted to speak to them, but they continued to run, never turning back.

  OCTOBER 5, 1937

  Yesterday morning my father arrived from Kobe. He came unexpectedly, walking from the train station without telling us of his arrival. Matsu, who was outside tending his garden, greeted him first. When I heard Matsu’s voice, which was unusually loud and excited, I wandered out from my room to see what was going on. At the front door, the brightness of the sun blinded me a moment before my sight adjusted to the figure of my father standing there, wiping his glasses. I ran up and threw my arms around him, almost knocking him down I was so happy.

  “Ba-ba, why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met you at the station.”

  My father put his glasses back on and smiled. “I only knew myself at the last minute. There was so much work at the office, I barely made the train. Now, stand back and let me see what this fresh air has done for you.”

  I took a few steps back and stood up straight. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “You still look too thin,” he answered. Then, looking at Matsu, my father said teasingly, “Matsu, aren’t you feeding my boy enough?”

  Matsu walked over to my father rubbing his hands against his soiled pants. “He eats like a bird,” he answered, picking up my father’s suitcase and walking into the house.

  Last night at dinner, my father drank sake and seemed relaxed as we ate rice, chicken, and pickled turnips in my grandfather’s study. I was happy just having someone to speak to again.

  “How are you feeling, Stephen?” my father asked. He lifted the small cup of sake to his mouth, so that just his eyes watched mine.

  “I’ve been feeling well. The chest pains have disappeared and I’m coughing less,” I answered.

  My father brought down his cup and smiled. “And you’re enjoying your stay here?”

  “Yes, for the most part, but I miss everyone. It’s rather lonely here.”

  “I know, Stephen, but it won’t be for much longer. When you’re well again, this period of your life will simply be a quiet memory.”

  I looked hard at my father, his graying hair and kind eyes, only to realize it had been a long time since I had so closely felt his presence. After Pie was born, she seemed to dominate my parents’ attention. Then in Hong Kong, and even in Kobe, there were always family or business problems to keep us from really speaking to one another. But here in Tarumi it’s different. Even the light is revealing; you can’t miss the smallest nuance, the slightest sound. It’s as if the world were concentrated into just these small rooms. I wonder if it appears the same for him.

  OCTOBER 6, 1937

  Today my father and I went down to the beach. It was still warm enough, so I swam while he sat on the sand in a wooden chair under a large yellow umbrella Matsu had set up. Wearing white slacks, a white shirt and hat, he looked nothing like the father I’m used to, dressed in severe, dark business suits. He appeared more like an acquaintance of our family, someone I hadn’t seen in a long time.

  I didn’t swim very long before I was back sitting beside him on the beach. I felt like a small child again. We spoke of how it was when I was a young boy, and how I had always loved the water.

  “Did you swim much as a boy?” I asked.

  My father laughed and said, “I was afraid to put my head in the water. It was never easy for me as It is for you.”

  “You can’t swim?” I asked, astonished at the fact that I didn’t know. Usually when we came to Tarumi, it was Ching who brought us to the beach. She would sit on the sand screaming for us to be careful, hot and uncomfortable in her dark cotton tunic always buttoned up to her neck.

  “I can float, just long enough for someone to come and save me,” he then added.

  “I’ll teach you.”

  “Perhaps on my next visit,” my father smiled.

  I felt sad knowing our time together was coming to an end. He would have to be back in Kobe the following day. I fought back the sharp sting of loneliness returning as we sat in a comfortable silence.

  “What’s the situation like in Shanghai?” I asked, hungry for any news. “I don’t hear much here.”

  “It’s not good,” my father answered, his face becoming serious. “Warplanes have bombed Shanghai incessantly. What the bombs don’t destroy, the fires they start do. So many innocent lives have been lost.” He paused, shaking his head. Then he looked at me and said, “I’ll have some newspapers sent to you.”

  “What do you think will happen after they capture Shanghai?” I persisted.

  “They will most likely keep moving south.”

  “Do you think they’ll ever get as far as Hong Kong?”

  My father lifted his hat and wiped his brow. “It’s possible,” he finally answered.

  We stayed quiet for a while, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  “Can you tell me something about Matsu-san?” I suddenly asked.

  My father squinted down at me. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why has he stayed alone in Tarumi for all these years?”

  “Tarumi has always been his home.”

  I spread my legs out on the warm sand. “But when he was young, didn’t he ever want to see other places, raise a family of his own?”

  My father laughed. “I can see you haven’t gotten much out of Matsu, have you?”

  “He doesn’t say much,” I answered.

  “He never did. Even when I used to come here as a boy I remember Matsu always keeping to himself, only at ease talking with his sisters. One of his sisters, the younger one, Tomoko, was very pretty and had caught the eye of many a boy.”

  “Did she catch your eye?”

  “I was too shy to do anything.” He smiled to himself. “Besides, I was the owner’s son, and we were kept apart by class and custom. Your grandfather and grandmother had other plans for me in those days.”

  “So you never had anything to do with Matsu and his sisters?” I asked, burying my foot in the sand, where I could still feel some coolness.

  “We were children. Sometimes we’d play together when they came to help their father with the garden. Most of the time, they stayed at the house they lived in near the village.”

  “What was Matsu like at my age?”

  My father leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment before answering. “Matsu was like a bull, his energy pent up, as if he was ready to break out at any moment. Why he never did, we’ll never know. There were rumors that he loved a girl in town. She moved away, or married someone else. I’m not sure which. Then his sister Tomoko suddenly died, and Matsu seemed to lose all his steam.”

  “You don’t know what happened?” I asked, eager for answers.

  My father shook his head. “I believe his sister had some kind of accident. By then, I was coming to Tarumi less and less and had only heard scant rumors of what happened.”

  “His other sister lives in Tokyo now,” I said.

  “She married and moved there.”

  “But why didn’t Matsu leave here? What would keep him alone here all of his life?”

  My father laughed at the urgency i
n my voice. “If you can get anything out of Matsu, I’ll say you’ve accomplished quite a feat. He isn’t the kind who will likely tell you his thoughts. Let’s just assume he has found some sort of peace here in Tarumi, and leave it at that.”

  I kicked some sand away from me and remained silent. Matsu scared away most people with his aloofness, but I saw something more. He seemed to have a story no one had bothered to discover.

  OCTOBER 8, 1937

  My father returned to Kobe yesterday. Matsu remained at the house, allowing me to accompany him to the station alone. As we waved good-bye at the train station, he was again the father I recognized in a business suit. Walking back to the house, I felt such an emptiness, I wanted to cry.

  Matsu was in the garden. He was stooped by the pond grumbling to himself as he picked up the wet flower petals which had showered the garden every few days. I still hadn’t had any luck meeting the two girls who threw them over the fence, but I knew it was just a matter of time.

  Matsu looked up when he heard me close the gate. He was almost shy as he bowed and spoke. “Your o-tsan is safely on his way back to Kobe?”

  I nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”

  Matsu straightened. “I’m going to visit a friend who lives in a small mountain village near here,” he said, his eyes avoiding mine. “I wondered if you would like to come with me?”

  I looked at him and smiled, unable to conceal my surprise. “I would be happy to go with you!” I quickly answered before he had time to change his mind.

  “Good, then we’ll go after lunch,” he said.

  I watched Matsu turn around and walk back to the house, still clutching a handful of wet flower petals.

  Yamaguchi was a small village in the mountains, Matsu said. He often visited to deliver supplies to a friend. We walked the two miles or so up a narrow, rocky, brush-lined dirt road. Ahead of us I could see the hilly slopes and large pine trees, which could easily cover up any signs of life.

  “Yamaguchi is also called the Village of Lepers,” Matsu said, as we walked slowly up the road. “When some of those who had the disease were no longer wanted by others in town, they took what few belongings they had and went up into the mountains, hoping to die peacefully. Away from the cruelties of the healthy.”

  “Aren’t you afraid to go there?” I asked hesitantly.

  Matsu walked straight ahead. I thought he wasn’t going to answer, when he suddenly looked right at me and said, “The first time I went, I wasn’t sure what to expect. After all, lepers from all over Japan found their way to Yamaguchi, simply hoping to be accepted, to be swallowed up by the mountain.” Matsu looked down at the path again and then walked on. “I began to visit a friend there—someone from my youth. No one knew. I was young and healthy. And I remember being told long ago by a visiting doctor that there was nothing to fear. Leprosy wasn’t a disease that could be spread by simple contact.”

  When Matsu’s voice stopped, I realized he was several steps ahead of me and had turned to wait for me to catch up. I felt a shortness of breath as I drew in more air and let out several long sighs. “I’m fine,” I said, increasing my pace and moving past Matsu up the hill.

  “Maybe we should visit another day,” Matsu said, raising his voice to make sure I heard.

  I stopped and turned back to him. “I’m really fine!” I said, with such conviction that Matsu caught up, then continued up the path alongside of me.

  The village of Yamaguchi stood in a clearing on the gradual slope of the mountain, hidden away by tall pine trees. Small wooden houses sat in a cluster like any other village. I stopped at the outskirts and let my eyes wander over the tranquil sight. From the distance, the villagers appeared just like Matsu and me. Men were gathered in small groups sipping tea and talking, while others worked in small gardens, and women sat mending clothes. Only with closer scrutiny did I begin to see that the houses were painstakingly pieced together with mismatched scraps of wood. And while some villagers had their heads and hands bandaged, others freely displayed their raw scabs and open wounds. I felt a strange curiosity, rather than fear. In China, lepers had always been feared and shunned. I had heard stories of how they were forced to live on the streets, left to beg or eat rats, while they simply rotted away.

  I stood a long time taking it all in. When I finally came out of my trance, Matsu was studying my face with an unusual intensity. He continued to watch me and finally said, “You don’t have to be afraid. I wouldn’t have brought you here if there were any danger.”

  I smiled at his concern. “I’m afraid for them,” I said, quick to cover my cough.

  Matsu laughed, then pointed toward the far end of the village. “My friend’s house is that way,” he said.

  We walked slowly through the village. There was a distinct smell of eucalyptus and something else medicinal. For the first time in my life I saw what it meant to be a leper, a disgraced one. They seemed to watch me with just as much curiosity. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t take my eyes off their wounds; the missing fingers and toes, the large, gaping holes in the sides of their faces, the mangled features that had once been noses and ears. It looked as if they were all wearing monstrous masks that I kept waiting for them to remove.

  Matsu must have understood my thoughts. He suddenly stopped, turned to me, and said, “Most of them came to this village as young men and women. Now they are too old and set in their ways to move. Even though the Japanese government has acknowledged their situation and would gladly move them to better facilities. Good or bad, Yamaguchi has been their home.”

  I watched as Matsu then nodded and exchanged pleasantries with several of the villagers.

  From some doorways I could also smell the strong, sweet aroma of tea which filled me and my parched throat with longing.

  “Who is the handsome young man, Matsu?” one man asked, taking a few steps closer. His right arm was a gnarled raw stump which looked like it had been eaten away.

  “The son of my Danasama, my master,” Matsu answered, walking on without a pause.

  I smiled at all of them self-consciously, then followed Matsu as if he were the master.

  We walked to the far end of the village, where there were few houses and the pine trees thickened. Matsu slowed down as we approached a small, sturdier-looking house almost hidden among the trees.

  “Who lives here?” I asked, catching my breath.

  “A friend,” Matsu answered. As he led me toward the house, I noticed how his steps lightened, his body relaxed, and he seemed almost young again.

  I stood behind Matsu as he tapped three times on the door and waited, blowing air through his teeth to create a small whistling sound. I’d never seen Matsu so exuberant and was curious to see who lived there. Within moments the door opened just enough for a head, veiled in black, to peek out.

  “Sachi-san, it’s me,” Matsu said, gently.

  The woman stepped back and opened the door wider, allowing the sunlight to brighten the clean, spare, white room behind her. She looked away from Matsu toward me and held her place behind the door. “Matsu?” she said softly, watching me closely.

  Matsu glanced back at me, then said, “This is Stephen-san, he’s a friend.”

  “Konnichiwa,” I said, smiling and bowing, trying to put her at ease.

  The woman stepped back and bowed humbly. Matsu entered the small house, and with a slight wave of his hand urged me to follow. I did, anxious to know more about the timid woman who lived within it. The room smelled of the pine branches which sat in a vase on a low table in one corner. Next to the vase were two small, shiny black stones. Other than the table and a few cushions neatly stacked to the side, the room was bare.

  “I didn’t know you would come today, Matsu,” the woman said, keeping her head bowed so low I couldn’t see her face under the black scarf. Her voice was soft and hesitant.

  “It was a nice day to take a walk. Anyway, since when do I need an invitation to visit you, Sachi?” Matsu said, teasingly.

&
nbsp; Sachi laughed, looking down and away from Matsu.

  “I will bring some tea,” she then said shyly. She adjusted the black scarf so that it covered her face as she turned to leave the room.

  “Is she?” I asked, without completing my sentence.

  Matsu walked to the window and looked out. “Yes,” he said softly, “she’s a leper.”

  We stood so quietly for a few moments that the muted sounds coming from the kitchen filled the room. It was strange to be standing in a different house with Matsu, seeing him for the first time in a new light. He seemed gentler, less in command.

  “This is a nice house,” I finally said.

  Matsu nodded his approval.

  Sachi returned carrying a tray of tea and crackers. When we were seated on the cushions, I looked up to examine the face of our hostess. She was older than I had first thought, with a slender build and quick movements. When Sachi leaned forward to serve the strong green tea, her black scarf slipped a little from the left side of her face. Underneath I could see where the ulcers had eaten away her flesh, leaving white, scaly scabs, creating a disfigured mass as her half-closed left eye strained to open. When she saw my gaze, Sachi quickly looked down and re-covered the side of her face. As far as I could see, only her face and left hand seemed affected by the disease; her smooth, white right hand and fingers were untouched.

  “More tea?” she asked, beginning to rise.

  “Please,” I answered, my face flushed and embarrassed.

  Matsu rose quickly before her and said, “Let me get it,” disappearing into the kitchen before Sachi had time to say anything. Very slowly, she lowered her body back down onto the cushion and turned just enough so that only the right side of her face was exposed to me. While the left side of her face had been devastated, the unblemished right side was the single most beautiful face I’d ever seen.

  “I hope we’re not disturbing you,” I said, my voice sounding young and eager.