The Painting (3 page)

He is sweating now, a starchy, yeasty smell. She leans away and breathes through her mouth to deny herself the odor. She knows he’s almost at the point where he will no longer feel his feet. Her hands and wrists are now bright red. She presses on the crease along the center of the right foot, the puffy scar of his heels. He is most tender on the left side, the place connected to the heart.

The toes on his right foot are now numb. His left foot, along the side. He feels his breathing open. He stares out the window watching the willow tree brush the wind.

Her hands. She can barely move them now. Long, sharp spines poke into them, a punishment, but for what? What has she done? She wants to plead with someone, anyone. She closes her eyes, searching frantically for an image to take her away from the pain snaking through her body. Where is he? She has a terrible hunch that her father sent him far away. That her lover is no longer in Japan.

She pushes her thumb into the tender spot.

He sighs. He no longer feels pain.

The cold wrestles into the long bones of her arms. Her teeth chatter, her lips a pale blue, her muscles pin to her bones, and soon, very soon, she will faint if she doesn’t stop. She hates the cold. She yanks her hands out, presses them into her armpits, and rocks herself.

Enough, he says. No more. You’ve done enough.

She shuts her eyes and wills the heat back into her hands.

Thank you, he says.

She barely hears him. The maid lifts her from the floor into a chair.

Ayoshi-san, says the maid. Let me get you hot tea.

He sits across from her, his head bowed, feeling terrible that he makes her suffer so and also deeply relieved. They sit like this in the kitchen of their home, in a room made of paper walls.

She closes her eyes again and clamps shut her jaw. When she opens them again, he is staring wide-eyed at the teahouse, his lower lip drooping haphazardly. Who did it? she asks, feeling herself despise him. He is now calm, the pain pulled from his body, only the worried expression on his face from the teahouse. And she? She is filled with cold.

He pauses. I don’t know.

When he pulls his feet out of the bucket, the ice has melted, and his feet are deep red with streaks of blue. He wraps them each in a white towel.

He asks the maid to shut the window screen. The hinge on the screen squeaks, and he grits his teeth and curls his fingers into tight fists, preparing to snap at the maid, Too loud, you are too loud, but he restrains himself. He’s irritable today, he thinks. He finishes his sweet rice cake and green tea.

You’re not eating?

Ayoshi shakes her head. I don’t feel well.

He tells the maid to wrap the cakes.

Do you think your feet will ever heal? Ayoshi asks, as though the question on her lips makes her nauseous.

No, he says, tearing away the napkin tucked in his collar, seeing the disgust on her face. No, they won’t.

She looks down. The towel has fallen away from his left foot. It lies there,
limp and lifeless. She feels the one sip of tea rise from her stomach and clutch at her throat.

Excuse me, she says, rushing from the table to the studio. There is a difference, she knows, between love and duty.

A
T LEAST HE CAN
make this trip to town worthwhile; he’ll hire a builder to tear down the teahouse and a man to haul the boxes of pottery to the docks. Another large order, this time to England, and by now, he has lost track of how many boxes of vases, bowls, and teapots he has sent across the seas. These new officials are quite proud of him, in their own way, using him as a symbol of what could happen to any poor artisan or merchant or farmer. They want to like him—always the strained smiles and overly polite words—because of his busy trade with the West, but there are some things they can’t ignore.

He walks with a stick, his back bent slightly forward, along the long dirt road to the town below. He knows some of these new officials, met them before the emperor’s restoration to power. Young, some of them exceedingly brash, an air of jaunty indifference, many of them educated in the West. They love all things Western, indiscriminately, full-heartedly. And he doesn’t disagree that the West can give Japan things it needs, but moderation, as the Buddha taught, everything with moderation.

They made him an official of the new government; he will help promote Japanese arts and meet with the Western visitors who come to the town, they said. They gave him money to renovate the house and told him to make it feel expansive so the Westerners view Japan as wealthy and powerful, a force not to be ignored. After two centuries and more of isolation, it was time, long past time, to present Japan to the world. Hayashi added three lavish Western-style rooms filled with treasures and splendor. A wife, they said, find a wife who will make the Westerners feel welcome. They sent him a matchmaker. But when the new leaders demanded he tear down the temple, he refused. After many long discussions, they finally relented, saying he could let it stand.

There, on the cliff, a bald patch in the wild wood—the remnant of the feudal lord’s house. Only five years ago, this town was ruled by a brutal feudal
lord. The house, a monstrous structure, once loomed above the town like a vulture waiting to ravish the dead. Now the house has been torn down, demolished by the villagers, who, at first chance, refused to live in the shadow of his home, even if the ruler was no longer alive.

The road is deeply grooved from the farmers’ carts. It leads down the gentle sloping hill blanketed with cedar and willow, down to the town, which he now sees. The feudal lord, who’d been appointed by the Tokugawa shogun, used to ride this very road on a big, black horse, accompanied by a handful of samurai. He wore shiny armor with medals and ribbons and a ceremonial cap, brandishing a sword in each hand. Amid the clatter of hooves, the booming voice of the man demanded the villagers get down on their knees as he passed. As a boy, Hayashi knelt beside his father on the shop’s wooden porch, his father cursing a steady rain of swear words, which would have appalled his mother, his father’s face bright red, the
clickety-clack
of the horse passing by. Each morning, the shopkeepers and farmers had to place a bag of their best goods for the lord’s men to take, without remuneration, without a thank-you, as if they wanted to be ruled with a swift whip and unrelenting sword. He recalls now the nights at home when there was nothing to eat, thinking of the lord’s storage rooms, filled with the best rice, daikon, cucumbers, sake, and dried seaweed and fish. As a boy, he played samurai in the backyard, running around with a stick as a sword, slaying the lord’s fighters as he entered the lord’s house and took back the food.

He reaches the edge of town and sits on a bench to rest. Even though the air is cool, he is sweating, his kimono sticking to his back. The sun is out now, and he despises the sun’s splendor. Why didn’t he bring his hat?

It has been at least a month since he’s been to town. Buildings are being torn down, and everywhere, the sound of hammers pounding and saws tearing through wood, the shouts of workers for another nail, another board, to move out of the way. This town was one of the earliest supporters of the new government, and for its commitment, received funding from the Meiji leaders to adorn itself in the Western style. Across the way, a sign says that a new Western restaurant is soon to arrive. Two doors down, an old grocery store is being stripped down and trotted out as a Western clothing store.

Good morning, says a storekeeper, sweeping the porch.

Hello, says Hayashi. And they exchange the pleasantries of midmorning, the weather, the beauty of fresh daikon, and the storekeeper, who sells vegetables, looks at him curiously, as many of the townspeople do, as if trying to figure out some puzzling question—Who is this man who is allowed to keep the Buddhist temple open?

Behind him is the spot where his father’s green tea shop once stood. Now, only an empty lot. He used to go to the shop at the twilight hour, at his mother’s request, to fetch his father. Inside the store, the shelves overflowed with bags of green tea, the scent spilling into the street.

Father? he called out tentatively. His father was often in the back, huddled in a circle with other farmers and merchants, who spoke in grave and urgent tones. He crouched in the corner and listened to the men argue over the best way to overthrow the feudal lord. One night a merchant talked about a ship. The men in Satsuma were collecting money to buy a Western military ship. The merchant held up a picture of the ship. He’d never seen such a massive thing. His father convinced the town’s merchants to send them money.

Several nights later, the shop and their home were set on fire.

When the new leaders took power, Hayashi asked for the house with the stretch of gardens and the large temple.

Before he rises from the bench, he looks to the dirt road that leads to the temple. He can’t see the sprawling wooden structure, or the large bronze peace bell, only the tip of the black tiled roof. He supposes it makes one curious.

He walks to the minister’s building, the pain in his feet only a whisper, and as he reaches the porch, a raindrop falls on his eyebrow.

Bless the rain, he says to no one. He stands there a moment, waiting for the showers. Rain pours onto his hair. The shopkeeper is still watching him. Hayashi feels his eyes bore into him. He guesses what the man is thinking: Did you hear how his whole family died? He’s the only survivor. He’s heard the talk. They say he is a quiet man. A potter. When they look at him, they always glance at his feet, which they’ve heard are remarkable swirls of blue and black.

A
YOSHI STEPS INTO THE
Western room. There is the smell of the thick, musty books that line the bookshelves. Here are the polished walnut tables and red velvet sofas, the lamps with golden light and cream lampshades with gold fringe, an Italian cabinet made from tortoiseshell, a desk with a fall front.

The chaos feels vital and abundant to her; the room pulses with life. She likes to sit on the plush couch and read, and as a treat, she lets her eyes drift around the room. She has a special affinity for the painting on the left wall. A portrait of the painter’s wife. The painter is looking at his wife through a window, the curtains pulled aside. She stands outside in the snow. A brilliant red scarf wrapped around her head. Ayoshi peers into the deep colors of the painting; the brownish greens and dark blues, the starkness of the white snow and the red scarf hold her eye. The woman clutches her coat around her neck. Her eyes are forlorn, as if she’s been banished from her home. When she looks at this painting, Ayoshi does not feel so alone.

The Western room has a small window alcove that looks out onto the garden. She sits there, hunched over, and reads. The house creaks and sways. When the period for annulment passed, and her husband did not request it, she became more brazen. She spent more time in these rooms or painting in the studio. She did things she preferred to do; and the things she didn’t, she delegated to the maid.

There is another large painting. Even now, she averts her eyes from it. The pearly blue sky, the sprite green grass and rolling hills; there’s a large old oak tree on the right side, its branches providing shade for what lies in the foreground. A beautiful, young woman with straw-colored hair. She is holding a baby in her arms. Her head is tilted to the left, and she is gazing at the child with a soft, fluid look. The woman and infant are sitting on a red and white picnic blanket. When Ayoshi walks into this room where it hangs, she swivels her head the other direction, to the overstuffed orange chair or the bookshelf and finds something to read.

Now that he is gone, she heads outside to the studio and closes the door. Grabbing a brush, she finds the image waiting. Later, when the maid taps on the door, bringing her green tea and a bowl of seaweed soup, she doesn’t look
up, too intent on following her hand as it travels along the paper. The image before her is speaking to her; the image before her is painting itself.

H
AYASHI TAKES HIS PLACE
at the long stretch of polished oak table. Five other men dressed in Western clothes are already seated. Hayashi waits, sitting through the tedious agenda, staring out the window at the colorless sky. Right before the meeting adjourns, he rises from his straight-backed chair, and with his heart hammering in his ears, tells them his teahouse was burned down in the middle of last night.

The man at the end of the table clears his throat. He has a broad chest and blunt lips that seem persistently to pout. As the country changes, there is bound to be more violence, he says, diplomatically, tapping his long nails on the tabletop. Change frightens some people. Most people. They lash out to keep things the same.

We have to deal with the ignorant segments of the population who refuse to Westernize, says another.

A servant comes in and pours everyone a cup of English tea. One of the men pulls out a pack of cigarettes and passes it around the table.

There is also your father’s legacy, says another, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. The man’s face is dispassionate, except for the glint of self-importance that he betrays by the upward tilt of his narrow chin. Your father believed so strongly in ending feudalism, such an early supporter of restoring the emperor to power. But not everyone agreed with him. He puffs on his cigarette and blows gray smoke. Such as the samurai. Perhaps a samurai has unleashed his anger at you; it’s your legacy, if you will.

The men nod in agreement.

Then there is you, says the official at the head of the table, who is clearly in charge.

Excuse me, sir, says Hayashi.

Perhaps someone felt the need to warn you.

About what?

The room is still, only the sound of cigarette ash dropping on the hardwood floor. Who can say for sure? It could be your successful trade with the
West that makes someone jealous or angry. He pauses and sighs. Or it could be the new government no longer views Buddhism as the official religion. We were quite generous when we let you keep the temple standing. As you know several of us wanted it to be torn down. But you convinced us that it is a historical building that should remain. We never dreamed you’d hold services there.