The Samurai's Garden

by Gail Tsukiyama

  FEBRUARY 6, 1938

  “Kenzo will be buried tomorrow morning,” Matsu said quietly, as we sat across from one another in the kitchen eating our morning meal of rice and pickled vegetables. I felt tired, but much stronger.

  His voice startled me. It was the most Matsu had said to me since he found me sick in the garden and put me to bed. Kenzo’s suicide had nearly silenced him. I still wondered if he had gone to see Sachi, or back to the Tama Shrine to pray for his great loss, but I refrained from asking. In fact, I was afraid to mention Kenzo’s name. The quieter Matsu became, the closer I watched him. I guess there was part of me that was afraid he might do something crazy. Since I’d arrived in Tarumi, Matsu had been the anchor and I was the one afloat. I wasn’t ready to switch places.

  “Where?” I asked, suddenly wide awake. “At the Tama Shrine?”

  Matsu shook his head. “It will be a Buddhist ceremony.”

  “Would it be all right if I went to the burial with you?”

  Matsu looked up at me and his face softened. “If you wish,” he answered.

  “I know I didn’t know Kenzo-san very well, but I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “I think he would be honored,” Matsu said.

  I took the opportunity to keep him talking. “What about Sachi?” I asked. “Does she know?”

  Matsu paused a long time and stared at his food. “I went to see her yesterday,” he said at last.

  I stopped eating and looked anxiously up at him. “How is she?” I asked. I could almost feel the white, puckered scars which ravaged the side of her face.

  Matsu leaned back heavily against the wall. “Sachi knew the minute I entered her house that something was wrong. She stood by the door and watched me, as if she understood everything just by the way I walked. Then she simply asked, ‘Is it Kenzo-san?’ I couldn’t look her in the eye, so I just nodded.”

  Matsu paused and swallowed before he could continue. “Sachi raised her hand to cover her mouth. She couldn’t talk. She gestured for me to sit down while she disappeared into the kitchen. When she finally came back, she brought tea. She sat down and said one word: ‘When?’ I told her Kenzo had been found yesterday, that he had hung himself.”

  I lowered my head, remembering the heavy thud of Kenzo’s body on the counter as he was taken down.

  Matsu waited for me to look up again. His face seemed to relax as he continued to speak. “At first, Sachi was speechless. She just sat there, as if I had slapped her with the words. It felt as if we would sit there in silence forever. At last, she looked up at me and began to speak strangely of the past.

  “‘Do you remember that year of the Tama Matsuri?’ she asked me, ‘the festival so many years ago when Kenzo was one of the mikoshi bearers and the entire village was drunk with celebration?’

  “‘Yes,’ I answered, surprised she would bring something up from so long ago. It was the summer she and Tomoko were fifteen, the two most beautiful girls in the village. Kenzo had been one of the young men chosen to carry the shrine, which was a great honor. It had been a good year of fishing for Tarumi and everyone was celebrating their good fortune. Even my father came away from his gardening and joined in the festivities.

  “‘When the crowd became so excited,’ Sachi went on, ‘I was sure I would be trampled. It was you who helped me up, wasn’t it?’ she asked me.

  “I shrugged and hesitated. ‘That was so long ago, why bring it up now?’ I asked her. Sachi smiled sadly and touched my hand. The moment had been buried in me for so many years, it no longer seemed to belong to me. You see, that day when the shrine was carried out, the crowd began to run toward it in a wild frenzy, urged on by the beating drums and clanging bells. I was behind them, when I saw Sachi and Tomoko running, pushed frantically along with the crowd. The next thing I knew, Sachi had stumbled, while the crowd kept pushing forward. Even Tomoko kept moving, unaware of what had happened to Sachi. I had just a moment to grab Sachi from behind and lift her to her feet. She was so light, it took so little effort. By the time she turned around, I had disappeared into the crowd.”

  “Why didn’t you let her know it was you?” I asked.

  Matsu cleared his throat. “It all happened so quickly. I didn’t want to embarrass her. Later, when the festival was over, Tomoko spread the rumor that it was Kenzo who had saved Sachi, even though he had been carrying the shrine all the time.”

  “Didn’t Sachi or Kenzo say anything?”

  “Sachi never mentioned it, until now. It’s sometimes easier to believe what everyone else believes. Besides, they were sweet on one another, and what could be more romantic?”

  “And now that she knows the truth?” I asked.

  “Sachi only said, ‘Sometimes you can’t see what is right in front of you. I’m sorry, Matsu-san.’

  “‘Those years are like another lifetime,’ I told her.

  “After a while, Sachi said, ‘In many ways, Kenzo-san and Tomoko were much more alike, so full of life. I can’t help but think he might have found a better life if he had just moved away from Tarumi.’

  “I kept silent. Only I knew Kenzo would never have left Tarumi without her. He couldn’t bring himself to accept Sachi the way she was after the disease, but he could never leave the memory of her. I was honored to be his friend and hold his secrets. I never meant to betray him. In the end, it was he and I who were so much alike: faithful to the same woman for all these years.”

  “You and Kenzo never saw anyone else?” I asked.

  Matsu laughed. “Who would want me?” he asked, pointing to his face. “I used to think Kenzo’s kami must be smiling down on him. If success was measured by the number of friends you had, then Kenzo was a successful man, but no one could ever take the place of Sachi.” Matsu looked down in thought.

  I wondered if he considered his own life unsuccessful.

  “Will Sachi come down for Kenzo-san’s burial?” I asked.

  “No,” Matsu answered.

  “Would it be all right for me to visit her soon?”

  Matsu looked past me as if I weren’t there. “In time,” he said, troubled.

  I could tell something else bothered him. He rubbed the edge of his bowl, a pensive expression on his face. “I had hoped to give Sachi some peace of mind when I left,” Matsu continued, “I didn’t want to leave her so alone. But I made the mistake of telling her Kenzo hadn’t suffered much. Sachi just looked at me in disbelief, then in a voice full of defeat, she whispered, ‘But haven’t we all been suffering for years?’”

  Matsu stopped. I picked up my bowl and began to eat again in silence. I knew any more questions would simply be an intrusion.

  After breakfast Matsu went out to his garden, while I sat down at my grandfather’s desk to write a letter to my mother. My head spun from all the events of the past few days. I wanted to visit Sachi, but I didn’t know what to say to her. Though Kenzo’s death was filling my mind, I did not mention it to my mother. I assumed she knew him, and I didn’t want her to worry about anything else. Instead, I wrote hoping that she felt better, stressing how much I liked the presents she had sent, though I’d missed being back in Hong Kong with her. Then I spent the rest of the letter recounting how nice my holidays were here, and how well taken care of I was by Matsu. All the while I was also careful to stay away from the subject of my father.

  I sealed the letter into a thin blue envelope and searched for Matsu to tell him I was going to mail it. He was still in the garden, balanced on his knees as he planted a new pine tree.

  “I’m going to the village to mail this letter to my mother,” I said.

  Matsu glanced up at me. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

  I knew my being sick yesterday had to do with all the physical exertion I’d been doing, rather than with my illness. I immediately thought of Ching’s and my mother’s concern if they knew what I’d been doing. “Go slowly, go slowly,” I heard their voices ring out.

  “I’m fine,” I said reassuringly. “Do you
need me to get anything while I’m there?”

  Matsu slowly stood up from the ground. He looked closely at me for any signs of fever or fatigue, and when he was finally satisfied that I was fine, he asked, “Can you pick up the mail? It will save me the walk.”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  Matsu smiled at my eagerness, his skin wrinkling into small creases across his forehead and around his eyes. It was the first time since the day I arrived in Tarumi that I began to realize Matsu was no longer young. For the past few months, he had proven that he was anything but old. I watched him dig deep into his trousers and pull out a small metal key.

  “Your oj-san’s name is still on the box,” he said, as he handed me the key.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said, slipping the key into my pocket.

  At the bamboo gate, I turned back to see Matsu carefully lower himself onto his knees. The sky was dark and gray overhead, and I felt my eyes strain against tears. I wanted to tell Matsu everything would be all right, that Kenzo’s death was his own choice, just as Tomoko’s had been. It would be so simple for Matsu and Sachi to be happy now, to let go of the past. But, even as these thoughts came to the tip of my tongue, I swallowed them, and began to walk down the white, sand-dusted road to the village.

  The village felt cold and dark by the time I’d posted my letter, collected the mail, and stepped back out of the post office. I looked quickly through the stack of envelopes, but found nothing addressed to me. I glanced across the street at Kenzo’s darkened teahouse, where pieces of black cloth covered the shoji windows. On the door, draped in black, was a photograph of Kenzo. I stood there quietly, staring at all the black cloth, still unable to accept that Kenzo was really gone.

  The leisurely pace of the village went on as usual, though the old men who sat outside of storefronts discussing fishing, their families, and the war spoke in low, respectful voices. They neither stared nor stopped their conversation when I walked by. It was the first time I felt my presence in Tarumi was no longer a novelty. Women carried baskets or babies on their backs as they moved to and fro doing their daily shopping. I felt someone tap on my arm, and turned to see Keiko standing behind me.

  “Konnichiwa, Stephen-san.” Keiko bowed as she took a step back. She wore a dark kimono and carried a brown basket filled with deep orange persimmons.

  I smiled, surprised. It seemed the only time I had come into the village without instinctively glancing down the dusty street looking for her.

  “Keiko-san, konnichiwa.” I returned her bow.

  “It is very sad about Kenzo-san,” she said. She glanced over at the teahouse. “The entire village is in mourning. Why would Kenzo-san want to end his life?”

  I shook my head slowly, careful not to say too much. “It’s very sad.”

  Keiko shifted the basket she carried. “I know that he and Matsu-san were close friends.”

  “Yes, they were,” I said. Then I offered, “Let me carry that for you.”

  Keiko hesitated, then relinquished the basket and bowed several times in gratitude. She smelled lovely, like jasmine.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I was on my way home.”

  “Well, I’m finished with everything here. May I carry this home for you?”

  Keiko took another step back and quickly answered, “It isn’t far, Stephen-san. Please, I must go.” She reached out and took the handle of the basket, as her hand brushed against mine. We stood there, neither one of us letting go of the basket.

  “Are you afraid Mika might see us?”

  Keiko shook her head. With one unexpected pull, she jerked the basket back into her own hands, scattering persimmons all over the ground. I quickly bent down and picked them up for her, then cradled them in my hands as her eyes watched my every move.

  “I will see you again soon,” she said, reaching out for the fallen persimmons.

  I purposely held them back. “What are you so afraid of? I just want to help you carry the basket home,” I said, exasperated.

  Keiko’s eyes moved away from the persimmons and looked pleadingly into mine. “Please, they are for my father’s meal. He’s very old-fashioned, and I’m already late.”

  “Are you afraid your father won’t like me?”

  “Please, Stephen-san.”

  I paused, but seeing her anxiousness I placed the persimmons back into the basket without another word. Keiko bowed, then looked up gratefully at me before she hurried away. Seeing Keiko’s fear, I couldn’t help but wonder whether her father was so old-fashioned that he had forbidden her to be alone with a young man. Or if it had to do with the fact that I was a Chinese young man. I stood there and didn’t move, long after Keiko had vanished around the corner.

  FEBRUARY 7, 1938

  Kenzo’s burial brought out the entire village. Gathered together was an assortment of old men, women, and children. Until Keiko had mentioned her older brother, I took it for granted that most of the young men from Tarumi had gone to seek their fortunes in larger cities. Now, I couldn’t help but realize that most of them had joined the Japanese Army. When I questioned Matsu about the lack of healthy young men in Tarumi, he simply shook his head and said, “They’ve gone off to fulfill the dreams of dreamers.”

  The first month after I arrived at the beach house, I had somehow convinced myself that being in Tarumi kept me far away from what was happening in China. But the realization again hit me right in the face as I walked beside Matsu: I was the only young man in the crowd. While the villagers had grown used to my presence, I felt obvious and uncomfortable.

  I tugged hard to tighten the obi sash of the black cotton kimono I had borrowed from Matsu. Just this morning, I realized I had nothing dark to wear. Unlike certain Chinese burials where white is worn, a Buddhist ceremony required dark colors. Matsu laughed and handed me the too-large black kimono, which could be wrapped twice around me. It was the only thing I could wear on such short notice, so with it hanging loosely from my body, I tripped clumsily after Matsu in a pair of wooden sandals.

  The sweet smell of burning incense filled the air as the procession made its way to the Buddhist temple just outside the village. Matsu had told me that, unlike the Tama Shrine where births and marriages were celebrated, burials were always Buddhist ceremonies. In the Buddhist faith, it was believed that through a life of right living and thinking, one could achieve Nirvana.

  The temple was a large, wooden structure. It was by far the most ornate building I’d seen in Tarumi, strangely reminiscent of Hong Kong, with its red and gold walls and curved roof tiles. It stood within walking distance of the village so that the many ancestors of the villagers buried or cremated there would not be lonely.

  The crowd moved in a dark wave down the dirt road, slowly entering the temple. Matsu was silent throughout the entire procession, simply bowing his head to those who showed their sympathy at the loss of his good friend. If the villagers knew anything else, they kept it to themselves, giving Matsu the respect of their silence.

  Inside, the large room was hot and filled with the thick smell of burning incense. There was a simple wooden altar up front, but no sign of Kenzo’s body. Monks in flowing orange robes began the ceremony with low chants which hummed throughout the room. The chants were consistantly accompanied by the steady clanging of gongs and cymbals. We bowed several times and repeated the chants, praying that the soul of Kenzo would find supreme happiness. During the ceremony, I glanced around and saw Keiko a few aisles away, dressed in a dark kimono and veil. I recognized her by the small pearl ring she wore on her right hand. Next to her stood Mika, and then an older man and woman who must have been their parents. While I couldn’t see her mother’s face clearly, I saw that her father was thickset and balding, with more the air and appearance of a businessman than a fisherman.

  When the ceremony was over, I decided to approach Keiko and her family. Still, I couldn’t forget the day before in the village when Keiko tried so hard to get away. In my mind, I aga
in saw those same dark eyes imploring me to let her go, and I stopped cold when I saw her family standing nearby. But it was too late, for Keiko turned just in time to see me. She quickly took hold of Mika’s arm and began to pull her away, but not before her father turned toward me. He stood there solid and unmoving. His unsmiling glare cut right through me, sizing me up. I stood frozen, not sure what I should do, yet too close to ignore him. Then he leaned over and whispered something to Keiko’s mother. I could see her mother nodding submissively. When her father turned back to me, it was with a look so full of hate I simply bowed my head and walked quickly away.

  Outside the temple, I looked around for Keiko’s family, and was relieved to find them already gone. At least I knew why Keiko was always anxious to get away from me. Her father’s dislike of me for whatever reasons was obvious. I had never felt such hatred, and shivered just to think of it.

  Voices rang out in the distance as scattered groups of people moved back along the dirt road which led to the village. I stood aside waiting for Matsu, when out of the corner of my eye I saw her. Dressed in a black kimono and veil, her slight, graceful figure hovered among the trees. From the moment my eyes fell upon her, I knew it was not an illusion: Sachi had come after all. She lifted her veil and her eyes caught mine for just a moment as she bowed low in my direction. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then returned her bow, but when I looked up again, Sachi was already gone.

  MARCH 7, 1938

  Everything seems to move in slow motion, or not at all. The radio and the week-old newspapers sent to me by my father from Kobe prove only that the war in China moves with a quick brutality, leaving a sour, anxious taste in my mouth. Every day I wait for a letter from my mother, or a message from my father telling me to return to Kobe, where at least I’d be closer to the current news, but a troubling silence remains.