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Authors: Gail Tsukiyama

The Samurai's Garden: A Novel (13 page)

BOOK: The Samurai's Garden: A Novel
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“Why did you feel it was necessary to come this morning?” I asked.
“I thought it might be necessary for you to come here,” he answered.
“For me?” I asked, surprised.
“Because of your
o-t
san’
s visit,” he answered, picking up another sushi.
I suddenly felt Matsu knew everything. I grew angry at the thought that he might even be a conspirator in what my father had been doing. The half-eaten piece of sushi I held slipped from my fingers onto the ground.
“Did you know my father had a mistress?” I asked, accusingly.
Matsu stopped eating as his eyes grew wide at my question. The smile on his face disappeared. “I don’t concern myself with your
o-t
san’
s private matters,” he answered.
“Is that why you’ve remained our servant for so long, so you can keep my father’s secrets?” I snapped. I regretted my words even as I said them. I knew it was wrong to take my anger out on Matsu, but it was too late. My shame seem to echo through the cool air.
“I have found great honor working for your
oj
-san
and your
o-t
san,”
Matsu answered.
I quickly stood up, dusted my trousers of pine needles, and bowed very low toward Matsu. “I’m sorry, I had no right to say that to you, Matsu-
san
.”
Matsu took his time before he finally looked up at me, his stare softening. “It was the anger speaking, not the man,” he said. He patted the ground beside him for me to sit down again. “You must realize, Stephen-
san
, that it changes nothing about the way your
o-t
san
feels about you, but only what you now feel for him. It is sad to think that sometimes one person’s happiness must come at the expense of others.”
I nodded my head and remained silent. I thought about my father, and how he had always worked hard for his family. My illness had grieved him deeply, and it was his idea that I come to Tarumi to recuperate. I glanced over at Matsu, embarrassed by my behavior. He sat deep in his own thoughts. Only then did I remember how he too must be thinking of Sachi and suffering from the loss of his friendship with Kenzo.
“At first,” I paused, “I thought you might have come here to pray for Kenzo-
san
.”
Matsu turned toward me. “It is useless to pray for someone else. I come here to pray for myself.”
“But you’ve known him since you were young. He’s your best friend!”
“Then we will have to leave it to the strength of our history together,” he said.
I lay back onto the ground and pillowed my head with my hands, absorbing all Matsu’s words. I wondered if it might be like that for my parents. Would their history together be enough to hold them in marriage? Could I somehow change the events between my mother and father? It made me feel a little better to think of such possibilities. I closed my eyes and listened as the wind softly whispered through the trees.
A letter arrived from my mother today. I’d been waiting to hear from her, yet I hesitated to open it at first, frightened of what her words might tell me. Since my visit to the Tama Shrine, I tried not to think of my parents’ marriage. It felt like just another casualty that seem to be slipping from my life.
Dear Stephen,
I have not been well lately. I received your letter and I’m grateful you were able to speak to your Ba-ba. He told me, too, that the money was used in a business venture. And for me not to worry. Under the circumstances, it seems I have no choice but to believe him. After all, I am just a woman with four children to raise but with no education in making a living. Your Ba-ba and I married when I was only fifteen. A perfect match. His Auntie Chin saw me walking with my sisters down in Central. She rushed to tell her nephew, your father. You’ve heard this story many times, forgive me. I’m old now. Almost forty. I wouldn’t know what to do out there in the world.
I know I shouldn’t tell you of these thoughts, Stephen. I want you to know I’m not complaining. I have had a better life than most. If it must change somewhat to suit your Ba-ba’s needs, so be it. Perhaps our marriage is at the point he and I must go our separate ways. I can accept this fact—I must—provided the family stays together in every other respect. Your Ba-ba has agreed to this.
Our main concern is that you feel better. I hoped to be with you during the holidays. I know you’ll understand my health keeps me here now. I’ve already sent your Christmas presents. Your Ba-ba would like you to go up to Kobe to be with him. I think the trip will do you good.
Until then, my Stephen, know that I love you. My main concern is for your health and happiness in the coming year.
Ching reminds me to tell you to keep warm and dry.
 
Much love,
Mah-mee
I put down the letter and immediately felt melancholy for the life I once knew in Hong Kong. The sound of my mother’s voice through her letter sent a dull ache to my heart. In the past few years, my parents had ceased to be the same two people I had known and grown up with. I remembered holding their hands as a little boy, never feeling more secure as I walked between them down Lee Yuen East Street. In my mind I heard again the frantic bargaining of street vendors and customers, and the grinding halt of the streetcars in Central. In the evenings back then, before my father’s business began to take him away, we’d sit and eat Ching’s minced duck and salted chicken around our big black lacquer table, my parents trying to make conversation as we children teased and tumbled over ourselves. Now the thought that they would stay together in marriage as a business arrangement filled me with heaviness. I had to admit that things had begun to change shortly after Pie was born. My father went more often to Japan, for longer periods of time, until he lived there more than with us in Hong Kong. The Ba-ba I knew as a small boy was no longer the same. Whenever he came home on brief visits, bringing gifts and quick hugs, I began to feel that somehow even the air we breathed was different.
 
 
I walked to the village this afternoon to wire my father that I would be staying in Tarumi for the holidays.
I woke up this morning to my first Christmas in Tarumi. Matsu slid open my door and said in a light, easy voice, “Come along. There’s something I want you to see.”
I quickly got up and slipped on my clothes. Matsu stood in the
genken,
impatiently waiting for me.
“What is it?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Matsu moved out of the way as I approached, pointing to the garden. “I thought you might like a Christmas tree,” he said. There in the far corner, Matsu had decorated one of his pine trees with colorful pieces of origami cranes and fishes.
I stood silent, and didn’t know what to say. I had just been in bed with thoughts of what I would be missing back home in Hong Kong. Every year when we were young, my mother insisted on having a live Christmas tree with ornaments in our house. We would get up to the warm aroma of pine, only to be quietly pushed into the dining room for breakfast by Ching, while we waited for my parents to get up so we could open our presents. The two or three hours of waiting were excruciating for Pie and Henry. Pie barely ate, while Henry ate everything in sight, as they both stared back and forth from the clock to the tree. I was old enough to know that my parents were sleeping off the effects of the Christmas Eve party they had attended the night before and wouldn’t be up for hours.
For years, our Christmas dinners were held at The Hong Kong Hotel. There, we sat down for a five-course continental dinner, including goose, potatoes, and bread pudding. Along with dinner came my mother’s yearly lecture on how to use the numerous pieces of silverware lined up beside our plates. “Always move from the outside in,” her voice sailed across the table at us. The first year of this tradition, Ching was also asked to come along, but refused to eat a thing when she saw the complicated set of utensils. If she couldn’t use chopsticks, she wouldn’t eat. After that, Ching remained in the safe confines of her kitchen, and my mother took on the responsibility for us at Christmas dinner.
 
 
“It’s the nicest Christmas tree I’ve ever had,” I finally said.
Matsu nodded happily without saying a word. He stayed for a moment longer and stared at the tree. Then I saw him smile to himself, satisfied with what he had created. He turned around and began to walk to the kitchen. “How would you like your eggs cooked?” he asked.
BOOK: The Samurai's Garden: A Novel
4.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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