The Taste of Rain

by Monique Polak

  We’ve never heard the word fricassee before. Just the sound of it makes us laugh. Fricassee!

  Miss E. sends Cathy to check on our rat trap. Cathy calls back that the piece of wood on the side of the bucket has fallen over—and the candy is missing. Miss E. rubs her hands together. “How exciting!” she says.

  Miss E. finds a second candy in her apron pocket. This one looks even older and more shriveled than the first. “A little music might also help us catch rats.”

  “I had no idea rats were musical,” Jeanette says.

  “They like the flute. Or at least they did in the town of Hamelin, when the Pied Piper paid a visit,” Miss E. explains. “Girl Guides, do you know that story?”

  “Of course we know the story of the Pied Piper. It’s famous,” Dot tells Miss E. “But we don’t have a flute.” She shakes her head sadly when she says this.

  Miss E. grins. “What you mean to say is that we don’t have a flute yet.”

  Jeanette tugs on Miss E.’s apron. “Did you bring a flute from Chefoo? And if you did, why didn’t you let us try it?”

  “I never said I brought a flute from Chefoo. In fact, I didn’t. But I’m about to show you girls how to make a flute.”

  “A person can’t just make a flute,” Tilly says flatly.

  Miss E. makes a tut-tut sound. “Matilda, Matilda. I wish you wouldn’t use the word can’t so often. It lacks possibility.”

  Miss E. reaches into her trunk of school supplies and takes out a sheet of fine vellum drawing paper. She waves the sheet in the air like the white flag the teachers hung out at our school in Chefoo to tell the Japanese we had surrendered.

  Has Miss E. had that vellum in her trunk of school supplies since we left Chefoo? And if so, why haven’t I ever seen it before? I can’t help imagining how lovely it would feel to draw on such a fancy sheet of paper. Miss E. rolls the sheet into a tight cylinder, then holds it in place by fastening a rubber band at either end.

  “Let me try,” Tilly says, taking the rolled-up vellum from Miss E. and blowing into it. All we hear is Tilly’s breath—and it doesn’t sound very musical.

  Cathy grabs the vellum from Tilly and blows into it. The sound is just as bad.

  “Not so fast! I wasn’t finished!” Miss E. retrieves the cylinder. “If there was a badge for patience, I don’t think you two Girl Guides would get it.” We watch as Miss E. finds a splinter of wood from the pallet and uses it to dig a hole into the paper at one end.

  “Um,” Jeanette says, “I don’t mean to seem impatient, but is it ready now? And if it is, can I try it next? I’ve always wanted to play the flute.”

  “Just let me poke a few more holes,” Miss E. tells her. The first hole Miss E. poked went through all the layers of paper. The next ones only pierce two layers. “All righty then, Jeanette, since you’ve always wanted to play the flute, you can be the first to test this one out.”

  I’ve never seen Jeanette look so happy. For a moment I remember how upset she was after her bad dream last night, and I feel so grateful to Miss E. for finding a way to cheer her up.

  Jeanette blows into the paper flute. What comes out isn’t exactly music, but it isn’t exactly breath either. It’s something in between.

  All the girls in the hut clap. I clap loudest of all.

  Tilly crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t think you have a talent for playing the flute,” she tells Jeanette.

  “Talent isn’t something that a person has,” Miss E. says. “It’s something that a person cultivates. A little like a garden. If Jeanette decides to cultivate her musical talent, I’m sure she will succeed. Even on a paper flute.”

  Which is how Jeanette ends up kneeling by the bucket, playing Miss E.’s homemade paper flute. The sound isn’t exactly pleasant, but then again, cultivating talent—like cultivating a garden—must take time.

  Tilly lays the second old candy on the middle of the ruler placed across the top of the bucket.

  Our first rat visitor turns up about fifteen minutes later. Miss E. tells us with her eyes to stay calm and not to move a muscle. Jeanette closes her eyes as she blows into the paper flute. Maybe the Pied Piper was onto something—maybe rats really do like music.

  The rat’s whiskers twitch—I think he smells licorice. We watch, spellbound, as he scurries up the first piece of wood, crosses the ruler and reaches for the candy. Then plop he goes, right into the bottom of the bucket.

  We clap even louder than we did for Jeanette’s performance.

  “Now what?” Eunice asks Miss E.

  “Now we wait for the rest of his family to come and check on this fellow’s whereabouts,” Miss E. says.

  We can hear the rat scrabbling in the bottom of the bucket. He doesn’t sound very glad to be there.

  Jeanette puts down her flute. I expect her to be happy, but instead she looks sad. Is she remembering the boy from her dream? But that isn’t what’s bothering her. “It isn’t right to keep the rat a prisoner,” Jeanette says.

  “It’s better than clubbing him to death,” Tilly tells her.

  “It isn’t right to keep anyone a prisoner.” Jeanette seems to be talking to herself.

  Miss E. pats Jeanette’s hand. “Once the contest is over, I’m going to ask one of the coolies to release the rats we’ve caught and let them free outside the gates. So the rats won’t be our prisoners.”

  The coolies are the local Chinese workers who empty our honey pots outside the walls of Weihsien and do other chores for the Japanese army. Jeanette’s face relaxes when she hears Miss E.’s plan.

  As usual, Tilly wants to get in the last word. “If only,” she mutters, “the Japs—I should say, the Japanese—didn’t insist on making prisoners—excuse me, I mean sojourners—out of us.”

  NINE

  Leave it to Miss E. to turn rat catching into a lesson.

  Tilly says she’s not in the mood for more lessons having to do with rat catching. “Didn’t we already learn plenty about engineering by building the trap?” she asks Miss E. “We could build a bridge with what you’ve taught us!”

  Miss E. smiles indulgently. “There is quite a difference between building a rat trap and a bridge. Besides, I was thinking of something a little more artistic for today’s lesson.”

  “Are we going to draw?” I ask hopefully. What I really want to know is whether Miss E. has any more vellum paper in her supply trunk.

  “No drawing just now,” Miss E. says. “I think it’s time for something literary. Which is why I’ve decided to teach you Girl Guides how to write haiku.”

  “Aren’t haiku Japanese poems?” Cathy asks. “If the Japanese are our enemies, why would you want us to study their poetry?”

  “Hmm,” Miss E. says. I can tell from her Hmm that she is thinking of the best way to answer Cathy’s question. “Let’s say I prefer not to think of the Japanese as our enemies. It’s true that we’ve met some Japanese soldiers who can be, well…rather harsh, but it would be poor logic to conclude that every single Japanese person is like that. Besides, if we’re sojourners here, then the Japanese are our hosts. Even when we don’t see eye to eye, we can always learn from our hosts. Especially hosts with such a rich and ancient culture.”

  Tilly nods in agreement. “As you know, I’m no fan of the Japs—I should say, the Japanese—but I do like haiku. And I’m very good at writing them.”

  Miss E. claps her hands. “What wonderful news, Matilda! Why then, why don’t I rest my vocal cords while you explain to all the other girls what a haiku is and how it works?” She waves her hand in the air in front of her. “Take it away, Matilda. I know you’ll do an outstanding job. You’re a smart girl, and you’re good at explaining things.”

  I am so used to Tilly arguing that I am a little surprised when she turns to the rest of us and actually starts explaining what haiku is. I’ve heard of it too, but I’d never say so. Still, Tilly does seem to know a lot about the subject.

  “Haiku is the most popular form of Japanese poetry
,” she begins. “A haiku consists of seventeen syllables—five in the first line, seven in the second and five in the last. And the poems never rhyme.”

  Jeanette sighs. “If that’s true, I don’t think I’ll like them very much. Because I love poetry that rhymes. I’d hardly call it poetry if it doesn’t rhyme.”

  Tilly gives Jeanette a sharp look. “Haiku does not rhyme. And it is definitely poetry. My father loves haiku.” Tilly’s parents are also missionaries. This is the first time she’s said anything about her father’s interest in poetry.

  “Have you heard of Matsuo Bashō?” Miss E. asks. I think she is trying to prevent an argument between the two girls. Tilly and Jeanette are like oil and water—two substances that do not mix together well. But I get along with both of them. Maybe it’s because there’s oil and also water in me.

  We shake our heads. We’ve never heard of Matsuo Bashō.

  But Tilly says she has. “Of course I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t?” It’s obvious she enjoys acting as if she knows more than we do. “He was an important Japanese poet during the sixteenth century.”

  “Seventeenth,” Miss E. corrects her.

  “That’s what I said…seventeenth,” Tilly says.

  Jeanette raises her hand. “You said sixteenth.” Jeanette turns to me. “Didn’t she say sixteenth?”

  I hate being caught in the middle of oil and water. But Tilly did say sixteenth. I am about to say so when Miss E. intervenes again. “Matsuo Bashō was an important practitioner of haiku. Did you know,” she asks Tilly, “that he came from a family of warriors?”

  “Of course I knew that,” Tilly says, but when she looks away from Miss E., I’m not so sure she’s telling the truth. “Matsuo Bashō was a warrior until he began writing haiku. Then he became a poet instead of a warrior.”

  “Exactly,” Miss E. says. She turns to look at all of us as if Tilly has said something very important that she wants us to think about. Miss E. probably thinks the world would be a better place if the entire Imperial Japanese Amy laid down their rifles and bayonets and started writing haiku instead.

  She tells us that her favorite haiku was written by Matsuo Bashō—and she asks whether we want her to recite it to us. Of course the answer is yes. “Please!” some of the girls squeal.

  Miss E. crosses her hands in front of her, just below her hips. Her eyes get a dreamy look as she recites the poem.

  Won’t you come and see

  loneliness? Only one leaf

  from the kiri tree.

  “Is that it?” Dot sounds disappointed.

  “I think I’d like it more if it rhymed,” Jeanette adds.

  Tilly is counting out syllables on her fingers. “Yes,” she says, “that’s seventeen in all. Five in the first line—”

  “What is a kiri tree?” Cathy interrupts. “I don’t think I ever saw one.”

  Miss E. uncrosses her hands. “Kiri is the Japanese word. We call them Paulownia. They have beautiful heart-shaped leaves.”

  It’s hard for me to follow so many different conversations. That’s because, even if they do not rhyme, those simple seventeen syllables have affected me. Though I am surrounded by my friends and Miss E., I am suddenly so lonely that the feeling makes my body ache.

  I also wish that I could make a drawing. If I could, I know exactly what I’d draw: a single heart-shaped leaf.

  But Miss E. wants us to try writing our own haiku.

  We take out our notebooks.

  Tilly is already scribbling away. She fills a page with haiku in no time. I think she has inherited her father’s love of poetry.

  Jeanette raises her hand again. “Miss E., I have an important question. Are we supposed to write about something beautiful—like the kiri tree?”

  “Most haiku are about beautiful things,” Miss E. tells her. “But the main goal is to get the syllables right—and also to express what’s in your heart. Even if it isn’t beautiful.”

  I think about scribbling whatever’s in my mind—the way Tilly is doing. (She’s already started another page in her notebook.) But I don’t think that approach to haiku writing suits me. Instead I close my eyes and give the words and ideas time to brew.

  I hope Miss E. will not mind that I’ve decided to write a haiku about the dead rat Matthew brought to show us.

  He has a dead rat

  In his arms the dead rat lies

  Do rats have souls too?

  Miss E. could look over our shoulders to see what we are writing, but she doesn’t. I think she wants us to have some privacy. Wherever we go in Weihsien, we’re always crowded together. Though we girls are sitting close to each other, writing a haiku makes me feel as if I have some space.

  I count the syllables in my haiku. Exactly seventeen. Maybe one day I’ll write a haiku about Daniel, the boy who was electrocuted.

  TEN

  The boys from Matthew’s hut win the rat-catching contest. They catch—and kill—six rats. There are only two rats rattling around in our bucket.

  There are boys in his hut who are taller and stronger than Matthew is. One boy named Benton is nearly six feet tall. Another, named Amos, has the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen. While most of the boys who help with pumping water from the wells need to rest after a one-hour shift, a boy named Tyler can work for two hours straight. But Matthew is the spokesperson for the boys in his hut. Even if he is a rat killer, there is something I like about him. It isn’t his looks, though he isn’t ugly. I think it’s that there is something smart and a bit mischievous about him. Something playful.

  “We’re here for our prize,” Matthew tells Miss E. All the boys from his hut are standing at the door behind him.

  We’ve all been wondering what the prize will be. Maybe a chocolate bar that Miss E. has been hoarding. Or a tin of sugar cookies. And if it isn’t food—though we’re all hoping it’s something to eat—maybe it’s a board for playing checkers or a book the boys can read aloud. If it is a book, once they’ve finished reading it, we can borrow it. That’s exactly the kind of prize Miss E. would come up with.

  “A little music, please,” Miss E. says, looking over at Jeanette, who takes out the paper flute and plays a victory tune.

  Miss E. is hiding the prize behind her back. I know that we girls are all thinking the same thing: if only our rat trap had been more effective. Then the chocolate bar would be ours. Though I have not had chocolate in nearly two and a half years, I can practically taste how delicious it is.

  When Miss E. brings her hands from behind her back and presents the prize to Matthew, we are all disappointed. It’s a small, dented can of evaporated milk with the label coming loose. What kind of prize is that?

  “I found it last week at the bottom of my trunk,” Miss E. explains. “It doesn’t look very nice, but each of you boys on the winning team can have a sip. It doesn’t taste as good as fresh milk, but I think you’ll still enjoy it.”

  “Why, uh, thank you,” Matthew says. The fact that he is trying to be gracious makes me like him even more.

  “It’s the best I could do under the circumstances,” Miss E. says. “But you can always try imagining that it is something better. In the world of imagination, nothing is impossible.”

  “I was hoping it would be something to eat. A person can’t eat evaporated milk,” a boy whose name I don’t know calls out.

  “I was hoping for a trophy,” Benton adds.

  Miss E. clears her throat. “There is another prize—for all of you. Not only the boys,” she adds. “It’s a very special prize.”

  We have made several circles around Miss E., and now we make our circles tighter as we move closer in.

  “I know you’re expecting a thing,” Miss E. says. “An object of some kind. Like a book or a trophy or some food that is more delicious than boring old evaporated milk. But this prize I have for all of you isn’t a thing.” She pauses to build suspense. “It’s a person.”

  A person? How can a person be a prize?

  We a
ll look around, but we don’t see anyone who could be the prize Miss E. is talking about.

  “Mr. Liddell?” Miss E. sings out.

  A tall lanky man pops out from behind our hut. Has he been hiding there all this time?

  “I’d like all of you to meet Mr. Lid—”

  “It’s Eric Liddell!” I hear Matthew tell the other boys. “The man people call Jesus in Running Shoes. I recognize him from the newspaper clippings. I heard he was at Weihsien, but I never saw him before.”

  Mr. Liddell takes a small bow. “I’m delighted to meet you, boys and girls,” he says. He speaks with a thick Scottish accent. “Eliza—excuse me, I should say, Miss E.—asked me whether I might give you youngsters some pointers about running, and of course I agreed. It isn’t easy to say no to a person as determined as Eliza—er, Miss E.”

  This is the first time I have heard Miss E. called anything except Miss E. The name Eliza comes as a bit of a shock to me. But then, I think, why should it? It isn’t as if her parents took one look at her and named her Miss E.

  “P-pointers about running from Er-Eric Liddell?” Matthew can hardly get the words out. “He won a gold medal in the four-hundred-meter run at the 1924 Olympics. We’re thrilled to finally meet you, sir.” Matthew reaches out to shake Eric Liddell’s hand but then forgets to let it go.

  Jeanette raises her hand. “Why did you call him Jesus in Running Shoes?” she asks Matthew.

  Mr. Liddell raises his palm in the air to signal that he wants to stop the conversation. “You’re embarrassing me,” he says. “I won’t deny that back in 1924 I took part in the Paris Olympics…”

  Matthew tells the rest of the story. “Mr. Liddell didn’t just take part in the Paris Olympics. He trained for the hundred-meter race. But when he found out that the qualifying heats would be on a Sunday—the Lord’s Day—he withdrew.”

  Miss E. smiles approvingly at Mr. Liddell.

  Matthew has more to say. “When Mr. Liddell competed in the four-hundred-meter race instead, no one expected him to even place. People said he hadn’t trained for the four-hundred-meter. But he won the gold medal—and set a world record.”