The Painting (26 page)

I saw the town from a distance, he says. I saw it when I came down the mountain and got lost trying to find the temple.

You’ve never been to town before?

He shakes his head. There was always a lot of work to be done. The vegetable gardens and the cleaning. We woke every day at two
A.M
. And he proceeds to tell her his former life: Forty minutes of meditation, a five-minute break, then another forty minutes of meditation, a meeting with my teacher, breakfast, chores, back to meditation, a break, more meditation, dinner, and meditation from seven to eleven at night. Every minute of the day was allocated to some chore, some task.

This was my life for years and years, he says.

It sounds very hard. Very strenuous.

The trees are swaying and bending. She feels his buoyancy, as if he might leap up into the air and swing on a tree limb. When is the last time she felt this way?

Then it’s good we’re going, she says.

Yes, I think so.

He tells her that although he wishes it hadn’t happened the way it did, the time away from the monastery has been good for him. There are a lot of stories of monks achieving sublime enlightenment in strange ways. He heard of one monk who was sweeping a temple courtyard when his broom struck a pebble. The pebble smacked against a bamboo fence, and the sudden sound dislodged something in the monk’s mind. He instantly figured out his koan and became enlightened.

So maybe on this walk, it will happen to you, she says. Anything could happen today, she thinks.

Maybe. Or to you.

She laughs.

They walk for a while in silence, but they are connected now from the laughter, and she feels a hint of comfort that comes from knowing someone a long time. She felt it for a moment when she showed him her paintings. He studied them so carefully and thoughtfully. Yes, this was the perfect thing to do today. It all feels fluid, and a new painting will come, she feels certain. Hayashi once recited a line from Emerson and she asked him to write down, she loved it so:
Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many colored lenses which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus
. It’s true, she thinks.

You mentioned you come from the north. Do you ever miss your hometown? he asks.

Which colored beads to look through? She holds all the colors in her hands. Some days, she says. Some days it pulls at me, but not right now. Her lacerated heart is forgetting itself, she thinks, left behind the iron gate, and the day feels like something she’s never experienced.

As they head into town, they see people swarming everywhere. The sun has broken through the clouds and shines on the wooden sidewalks, and there
are men in kimonos and one or two in smart Western suits. A boy skips alongside his mother. Women carry baskets of vegetables and sugar cakes from the bakery. People are pushing big wheelbarrows of rice and barley in the street and men are smoking long sticks of tobacco. Fresh wood is stacked in piles along the main street. New shops and tall buildings are being birthed, including the one with imposing tall white pillars in front.

Look at that, he says, pointing to a woman balancing a basket on her head. Then to a small boy bouncing a ball and a girl balancing herself on a raised wooden plank. Ayoshi laughs and is taken out of herself.

A man rides by enclosed in a wooden box with windows; he’s being pulled not by another man, but by horses. Three of these new carts are waiting in front of the market, announcing that for a fee, you can ride to the new capital, Tokyo, in a little over an hour.

This is what they must do, she thinks. Of course. All morning she felt anxious and suffocated and now this. Travel to the capital. The last time she went anywhere was from her home in Hokkaido to here.

A carriage, says the driver, it’s called a carriage. This one from Europe.

The monk’s face blooms with color, and his eyes grow wide, alert, and slightly wild. She brought money for shopping and now they will take this new carriage. They step gingerly onto the platform. It wobbles and they grab each other’s arm, laughing. They sit up high above the ground on the black leather bench. The driver sits in front of them, cracks a whip, Giddyup, he shouts, and the horses whinny and start and trot by the shops.

The world is speeding beside them, a blurry line outside their wooden carriage. She feels the heat of his thigh pressed up against hers.

The driver says along this road, all the guard stations are gone, and people are now free to come and go as they please. It will happen all over this country, he says. That’s why he bought this new cart and two strong horses. There will be more business than he can handle. Look behind you, he says, and they see the town receding, a small dark dot. They turn around; the tall buildings of the capital rise up in the distance.

What are you thinking? asks the monk.

Nothing. Nothing at all. She closes her eyes and opens them again. The world is new, as if it shed its skin and it is gleaming for her.

He smiles and points to a tall gray heron standing in a pond, one long leg raised out of the water, its head tilted. The breeze ripples the surface of the green water and it is hypnotizing, the lines repeated, over and over. Everything is green, a brilliant deep color that her paints can only imitate.

As they come closer to the new capital, they see the gathering of larger buildings. The sound of hammers rings out. There, points the driver, a dormitory for workers who are pouring into the new capital. There, a Western restaurant will open its doors, and there are Western-style buildings made of reddish orange material. Brick, the driver calls it.

They draw into town and people are crowded on sidewalks, carrying bags and more bags of goods. These new carriages are everywhere. The sounds and the flurry of movement—it is daunting and intimidating. They sit in the carriage, amazed, in a half stupor. The monk moves first, as if being pulled along by the swell of people.

Women wearing every color of kimono pass by, some in Western-style dresses, and men in kimonos and tight Western suits. They begin walking and pass a tall wooden boardinghouse. A sign reads,
RECENTLY CONSTRUCTED FOR WOMEN WORKERS
. She grabs his arm and makes him halt in front of the large structure. A room on the top floor. There, in the right corner with the white shade flapping with the breeze. She’d set up an easel at the window and paint the city. Rise early and paint before going to work. And what might she do? Whatever the girls do. Stitch clothing or calligraphy. Perhaps someone would buy a painting.

A woman walks by, her hair cut short. She’s walking up to the front steps of the new building, wearing a kimono, smelling of rose. Yes, she would cut her hair and paint in the morning.

His head feels as if it is going to burst with all the sound and motion. He is dizzy from the horses passing by, the shouting of men pulling rickshas—Watch out!—and the drivers of these new carriages, the people clustered together and gossiping on the street. Everything so fast, it makes him weary. They begin walking again. There is a tea shop with small dishes of food in the window. A window displays a Western-style bathroom. The sign says,
THE NECESSARY THINGS
, a toothbrush dish, toothbrush, soap dish, and comb.

A mistake to wander around the city; what is the point of this life? People
are rushing about with mindless energy. Look at all the bags that woman is carrying. What could she possibly need in all those bags? And he feels so strongly, stronger than he’s felt in a while, the longing for the quiet of the meditation hall, the simple task of washing a white dish. He turns to Ayoshi to tell her he’d like to go back. She is no longer beside him. He stops walking. Swarms of people are everywhere. He turns around and around, a small cyclone. A prick of adrenaline pokes at the base of his head. He cranes his neck. His breathing tightens and his mind unleashes a flurry of worries. What should he do? How will he get back? He could beg, but he no longer looks like a monk. Who would give him money? Someone shouts for him to get out of the way. He steps aside and bumps into a woman who’s walking with a man. The monk apologizes and feels his eyes tear.

Then he sees her. She’s about halfway down the block, staring at something in a store window. He rushes back and finds her fixated on a hat.

I thought I lost you, he says, panting.

I’m so glad you’re here. Her voice is tight and her lips compressed. She feels her anger and fear all at once. And for a moment, seeing so much emotion in the monk’s face—he looks so thrilled to see her—almost makes her forget her fright. But when the man who has been standing next to her, who won’t leave, who pressed his dirty fingers on her arm, begins to speak to her again, her fear returns. They shouldn’t have gone on this trip. It was stupid and too daring. She was intrigued by the man’s Western-style suit and asked him where he bought it. A dark blue with thin gray lines. The man’s face is flared red and his eyes are still roaming over her.

The monk folds Ayoshi’s hand into his. Excuse me, says the monk to the man, pulling her by his side.

You’ve got a beautiful woman here, says the man.

Thank you, says the monk. My wife. She’s my wife. We’re going now.

You shouldn’t leave her standing alone. That’s not very gentlemanlike.

Of course not. We became separated for a moment.

I thought I’d wandered into the pleasure quarters. He laughs loudly, then stops and stares. His thick belly falls over the strap of leather wrapped around his waist. Finally the man stumbles away.

The monk leads her down the sidewalk, her hand still clasped in his. When he reaches the entrance of the tea shop, he asks if she is all right. She nods, still shaken. They step inside. The light in the small shop is murky, and they find seats on a wooden bench. Only a few people are having afternoon tea near the windows. He is relieved to be inside.

Thank you, she says.

I should have paid more attention.

The waiter nods to them. She feels as though she walked through a spiderweb, the sticky filaments all over her skin, but the monk grabbed her hand and pulled her through. The man touched her elbow. His acrid breath and the grip of his thick hand on her elbow. She still feels where he touched her. And now there is the heat of the monk’s leg searing hers.

Steaming green tea arrives and rice crackers, too.

I got distracted by the hat.

The monk nods and sips his tea, the inflated feeling of heroism fading.

Out the window she glimpses a young couple walking together; the woman’s head tilts toward the man, who is saying something to her. She laughs, covering her mouth. I have never had that, she thinks, that open ease with a man. She looks at the monk’s hand, the moon shape of his fingernails.

When the waiter comes again, she orders sake. A tall bottle. The small sliver of light through the front door curtain cuts a thin line on the floor. The waiter returns with two small cups and a tall vase of hot sake. She raises her glass, a toast, but to what? His hands are clenched now. She wants this day to be wonderful, the bead through which to look bright yellow. There is a painting on the wall, a waterfall with an old man fishing from a large rock. The monk is studying it intensely.

You said I was your wife, she says, smiling. Isn’t that funny?

For a moment, the burden won’t lift, but he looks at her and smiles.

Yes.

What would your teacher think?

He’d say I was no good. Which he said all the time anyway.

A bad monk.

But maybe this time I wouldn’t mind, says the monk, drinking his sake. Maybe I’d agree.

They laugh again and the lightness is returning. Everything is going to be fine, she thinks, and touches him lightly on the wrist.

He tells her some of the young monks used to get so restless, they’d sneak out at night, climb down the mountain, and go to the brothels.

And did you? she asks.

No. I got drunk instead, he says, pouring himself more sake.

The waiter brings a plate of rice crackers and sashimi and tells them it is a gift from the owner, please come to this restaurant whenever they visit the new capital.

Ayoshi claps her hands in delight. Doesn’t the air feel different here, she says. As if you could be anything or do anything? It makes you giddy, doesn’t it?

His breathing slows as he takes in the air. Yes, he says, his shoulders unfolding. Everyone is moving, going here and there in a mad rush. It makes you feel as though you’re missing something, or might miss something.

That’s exactly it, she says, smiling.

He refills her glass.

This rushing around. It reminds you that life is fleeting, so you must try everything, don’t you think? he says.

She is beginning to feel drunk.

His cheeks are a bright red hue. Here’s to death, which makes us remember to live, he says raising his glass. That, he thinks, is the truest thought he’s had in a long time. He brushes his fingers against her thigh. The heat. The heat. This day is unlike any other. He tells her that for generations his family has always given one child to the monastery. He was the one. And now he is a man and he is alive, hearing the people clamoring in the kitchen, throwing wonderful scents wide into the room. He can’t possibly go back, he thinks. No, he won’t return to the monastery. And he must do what he’s been wanting to do—when did he first feel this urge? It seems that it’s been there from the moment he saw her—and he leans over and quickly kisses her, catching the side of her cheek.

This is it, she thinks. This is what she’s been waiting for. No one is looking,
the chef busy with an order, the other couples tucked in conversations. This is what she wants—to be drawn into life, to cross the almost visible line that has kept her out. She turns to him. He kisses her again, this time on the lips.

He is full of attention, sensing the tip of her shoulder forward, finding her hair, brushing long strands behind her ear. His scalp tingles to the touch. The way her lips part halfway, he tastes her moistness. The hairs on his arms stand up, alarmed. He feels altogether changed and different. All the time he has been meditating to dissolve the self, and here, with one kiss on rose-colored lips, he has disappeared completely into her.