The Painting (27 page)

She feels an electricity run through her body. Smells his skin, a freshness to it, clean and the hint of incense. The monk’s eyes, the streaks of amber. What a beautiful color, and she tells him so, as if he’s illuminated within. He touches the inside of her wrist.

Silk, he murmurs.

She moves closer, firmly pushing aside the first pang of guilt, of any thought of Urashi, of Hayashi, as he leans into her, finding a long stretch of warm silk.

T
HEY STUMBLE BACK INTO
the light of the city. It is dusk now, the sky swollen with strokes of purple and pink. As they walk down the bustling sidewalk, he gently takes her by the arm and pushes through the throngs of people. No one looks at them oddly and she thinks, It must be so natural, this pairing. Soon they will return, and she will have not painted. What if she never bothered to paint again?

The monk leans over and whispers his nickname. The name attached because he was restless on the cushion, and he’s never told anyone because he disliked it, but now, he rather likes it. The name makes him laugh. She remembers the meaning of the name: independent, outspoken, ready to accept challenges, and also impulsive and prone to dark moods.

Enri, she repeats. Enri. She smiles. Yes. The restless monk.

It fits, doesn’t it?

Yes, she says, smiling.

They find a carriage and climb in, leaning into each other. The horse’s trotting and the silence of birds blend together. When they arrive home, she will buy some vegetables and green tea and sugar cakes. Shopping, she’ll say, and before that, a long, luxurious bath.

As they near the town, there is the smell of smoke in the air. Something burned today, but she can’t see the remains of the fire. They sit quietly. He touches her wrist again, as if once the border is broken down, it can’t be resisted.

A
WHITE CRANE, ITS
wings fringed with what? Sorrow? Joy? How would he make a bowl that suggests joy? Light, slender, and delicate. The bowl made of porcelain, or perhaps a vase, not a bowl at all.

The enlightened leaders take their seats around the table and Hayashi steps away from the window. They all wear Western suits, like Sato’s. This morning’s conversation with Sato still echoes. A dear friend, he said. One of her oldest friends. The bloom of her beauty.

Someone hands him an American cigarette, and the crane keeps rising up in his mind and pulling him out of the room to the lake where he passed by five cranes on the way to town. Perhaps a crane on the side of his next bowl. He’s never painted an image, only a glaze. He picks up a pencil and draws a sketch on his notepad. His throat tightens; what is he doing here? It is pointless.

How is your business? the head of trade asks Hayashi.

Fine, fine, says Hayashi, his voice fading, his hand still drawing. Business? So strange to put it that way, he thinks. As if he sits at the wheel for hours and hours, all for the exchange of money.

The head of trade pauses, waiting for him to say more, but Hayashi keeps drawing, and the man turns away.

Shall we begin, says the man at the head of the table.

Hayashi feels the knot in his stomach tighten, his hand twitches. The men fall silent and he sets his pencil down. An agenda is passed out and the room stills as everyone reads.

The men are speaking, and he is back on his walk to town, looking at the land as he descended the hill, spread out before him like a green fan. The rice
fields caressed by the sun. The cranes nestled at the lake’s edge, and, as he passed by, they flew up into the air, like pearls broken from a necklace. The tall pond grass scraped against the edges of the water, and he desperately wanted to stay and sit at the water’s edge. A poem would have eventually taken shape as he watched the birds and listened to the whir of insects.

Shall we begin? says the man again.

Hayashi moans quietly; perhaps today is not the day to make any trouble. What if they demand that he move out of the house and they condemn the entire place? That horrible promise to the monk. He made it on an impulse, out of gratitude for what the mountain monks gave to him, for what the monk brought to his home.

The telegraph system is up and running, announces one of the men. Messages can be sent from Tokyo to Yokohama. The system is ahead of schedule by several months. The men raise their brandy glasses. Hayashi hesitates, his glass at half-mast. What is the meaning of this telegraph? Who would he want to speak to in Kyoto? In Kyushu? As he walked by the lake, the cranes stood calmly at the edge of the water. Then, suddenly, they flew up in the air. Was it a bad sign? Perhaps he should wait for the next meeting to speak.

The train, says the man in charge of transportation. Soon, says the man, the railroad tracks will be crisscrossing the country, and we will permit, no encourage, everyone to travel anywhere. This will help commerce. The man pushes up his eyeglasses and announces, already, carriages are taking people from the town to the capital. They raise their glasses again and Hayashi thinks at least this is a good thing. To Tokyo for a moon-viewing party. And what did the man just say? From here to Tokyo only an hour. They could pack a picnic and stay the night, return the next day. He feels his heartbeat quicken at the thought, then the slow smile droops. She won’t want to go with him. She’d want to stay home and paint.

Hayashi reaches down and rubs his feet. The men’s voices rumble on; he looks down at his kimono and sees a long black strand of her hair. From end to end, it stretches over one meter.

The man in charge of edicts inquires about the proper attire for a train ride. How stupid, thinks Hayashi. That man is the one who announced several months ago that men must cut off their topknots and samurai can no
longer carry their swords. He feels himself become angry at the idiocy of such things and turns again to the cranes. Yes, and by the strength of their wings, you could sense they could fly anywhere.

The curtains are sucked in and out the window by the breeze. Hayashi thinks he hears shouting, but dismisses it. Only birds flying overhead and the sound of dogs barking.

The head of edicts speaks again, and in a flash, Hayashi knows he is the one who ordered the teahouse burned. The head of edicts slurps his tea and Hayashi watches his knobby fingers, his brown teeth. He would do such a thing, he thinks. Such a despicable man would order the burning. There is a pause in the discussion.

Excuse me, but I believe the raids on the Buddhist monasteries and temples are unnecessary, says Hayashi.

The military official’s face turns red.

People will turn against the government if they continue. I think we must reconsider.

We
are not leading these so-called raids, says the military official. It’s the people. The citizens who are sick of the corrupt monks.

Regardless, it can be stopped, says Hayashi. If our army is so powerful, we could stop it.

The military man waves the agenda in the air. This is not a proper subject. It is not on the agenda. Where is it on the agenda? Show me. This man is out of order.

Hayashi’s heart races. He clenches the fabric of his clothes. If it were a priority, it could be stopped.

Still waving the paper, the man stabs out his cigarette. Where?

Hayashi begins to sweat. His hands shake.

This isn’t your area of expertise, is it? says the man responsible for education, scooting back his chair, his voice cold and calm.

No, says Hayashi, surprising himself at his insistence, but it’s a critical issue.

I didn’t think so. I believe it’s about art or preserving art or some such thing. Perhaps you’d like to report on that.

But it is a concern, says Hayashi. And much of Japanese art is indebted to Buddhism for its influence. But that is not my main point.

Of course. We are all concerned. Very concerned. By the way, haven’t you been told to close the temple? I believe an official message was delivered to you. Was it not?

Yes, but—

Good. I’m sure there have been no problems. I’m sure you have turned away any villagers who have come for prayer services.

The room is quiet. Hayashi doesn’t know what to say.

The next item on the list is a visit by American officials, says the military man.

It doesn’t bode well for the new government, says Hayashi.

The military man waves his smoking cigarette in the air. Next item, he says, his voice abrupt.

Hayashi bows his head, his face filling with shame. He pushed too far and now he’s a pariah in the room. Why couldn’t he have been more composed? Why did it come out as a burst? They’ve already moved on to the upcoming visit by the Americans. Nothing will come of it, he thinks, what could come of it? Hayashi calls up his crane, but it wavers and the wings spread so wide, flying far away, no longer visible. His hands long to fall into cool clay. If he could, he’d leave right now.

Finally the meeting is adjourned, and Hayashi rushes down the staircase and steps outside. At the far end of the dusty road, there are shouts from a crowd gathered in front of the rice shop. The shopkeeper stands out front, pleading. Rocks smash against the wooden storefront. They rush into the store and carry out big, shiny bags of rice on their shoulders. They return with wheelbarrows, cleaning out his store.

Hayashi stops a man who is scurrying by. What is going on?

He tells Hayashi about the price of rice. Gone up threefold. Hayashi watches as the angry mob sets fire to the wooden shop and the lips of the flame brush against the old wooden porch. Hayashi hurries by, faster than he’s walked in a long time, passing by the rice shopkeeper, weeping on the ground, and Hayashi knows he should stop to help the man, but he can’t, he has to get home. He hurries up the hill, with big heaves of breath, his feet screaming, his head tipped down, not stopping at the pond, the cranes now gone.

FRANCE

N
ATALIA, HE SAYS, RAPPING
his knuckles on her door. When there is no answer, Jorgen pounds the door then jiggles the knob. Natalia. Natalia. Please open the door.

Down the hallway, a door creaks open.

My God, says an old woman, her hair a blur of white gray, a red terry-cloth robe wrapped around her doughy frame. Why all this noise so early in the morning? The bombs, the cannons, and now you. Must everything go to pieces at once?

He is sweating from the walk and the long climb up the narrow stairs.

The young lady is gone. She left in the middle of the night. I heard her go. She was wearing those dreadful boots. The old woman stops herself and eyes him suspiciously. Who are you? What do you want?

He is too late, he thinks. Too late. That is it. The pounding of his fist against the door—
too late, too late
.

A friend of hers. He hesitates. A good friend. I thought—before she left, but she’s gone—could I see her apartment?

The old woman looks at him with curiosity. Whatever for?

He stands still, repeating the question to himself. What does he think he’ll
find inside? The old woman is about to step inside her apartment. I’m thinking of renting it, he says. She loved this place, so quiet and clean, and wonderful neighbors. I’m looking for a new place to live.

The old woman’s scowl tips up to a smile. She reaches for her walking cane, snaps shut her door, and hobbles into the hallway. She tells Jorgen that Natalia was a good tenant. She kept to herself—she never had visitors, poor girl, but she was generous. It’s such a shame a girl is so alone in the world.

He yanks nervously on his coat sleeve. He had shown her things, hadn’t he? The beautiful feathers on the pigeons and the painting. What did she say about the painting? A fine painting, or something. But that was not seeing, not truly seeing, having your whole body soften; he should have shaken her, taken her by the shoulders, yelled at her dulled face, locked up in numbness, Can’t you see? But how do you make someone’s eyes soak in the blues and greens? Make her see the depth of the shadows and the brightness of the wild daisies? And from there—hasn’t this been happening to him—make her fall headlong into the world?

The old woman touches his arm.

A young lad, she says, staring up at him with filmy eyes.

Sorry to bother you, he says. And if she looked, truly looked, he thinks, Natalia would have found her heart quickening, and a small tear in the thick, gray fog. In the clearing, the world welcoming her, at least in some small way. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what he’s begun to feel, and something more, something she seems to have lost.

The old woman turns the key. He steps inside and almost gasps. So bleak. This room with its one dirty window barely letting in the morning light. A leafless tree branch scrapes against the glass. On the window ledge, leaves, blackened and rotting. Dust motes congregate in the corners. The room is smaller than his, except for the tiny walk-in kitchen. Pushed up against the wall, a single cot stripped of its sheets and blankets, the silver mattress exposed.

He walks over to her cot. There, a pillow without a casing. He imagines her curled up there, her fists clutching. Most likely a serious face—of late, it has been so grim—even in thick sleep. Gently, he touches the pointed
corner of her pillow. He leans over the cot, lifts the pillow, and there is her scent—fresh flowers and something else. What could he have done to stop her? Nothing, nothing, but then, why does it feel so terribly wrong that he is here, standing in her vacated apartment, and she is on the battlefield? He drops the pillow on the cot.

The old woman scrubs the counters, and Jorgen half listens to her speak of the new government, with the emperor living in exile, a quarter of a million French soldiers held captive, and the French army in desperate need of soldiers and supplies. She watched General Vinoy return to Paris with his troops.

They looked like a wreck upon a beach, she says. It was pitiful. Poor Natalia. The old woman rattles on.

What is the scent of birds? Natalia asked. A cannon rings out, shattering the silence of the early morning. The old woman sighs. How much longer? she asks. This dreadful war.

Jorgen sits on the cot and stares at the floor. A single strand of her hair—yes, chestnut brown—stuck in between two wooden floorboards. He carefully releases the hair from its hold and wraps it around his finger. I’ll take it, he says, and he doesn’t know how he’ll pay for it, but there is her smell, her ghostly presence.