Private Life (33 page)

work beyond their comprehension, and also that there were more people than one had

ever imagined busily wrestling with those forces. Margaret didn't know where all these

people came from. When the papers gave the toll of the dead on the European and

Eastern fronts, it was almost impossible to believe that so many humans could have

presented themselves to the bullet or the bomb, or, indeed, the poison gas, and yet there

were still more left behind, and it was the same with the epidemic--the numbers of those

who died were astonishing except in comparison with the numbers who survived. Like

everyone she knew or read about, she agreed with the title of one of Dora's pieces, this

one sent from Cairo, "My Life Didn't Prepare Me for This." Dora was writing about the

mysteries of the Khan el-Khalili bazaar. Margaret was thinking about everything in the

whole world.

decided

that,

given the end of the war and his responsibilities writing

his science column for the
Examiner
, Margaret should double her typing time--two hours

in the morning and two hours in the afternoon, but not while he was sleeping, "as the taptap-tapping has a uniquely disturbing effect on my sleep, my dear." Margaret pointed out

that she had other activities to occupy her time, but the only one that he would

acknowledge was cleaning, which she should do quietly while he was sleeping. One night

at the dinner table, she declared that she had her own projects, and Andrew said, with a

rare flash of anger, "My dear, we both must put away idleness for the sake of the greater

interests that draw us forward and outward. Am I enlisting you in a cause? Indeed, I am. I

have a forum, and I am obligated to use it. Must I remind you ...?" He let this part die

away, but she knew what he meant.

Soon she saw that he had still another project in mind.

You could buy a car for almost any amount of money, from five hundred dollars

for a roadster with two seats, to six thousand or so for a limousine. For several months,

Andrew took the ferry to San Francisco and explored the cars available while she typed

her pages. At first he was drawn to the Locomobile. But they were expensive, and in the

end he chose the Franklin five-passenger, which he said cost only fifty dollars more than

the Franklin Roadster, though it was much bigger. Andrew thought this pricing practice

was a sign of the intelligence of Mr. Franklin, who "can see that the real cost of the

automobile is in the engine and the manufacturing process. The point of pricing is to

draw customers of all types, not to penalize those who need a smaller or larger chassis."

He felt that if Mr. Franklin were to become acquainted with him, he would appreciate

Andrew (and would, no doubt, agree with his views about Dr. Einstein). But he did not

plan to learn to drive the car. That was to be her job, like the typing.

Right about this time, the knitting group began to buzz with the news that Mrs.

Tillotson had sued her husband for divorce, and Margaret said one thing: "Is it because

she has to drive the car?" The ladies looked at her quizzically, and Mrs. Gess laughed out

loud, as if she had made a successful joke, but the divorce had nothing to do with cars--it

had to do with adultery. Mr. Tillotson had a mistress in Oakland,
with
a child. He had

bought the woman a house, and it was the house that was the last straw for Mrs.

Tillotson. The ladies then discussed what might make them divorce their husbands. Mrs.

Jones said that you couldn't get a divorce for just anything--adultery was one thing; the

others were conviction for a felony, fraud, drunkenness, "really bad beatings," or if the

fellow ran away. All the ladies shook their heads as if they had never heard of such

things. Mrs. Gess said, "Well, Henrietta Tillotson is brazen enough to do it." Margaret

couldn't decide if her tone was admiring or disapproving, but she thought, yes, only

Henrietta--she did have a surface, a kind of glaze, that was bold and worldly. The woman

had always reminded her more of Andrew than even of Dora or Mrs. Bell. Mrs. Tillotson

stopped coming to the knitting group.

But how she was to learn to drive she did not quite know. She explained her

dilemma to Mrs. Wareham, Naoko, and Cassandra over tea one afternoon, without

voicing her profound resentment of the whole thing. Naoko said, "My mother and I can

teach you. My mother got rid of the horse and bought a Dodge Brothers Roadster for her

rounds. Father won't go in it, but I ride with her all the time. We've driven to Napa and

Benicia and once to Fairfield. Joe and Lester drive it, too."

Margaret said, "I hardly know your mother. Would she mind?"

"She loves driving," said Naoko. "I think she would enjoy it."

Naoko was not the girl she had been. Perhaps she was close to thirty now and still

unmarried--her father did not want her to marry an American man, and she did not care

for any of the Japanese men they knew. Naoko's opinion was that her brothers would

marry, and when they did, would those wives take care of Mr. and Mrs. Kimura? Naoko

doubted it very much. And so she was as free as a Japanese woman could be only in

America, with indulgent parents, no husband, and no mother-in-law. "It's not as if she

can't see the nose on her face," said Mrs. Wareham.

"Doesn't she want children?"

"Do you? Does anyone now?"

Margaret thought of Dora and Pete--her one and only matchmaking project--and

then of all those letters she had written to bereaved mothers. Mrs. Wareham, no doubt,

thought of her son, Angus. They sighed simultaneously. Alexander, if he had not died in

this very house, would have had other chances to die. It was impossible not to be a realist.

The Kimuras' shop was still spic-and-span and jammed with many unidentifiable

(at least to Margaret) packets, tins, and bottles. Mr. Kimura, who looked much the same

also, only more precisely and dryly himself, welcomed her with a bow, and then went

through the curtain to the back. Mrs. Kimura came out in her Japanese manner--though

she was dressed in American clothes, her hands were folded together and her head dipped

politely forward. Margaret bowed to her and then to her husband. The two women left the

shop. Once again, though, as they walked toward where the car was kept, the midwife

straightened up and her steps got longer; she looked around, too, as you would in a place

like this, where there were people of all ages, types, and nationalities, doing all sorts of

business. Margaret had to walk a little faster to keep up with her. By the time they were

in the motorcar, driving toward the edge of town, Mrs. Kimura bore very little similarity

to the woman in the shop. Looking at her, Margaret got her first inkling of the

possibilities of driving an automobile.

But she also saw, as soon as she was seated behind the circle of wood that was the

wheel, that realizing those possibilities was not going to be easy. A person had two hands

and two feet. A car had three pedals and four levers, not to mention the steering wheel,

and, unlike a horse, a car did not even begin to look where it was going. If it went. The

hardest part for her was something called the "clutch," which seemed to have its own

ideas about how far in you pushed it with your foot. The problem with this clutch was

that when it popped out the car's motor died, and there you were, having to go through all

those steps to start it up again. The clutch was under the left foot. Margaret had never

before realized that her left foot was rather stupid. What it was most like, in its way, was

sewing on a sewing machine operated by a foot pedal, but, then, she had always operated

the foot pedal with her right foot.

Mrs. Kimura was sympathetic and good-natured, even after Margaret had stalled

the engine what seemed like a dozen times. All Mrs. Kimura did was smile and say, "You

must be pleased this is Dodge car, not Ford car. Very difficult, Ford car. No starter. You

get out every time. But even though this car four year old, it has starter." Margaret

thought going to the front of the car every time she killed the motor would be a lot of

exercise.

At last, she managed to drive in a lurching loop around the pasture, arrive at her

starting place, go forward again for a little bit, and then stop and turn the car off without

feeling it more or less collapse underneath her. Mrs. Kimura came around to her side, and

Margaret moved over. Mrs. Kimura took the wheel, and patted her on the wrist. She said,

"We have plenty time." They drove smoothly back to the garage and put the car away-that was all. No one received it, groomed it, fed it. Mrs. Kimura turned it off with a tiny

key called a "magneto" key, and they walked away from it.

Her freedom, on her driving days, was complete. She took the ferry to Vallejo,

moseyed toward the Kimuras' shop, ate a bite, went into a few shops, and sensed Andrew

diminishing in size to a distant point, as did the typewriter. Nor did he object to her being

out for most of the day--they both knew that practice was essential. Soon she was

bringing all sorts of gifts to the Kimuras, oranges and flowers and boxes of divinity. The

gifts were accepted graciously, of course, and she therefore felt that she had to outdo

herself, and so, one day, on the last day, she rustled Pete's old hand scroll out of the

closet. She had never looked at it, and she thought perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Kimura would

enjoy opening it with her.

She drove all through the streets of Vallejo that day, a fragrant, sunny spring day,

a break from eight or nine days of fog and drizzle. She stopped and started, paused,

turned left and right, used her clutch with amazing smoothness--amazing to her. Mrs.

Kimura sat quietly, smiling pleasantly and occasionally waving to people they passed.

They were back at the shop by about three, and instead of bowing, shaking Mrs. Kimura's

hand, and departing, she bowed and opened her bag. She said, "I wish to show you what

Pete Krizenko left in my keeping, and to learn from you and Mr. Kimura all about it."

When she saw what Margaret had, Mrs. Kimura hurried into the back of the shop.

She said something Margaret could hear in Japanese, and Mr. Kimura appeared at once.

Margaret offered him the scroll. He took it gently, and led her into the back. There was a

long table there, and he set the scroll down. Mrs. Kimura picked up the flower

arrangement that was on the table and took it into the front room.

Margaret had imagined that the scroll would be some sort of wide picture, like the

screens (which she had looked at once again since the first time), but it was, rather, a tall

picture, about twenty inches wide and about four feet high. As Mr. Kimura unrolled it,

from top to bottom, nothing appeared except some gray coloring, shaped like the slope of

a mountain seen through the mist--hardly a shape at all, and yet present. Then there was a

light-colored, sharp outline that turned into a wide-brimmed hat. At last there was a face,

and bright color--a blue collar, a green sash. When the picture was entirely flat, Mr.

Kimura grinned. The picture was of three figures--a tall woman (the one wearing the hat),

who was looking down at a child, whose hand she was holding; behind them was another

figure, short and leaning to the side, which could have been either male or female--no

doubt a servant. The servant was also looking at the child, who was looking up at the

woman, presumably his mother. The servant was dressed in a rich bronze color, the child

in a softer tan that echoed the color of the mother's hat. From their posture, it seemed as

though the three were walking against a heavy breeze. At the bottom of the picture, she

could see that they were treading through wavelets or puddles, carefully picked out in

thin black curving lines--an everyday scene, two adults and a child making their way on a

stormy day, but marvelously arresting.

Mr. Kimura said something in Japanese, and Mrs. Kimura said to her, "Is noble

lady with son and servant. We have always honored Mr. Pete for discernment, but we

never see picture before. Is very fine one." She bowed as if the picture reflected well on

her. Margaret bowed back.

They conversed some more; then Mrs. Kimura said, "Might be hundred years old,

according to fashion of lady, and worth much money."

Then again, "Mr. Kimura sorry that ignorance prohibits him from recognizing

artist even though name here." She pointed to an ideogram.

They looked at the picture for a few more minutes, and then carefully rolled it up

again, wrapping it. Now that she knew what it was, Margaret was rather frightened at

having brought it out. She glanced out the window at the sky. All of these Japanese

pictures seemed too fragile--merely paper. But some of them were hundreds of years old.

When she had put her picture away in her bag, Mr. Kimura went to a cabinet and

brought out a picture of his own and opened it on the table. It was entirely different from

Pete's, and yet also arresting and mysterious. Mrs. Kimura said, "Is not painting, but

woodblock print. Is by Utagawa Hiroshige." She pointed to a column of writing in the

lower right corner.

It was a small picture, possibly a foot high or a little more, and not ten inches