The Painting (41 page)

I can’t find him, she says, standing in front of them, forcing them to look at her.

Maybe he finally figured out he overstayed his welcome, says Sato.

You never liked him, she says. Where does he have to go?

She turns to Hayashi. What has come over you?

T
HE MONK RUNS TO
the stable and saddles up the horse. He wants to go to town and get drunk. No, he wants her. The funeral ceremony was held so they could be together. How could it be otherwise? He drives the horse harder, digging his heels into its sides, and the horse snorts and stretches out its stride.

As he heads to town, the thought emerges, what if he’s wrong? What if the funeral meant nothing? How many other lovers have there been since that man? The way she held onto Hayashi’s hand. But that can’t be. There is no love between Ayoshi and Hayashi, as distant as two rocks in a pool of white pebbles. As he rides through the night, he gathers her up in his imagination,
kissing her, kissing her everywhere, the warmth of her pressed to him. Why should they live without each other, the days slipping by, colorless and bland?

As he enters the town, he sees great flames leaping high into the sky. A tremendous fire is eating away at a building on the outskirts of town. He rides toward the flames, and as he approaches, he gasps. Through the billowing smoke, he sees the familiar tile roof, the tall wood fence. A small Buddhist temple and surrounding monastery. He jumps off the horse and runs toward the fence. A crowd has gathered, some watching, others are scurrying, throwing pails of water at the flames. He grabs a bucket from an old woman and runs to the well, fills it with water and tosses it at the flames. Then he hears the screams.

People are trapped in there? he yells.

Yes, says a man, breathless. They barred the doors, nailed metal bars across the door handles and the front gate.

Who?

Someone said they saw soldiers do it.

Who’s in there?

At least a hundred monks.

The monk blanches and stumbles back.

For what seems like hours, they run back and forth, throwing water on the raging fire. And soon the water runs out, the wells dry up. The men chop at the big wooden door and finally break it down. The monk rushes in, but is pushed back by the intense heat of the blaze. His robe catches fire. He throws himself on the ground, and another man beats the flames with a broom. He clutches his arm, scorched by the heat. The night air shudders with screams. He scrambles up again, choking on the smoke, and lunges for the sound.

S
HE SMELLS SOMETHING ELECTRIC
in the air. A storm, she thinks. A spring storm, with crackling lightning and roaring thunder. She smiles. She’s always liked the energy of a storm. And later, she will think back to this day and remember everything about it, the charged air, the anxious quiet of anticipation—waiting for the monk to return—broken by the occasional
smack of the window shade against the wall, the unnamable taste in her mouth, her hand fidgeting with the soft fabric of her dress from the West.

The three of them are drinking sake, and Sato is telling them a story about a fortune-teller in Shanghai when the monk rushes into the room. He stands in the doorway, a furious silhouette. His cheeks are smudged with soot, and black stains his hands and robe. One side of his robe is burned into a ragged edge. His eyes, reddened, blaze at her.

She rushes to her feet. What happened?

Hayashi and Sato jolt upward.

Tears have carved white lines through the soot on his face. He can’t stop weeping from eyes filled with hate.

You made such promises, he says, now glaring at Hayashi, his voice choked. You promised these new leaders would stop. You spoke of freedom. The beauty of this new freedom. Lies. All lies.

What happened? cries Ayoshi.

He tells them about the other temple and monastery, burned to the ground, monks and priests dead, trapped inside, burned beyond recognition. Buddhist statues smashed and the paintings sliced and torn and the temple bells taken, carried away in carts. He tells them of the pieces, the shards, the screams cutting through smoke-filled air.

He holds up his sooty hand. Covered with burned flesh, he says. He shoves his hand toward them. My friends, he says, now dead. A fellow mountain monk was there, hung from a rafter, his feet swaying. I knew him. I grew up with him.

Hayashi sinks to his knees, moaning, his face in his hands.

He tried to stop the flames, but they ran out of water. They drained all the water. Who thought of such a thing? Who are these men? What kind of horrible world do you people live in?

The bodies burning, Hayashi sees it searing in his mind anew, and the smell, he knows the stench; it is what has filled his air for years.

Do you know why they did it? says the monk. The officials thought the monks held a formal Buddhist funeral. They killed the wrong monks. They
should have killed me. He jabs his finger into his chest. I am the one they wanted.

Oh, no, says Hayashi.

I am the one.

They made a mistake, says Sato, subdued.

The monk glares at Ayoshi, as if she were the one who set the fire. She can’t speak. Finally, he stalks out of the room, leaving the three of them standing there. No one says anything. They listen to him walk down the long corridor, a steady heavy step, the crash of pottery smashing to the floor, and another, and another, and then the sound of footsteps grows distant, a door slams, and his footsteps are gone.

T
HE MONK IS IN
the temple gathering his few belongings. The door opens.

Enri, she says.

He won’t look at her.

Enri, she says, breathless, grabbing hold of his arm.

He stares at her, his eyes hardened.

Please.

He shakes off her grip and looks right through her.

Talk to me. Say something.

He steps back and looks at her with cold dark eyes. She feels his rage and hatred, a slap against her cheek.

Don’t go, she says. Her eyes fill with tears. He is shut down to her. She feels the thick cold wall between them. Even if she took his hand and put it on her beating heart, he would not feel a thing. She watches him turn, walk out the temple door, down the pebble walkway, through the gate, into the wooded area through long dew-drenched grass, and to the path that leads steadily up the mountain.

P
EBBLES SHUFFLE UNDERNEATH HIS
sandals; the monk shivers in the chill. Swallowed up by the dark woods, he heads up. As he climbs, he knows there is nothing to return to, no homecoming, no home, only the collapsed
buildings at the top. As it should be, he thinks. My brothers, now skeletons. That will be my home. His mind feels furious and full. On the spot of the massacre at the top of the mountain, he will cut wood and fashion nails, use a discarded pan or stone figure to pound them in. And he will grow accustomed to the cold again. Eating roots and vegetables from a small garden. Perhaps men will hear of him and climb up the mountain, he thinks. He might become a priest of a new monastery.

Panting now as he climbs higher, he thinks, I’ve grown soft, indulging in the pleasures of the body. Below me, in the town, at the house, it is all worthless and disorderly and so much to tempt and overwhelm and so much violence. The beauty down in the valley is not true beauty, he thinks, trying to soothe himself. Up on the mountain, he will find true beauty, he tells himself, along with his resilience, and his sturdy center. He will sleep tonight in the nave of a fallen tree and use his satchel for a pillow and jerk awake, his head filled with flames.

He stops now, undoes his satchel, and removes the small piece of paper he took from the bag of rice. Don’t look at her, mustn’t look, and he’s about to rip up her image and throw it away, but he glances at the paper, at Ayoshi, and his eyes water. Why does his heart throb so? He gazes into her eyes. Perhaps he won’t stay on the mountaintop, he thinks. Maybe his heartache will bring him down someday. Maybe to the capital, where he will meet a woman, someone who will leave an indelible mark. Caressing the image with his thumb, he looks longingly at Ayoshi, and for a moment, he steps outside himself and is overwhelmed by a quiet, almost euphoric sense of gratitude. Before her, he had not known the ways of the heart. He carefully puts the image into his bag.

I
N THE MORNING, SHE
rises, slips her hands into a basin, and washes her face in cold water. With shaky tentative steps, she walks into the temple; emptiness greets her. She searches for his scent and finds only the lingering smell of wax from burned candles. She steps to the shadowy corner where the monk nested. Nothing remains, as if he were never here. No blankets, no bowl for rice, no books, except there, underneath a shelf, a small drawing
book. She opens the book and there are his sketches, a black ink drawing of the monastery, his mountain hut, his beloved teacher, and the teahouse. Careful, precise drawings of the porch, the roof, the rock garden. On the last page, she finds a portrait of her. She traces the delicate lines with her finger, then closes the book, and takes it with her to the studio. She gathers her secret paintings, along with his book, takes them to the back garden, and burns them. As she watches the flickering fire, the edges of her paintings curling and disappearing, she feels a momentary airiness to her being, before it is covered again by heaviness, like a long, sorrowful sigh.

The house is still, except for Sato, who is in his room shuffling through drawers. She finds him in the Western room. He is packing.

The offer still stands, he says. You can accompany me to Shanghai. He hands her official-looking papers. This will allow you to travel anywhere.

She says nothing.

It isn’t safe here anymore.

I know.

The government will figure out they burned down the wrong temple. Why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t do it.

She walks out of the room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, where she sits motionless at the table. When Sato has his bags packed, he comes out, touches her wrist, lingers for a moment. Then he is gone.

She steps outside onto the porch and watches his thin back disappear down the dirt road. The morning air is fresh, and the sky a soft yellow. She waits for Hayashi to rise and come out to the kitchen. When he doesn’t come, she steps into the bedroom.

We must leave here, she says.

He doesn’t say anything.

Hayashi.

Go.

What? she says.

Go. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?

She feels tears well up. Hayashi.

Go.

You can’t stay. What if they come?

I have a duty. My honor.

I can’t leave you here, she says. The moment she says it, her throat tightens, knowing she can’t stay. Later, she’ll comb through this moment, again and again, convincing herself she did the right thing. She will watch the arc of her life, the precise second where it took a different turn, never forgetting the contraction, not just in her throat, but her chest, a constriction of her body at the thought of staying in this house with the dead buried outside her window. Wherever she is, on a boat, in a tea shop, in the company of friends, she will feel it all over again and know she had no choice: If she remained, the small ember would finally and completely go out.

She looks at him now. Such a kind, gentle man. Why couldn’t her heart find his? And she knows the question is the same for him: Why couldn’t his heart rise up from its ashes and find hers? Just as she knows she can’t stay, his gray face, tight lips, and heavy lidded eyes tell her he won’t go.

Please, she says. You must leave here.

He stares at the ceiling. I don’t want you here, he says. Maybe that will help you leave. I don’t want you with me anymore.

She doesn’t move.

Sometimes you learn to love someone, he says, sometimes you don’t. I don’t love you, Ayoshi.

Hayashi. Save yourself. Please.

Go, he says, turning his back to her.

S
HE PULLS OUT A
suitcase and packs. She changes into a simple kimono and walks to town, stopping at the sushi shop to tell the owner to send someone for Hayashi. She gives him money from the sale of her painting to reserve a room at the ryokan for Hayashi. He won’t cooperate, she tells the owner. If you must, drag him out. Do whatever is necessary, she says, handing over more money.

She walks to the port. The ship for Shanghai has departed. There is a ship leaving for America, says the clerk. San Francisco.

She purchases a ticket and perches on a bench in the waiting room. A
couple of women in Western dresses walk by, gossiping, carrying bright parasols. Ayoshi hugs her elbows to try and stop the trembling. She has no image of America, no way to picture it. Sato said it was brash and young. But what does that mean? How will she live? Nervous dampness creeps along her palms. Her fingertips, icy with fear. When the sound of a hammer penetrates her thoughts, she quickly stands and looks in the direction of the temple. But he is no longer there, she thinks. There, above the treetops, the black tile of the roof, and above that, the mountaintop. She sits again and waits.

When the ticket clerk calls out, Boarding time, she mechanically steps onto the plank, clutching her sketchbook and paints, her luggage in her other hand. She finds a seat on deck. A young Japanese woman sits across from her, wearing a traditional kimono, the color of a daffodil. Her glossy black hair is parted in the center and pulled into a formal bun. Her lips are colored red, her face painted white. Ayoshi sits perfectly still, and when the breeze flutters across her face, she smells the woman’s powdery fragrance overpowering the sea air. Finally, she feels the ship pull away from the dock. She closes her eyes to stop the tears, the splintering into a thousand fragments. When she opens them again, she looks out toward the sea, then back toward Japan, so long tucked away in history. There will always be the residue of the old, she thinks. Soon to be a blend of East and West, but the old will always be woven into the warp of this island. She turns her gaze to the green sea.

Excuse me, are you traveling to America to meet your new husband? asks the young woman.