The Painting (15 page)

W
HAT IS HE DOING
now? asks Hayashi.

Still sitting, says Ayoshi, who is standing at the window, watching the monk who is meditating on the moon-viewing deck. He’s wearing one of Hayashi’s best kimonos. She presses her hand to the wall to steady herself. Like viewing a painting, she thinks. Look at how still he sits. There is a disturbing beauty to his composure, his self-restraint, the symmetry of his face. And her husband is smitten with the monk. The way he rushed to her when she came back from town, telling her to be quiet, to close the doors softly, not to run the water for a bath. They had a very auspicious guest staying with them who needs quiet and serenity.

But it’s getting dark, says Hayashi, half rising, as if he planned to bring the monk inside. He’ll catch a chill. He cranes his neck to try to glimpse the monk.

How long is he going to stay? asks Ayoshi.

I don’t know.

She sits at the table across from him and frowns. What did he tell you?

He didn’t. But he’ll stay as long as he wants.

They are finishing dinner. Sato remained in town to tend to some business.

She shakes her head. Isn’t it dangerous for him to stay here? she asks. What if the government finds out? What will they do to us?

I’ve already thought about this. Hayashi tells her his plan.

A helper? she asks, her voice incredulous. For what? What is he going to do here?

I’ll make him some tea, says Hayashi, rising. He’ll probably be cold when he finishes.

I don’t think it’s safe for him to stay.

He’s halfway to the kitchen, but stops. Why are you so worried about this?

Why aren’t you?

He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, as if new pain uncoiled itself.

I can do that, says Ayoshi. You rest.

Hayashi comes back to the table and sits. Ayoshi steps into the kitchen and puts the tea kettle on the fire. When she returns, she walks over to the window in the hallway and looks again at the monk’s still form.

What is he doing now?

Still sitting.

I’ve met men like our young monk, says Hayashi. They enter the monastery at a very young age. They’re like children in many ways, marveling at things we walk by without even noticing. They are acutely aware. A monk once sat with me for hours, showing me the sky, the different shades of lavender, silver, and five hundred variations of blue.

Hayashi joins her by the window.

They’re very innocent in their ways, he says. Trusting. It is an endearing quality.

Maybe that’s what she senses about him, she thinks. His curiosity, his open body exploring earnestly. Not a calm energy, as she expected. All his senses seem to be vibrating, alive, searching. No, not searching. Hunting. An electrical energy in the way he moves.

But our visitor will probably feel awkward around you, says Hayashi, speaking to her reflection in the window.

Why?

There are no women at the monastery, and unless his mother or sisters visited, he won’t know the ways of a woman.

How strange.

Don’t be surprised if he is uncomfortable with you. If he needs anything, it’s probably best for him to call me.

Why did he come here? asks Ayoshi.

He tells her the monk comes from the same monastery where he once lived. The same place where I spent most of my life, he says. His face clouds over and now he must rest. He’ll be in the Western room reading. Ayoshi feels him brush behind her and then he is gone. She sits in the eating room for a while longer, staring at her steaming tea, waiting for their new guest to come inside. There are things I need to get done, she thinks. I could be in the studio now. What is that man doing out there in the dark? This is absurd. He wants to make her wait, to test her in some way, though she knows this can’t be true. She walks over to the window. He’s standing now, stretching, and walking to the house. When he comes inside, he bows low and apologizes for causing any inconvenience.

You are our guest, she says. Excuse me, your dinner is ready.

He blushes. I’d like to speak with Hayashi. I have a favor to ask. He keeps ducking his head slightly to avoid her eyes.

I’m so sorry. My husband is unavailable.

He shifts from foot to foot. They stand there for a moment, neither one speaking. Finally he tells her, if she’d let him, he’d like to set up a small shrine in the garden. From the monastery gardens, he brought a small wooden statue.

How long are you intending to stay? she asks, and the instant after she speaks, she feels a tremor of embarrassment at her brusqueness.

He looks at the ground and fumbles with the edge of his sleeve. I’m so sorry. I won’t be a bother to you, he says. I’ll leave as soon as I can.

I didn’t mean—

While I am here, I’ll pay for my room and board with my services.

She studies his reddening face. He is so uncomfortable. She steps into the kitchen, finds a lantern, and they walk together out to the porch. There, a two-foot wooden figure, a statue of a bodhisattva in flowing robes, the hands clasped in prayer. The form is cracked and weathered, a relic from another time. The expression on the statue’s face, almost like the monk’s
at that moment, a beautiful serenity, and a vitality and smugness that borders on boyish certitude.

Hayashi steps out on the porch. I thought I heard you.

The monk bows and repeats his request. I’ll leave as soon as I know where I’m going, says the monk.

Please, says Hayashi, waving his hand in front of him, as if casting aside smoke. We want you to stay as long as you want. Hayashi takes the lantern from Ayoshi and the monk picks up the statue, cradling it in his arms. The two men amble into the garden in the night air. Ayoshi is torn between stepping inside and following them into the garden. She’ll stay a moment, she tells herself, to see which spot he chooses. She walks over to them and hears Hayashi tell the monk to choose a spot. Anywhere, he says, gesturing with his arm to the expanse of the garden. And she can barely contain her surprise. How animated Hayashi has become; and his walk, almost graceful; how can that be?

The monk wanders around the garden, Hayashi following, as if this decision were the most significant event in a long time. Round and round, the monk meanders.

Finally he sets the figure underneath the willow tree. Hayashi places the lantern on the ground. The monk climbs down on his knees and carefully sculpts a level clearing with his hand.

He is soiling Hayashi’s good kimono, thinks Ayoshi, who returns to the deck, snatches up a straw mat, and marches over to the monk. For a moment she watches his hands caress the ground.

Please, she says, extending the mat to the monk.

He’s fine, says Hayashi, reaching for the mat, but the monk takes it and places it underneath his knees.

She steps back, and now she really should go inside. The maid is waiting for her to go over the list of goods needed from town for tomorrow’s dinner. With two guests, they will need more miso soup and white rice. Maybe she should buy something special, chicken for yakitori.

When she glances over at the monk, she sees he is watching her. His eyes, big and astonishingly bright. Her cheeks burn. He doesn’t look away. She is
the one to avert her gaze. Her heart races. Perhaps, as Hayashi said, he’s never seen a woman before. She looks again. He’s still staring, enthralled, it seems. How rude to stare like that. So brazen and bold. She has the urge to jump or scream, though she’s not sure why. She shivers and hugs herself.

Are you cold? asks Hayashi.

Yes, she says. I should go inside. She walks briskly toward the house. When she steps inside, she sits at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. After a while, she rises and looks out the darkened window; nothing to see, only her reflection staring back. What was he looking at so intently? The front door opens and closes. Sato stumbles into the kitchen, his pupils large, his dark eyes darting.

Sleepy little Japan is waking up. I just sold a merchant in town seven bolts of silk from China.

Have you been drinking?

My new customer and I had some celebratory drinks, it’s true.

We have a visitor.

He stops, dropping his jaw. Is he here? Your man from Hokkaido?

No, she says, glaring at him, and don’t ever mention him in this house again.

He comes over to her. Maybe if you sit here a little longer, he’ll show up.

He’s breathing hard, as if he ran from town, up the hill to the house, and his breath smells of liquor. The monk and Hayashi step inside, still talking about the statue.

Well, says Hayashi, staring hard at Sato.

Sato props himself up.

Hayashi introduces Sato to their new guest and smiles, as if he’s just produced something he’s proud of. The monk bows and Sato stands there, slightly stupefied.

It is an honor to meet any friend of Hayashi’s, says the monk.

Sato shifts from foot to foot. Yes, yes. We must drink to that.

Hayashi’s face blanches as he watches Sato nearly dance in place. The maid comes out with a steaming hot plate of food for the monk.

Finally, says Hayashi, clapping his hands together.

The monk sits at the table and Sato takes a place across from him. Hayashi positions himself beside his new guest. Ayoshi stands by the doorway to the kitchen, watching the monk wolf down his food.

You have quite the appetite, says Sato.

This food, says the monk.

I’m sorry. It’s nothing special, says Ayoshi, feeling alarmed by his ravenous eating. If we’d known you were coming.

You don’t understand, Ayoshi, says Hayashi. After years of plain rice and barley soup, almost anything would taste good.

Then he’s the perfect guest, says Sato, stepping into the kitchen.

The monk laughs, and Ayoshi is shaken by the charming sound.

Now for a drink, says Sato, raising a bottle. He tells them he bought it in town. Sake from Tateyama. Ayoshi reaches for some of Hayashi’s sake cups.

No, get the good ones, says Hayashi.

The black glazed cups with small lines of crackling white. Hayashi explained to her the white lines came out so unique, so different, that these are his best cups, though to her, they all look the same. She pours them each a cup. The monk holds one in front of him, examining it.

I can see why they didn’t let you become a monk, he says. The slight hint of imperfection. There at the lip.

You see it? says Hayashi.

It’s a very delicate design, says the monk. You’ve captured the humanity of imperfection in a perfectly designed object.

Remarkable, says her husband. Not many people see the intent behind it.

My teachers taught me to look and see. That is the importance of education, I think. To learn to know where to look to see the truth.

And do you know the truth? asks Sato, pouring himself another glass, his smile slightly lopsided.

Hayashi coughs. The monk shifts uncertainly. It’s what I’m searching for. I don’t mean to say I know it.

I’ll show you my other work sometime, says Hayashi.

I’d like to see it, too, says Sato.

Hayashi nods politely and quickly looks away.

When the monk finishes his tea, he asks if he may go to the temple.

The monk is tired, says Hayashi, placing his hand on the young man’s back, gently coaxing him away from Sato, down the hallway toward the temple, where the monk told Hayashi earlier he would like to stay.

After they’ve left, Sato turns to Ayoshi, raising his eyebrows. Well, he says. An awkward boy, don’t you think? What? You look so worried. What is it?

I think it’s dangerous to have him here, she says. I told Hayashi that, but he won’t hear of the monk leaving.

Your life just keeps getting disrupted, doesn’t it?

It’s not that. If the government finds out—

He’s about to refill her drink, but she slips her hand over her cup. I’m tired, Sato, she says, standing and rubbing her eyes. Ayoshi pads down the hallway, thinking she’ll go to the studio to paint, but when she steps outdoors, she walks to the front of the temple. She slowly opens the heavy wooden door, not wanting to disturb his deep meditation. He is there, lying on the floor, curled up in a ball, his head cupped into the cradle of his arms, and she listens to the sound of a man crying. What has happened? she wonders, barely restraining herself from going to him.

T
HE MONK CONVERTED THE
main room of the temple into his home. At night, he unrolls a futon and sleeps in the corner of the room, and before the sun rises, he rolls it up again and tucks it in a closet. He diligently cleans the temple every day, dusting the Buddha, the thick molding around the floor, and the ceiling. After the temple is done, he scrubs the small bathroom located in the remote corner. These are only a few chores he would do if he were still at the monastery. Hayashi told him the temple has never been so spotless. The first time the monk opened the temple door for the villagers, Hayashi rushed over from the house, as if to stop him. The two villagers looked at Hayashi then the monk. Hayashi waited for a while, then returned to the house. This is how it’s been, only one or two people. But the prayers are over too quickly and the tasks don’t take very long; the monk’s
never had such long stretches of time, and he wishes he had more work to do. The maid chased him out of the kitchen when he walked in one morning and begin scrubbing the dishes.

In the far gardens now, away from the house, he picks up a fallen leaf and absently studies the orange and red. As he lets it go, watching it fall to the ground, the memories from the mountaintop tumble down on him with sickening vividness. They wanted to die, he thinks. The monks who stayed in the temple calmly waited for death’s hand. True monks, loyal and pure, they died gracefully, with no trepidation, with conviction. And what did he do? He clutched to life and began to weep uncontrollably.

Go. The old monk would not look at him. Go.

The young monk sobbed.

Go, his teacher hissed. You are not ready.

There were only five who ran out of the temple. He led the way out the window.

The wind rustles the leaves. He looks up and sees a few green leaves still clinging to the willow tree. He can’t escape this horrible thought that he is a fraud, not worthy of wearing the robe. He is only a man, he thinks. Just an ordinary man, afflicted with the same spasms of doubts. And he recalls the time he was sick for a month, how wonderful it was when his teacher excused him from his grueling, monotonous life. He spent hours in bed reading literature and drawing whatever came into view. It was a good thing Hayashi stripped him of his robe. A very good thing. Despite his deference, Hayashi must have sensed it, all his flaws, like imperfections in a poorly crafted weaving.