The Samurai's Garden: A Novel (27 page)

Read The Samurai's Garden: A Novel Online

Authors: Gail Tsukiyama

BOOK: The Samurai's Garden: A Novel
2.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
I woke up feeling anxious this morning. While Matsu was in the garden pruning and raking up leaves I went back into his room and turned on the radio. There was nothing new, the same old voice speaking of the Imperial Emperor and Japan’s courageous struggle against foreign imperialism and communism. I clicked the radio off and went outside.
In Matsu’s garden, and all over Tarumi, chrysanthemums were blooming in abundance. Matsu squatted by a black pine, pruning back its branches. When he heard me come úp behind him, he sat back on his heels and said, “I could use some help.”
“Just tell me what I should do,” I said, grateful to have something to occupy myself.
“Hold this,” he said, directing me to take hold of a branch so he could clip it.
“Like this?” I asked, but Matsu had already clipped what he had wanted.
“Sometimes it’s easier to have two people doing it,” he said. Then he lifted himself up off the ground and grabbed a bucket of soil. “You don’t want to swim anymore?” he asked, turning around.
“I don’t really feel like it,” I answered. I thought it might be a good time to mention what had happened with Keiko. “I’m not seeing Keiko-
san
anymore,” I blurted, wishing it had come out smoother than it did.
Matsu looked up at me, then simply pointed to another branch and asked, “Can you hold that one down?”
I did as he asked, while Matsu moved slowly, meticulously to cut back the branch in just the right place.
“Isn’t it interesting, Stephen-
san
,” he said, “how sometimes you must cut away something in order to make it grow back stronger?”
I nodded.
“It may seem lonely and barren at first, only to flower again in the spring.”
I thought it just like Matsu to relate human emotions to a tree. “Keiko isn’t a pine tree,” I said, annoyed at the comparison. “Her brother was killed at Hsuchowfu.”
Matsu shook his head. “The stupidity of it,” I heard him mumble. Then after a moment, he said, “We aren’t so different, humans beings and plants. We are all a part of one nature and from each other we learn how to live.”
“Even as one person destroys another?”
Matsu slowly got up from the ground. He stood back and looked approvingly at the black pine. “I won’t say we human beings still don’t have much to learn. Sometimes we love and hate without thought. We expect too much from one another, and often we are wrong. Take that flower,” he said, pointing to the crepe myrtle. “It has a short life span, but you know just what to expect of it. The leaves are turning yellow-orange, so you know within a week they’ll fall. Fortunately—or unfortunately—we human beings have much longer lives. And that makes for many more complications. But in the end, Stephen-
san
, you can only look back, hoping everything that happens in your life is for a purpose. Whether you see Keiko-
san
or not anymore won’t take away from your having known her. If she is important, she will stay with you.” He picked up the bucket of soil.
I offered to help him, but he shrugged his shoulders. “There will be others,” he said, walking away from me, “many others. No reason for you to quit swimming.”
It’s Pie’s birthday early next month, so I spent a good part of the afternoon in the village looking for something to send her. The
mail seems to move slower and slower. I haven’t received anything from Hong Kong or Kobe for the longest time—no letters, not even a newspaper from my father.
The village was quiet. At first I’d stayed away, not wanting to run into Keiko. But then, like a page turning, I suddenly hoped I would see her again. Even if it was just a quick glimpse, at least I would know she still existed. But there were very few people in sight. It was as if the entire village had fallen asleep.
There was only one general store, near the post office, where I’d any hopes of finding a gift for Pie. Although she had everything she really needed in Hong Kong, I wanted to send her a keepsake, something she might look back on one day that would mark this year of separation. The store was very dark and cool inside. An old woman bowed and gestured for me to look around. I walked slowly down the crowded aisles hoping to find something, but there were only the essentials; canned goods, tea, ginger, fishing line, or knives. I was disappointed at not being able to find anything for Pie. Instead, I picked up several small cans of pickled vegetables, rice crackers, dried seaweed, and bought them from the grateful old woman.
Outside again, my eyes watered from the glare of bright sunlight. Two old men were sitting in front of the store engrossed in conversation, unaware of my presence. They spoke of the war, of Japanese honor, and how the Imperial Army must quickly capture the south before any more Japanese blood was shed. Neither of them mentioned Chinese losses, whose numbers were so large, so unreal, that it would take the shrill-voiced woman on the radio days to count them all.
I woke up this morning wanting to go for a swim. Weeks had passed since I’d last seen Keiko at the beach, and I felt as if her shadow had finally been lifted. There was a chill in the air when I left the house. The warmth of summer had given way to a cool, breezy autumn. There was a kind of sadness in the air, the smell of saltwater mixed with the decaying flowers and fallen fruits. I tried not to think of anything morbid as I made my way down the path,
over the dune to the water. The sea came in a flurry of small waves, rolling in white and furious.
I slipped out of my clothes and stepped slowly into the water. It was already much cooler than a few weeks before. I hesitated at first, then ran in, letting the cold water shock my body, awakening me. I swam until I was entirely numb from the cold, then just let my body roll back to shore on a wave like a lifeless piece of seaweed. It sometimes amazed me to think how powerless I was.
By the time I got back to the house, Matsu had left a note telling me he had gone into the village. I was still numb from head to toe after my swim so I decided to take a hot bath. The wooden tub in the back of the house stood empty and waiting. I filled the tub with water as I seen Matsu do time after time and lit the coals in the iron box underneath. Then I went to wash my body before the soak.
By the time Matsu returned, I was still soaking. It was one of the many customs I would miss when the time came for me to return to Hong Kong.
“You’re going to have heatstroke,” he said, coming out of the kitchen. He carried several newspapers and a few letters in his hand.
“It feels good,” I answered.
“Looks like it all came at one time,” he said. Matsu put one of the letters into his pocket. “From Fumiko,” he added, balancing the rest of the stack on an uneven stone a few feet from the tub. Two more letters lay on top.
I quickly lifted myself out of the hot water, as the cool air embraced my body and sent goose bumps from my feet to the nape of my neck. I stepped out of the tub, towelled off, and slipped on my trousers and shirt. Matsu was already back at work picking up leaves, ignoring me. So I grabbed the mail and hurried into the house.
I didn’t go to my room, but instead sat at the kitchen table as I’d seen Matsu do a hundred times before, his head buried in one of his magazines. One of the two letters was from King and the other from my father. I hadn’t received anything from King in so long, and I was anxious to know if he was all right. I ripped open
the envelope which had been mailed just over two months ago from Canton.
 
 
August 2, 1938
Dear Stephen,
I bet you think I’ve forgotten you. Well, no such luck! It’s just that things have gotten quite difficult for us over here, and writing and studying between the blackouts has become an art. Don’t I envy you there on the beach, without the incessant threat of bombs exploding in the distance. Don’t laugh, but it has gotten so I dream with dull thuds in the background.
In all seriousness, things are awfully hot over here. We are rationed on everything from rice and tea to soap and toilet paper. I’ve finally found something to do with all my old exams! It doesn’t matter anyway, the number of students here at Lingnan has dropped to just a handful. Most are trying to return to Macao or Hong Kong while they can. I wanted to write to let you know, Stephen, I’m finally leaving for Hong Kong next week too, if everything goes smoothly, so you can expect to see me there when you return. It seems kind of funny sending this letter to Japan, since they are the ones we curse every morning and every evening before we close our eyes. That is, if the distant bombing allows us to sleep.
But how are you? It has been much too long since I’ve heard any news. I’m not sure if you’re having too good a time to remember your old friend, or if the mail isn’t coming through. Whatever it is, when I see you next, we will certainly have grown older.
Oh yes, do you remember Vivian Hong? The pretty girl from primary school? She was killed last week when a bomb hit the apartment building she was in. It makes you realize just how fragile we all are.
I miss you, my friend. I look forward to the day we will meet again in Hong Kong.
 
Take care,
King
I tried to remember what Vivian Hong looked like. It disturbed me when I couldn’t. The images of several girls came to my mind, but I wasn’t sure Vivian was any of them. A feeling of guilt, then deep sadness, came over me to think she could already be forgotten.
I reread King’s letter and imagined him already safely back in Hong Kong. He might be playing cricket, or eating noodles down in Wan Chai, or catching a movie in Central. Whatever, I suddenly ached to be doing the same thing. It had been over a year since I’d last seen my family and friends. I wanted to be like everyone else again, but I felt like a stranger, like I no longer belonged anywhere.
I looked down at the newspapers which all had headlines that said the same thing. The Imperial Japanese Army continued to thunder through China and were advancing every day. I threw the papers aside and then remembered the other letter from my father. I opened it carefully, as I imagined he would do. It began like all the others, inquiring about my health and hoping I continued to improve. I almost skipped the rest, thinking I knew just what he was going to say, how it might be just another obligatory letter. But something in the last paragraph caught my eye: He had to go on a short business trip to Tokyo. “I will be taking the train from Kobe up to Tokyo for a few days, and will have some time free for pleasure.” My gaze ran over the next line several times before its meaning settled in. “Would you be interested in coming along?” he wrote.
I wrote my father telling him I’d like to accompany him to Tokyo. This morning he sent back a telegram saying he was pleased.
I can’t remember if I’d ever gone on a trip alone with him as a young boy. There’s a faint memory of my being in a very large, open marketplace with high voices, pecking chickens, and bonethin dogs sniffing at my legs. It smelled terribly of burning incense and salted fish. I held onto a man’s hand, being dragged along through the crowd. I squeezed the hand so tight, my own felt numb and tight at the knuckles. I was afraid to let go, afraid of being lost among the throng of people, voices, and smells. But
even now, I can’t remember ever knowing for certain if it was my father’s hand, or that of a servant’s or uncle’s I was holding, only that it was big and warm as it pulled me away from any harm.
Yesterday we visited Sachi. I wanted to see her before I left. She was in village when we arrived, having just left Tanaka-
san
’s house. When she saw us walking toward her, I could see her lips part slightly, and pull upward into a smile. The faint scent of eucalyptus filled the air as we walked back to her house. When I told her about my trip to Tokyo, Sachi became quiet—a flicker of longing in her eyes. I realized she had been hidden away in Yamaguchi for so long she could only dream of the bright colors and fragrances that left her behind. I started to say something, but Matsu changed the subject and moved closer to Sachi, causing her soft kimono to brush against his arm.
 
 
Matsu saw me off on the train today. My father would be waiting for me at the Kobe station. Then we would leave almost immediately for Tokyo to stay for three days. I had only packed a small bag which Matsu insisted on carrying as we walked into Tarumi. Once there, Matsu shuffled his feet as we waited on the platform. He always seemed nervous when someone was coming or going.
When the slow-moving train finally arrived, Matsu handed me my bag and stepped quickly back as if crossing over an invisible line which separated us. Without saying a word, he slipped me a piece of paper with Fumiko’s number and address on it, just in case of an emergency. I bowed and boarded the train, but by the time I found a seat and looked out the window, Matsu was no longer there.
 
 
As the train rumbled and ground its way to Kobe, I realized it was the first time I’d been away from Tarumi in over a year. The rocking motion suddenly made me tired. I hadn’t slept much the night before, just thinking about what it would be like in Tokyo. I remember our entire family going there together once, when I was
still too young to appreciate it. It seemed then just as crowded and congested as Hong Kong, filled with bright signs and people. My father and mother went dancing every night and we children were left at the hotel with Ching. Ching was always set in her ways. She would only eat Chinese food, so she brought her own white rice, long beans, lotus roots, and soy sauce chicken in jars and clay pots. Pretty soon the rich aroma filled our room so that if we closed our eyes, we couldn’t tell if we were in Tokyo or at home.
I leaned my head back against the seat, knowing that within a few hours I would see my father. For a moment my heart raced as I tried to think of what we would talk about for three days. Still, if we had learned anything in the past year, it was how to dodge the more complicated subjects. My mother always topped that list.
By the time the train pulled into Kobe, I had napped and was looking forward to seeing my father. I grabbed my bag and followed the other passengers out of the train. The station was noisy and crowded. Train departures and arrivals were announced over a scratchy loudspeaker. I looked for my father, then finally saw him. He stood to one side, away from the crowd, his leather valise and briefcase by his side. He raised his hand straight up when he saw me, as if he were in a class and knew the answer to a question.
“Ba-ba.” I put down my bag and bowed.
“You look very well,” my father said, pleased. “We have a short time before our train departs. Let’s get something to drink. Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Matsu packed some rice cakes,” I answered, “but I wouldn’t mind something to drink.”
My father smiled, then leaned over to pick up his baggage, but I grabbed his valise first. He led me through a throng of people and I noticed many more soldiers lingering around the station than the year before. They eyed us up and down when we passed, gripped their rifles tighter, but said nothing.
We came to a small, standup bar to one side of the station which served drinks, beer, and small snacks. Both of us ordered coffee.
“How was your trip?” my father asked, as he sipped his coffee.
I finished spooning sugar into my coffee, then answered, “It was comfortable. It’s hard to believe it’s my first time out of Tarumi in over a year.”
“You’re certainly in much better health now than when you left here a year ago.” My father added, “I see you’ve put on some weight.”
“Let me show you,” I said, taking off my jacket so he could feel my arm. I was proud of how solid I’d become.
My father squeezed my arm and laughed. “You’re catching up with Henry,” he said, referring to my large younger brother.
“I’m feeling well, Ba-ba. I sometimes wondered if I ever would again.”
My father left his hand on my arm, giving it another squeeze. “Drink up,” he said, “then we’d better catch that train.”

Other books

River's End by Nora Roberts
Between Madison and Palmetto by Jacqueline Woodson
Death in Saratoga Springs by Charles O'Brien
A Manual for Creating Atheists by Boghossian, Peter
El mundo como supermercado by Michel Houellebecq
Dandy Detects by M. Louisa Locke