The Painting (31 page)

S
HE STEPS OUT OF
the studio. Hayashi went into the house a while ago; by now, the maid must be working on his feet. Sato is probably still asleep. She walks over to the teahouse and picks up a nail. Why does she feel so jittery and awkward?

Good morning, she says.

Oh, he says. He sets down a board, picks it up again. Good morning.

The teahouse?

He lets out his breath, as if sighing. It’s coming along.

Are you almost done?

No, he says quickly. I still have a lot to do.

Really?

He is quiet for a moment, then lists all the unfinished tasks—the posts, cross beams, and rafters for the roof, the mixture of clay and chopped straw in which the tile will be embedded, the perfect alignment of tile—that takes a lot of time, he assures her.

Good, she says, and adds quickly, because I’m sure you’ll want it perfect. She decides she feels uncomfortable because they are standing too far apart. Yesterday, their thighs against each other, and now cold air is between them. And the kiss. It shouldn’t have happened, she thinks, can’t happen again. With this distance between them, she wonders if it really did happen. She steps closer, now an arm’s length away, and there is his fragrance of pine wood and incense.

Would you like to take a walk in the gardens?

He sets down his hammer. I was about to take a break.

You’ve been working since dawn.

He nods. But you rose before I did.

She smiles, feeling slightly vulnerable. What else has he seen? How closely is he watching me? When did he enter the studio and leave the poem? With a swift glance, she looks at him, his long eyelashes, the bow shape of his upper lip. As they walk toward the far pine trees, neither one of them speaks.

The new capital, he says after a while.

It’s captivating, isn’t it? she says, blushing slightly, wondering if she should mention the poem.

Yes, he says. He picks up a twig and snaps it apart.

She laughs lightly.

So much bustling and hurrying.

I never knew so much could occur in one place, she says. And the carriage?

Yes, the carriage, he says, clasping his hands behind him. It’s difficult to forget.

She averts her face, not sure what to say. There are the Japanese maples, shorn of their leaves. She never liked them bare, but now she sees their coral-colored bark. Reaching over, she stops and takes one of the branches in her hands.

This color, she says.

They stand there together, looking at the branch. She hears his breathing.

Have you ever painted that color? he asks.

It has been so long since she thought of this painting: Urashi, his finger hooked in the mouth of a trout. On a summer day, she accompanied him to the river, where he caught trout with his spear. He wrapped one in a burlap bag and gave it to her. A gift. He told her the Ainu believe the world rests on the back of a trout. Everything dependent on the fish. When the trout sucks in water, he creates the ebb of the tide; when he sends it out, the tide flows. As I am dependent on you, he said. She could never take it home. How would she explain where she got it? On her way home, she dug a hole and buried it beneath a fir tree.

I think I used that color once, she says, remembering the coral stripe down the trout’s back.

I’d like to see more of your work, he says.

You would?

The ones that you showed me, I can’t get out of my mind.

She bows her head. Thank you.

You must be cold, he says, pulling out a pair of gloves. Here.

She slips her hands into his gloves. What a thoughtful gesture, she thinks. She could show him more of her landscapes, her pictures of birds. What if she showed him her paintings of Urashi? The thought of doing so fills her with fear and an overwhelming sense of intimacy. They walk farther to the edge of the garden, where a bamboo fence marks the end of the property. She presses her fingertips into the ends of the gloves; his gloves, she thinks.

Thank you for the poem, she says, turning to him.

He nods, his face flushed. His gaze wavers over her, past her. Our visit to the capital, he says, clearing his throat. It makes this life here seem so quiet.

How so?

I don’t know. He hesitates. It sounds strange, but it makes me realize there is so much more.

A shadow passes over her face. But I thought you liked it here?

Oh, yes. I do, he says, as if trying to take back what he just said. The temple is beautiful. I feel fortunate. To have come here.

They are at the cluster of pine trees. From here, the house looks so much smaller, she thinks. The front door is barely visible.

Do you think you could live in Tokyo? she asks, thinking again of the women’s dormitory, her easel stationed at the window, the morning light flooding the room. And where would the monk live?

I don’t know. He pauses and pulls on the rope twined around his waist. Are you planning on going there again? he asks, his tone soft, tentative.

She smiles, with an almost flirtatious glance.

His hand brushes against hers. Her breath quickens. She steps toward him, removes his gloves, touches the nape of his neck, puts her lips to his. His fingers
slide inside the sleeve of her kimono and find the inside of her arm. For a moment, she is lost in his embrace.

She steps away from him. We should go back, she says, handing him his gloves.

He nods, looking down at his hand still clutching the cuff of her kimono.

They walk toward the house. As it looms larger, she imagines Hayashi inside with the maid. When is the last time she helped him with his feet? Her step quickens and suddenly her hair loosens from its bun. With one hand, she removes the four-pronged comb, lets down her hair, then twists it round and round, tucking it into a bun. The monk is looking at her, his mouth slightly open, as if he’s witnessing a wondrous event.

S
ATO HAS GATHERED THEM
around the table in the formal receiving room. He said he had special news tonight. Ayoshi sits beside Hayashi, with Sato at the head of the table. The monk sits across from her. The maid brings in green tea. As she leaves, Sato calls out they are ready for the first course.

Ayoshi sees Sato watching her, as if trying to decipher the flickering and sparkling in her eyes. She is glowing, she knows, strangely magnetic. She tries to flatten her expression.

I’ll help carry the platters, says Ayoshi finally.

She returns with sake and rice crackers, Sato still watching.

Wonderful sake, says Hayashi.

He’s always gracious, she thinks. But why are there worry lines streaking his forehead?

She rises again and rushes into the kitchen. More buri daikon. The maid offers to take it out. No, no, she tells the maid. She will do it. When she enters the room again, she wonders if Hayashi’s worry lines have deepened; he looks up at her and smiles sadly, his eyes dreamy and glazed. Since she’s known him, he’s always worn a thin coat of sadness, but tonight, is it more pronounced? How can she know what he is thinking? For so long, he’s remained concealed, like a buttercup, its petals folded up for the night. She refills his sake cup.

Thank you, he says.

Sit down, says Sato. You’re rushing around and it’s making me nervous. I’m the host tonight, and I have a big announcement. Sit. Sit. No, just put that down.

She slides in beside Hayashi. Sato begins talking about his favorite subject, trade with the West, and she nods, not listening. The monk’s second fingernail is bruised blue-black, matching his thumb. When did he do that? she wonders. The maid brings in another course. Ayoshi shifts uncomfortably.

I was thinking I could build something else for you, says the monk. To repay you for your generosity.

Oh, what? asks Hayashi.

The monk looks across the table at Ayoshi. Perhaps a second studio.

Ayoshi spends all her time in that studio, says Sato.

Ayoshi drops a chopstick on the floor.

Tell us, Ayoshi, whatever are you painting? asks Sato.

The rims of her ears burn. She feels his searing bite trained on her. Her fingers fumble with her napkin. She tries to remain still, hidden under layers of politeness.

I’m experimenting, she says, her voice measured.

All the hours you’ve spent on it, I bet it’s stunning.

The maid brings in a platter of grilled pink salmon.

Look! says Ayoshi. She feels the air thinning. The steam of the salmon fills the table. Now Hayashi and the monk are discussing the dimensions of the teahouse porch. When there is a lull in the conversation, Hayashi touches her arm.

I’d love to see it, he says to Ayoshi. When you are finished.

What would he do if she showed him? She has no idea.

Maybe after dinner, we can all see what you are working on, says Sato.

Something trembles all around her and her limbs feel shaky.

I don’t think so, she says slowly. Not now.

The monk accidentally clinks his tooth against his glass. She regards him quickly. His mouth twitches and he smiles at her. She hears the wind gust outside, tearing through the tree branches. Everyone sits uncomfortably at
the edge of their chairs. This must end, she thinks. You had something you wanted to announce? she asks Sato. I’m feeling tired and want to lie down.

Sato opens a bottle of brandy. Expansively, he holds the bottle in the air and pauses, gaining everyone’s attention. To Ayoshi’s first painting, sold.

Hayashi claps his hands.

A rush of excitement rattles her. The one in the temple? You sold it? she says, her voice an exhalation of disbelief. For so long, she has not painted for any kind of notoriety. Not at all. It is an old dream, a very old dream, but here it is again, revived, dusted off, and hers.

With a broad smile, Sato pours the rich liquid into four glasses, and when he announces the price, she says there must be a mistake. She laughs out loud and finishes her drink. Sato refills her glass.

To many more sales, says Sato.

She tells him it isn’t even her best work. Perhaps this man will buy more.

Of course he will, says Sato, grinning broadly.

Maybe she will travel to Europe after all, she thinks. She could go with Sato on his next trip. She will travel on a boat and paint during the entire voyage.

To your next creation, says Hayashi, toasting her with his glass.

She bows her head, her face flushed.

The monk raises his glass.

He won’t be your only buyer, says Sato. I’ll promise you that.

They linger longer, discussing the sale, and she swirls her chopstick in the leftover sauce on her plate while Sato and Hayashi talk about the West. Mostly Hayashi listens as Sato expounds on all the possibilities, the grand opening of Japan to the world. There is a quickening in the air, she feels it, a chrysalis holding her. The monk smiles at her and nods, as if giving approval to the news. She looks out the window, but all she sees is her reflection, a blur of herself.

A
FTER DINNER
S
ATO FOLLOWS
her into the kitchen. She is humming, filled with a sense of abundance that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

Something is different about you, he says.

She sets the dirty dishes on the counter and turns to retrieve more empty bowls from the table, but Sato stands in her way.

What? she says.

I don’t know, he says.

You just sold one of my paintings. I’m thrilled.

No, before that, you felt different. And the way the monk kept staring at you. Smiling at you.

I don’t know what you mean. She picks up a bowl—one of Hayashi’s, the color of midnight blue—to make more room for the dirty dishes, and it slips from her hands.

Her hands cover her mouth.

Hayashi steps into the room. Are you all right?

I’m so sorry, she says.

It’s fine, he says.

She crouches and gathers the pieces in her hand.

It should have been smashed a long time ago, says Hayashi. A small imperfection in the lip.

No, she says.

Please, don’t worry.

We can fix it, can’t we? It was one of your favorites. Wasn’t it?

Hayashi touches her lightly on the shoulder. Sato leans against the counter, his arms crossed in front of him, watching her.

FRANCE

E
XCUSE ME, MADEMOISELLE, SAYS
Jorgen, fingering the oily money in his pocket. I’m here to see Dr. Whitbread. For how long has he waited for this moment, his pocket flush with money, on the perimeter of Paris, about to plunge himself out of this dreadful place? A new life perched before him, much better than the old one, no longer a clerk in a dusty office; yes, a shiny, brilliant life, and he will find Natalia.

The woman’s graying brown hair is pulled into a tight bun and her lips are bluish and retracted, as if she’s swallowed something distasteful. Can’t you read the sign? she says, pointing to the sign taped to the window.
THE DOCTOR IS NOT IN
.

Jorgen stands there, half dazed. But where?

He’s been accused of being a Prussian spy. The idiot National Guard dragged him away last week. Her face flushes bright red. I’ve not seen him in a week, she says, her stern voice beginning to break up. I’ve been waiting and waiting for him. She tells Jorgen they were engaged to be married. Every single day I go to La Grande Roquette, but the idiot guards won’t let me see him. It’s abominable.

The drizzle that falls onto his cap now turns into a hard rain. Jorgen peers around her. He’s waited so long and he won’t relinquish what he expects to see, what he must see. Perhaps the doctor is asleep or drunk, or too dispirited to see anyone. The room is dark. He grabs the side of the wet door frame and wipes the rain from his forehead. Slowly, he begins to wrap his mind around her words. Where is he? he asks.

She pulls out a handkerchief and blows her already red nose. I told you. Prison. They took him away.

But—

She shakes her head, pressing tissue to her nose. He’s English. He’s not a spy. They took him away because he happens to be English. They heard him speaking on the street corner. She looks at Jorgen, as if only now she sees him. She begins to shut the door.