The Painting (20 page)

She sits on the bench under the willow tree. Here is where I’ll paint the lavender when it blooms. And here, forget-me-nots. Over there, a pine tree, a necessary green for the eye, year round. I will sit here until I feel it. Feel the new painting. She waits and stares at the long grass, listening to the hammer. She pulls out a pencil and makes a quick sketch of the trees. A breeze plays with her hair. She senses someone watching her, but when she looks up, shyly, there is no one. She is too jittery, too distracted. For days, she has been anticipating the next painting, but nothing has come.

The hammering stops. Why did she have to find the monk in such a state the other night? The shudder of his body, the tender clutching of his hands to his own forearms, as if trying to hold himself, rock himself, find some comfort in the cradling of his own flesh. She looks up. The monk is walking toward her with something in his hand.

He nods severely.

She feels a slight flutter of her heart and restrains her arm, which seems to want to rise up and wave to him.

He waits until he is near her to speak. Good day, he says. His eyes graze over her, through her.

She stands, wipes off her kimono, and tucks her sketchbook into her obi. What to do with her hands? She crosses her arms in front of her and looks at the pail; he follows her gaze downward.

The fish, he says. I’m going to feed the fish. I told Hayashi I’d feed the fish this morning.

The fish? she says. That’s his favorite task, she thinks. He must be in great
pain today or so enchanted by the monk that he’d give the monk one of his greatest joys.

Yes, he says, gesturing with his head to the lake.

They stand for a clumsy moment. A skylark flies by, a flash of brown and white wings. This standing and shifting from foot to foot, she thinks, is too much, so she asks if she might accompany him. If you don’t mind.

He nods rigidly, and they begin walking down the hill. He clears his throat several times, and she glances at him, expecting him to say something, but what? What can be done to step out of this seemingly endless wellspring of awkwardness? How uncomfortable this is. And then she realizes: He doesn’t know what to say. What a small world he lives in; he can’t think of what to say. A pity, really, and she feels herself warm to him, to his innocence.

She asks about the teahouse.

I’m thinking of using wood from the north. Hayashi-san said he would order it.

I’m from the north, she says, a lilt to her voice. I grew up in the shadow of a mountain, near an ice-cold river.

You’re from the shadow and I’m from the no shadow, he says, smiling faintly, scratching his forearm. At the top of the mountain, the shadows are almost nonexistent. Or so it seemed. It’s different down here.

It is good to walk, she thinks. Calmer, she is calmer. He tells her more about the teahouse, as if he was longing all this time to talk exactly about this. She glances at him as he tells her in a serious tone about the wood, how it will give a feeling of timelessness, the smell of ancient sap. His eyes are deep brown and sparked with amber. He gestures with his free hand, and his fingers are long and elegant.

The imperfections, he says. The small alcove for a shelf. There, a bowl of water, a lotus flower floating. And he explains the careful balance he wants between wabi and sabi, simple beauty and tranquility. The northern wood will bring out the wabi, highlighting the simplicity that comes with a noble poverty. The inessential stripped away, and there, only the very essence and purity. The one window will bring the sabi, letting in only the view of the garden, settling the mind into tranquility.

They’ve reached the blue shimmering lake. She pulls on her thumb knuckle, wondering what to say. The fish swirl in front of them, and he clears his throat again, louder, as if he’s found more facts to tell her. She leans over, reaches into the pail, which he still clutches, and tosses a handful of fish food into the lake. She laughs uneasily, not quite sure why she is doing so. A brown bird flies overhead and they both watch it and its shadow passing over the lake.

The gardens are quite peaceful, aren’t they? she asks.

Yes, he says.

The earlier tension is slowly dissipating, and she senses they can stand for a moment in silence. She feels a flush of vitality, and the bird—a thrush, perhaps—the glimmering lake and fish, the deep green of the long grasses, everything feels vibrant. They stand there a moment longer, watching the clouds occasionally tear, allowing the sun to shower down. Something swoops, a splash of gray wing. The teahouse design must be kept simple, he says, his tone serious and slightly defensive, as if she’d just told him otherwise.

She stiffens and clasps her elbows with her hands. Do you find the simple the most beautiful?

Some of my best teachers have been the most simple men. There’s a saying: Before enlightenment, I chopped wood and carried water. After enlightenment, I chopped wood and carried water.

She drops her arms to her sides and laughs lightly. Well, then, I don’t think you’d like my paintings, she says.

He sets the pail down and looks directly at her. You’re a painter?

Yes, she says, jarred by his intense gaze, the pool of amber and brown fixated on her.

He shifts on his feet and touches his hand to his forehead. One of my favorite teachers was a painter, he says. He did many ink drawings of Daruma. He said they were born, not made.

That’s how I paint, she says.

My teacher said they came as if the heart were speaking.

If I were given one talent, I would choose to be a painter.

You’d probably consider my paintings too cluttered, she says, reaching into the bucket and throwing another handful of pellets into the water. She points to her favorite fish. Not a simple one, she says.

He searches the swarm and finds one. That one, he says, smiling. Red and orange and black and a fine thin line of pale blue.

She laughs. Hardly simple.

He smiles, and for the first time she feels his immense warmth, as if she’d stepped next to a fire.

When they finish feeding the fish, they walk up the hill. She is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to show him her paintings. She leads him to the studio. Inside, there is only stillness. The monk stands at the doorway.

Please, come in, she says.

He steps into the studio and stands beside her at her drawing table. She pulls out a black folder. He looks at her birthmark, a pale red spot the size of a pebble on the side of her neck.

She shows him a painting of the ocean and a small fishing boat. Another one of a large seashell.

Do you know I’ve never seen the ocean, he says, his tone full of amazement, as if he can’t believe it either.

She looks at him, jaw dropping. What a shame, she says. What a shame if you never see it.

T
HE NEXT DAY, THE
monk is up earlier than usual. By the time Hayashi steps outside, the monk has finished digging two deep holes and pounding in the main posts.

Fine day for work, says Hayashi, picking up a handful of wooden nails and tossing them back and forth in his hands. A certain camaraderie has formed, Hayashi is sure of it. Did I ever tell you about the time I folded five thousand origami paper cranes?

The monk stifles a sigh, pulls out a slab of wood from the stack, and sets it on the workbench. He is not used to such excited chatter. With a ripsaw, he makes the cuts, then wipes the shavings from his shirt.

I made them for my favorite monk, says Hayashi, glancing over to the studio and seeing the top of Ayoshi’s head. The cherry-bark man, that’s what I called him. Strung them together with thread. Long chains of colorful paper birds. Good luck, they say. I hung them from his outside rafter and they flew in the wind, making a sound like bird wings. He was sick, you see, and he did get better. For a while, at least. A wonderful man.

What do you think? asks the monk.

As they stand studying the plank of wood, they hear the iron gate open and slam shut. Hayashi tenses at the sight of a Japanese man in Western clothes walking toward him with a sturdy, confident stride.

Please do not say anything, says Hayashi to the monk. You are a construction worker. I’ve hired you to rebuild the teahouse. Please.

Hayashi has seen the man before, what is his title? His responsibilities? Why is he here? The man has a lean, austere face and pale gray eyes, almost translucent, that look deceptively bored. His closely cropped hair is as smooth as an animal’s fur. Hayashi rushes over to greet him.

Hayashi bows low, much lower than the official, and when he rises again, his face is flushed, his heart racing. What is the expression on the official’s face? Anger? Judgment? Hayashi does not know. Can I offer you tea or perhaps breakfast? Such a long hike up the hill. Hayashi turns quickly to locate the monk. The monk is standing by the stack of wood.

The man looks at him shrewdly, his mouth tight. He declines Hayashi’s invitation and says he is here to deliver a letter. Who is he? asks the official, nodding toward the monk.

Hayashi sees what he hasn’t noticed before. The monk’s bald head. Only a monk would shave his head. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? How stupid of him, and now what?

A builder. I found him in town, says Hayashi. Hired him to rebuild the teahouse. You heard it burned down?

The man stares at the monk.

He seems quite competent, adds Hayashi. I’m sure he will do a fine job.

The official turns to Hayashi, and now his eyes are dark and critical.

He might have been a monk at one time, says Hayashi. I really don’t know.
Hayashi feels a deep trembling, like a wound opening. He tries hard not to hang his head and stare at the ground.

The official watches the monk. After a while, he turns to Hayashi and pulls a thin white envelope from his breast pocket. He tells Hayashi it’s an official notice to close the temple. No more services.

Hayashi laughs nervously, clutching the letter in his hand. So few people come here anymore. I can’t imagine what harm it does to anyone.

The official studies Hayashi. These are orders issued by the emperor’s cabinet members, he says, his voice steady and cold. The official doesn’t wait for Hayashi to respond, but turns and heads toward the gate again.

Hayashi stands stunned. He waits until his breathing settles before he walks over to the monk. The monk sets down his measuring tool. Not yet, thinks Hayashi. Enough upheaval in my life already, in the monk’s life, too. We can enjoy today, work together on the teahouse. Perhaps the emperor’s men will change their minds. Yes, or I’ll convince them there is no harm done—what harm, really?—and in fact, with such change, it will retain everyone’s sanity to keep some things the same.

He wanted to make sure I hired the right man to rebuild the teahouse, says Hayashi, still trembling from the encounter. I assured him you would do a fine job. Now, where were we?

A white wagtail flies down and hops on a long plank. The pale quills, the quick jerk of its head, and this is so much better than thinking about that official and what he must do. How can he close the temple? Why must they make such a demand? There is the bird’s alert black eye. They stare at each other in stunned silence. His lungs empty and gasp and the moment elongates as everything falls away. The bird flies to an overhead branch.

The monk resumes his sawing and Hayashi stands for a moment longer before he picks up the box of nails and searches for the strongest ones. That bird, he thinks, the gloss of its wings, the flutter of white as it flew.

When the monk finishes with the board, he pulls out his drawing. The hearth will be between the two entrances and the picture recess, he says.

The bird is sitting on an overhead branch.

Look up, says Hayashi.

The monk stops and peers up.

He’s still here, says Hayashi, feeling the encounter with the official almost fade. It’s trying to say something.

The monk almost speaks out, but instead, picks up a hammer and pounds in a nail.

That piece of wood with the small stain, says Hayashi, it belongs along the perimeter of the window.

The monk stops. I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.

Hayashi gestures to the bird. So we can see the birds in the sky.

I’m not sure that is the point of the tea ceremony.

But a lovely addition, says Hayashi. We could make the window even larger than normal to see more of the outside. Not just the garden, but perhaps the tree branches where the birds land.

The monk sets the hammer down. But the tea ceremony should be nothing more than boiling water, making tea, and sipping it. If you are busy watching the birds fly wildly by—

But the birds—

If you are watching the birds, are you truly sitting in the room drinking tea? asks the monk, watching Ayoshi step out of the studio.

Hayashi looks away from the bird and down at the handful of nails still in his palm. Perhaps you’re right.

The monk picks up his hammer again.

Hayashi shakes some sawdust from his sleeve. But I think we should at least consider it.

S
ATO FINDS
A
YOSHI HUDDLED
on the bench by the lake, throwing small stones into the water. Her face, grim and tight, the color of smoke. The cold wind rolls down from the higher mountains and into the garden. He buttons up his coat and sits beside her.

Aren’t you cold? he asks.

She says nothing. He picks up a stone and throws it to the fish. They swim toward the plop of the pebble.

She throws another stone in the water and watches the smooth surface ripple.
How many days has she been painting the same scene over and over? There she is on her back, floating in frigid water, and that current, that hideous current, dragging her to the bottom. She was sure it would be different this morning, but when she saw the same image, she felt a dead white glow in the center of her being.

I have some news that might cheer you up, says Sato. He tells her he might have a buyer for one of her paintings. A rich American who arrived in the capital the other day and is spending furiously. The man bought an ordinary painting by a little-regarded artist for three times its value. The painting was of mediocre quality of a Kabuki actor.