The Painting (21 page)

Oh? Which one of my paintings?

The one in the temple. The one in shadows.

She smiles faintly.

I think you’ll get a lot of money for it.

No one ever looks at it.

Well, it’s settled. I’ll do my best to get a good price. And the person I have in mind to buy it, he’ll look at it. What will you do if you become a rich woman?

Run away.

He laughs and clutches her arm. Good. You can come with me.

Of course she won’t run away. What if Urashi came for her? What if he finally came and she wasn’t here?

Sato watches the long green grass strands teeter on each other. Your father would be proud, he says.

Her face collapses. My father?

He probably wanted you to be a famous artist as much as you did. Maybe more. Or have you forgotten how he always provided you with the best painting teachers, the best paints and paper?

A fish rises and breaks through the still surface of the water.

She wraps her arms tighter around her shins and places her chin on her kneecaps. You always liked him, didn’t you? For some reason my father could ignore your obsession with the West. I don’t know why. He thought of you like a son.

Sato smiles fondly. He has always wanted the best for you.

She frowns bitterly and throws another pebble into the water. I’ll never see him again and that’s fine with me.

Sato pulls his coat tighter. Why?

The cattails rattle and the surface of the lake creases. The clouds come hurling over the mountains and the air chills. A shudder passes through Ayoshi. The first raindrops break open the lake.

I should get back to work, she says. She rises to go.

What happened between you and your father? Come inside and sit with me. You’re cold. Look, goosebumps on your neck.

No, I can’t.

Then tell me about the baby, he says.

She stiffens and throws a handful of pebbles into the lake. He waits and stands next to her.

The fish’s body is a remarkable thing, she says. We’re not built that way, to move so easily with each current.

He touches his fingertips to her hand.

She moves her hand away. I’m not like you, she says, beginning to feel herself unravel. You come and go when you want. You do what you please. You don’t belong anywhere. Not here in Japan, probably not America or Europe or wherever you’ve gone.

No, you’re right. I don’t belong. And maybe you don’t either. Has that ever occurred to you? That you’re trying to swim in the wrong current?

She turns and faces him. Every day.

The rain falls steadily, releasing and recreating the tension of the lake’s still surface. They stand there a long time, listening to the wind and the patter of rain.

My father, she says. There was an old woman, her back so bent and brittle. Ayoshi has never spoken of these things. The woman’s breath, she says, in a half-dreaming, half-grieving state, when she stood over me, a sour bitterness seeped all over. I still remember that horrible odor. Ayoshi picks up a small twig and snaps it.

It was the middle of the night, her father woke her. With a firm grip on her arm, he led her out the front door to the sleigh. The two horses were already
strapped in. Where are we going? she asked, how many times did she ask? Her father sat beside her, staring straight ahead, just the constant clicking of his tongue at the horses. Ayoshi tipped her head back and fell into the sound of the horses trotting. The stars seemed to be falling out of the sky, extinguishing their light as they approached the earth. She thought the world was dying, one star at a time.

The next day, I was emptied out, she says. She sits again on the stone bench, sinking below awkwardness or discomfort. The silence, strangely calming. I told myself there could be another, but I knew it was a lie. After that, I never saw Urashi again. Ayoshi leans over, tears off a piece of grass, and runs her fingers along the long green stretch of it. My mother threatened seppuku if I brought more shame. She wraps the grass around her wrist and tightens it. The wind blows stronger, tipping the tops of the pine trees. And the baby, she thinks, it would have been almost two years old.

The rain begins to fall harder.

Sato stands and pulls her up by the arm. She feels dizzy now for speaking of these things, as if they happened long ago, with the emotion teased out. A raindrop falls on her hand, magnifying everything. She stares at it, in a daze. Neither one says anything for a while.

I’m sorry, Ayoshi. So sorry.

She tightens her jaw.

Does he know? Sato asks.

She turns to him, slowly registering what he is asking, and then laughs bitterly. I don’t think Hayashi knows anything about me. He probably knows more about that monk than me.

W
ONDERFUL WORK, SAYS
H
AYASHI
. A real talent, you have.

It’s late morning and Hayashi and the monk are taking their break, eating rice cakes and sipping tea. The heaviness the monk felt earlier now feels like dusk has entered his body, a shifting of day into night. His head aches. That man, Sato, he stepped out of the house and followed her down to the lake. They’ve been down there together for quite some time. Whatever are they doing?

He stands, wiping his hands on his trousers, prepared to walk down to the lake. Hayashi asks if he’s ready to begin again.

Yes, says the monk. He turns to Hayashi, who is still eating. Please, you finish your meal. He walks over to the pile of wood and picks up a board.

You are a superb carpenter, says Hayashi.

No, he thinks, I am a monk; it’s what his uncle did, and before that his great-uncle, on down the line for ten generations. And if he gives it up, what would he be? He senses, however irrational, that he would vanish. The thought makes him shudder. In the beginning, he admits he hated the monastery, he missed his family so, wondered how his mother could have left him there, but enough of that. He is a monk now. He pulls on the rope tied around his waist. He will always be a monk, and they can’t take that away from him. Do you know anything about the Kencho-ji? he asks. Is that temple still standing or have they torn that one down, too?

Please don’t worry. This is not what the Meiji Restoration is about. It will pass. Please don’t concern yourself.

He sets the board down. What good can come of this new government? he asks. They are founding it on Buddhist blood.

I don’t think—

They killed my teacher.

Please, there is no reason—

Someone must speak out.

—to act rashly. Not now, says Hayashi, his face draining of color.

I’ll speak against this government.

These are difficult times. Misguided in many ways, I agree with you. But these things must be handled delicately.

The monk’s face is red and his eyes fierce. Misguided is hardly the word for it.

The first raindrops fall and splatter on the porch.

Hayashi hurriedly explains the new leaders will soon offer free education for everyone, even the peasant’s child will learn, but the monk is barely listening, the words fragmented, a stream of excuses. Reading. Math. Pottery.
Learn anything. If a merchant’s son desires, he can become a religious man. An artisan, to a merchant. Like the West, the truth of every man.

The gray day slurs with his gloomy mood. Except if you want to be a monk, he says.

The rain comes down harder, a thick silvery sheet of metal. Hayashi gazes out to the green tea fields. I’ll speak to them, says Hayashi, his voice filled with resignation. His feet now throb. He says he must step inside to rest.

A
BONENKAI CELEBRATION, SAYS
Sato, raising his glass to the monk, who walks in dripping wet, with his collar and the bottom of his pants frozen stiff by the cold. All day, he has worked alone on the teahouse, in the silence of the rain that eventually turned to snow. A pre—New Year’s party is well under way in the kitchen. A celebration to forget the past year’s misfortunes and welcome a prosperous new year.

We’re celebrating early, says Sato.

The monk stands there, bewildered and overwhelmed, trying to take it all in. Two empty sake bottles sit on the kitchen table, and bowls overflow with rice crackers wrapped in seaweed; there’s a plate of mochi, and the aroma of grilled fish swarms the eating room, reminding the monk of his hunger. Sato leans against the counter holding a blue bottle; Hayashi sits at the table, smiling, cutting designs out of washi paper and gluing them onto a wooden paddle. Ayoshi sits across from him, wearing a pale blue kimono with the figures of white cranes. Her face is flushed pink, her dark eyes brightly lit. She is so animated, so lively. Look! Her long hair streams down her back. He’s never seen it released from its binding. It reminds him of long meadow grass.

Ayoshi hoists her design above her head and waves it. A magnificent yellow bird, its wings spread as if in full flight. Two alert black eyes stare at him.

Water trickles down the sides of the monk’s face.

Hayashi turns to the monk. Hot sake for the drenched man.

The maid brings the monk a glass. Hayashi announces tonight they are making hagoita paddles for the new year.

I don’t know this hagoita, says the monk.

Ayoshi laughs, covering her mouth, and the monk blushes, embarrassed that she is laughing at him. She tells him the game is what girls play around New Year’s. A game for good luck.

And we need some good luck, says Hayashi, pouring himself another glass.

And we need to forget our misfortunes so the new year brings something better, says Sato. So drink up and think about all the awful things you’d like to put behind you.

You make it sound so easy, says Ayoshi.

Why not? says Sato, reaching for the sake bottle. Why shouldn’t life be easy?

The house is warm, and the monk, who worked too long, can’t think of anything except what floats up in front of him, the warm cup pressed against his cold, red hands, the sake in the folds of his mouth. He empties the glass and looks over at her. The bottle of hot sake goes around again, and the monk’s glass is refilled.

Look at the snow, says Ayoshi, rising. Still holding her bird paddle, she stands by the window and presses her hand to the glass. Her breath makes a fogged, milky circle. I’ve always thought the earth had secret openings. White patches that fall into the deep center. What do you think lies at the center of the earth? she asks, turning to the others.

Gold and more sake, says Sato.

Thick, rich mud and the bones of the dead, says Hayashi. Oh, yes. She wants this evening to be fun. That’s what you said earlier, right? Then gold and tubes of paint for you.

The monk is still standing by the doorway, and now he sees her feet are bare. Her toes, smooth and perfect, her toenails, milky white.

It’s remarkable, says the monk. Your imagination. The bird. It looks so real.

You’ve brought in the rainwater, says Hayashi, pointing to a muddy puddle spreading on the floor. Hurry now. Go change your clothes or you’ll flood us.

Sato gazes steadily at the monk.

The monk looks down. The puddle is running across the floor and now staining the hem of her kimono.

Let’s not be serious tonight, she says. Let’s not be serious ever again.

For the new year, my wish is that we all go to Europe, says Sato. We’ll go to Italy. There is lush food, fruit all year round—

Wonderful, she says, laughing.

Red plums and green grapes and thick pastries with white frosting. Tomatoes as sweet as sugar. You’ve probably never eaten a tomato, have you? I’ll order four boxes of them and we’ll spend a day eating tomatoes. Sato stops and turns to the monk, still standing there in his wet clothes. Except the monk probably couldn’t endure such indulgences, could you? I suppose you’ll just have to stay here.

Ayoshi lets herself imagine Italy. What if she leaves with Sato, travels to these places they once dreamed about as children? She could have her freedom, and there would be no more heavy silences, no more feet that never heal, only paintbrushes and these tomatoes as sweet as sugar.

At the center of the earth, says the monk, lost souls, or maybe nothing, nothing at all.

Oh, now, don’t be dismal, says Sato.

Yes, don’t be so dismal, says Ayoshi. The color is still bright in her cheeks. Not tonight.

We’re having a party, says Sato, who moves closer to Ayoshi. The new year is around the corner, and we don’t want to make the gods angry. What would you like to forget, Hayashi?

Shinto gods, says the monk. You mean Shinto gods.

Sato turns abruptly and faces the monk. Of course, says Sato. I pray to them all or none at all. It depends on the day and time of year.

What would I want to forget? asks Hayashi, who pops open another bottle of sake.

What’s so bad about Shintoism, really? says Sato. Are you aware of any of the precepts? Even I, who haven’t been to a Shinto or a Buddhist ceremony in a very long time, can recall a few. Let’s see. Don’t be sluggish in your work. Now, what’s wrong with that? You believe in that, don’t you?

I think the monk is cold, says Hayashi, still smiling. Let him go change his clothes.

Oh yes, says Sato, bearing down on the monk. Here’s another. The world is one family. What do the Buddhists think is wrong with that? Sato’s eyes are darting and flickering.

We agree with that, says the monk, his voice firm.

Sato, says Hayashi, his smile vanishing. Let him go change into dry clothes. Look at him. He’s shivering.

What’s wrong with believing that spiritual forces pervade the natural world? asks Sato. Where did I read this? It was a beautiful line. Oh, yes. Sato closes his eyes and recites,
Myriad spirits shine like fireflies and every tree and bush can speak
. He opens his eyes again. Beautiful. Shintoism teaches you to love the world with its spirits. And what does Buddhism teach? All is transitory. We’ll be dead soon, so turn your back to the world. Isn’t that right?

Ayoshi finishes her drink and noisily sets down her glass. The Ainu believe that hanging the forepaws of a hare over the doorway wards off the spirit of demon disease.

Hayashi looks over at Ayoshi, his mouth slightly ajar.