“How was your swim?” Matsu asked, hearing me approach.
“It was great,” I answered. “I finally talked to the two girls I told you about.”
“So they do exist.”
“They live in town.”
Matsu turned around to face me and smiled. “Did you tell them to stop throwing flowers into my garden?”
“I forgot,” I confessed.
Matsu laughed. “Were you so captivated by them?”
“I barely got to say anything before they ran away again.”
“They’ll be back,” Matsu said, matter-of-factly.
“I hope,” I said, more to myself than to Matsu.
“How could they resist a handsome young man like you?”
I laughed, “They have, until now.”
“It’s part of the game,” Matsu said, “you’ll see.”
I was about to ask Matsu how he knew so much about the strategies of two young girls, but before I could, he cleared his throat and said, “Sachi has sent a note inviting us for lunch. Are you free tomorrow, or will you be meeting your new friends?”
“What time should I be ready?” I asked.
Matsu laughed. “We’ll leave before noon.”
OCTOBER 30, 1937
I was up early this morning, too excited at the thought of seeing Sachi to sleep. I lay in bed and waited for the first sounds of Matsu preparing breakfast in the kitchen before I got up, and dressed in a clean white shirt and my beige cotton slacks. When I slid open my door, the delicious smells coming from the kitchen were not those of our usual salted fish or pickled vegetables.
The doorway of the kitchen had become my usual place to stand since the kitchen wasn’t large and I didn’t want to get in Matsu’s way.
“What smells so good?” I asked.
“Bacon and eggs,” he answered, without looking up from his frying.
“How do you know how to make bacon and eggs?”
Matsu turned to me and smiled. “How do you want your eggs, scrambled, sunny-side up, or over-easy?”
“Scrambled,” I quickly answered. It seemed like a long time since I’d eaten bacon and eggs. Before my illness, when all of us were home from school on vacation, my parents would often take us to Western hotels for brunch. The long tables held something special for each one of us. Pie would race through her entrees so she could get to the miniature cream puffs and puddings, while Henry and I concentrated on the bacon and sausages, and Anne nibbled on the salads.
“Your oj-san always had his over-easy.”
“My grandfather liked to eat eggs?” I asked.
“When he was here, he’d have three eggs every morning, and strong European coffee he brought with him from Tokyo.”
“How old were you when you began working for my grandfather?”
“I wasn’t much older than you are now. My family has always taken care of this house. Even when we were young, my sisters and I ran little errands and I helped my father take care of the garden. When my parents became too old, I took over for them,” Matsu answered.
I watched as he cracked two eggs into a clay bowl, mixed them thoroughly, and poured them into a hot skillet.
Then while the eggs were cooking, he laughed hoarsely and continued, “The first time I made your oj-san his breakfast, I was afraid I couldn’t make his eggs the way he liked. I must have gone through half a dozen eggs before he came into the kitchen and showed me how he wanted them cooked.”
“I never knew much about my grandfather. He died before I had a chance to really know him. I only remember his carved cane and the tall hats he wore.”
“Your oj-san was a very good-looking, intelligent man. He knew what his assets were and sometimes liked to flaunt them.” Matsu paused, then quickly added, “But never in a way that offended anyone. Everyone in Tarumi liked your oj-san. He was a very generous man.”
“Did he come here often?” I asked, thinking of my own father’s infrequent visits.
“Once a month, or whenever the import business brought him back to Japan. Unlike your o-tsan, who is more serious about his work, your oj-san seemed to relax immediately once he was here.”
Matsu scooped up some scrambled eggs, laid three pieces of bacon beside the eggs, and placed the plate on the wooden table.
“Eat,” he said.
I pulled out a wobbly wooden stool from under the table and quickly sat down as ordered. Matsu filled a plate for himself and sat down next to me. He leaned toward the counter and brought back a pot of tea, filling the two cups in front of us. Then he waited for me to begin to eat first. I picked up a strip of bacon and took a big bite.
“It’s very good,” I said, savoring its smoky taste. “How did you get it?”
“I have a friend who can get me anything I need, including bacon,” Matsu laughed.
“It’s delicious.”
Matsu nodded, then began to eat his own food with pleasure. At first it felt strange to be eating in the small, crowded kitchen with Matsu, but it didn’t take more than two mouthfuls before I was perfectly at ease.
It seemed like a good time to bring up another subject that had been on my mind. “Would it be all right if I took something to Sachi-san?” I asked. “Just a small gift to show my appreciation.”
I watched Matsu chew his food in thought. It felt like forever until he looked up and said gently. “It isn’t necessary. It would only embarrass her.”
“It’ll just be something small,” I said.
Matsu cleared his throat and didn’t say anything more. I took the gesture to mean yes, but knew better than to stress the point.
Matsu said very little during our walk to Yamaguchi. I wasn’t sure if he was upset at my bringing something to Sachi, but he had smiled his approval when I showed him the charcoal sketch I’d drawn down at the beach after breakfast. I had hoped to run into Keiko and Mika again, but the beach remained empty.
When the road ended, we followed a dirt path that gradually wove its way up the mountain. Since the path was too narrow for two to walk comfortably, I followed Matsu, who remained lost in his own thoughts. Nothing seemed to deter him, while I jumped over rocks and overgrown shrubs along the way. Matsu walked ahead, sure-footed, turning back only once to see if I was still there. Under one arm, he carried several newspapers and magazines. And in the other, a package wrapped in brown paper. He never even noticed when I stopped to catch my breath.
When we reached Yamaguchi, the village was relatively quiet. Most of the villagers were inside eating lunch. I could see shadows move about darkened doorways as we walked by.
Once in a while, a gruff, loud voice acknowledged our presence with a spirited hello. “Konnichiwa, Matsu-san, come join us for something to eat!”
Matsu lifted his arm to wave his regrets as we continued walking.
I felt a twinge of nervousness when Sachi’s house came into sight. I carried the rolled-up charcoal sketch in my sweaty hand. It wasn’t my best work, but I thought I’d captured some endless, serene quality about the sea which I hoped Sachi might appreciate.
Matsu knocked on the door and waited. I expected to see the same shy smile greet us from under her black scarf, but a few moments passed and no one answered. Matsu took a step back and knocked louder. When there was still no answer, he turned to me and said calmly, “She must be in the garden.”
I followed Matsu as he walked down a stone path which led around the side of the house to the back. He swung open a tall bamboo gate and stepped to the side, allowing me to enter first. In place of the greens, browns, and flashes of color which punctuated Matsu’s garden, the spareness of Sachi’s garden stunned me. There were no trees, flowers, or water, only a landscape made of sand, stones, rocks, and some pale green moss which covered the shaded areas. I took a few minutes to take it all in. On the rugged, sloping earth, Sachi had created mountains from arranged rocks, surrounded by gravel and elongated stones flowing down like a rocky stream leading to a lake or the sea. The flat surface of water was for
med by smooth round pebbles, raked in straight and encircling lines to suggest whirlpools and waves.
“A dry landscape,” I whispered aloud.
“It’s called kare sansui,” Matsu suddenly said. Only then did I even remember he was behind me.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, amazed at how the different light and dark stones could create such texture and illusion.
“Where did Sachi go?” Matsu asked, talking more to himself than to me. “She would have liked to have shown you the garden herself.”
“I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” I answered. It was the first time I saw him so disturbed.
Matsu quickly walked back to the front of the house, but I couldn’t move. I took another long look at Sachi’s garden before I turned around and followed.
Matsu had already begun walking to the village when, in the distance, I saw Sachi hurrying toward him. Her dark blue kimono swept across the dirt as she walked. Matsu stopped and waited, as she approached and bowed. He reached over and took her packages as they walked back to the house.
“Sumimasen, please excuse me for being late,” bowed Sachi, as they approached me. With one hand Sachi held her scarf close to the left side of her face.
I returned Sachi’s bow and smiled. “We haven’t been waiting long.”
“Tanaka-san asked me if I would bring him some old newspapers. I didn’t realize it would take so long,” Sachi continued to apologize. “Most of the food has already been prepared.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. “Matsu made a big American breakfast this morning.”
Sachi turned to Matsu and said, “Ah, your eggs!”
Matsu laughed aloud. “Sachi likes her eggs scrambled as you do.”
Sachi smiled shyly, pulled her scarf closer, and hurried into the house saying nothing.
Once again I was taken aback by the simplicity of her world—elegant and uncluttered. Matsu handed Sachi the newspapers and magazines, then took the rest of the packages to the kitchen.
“This is for you,” I said. I handed her the soiled, rolled-up drawing, wishing I had wrapped it in another piece of paper.
Sachi bowed timidly. “Dmo arigat gozaimasu.”
“I hope you’ll like it.”
Sachi smiled, but hesitated to unroll the paper in front of me.
“Please,” I said, nodding my head.
She turned away from me and unrolled it slowly. When she saw that it was a charcoal sketch of the sea, she quickly turned back to me and bowed again, exposing the scarred side of her face. “I am very honored.”
“It’s just a quick sketch I did this morning. I wanted to bring you a token of my appreciation.”
“You have brought me more than that, you have brought me the sea,” Sachi said, her voice tight with emotion.
I didn’t know what to say, and was saved when Matsu, lifting up his brown package, said loudly from across the room, “And I have brought you a chicken!”
Sachi and I laughed, as she carefully rolled up my sketch and placed it on a table. Her hand patted it gently just once before she turned back to me.
We ate lunch at the low table in Sachi’s dining room. She had prepared fish cake, rice, thin slices of raw fish, marinated eel, and pickled vegetables. It all came in a black bento box, divided into separate sections. While Matsu and I ate, Sachi nibbled at her food, poured tea whenever we had sipped from our cups, and was ready at any moment to go back into the kitchen for more food.
“It was a wonderful lunch,” I said, bowing my head in appreciation.
“I’m happy that you could come,” Sachi said. She slowly rose to collect the empty boxes.
“Let me help you,” I said.
“I’ll take care of it,” Matsu suddenly interrupted. “Sachi, why don’t you take Stephen-san out to the garden.”
Sachi glanced down at me and said, “If you would like to see the garden, I would be honored to show you.”
I stood up quickly and felt a stiffness along my legs as I stretched my muscles. “I would love to see your garden.”
I followed Sachi, as she slid open the shoji door that led out into her garden.
“It’s wonderful,” I said, even more intrigued than the first time I’d seen it. The sun was overhead, which lightened the color of the rocks, setting them aglow.
“I could not have done it without Matsu’s help,” Sachi said. “Many years ago, when I first came to Yamaguchi, the possibility of having a life had all but vanished. Matsu was the one who insisted I have a garden.”
“And you created this?”
“With Matsu’s help. He showed me that life is not just from within, it extends all around you, whether you wish it to or not. And so, this garden has become a part of my life.”
I wanted to say something back to Sachi, but the words were caught in my throat. Her garden was a mixture of beauty and sadness, the rocks and stones an illusion of movement. What could she have possibly done to deserve such a fate? Didn’t her family ever try to help her? I looked at the slim, shy woman standing in front of me and wanted all my questions answered, but I kept quiet and could only hope the answers would be given to me in time.
“If we invited Sachi-san to the house, would she come?” I asked Matsu on our way back down the mountain. I held my jacket tightly closed against the cold wind. The branches and twigs snapped beneath our feet as we walked. He was just a step ahead of me and in a good mood.
Matsu cleared his throat, slowed down, and turned to me. “She hasn’t left Yamaguchi in almost forty years. In the beginning, I tried to get her to come down, but she was too ashamed.”
“Didn’t her family care what happened to her?”
“Her family gave up on Sachi a long time ago.”
“They disowned her because of the disease?” I asked, flushed with anger.
Matsu shook his head, then said, “It wasn’t so simple. It was a question of honor. Once she became afflicted with the disease, it was Sachi who chose not to dishonor her family any more than she had.”
“What?”
“It was her choice.”
“But why?”
“She saw no reason for them to suffer her shame.”
“Do you think she might come down now?” I dared to ask.
“Again, it will have to be her choice,” Matsu said, picking up the pace and moving farther ahead of me.
NOVEMBER 19, 1937
I completed the painting of the garden this morning. Finishing it was like saying good-bye to my family again and being cast adrift on some endless sea; I felt that empty.
“It’s finished,” I called out, when Matsu came into the house. A small replica of his garden sat propped on the easel drying. I stood by the painting, eager for some kind of reaction from him; a simple smile of recognition, or at the least, a lingering gaze. Instead, Matsu stepped into the room wiping his mud-stained hands with an old rag. He took no more than a moment to glance at the painting, then grunt his approval before he turned to leave again.
My fingers closed tightly around one of my grandfather’s brushes. The strong, sharp smell of the paints filled the room. Then, as if he knew my thoughts, Matsu stopped and turned to ask, “I have to go into town now, would you like to come along?”
“I’d love to go,” I answered. “Just let me finish cleaning these brushes.”
It was strange to think that two months had passed without my having seen the small beach village. Yet, even when we came to Tarumi as children, we seldom left the house and beach. It was always Ching or the other servants who walked the mile back and forth to buy food and whatever else was needed. I never thought of it as much more than a few scattered buildings, but now the prospect of seeing the village seemed like a good way to spend the afternoon.
Tarumi was not far from the train station, lying in the opposite direction of our beach house. When Matsu and I approached the small station and worn tracks, a train had just pulled in. People had begun to disembark as we walked toward town. I felt their star
es follow me. I knew it was not only because I was a Chinese face in their village, but I also realized there were very few young men in Tarumi. Most of the women were dressed in dark, padded kimonos, but a few younger girls had on Western dresses and coats. I was mesmerized being around so many people again; the subtle sweet and sour odors of perfume and sweat, the high and low of different voices. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was back in Kobe.
Tarumi looked tired and faded in the gray light. The buildings which lined each side of the dirt road were built of dingy brown wood. The village consisted of a store, post office, and teahouse. Their large, bold characters were carefully painted on signs above each building. Farther down the road were smaller houses where the townspeople lived. Bits and pieces of their lives could be seen in the bicycles and toys leaning against the mismatched bamboo fences. Dogs roamed freely down the road, as the bobbing figures of women and children walked back to their houses. I couldn’t help but wonder which house belonged to Keiko and Mika.
“Come this way,” Matsu said.
I followed him across the road to the teahouse. At the door we were greeted by a thin man with a white towel draped over his shoulder. His eyes were dark and sharp, and I watched as he lifted his right hand against the dull light from the street.
“Matsu, konnichiwa! I wondered when you would stop by,” he bowed.
The Samurai's Garden Page 5