The Painting (25 page)

He steps inside, grabs the feed bag, and heads to the backyard. Between his fingers, he rolls the polished, shiny seeds around and around. He didn’t mean to give her his gun. Why did he do it?

They cry again. All right, he says. All right.

One bird has rubbed off a patch of feathers against the metal wiring of the cage. The bird wants to fly, he thinks. He wants out, and who could blame him? So what if his wages are docked; Pierre, so preoccupied, probably doesn’t yet know how many birds he has.

He unfixes the metal notch and slips his hand around the body of the bird. Feels its heat, its small heart beating. He stares at the bird’s bright orange eyes. Like the color of the bird’s wings in the painting. Or the small touch of lichen on the rock by the Japanese woman’s foot. Natalia did not truly see the painting. Is it excitement of the unknown that pulled her away, or despair?
He knows the answer. He returns the bird to its cage, pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket, and writes,
Paris will lose, but there is a woman who will fight without fear because she believes she has already lost everything
.

He reads what he’s written, shuddering at this bald truth. He rolls the message up tightly and ties it with a thread to a tail feather. Tossing the bird into the air, he watches it flutter against the wind, flying up to the tree branches, up and up, and beyond.

JAPAN

S
HE WILL LOOK STUNNING
in such a gown, thinks Sato, casting an approving gaze at the picture of the Western-style dress. He sets the picture on the tailor’s cutting table and glances around the shop for fabrics. Why shouldn’t she have a beautiful gown? Japan is changing, and Ayoshi should shed her dusty kimono and wear this full-skirted dress with the tight-fitting waist.

The old tailor rests his age-spotted hand on the table and shakes his head in dismay. So many curves for everyone to see, he says. He looks again at the picture, then out his storefront window, as if the sight of the Western dress is too much to bear.

Soon every Japanese woman will want one, says Sato, opening his wallet.

The tailor refuses until Sato offers him triple his rate.

At the house the old man takes Ayoshi’s measurements. She stands atop a small wooden crate in the receiving room, which is covered in ten tatami mats. What if she began the painting with wildflowers? she thinks, searching the swatches of colorful fabric lying on the floor, a palette beckoning for a spring painting. The tailor measures from her hip to her ankle.

Soon, this will be what everyone considers beautiful, says Sato.

Her arms are extended out from her sides. I don’t know. Do you really think beauty is so whimsical?

Smart girl, mumbles the old man, a straight pin clenched between his two lips. The tailor excuses himself, reaches for her wrist, and measures the length of her arm.

Sato paces around the room. Japan is in the midst of a great upheaval. And yes, indeed, I think something can come along more beautiful.

She lifts her arms above her head for the tailor. The tailor marks the cloth with chalk. How disconcerting, she thinks, and the more she considers it, the more agitated she becomes. What happens to the old beautiful object? she asks. Is it tossed in the garbage? How horrible for one so easily to usurp the other.

Sato stops pacing. No, no. The old beauty is treated with generosity, he says. Remember when you danced as a girl, you undid your obi so the bottom of your kimono swirled? I am imagining that now. Your dancing in this Western dress in a large ballroom. I’ll escort you and when you enter the room, everyone will stop and look at the new beauty.

You wouldn’t know what to do with me, Sato, she says.

What do you mean? We’d have a grand time, a wonderful time. I’d show you the marvelous sights.

And if I didn’t want to see them? If I wanted to stay in my room and paint all day?

Oh, you wouldn’t do that. You’d want to see everything.

I’m not going anywhere with you.

He smiles a secret, knowing smile and resumes his pacing.

Thin, she thinks, studying herself in the tailor’s long mirror. Too thin. My face has more angles to it. I am becoming old. She puts her hand on her cheek and pushes down hard. Soon my hair will have streaks of gray. And there, a hint of a line running from my nose to my mouth. She turns away from the mirror.

Hayashi walks into the room. You’ve ordered a new kimono? he asks.

No, a gift from Sato, she says.

Sato hands him the picture.

Sato, you are too generous, says Hayashi, his brow puckering. Much too generous.

It’s the least I could do for your hospitality, says Sato, bowing.

Ayoshi looks at Hayashi gazing at the picture of the dress, his face flushing, his mouth bending into a frown. He’s probably thinking it’s too revealing. How will someone know the status of a woman? she wonders. Will the dress come in different styles, like a kimono, some with regular-size sleeves to show the woman is married? Will only the younger women wear bright colors? And where will the family crest go?

She’ll look lovely, don’t you think? says Sato, looking at Ayoshi with admiration.

Of course, says Hayashi, his voice curt.

She sees Hayashi wince. Still not recovered from the night of dancing and the long day of construction work. Today he did not have the strength to work beside the monk.

Go away, she says. Both of you. She steps down from the crate and picks up a blue-and-peach-colored fabric swatch.

We are not worthy of such generous—

Oh, I’ll hear none of that, says Sato, interrupting Hayashi.

She picks up a patch of fabric. An abrupt blue, she thinks. This one, she says, handing it to the tailor.

Yes, says Sato, his hands jittery and tapping his sides.

For the first time this morning, she hears the hammering of nails. Her heart pounds. Suddenly nothing in the house or the garden feels right. She walks over to the window and watches a Japanese maple relinquish a leaf. She’s growing old and can’t stand another minute in this house.

H
AYASHI LOOKS DOWN AND
without hesitating smashes the left side of the bowl. It’s too excessive, this gift of a dress, he thinks. A bottle of sake, sweets from the bakery, those are fine, but this gift costs thousands of yen, he’s sure. He pinches the clay and tries to imagine that different bowl, the one Ayoshi said she liked. Did it expand at the midpoint or below that?

Excuse me, says Sato, stepping into the studio. I hope I’m not interrupting.

No, not at all. He punches in the other side. We are surrounded by the gardens from the Heian Period, a time when Japan was seeped in beauty, and I can’t seem to make anything that’s close to that.

Sato stands by Ayoshi’s desk and fingers a piece of blank paper.

From 794 to 1185 there was the development of calligraphy, the painting style yamato-e, and the golden age for poetry, says Hayashi. The most compelling work, Lady Murasaki’s epic,
Tale of Genji
.

The clay is now collapsing on itself, returning to its original shape. Sato stares at the dilapidated bowl. Yes, an interesting time, says Sato. I hope you will accept my gift to Ayoshi.

Hayashi mashes the bowl into a lump of clay. It’s rather extravagant.

We’re old friends, you know. She’s my dearest friend. Sato sits in Ayoshi’s chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles.

Yes, says Hayashi, too loudly. You’ve already told me that. Truthfully, I am partial to the kimono. I think we ought to honor and respect our past. This Western dress seems rather objectionable.

Sato sighs. Japan has grown by seizing things from other countries—China, Korea, India, Tibet, and soon the West. Remember how deftly Japan saddled up to China and took what she needed and desired, writing, philosophy. The entire city of Nara? Modeled after the Chinese capital at His-an with its street patterns in relation to the Imperial Palace.

Hayashi examines Sato’s feet. If he had those feet, he’d be outside with a hammer and nail. Please ask if you need anything, says Hayashi, his voice abrupt. We are your hosts. And he can’t help adding, At least for as long as you stay with us.

Sato smiles. So Japan will find her way through this Westernization, and Ayoshi will wear a new dress.

Do you know the Heian concept of miyabi?

No, says Sato.

It’s something the West, I’m sure, knows nothing about, and you’ll never find in their artwork or fashion. He tells Sato a person with miyabi derives pleasure from perfection. It doesn’t matter if the object is composed of detailed or simple beauty, it is a perfection of form and color. And that person has an awareness of beauty’s inherent sadness.

Sato uncrosses his legs and sits straight up. What sadness?

Hayashi grabs a rag and wipes off his hands. Beauty is fleeting.

Now you sound like that gloomy monk and his dismal views of the world. At the precise moment of beauty, that one singular moment when you see beauty, what happens to you?

Hayashi jabs his hands back into the clay and feels his face become hot. I don’t know. It’s too quick.

Sato jumps up from his chair. Pay closer attention.

Hayashi stops moving.

Let me be more specific. When you see your wife, her bloom of beauty, aren’t you held in a state of wonder? Sato steps toward him.

His wife
. The words still sound so foreign. A grim anxiety overtakes him.
His wife
. What is Sato doing looking so closely at his wife? Hayashi’s hands grip the clay.

Sato hovers over him. You must feel something.

Hayashi doesn’t reply. What did he feel when he looked at her atop the wooden crate? He sits in silence, the world swimming around him. Pin pricks of sweat pop on his brow and temple. The light shifts and the room darkens as rain clouds gather outside the window. What did he feel? He can’t say that he felt nothing; that wouldn’t be true. Careful? Cautious? Tentative? Do you know when she first came here, she wouldn’t eat? says Hayashi, staring out the small window, his voice barely audible. She ran away five times. Five times. She cried and cried; I didn’t think she’d ever stop. Most days she wouldn’t get out of bed. When I let her use the studio, she’d stay in here for hours, unless I came in, and then she’d flee. She still does that, you know. She couldn’t stand to be near me, and now, I suppose she bears it. I’ve learned to stay away so I don’t upset her.

Hayashi turns away from Sato, scraping the extra clay from the top of his wheel and throwing it into the bucket.

Sato sits again.

I suppose I’m not the easiest man to be with, says Hayashi. Quiet, he thinks, I’ve always preferred quiet, not the company of others. There are times I think I should have stayed at the monastery, he says. Do you know that her father sent a formal kimono dress and hakama, but nothing else?

And they both know what was missing—the long piece of seaweed, the
kanji used to signify
seaweed
and also
childbearing woman
. The gift would have held out hope for many children.

Hayashi looks down at his folded hands resting on the wheel. I’ve come to think, and I can’t say why, she removed it.

Neither man says anything for a while.

She is better now, says Sato. Better than when she first arrived, isn’t she? He waits for an answer, for a sign, but Hayashi’s eyes are away from him now.

A
YOSHI GRABS HER COAT
and rushes outside. A gust of wind picks up the fallen leaves. Where can she go? She looks at the iron gates. Turns to the lake. To the temple. The monk calls out to her. She walks over to him in a daze. There is the smell of pine from the new deck he’s added to the teahouse, and then, unexpectedly, she is struck in the face, like a branch swinging back, by his body’s musty scent of manual labor. His black hair is now almost a quarter-inch long. Her stomach shrinks to a small rock. What is he saying? He is pointing to something and speaking. The wood. Yes, he is speaking about the wood and the grain. Light wood. He is saying, Light wood, preferred, and she wants to say, Yes, he is right.

He steps inside the unfinished structure, and she follows him through the doorway, crouching down to half her size.

Here will be the tokonoma, he says, where in springtime, a small vase will sit with a single flower. Behind it, a scroll, with a sutra.

I can’t seem to paint today.

He turns and faces her. Maybe you need inspiration.

She doesn’t say anything.

A walk in the garden?

No, she thinks. Not far enough. I need to go to town to get some things, she says. Would you accompany me?

He hesitates and looks at the half-built teahouse.

Of course, I can ask the maid to go with me, she says, feeling ashamed for being so bold.

His master would never leave unfinished work. Would not succumb to an arm aching from the hammer, to the boredom of the measured blows. His
master would not think these thoughts, or consider the sweet smell of a female. If his master knew how little self-discipline he had, he’d call him unfit to be a monk. And perhaps it’s true. He picks up a small piece of wood and runs his hand over the grain. Perhaps he learned all he can, and the rest will have to be learned in another lifetime. He sets the wood down. To go to town and experience the streets and the people. At the thought of going, he feels his life expand in a wonderful way. Yes, he says, yes, he’d like to go.

She hurries inside the house, puts on her walking shoes, a heavier coat, finds her parasol, and heads outside. The monk is waiting on the new porch. He has a long piece of grass between the sides of his thumbs. He sees her, blows air through the makeshift musical instrument, and makes the grass sing.

She smiles at him. Yes, this is exactly what she needs. She opens the big black gate and slams it shut behind them. She peers back at the house, the temple, the cemetery, and a heaviness sloughs from her. Certainly something will inspire her. She turns to the monk. Look at the way he studies the tall trees. He takes such pleasure in being in the world. She imagines that everything swims and glitters for him. The other day she saw him admiring the way the white clouds gathered along the mountain peak. She wishes she’d been stuck in a dusty old monastery and only recently stepped out; the world would be fresh, everything a dazzle to the eye.