The Gargoyle (23 page)

Or rather, I
was
. I believe that I have changed since the day I attacked Sayuri. While I’m not claiming that I now feel great love for all people, I can state with some confidence that I hate fewer people than I used to. This may seem like a weak claim to personal growth, but sometimes these things should be judged by distance traveled rather than by current position.

Dr. Gregor Hnatiuk, in righteous anger, was beautiful to behold. He stormed into my room to demand that I apologize to Ms. Mizumoto. Apparently he was behind the times: he’d heard of my insult, but not about my Japanese-speaking act of contrition. But still, it was breathtaking to see the shine on his sweaty brow as he defended the honor of the fair lady.

It was then that I understood upon whom he had his crush.

I explained that all the necessary fences had been mended and added that in the process Sayuri had even found a new companion with whom to speak Japanese. This placated Gregor somewhat, but he still felt it necessary to throw one final barb. “Someday you’ll have to learn that your big mouth is the front gate of all misfortune.”

“Yes, Gregor, I’ve heard that before,” I said. “From Sayuri.”

His chipmunk cheeks turned red. It was obvious that just hearing her name spoken aloud was enough to unsettle him, and the way he spun on his heel to exit confirmed all my suspicions.

At the door he stopped suddenly, turned back around, and said: “Marianne can speak Japanese?”

What follows is a translation of the conversation between Marianne Engel and Sayuri Mizumoto.

Marianne Engel:
Ms. Mizumoto. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Marianne Engel.

Sayuri Mizumoto:
Is it so? It’s nice to meet you, too. Please treat me favorably. You can speak Japanese?

Marianne Engel:
A little bit. I lived on a lavender farm in Hokkaido for a number of years. May I ask, is your first name the Chinese character for “Small Lily”?

Sayuri Mizumoto:
Yes, it is. Your Japanese is very good.

Marianne Engel:
No, it’s not. And your family name means “Source of the Water,” doesn’t it?

Sayuri Mizumoto:
Yes, it does.

Marianne Engel:
Your name bodes very well for my friend. Please take good care of him. Please forgive his very bad manners.

Sayuri Mizumoto:
Yes, I will do my best.

The question: how can I include a translation of a conversation that I did not understand when it was first spoken?

The answer: Sayuri helped me. She assures me that it’s faithful to the original conversation but I really have no way of knowing that it is, other than to trust her. Which I do, mostly, although I still have a nagging fear that the whole thing is a massive manuscript error that Titivillus will throw into his sack for Satan to use against me on Judgment Day. But this is a chance I’ll have to take.

I’m pleased to report that my cruel words did not fatally sabotage what has grown into a friendship between us. In the many hours that we’ve spent together, I’ve learned the truth of Sayuri’s childhood (or, at least, her version of it), as I reported earlier.

But what I have learned above all else, in the years that have passed, is that Sayuri Mizumoto is an exceptional woman. What other word could be used to describe a woman who has helped with translations for a book in which she’s called a Jap bitch?

Sayuri and Marianne Engel decided to work together on my rehabilitation program. Dr. Edwards had some reservations about the idea, but acquiesced when Sayuri suggested that a partner would make the program both easier and more enjoyable for me.

I had stood and even taken a few steps, but Sayuri wanted me walking. The process was not going to be as simple as me jumping out of bed and lurching down the hall. She brought in a special chair that allowed my legs to dangle while she crouched in front of me, pedaling my legs in circles. She, or Marianne Engel, would press her hands against my soles to mimic the resistance of the ground, and I was to push back against them. Sounds simple; wasn’t.

At the end of each session, Sayuri would make me stand for as many seconds as I could. It was never very long, but she’d yell “Fight! Fight! Fight!” to encourage me. When I could take it no more, I was placed back in bed and we’d review the day’s progress.

Sometimes Marianne Engel would hold my hand and I’d have trouble concentrating on what Sayuri was saying.

Marianne Engel arrived in clothes so dusty I was surprised they’d let her in. She must have sneaked past the nurses’ station, although I don’t know how that was entirely possible, as she was dragging her two hampers. When she squatted to start unloading them, I saw a little cloud of dust cough out of the crook of her knee.

“I’ve been thinking about the story of Francesco and Graziana,” I blurted, remembering that I had never updated Marianne Engel about the improvement to the idealistic aspects of my personality. “It’s romantic.”

She laughed at me while pulling bottles of Scotch out of the cold hamper. “These are for Dr. Edwards, Mizumoto san, and the nurses. I’d prefer that you don’t lie to me, but maybe you’ll like tonight’s story better.”

I noticed the dried blood clinging around the edges of her battered fingernails as she took food from the coolers. Fish ’n’ chips, bangers ’n’ mash. Prime rib with pudgy Yorkshire puddings. Finger sandwiches: ham and egg, cheese and vegetables. Scones with strawberry jam. Kaiser buns. Garlic and onion bagels. Herb cream cheese. German butter cheese, Swiss, Gouda, smoked Gruyère, and Emmenthal. Fresh cucumber salad with yogurt sauce in a delightful little bowl adorned with images of Hänsel and Gretel. Chunky red potatoes, quartered to show their white interiors; chubby green stems of asparagus, sweating butter; a plump eggplant’s fecund belly pregnant with stuffing. There were fat mutton slices piled up in an obscene monument to arterial sclerosis. A lonely pile of sauerkraut that seemed to have been added at the last moment only because someone had thought there weren’t enough vegetables. Roasted eggs, even though who the hell eats roasted eggs? Then, an abrupt culinary turn towards the Russian states: varenyky (pirogies, in layman’s terms), cavorting with candy-blackened circles of onions, and holubtsi (cabbage rolls, fat with rice) in tangy tomato sauce.

Marianne Engel popped an egg whole into her mouth, as if she hadn’t eaten in days, and devoured it in a manner that was almost bestial. How could someone this hungry not have sampled the meal while preparing it? When she had tamed the worst of her hunger, she announced, “The story of Vicky Wennington has great storms, vigilant love, and saltwater death!”

I settled in, anxious to hear it, and took another bite of the holubtsi.

I
n London society, nothing was more important than a revered family name, and Victoria D’Arbanville was born with one of the oldest and most respected. Her childhood was a series of lessons for her improvement: she was taught to speak French, Italian, German, Latin, and a smattering of Russian; she could discuss Darwin’s theories without overtly suggesting any relationship between men and monkeys; and she could sing the best of Monteverdi, though she preferred Cavalli. Her parents didn’t really care what music she liked; they only cared that she marry a gentleman, because this is what Victorian ladies did.

Victoria never doubted that she would do just that, until the day that she met Tom Wennington. Not a Thomas, this man was every inch a Tom. They were attending the same formal dinner, with Tom—in an ill-fitting suit—accompanying a city friend. After the meal, the men retreated to a drawing room where the main topics were Parliament and the Bible. Tom didn’t have much to say about those things although, if pressed, he could have offered his opinions about dirt. He was a farmer, through and through, as his forefathers had been.

Tom was a rougher sort of man than Victoria generally knew but there was no denying the delight she felt each time she ran into him, accidentally on purpose, during the following weeks. And for his part, Tom extended his stay in London a month longer than he had originally intended; he put up with the parties, the teas, and the operas just on the chance that he might see Victoria. Eventually Tom’s friend, well-heeled and generous though he was, began to run out of suits to loan him. Tom, knowing full well that his fields weren’t likely to plant themselves, had a decision to make—go home alone or screw his courage to the sticking place. Which was, by the way, a phrase that Victoria had taught him.

The D’Arbanvilles were horrified when they first guessed their daughter’s interest in this, this, this—farmer! But by then, it was already far too late. Victoria had not only been quoting Lady Macbeth, but channeling her efficiency (if not her criminal intent) in planning. When it quickly became apparent that Tom didn’t understand the language of flowers, Victoria arranged a private tour of London’s foremost factory producing steam-driven barn machinery.

Tom had been navigating the foreign world that was London only because he was besotted with Victoria, but it never left his mind that she knew nothing of his life. With this tour, she showed him that she was willing to learn about agriculture. Her questions to the plant manager demonstrated that she had done a good deal of research on the equipment before she ever set foot in the factory, and
this
was what convinced Tom there could be no other woman for him.

When Tom proposed, she knew that her days in the drawing room were over. Yes, she answered immediately, not playing any game of hesitation. She was finished as Victoria, and ready to start her new life as his beloved Vicky.

Her parents’ objections weakened considerably when they learned the vast acreage of Tom’s land, and the couple married in a ceremony that was too grand for Tom’s liking. Vicky moved into the large Wennington farmhouse, which overlooked their fields on one side and the North Sea on the other. It was a rather strange location for the house, but Tom’s great-grandmother had insisted on a view of “the very spot where the earth ends and falls into the sea.”