Read The Samurai's Garden: A Novel Online

Authors: Gail Tsukiyama

The Samurai's Garden: A Novel (7 page)

Matsu quickly walked back to the front of the house, but I
couldn’t move. I took another long look at Sachi’s garden before I turned around and followed.
 
 
Matsu had already begun walking to the village when, in the distance, I saw Sachi hurrying toward him. Her dark blue kimono swept across the dirt as she walked. Matsu stopped and waited, as she approached and bowed. He reached over and took her packages as they walked back to the house.
“Sumimasen,
please excuse me for being late,” bowed Sachi, as they approached me. With one hand Sachi held her scarf close to the left side of her face.
I returned Sachi’s bow and smiled. “We haven’t been waiting long.”
“Tanaka-
san
asked me if I would bring him some old newspapers. I didn’t realize it would take so long,” Sachi continued to apologize. “Most of the food has already been prepared.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. “Matsu made a big American breakfast this morning.”
Sachi turned to Matsu and said, “Ah, your eggs!”
Matsu laughed aloud. “Sachi likes her eggs scrambled as you do.”
Sachi smiled shyly, pulled her scarf closer, and hurried into the house saying nothing.
 
 
Once again I was taken aback by the simplicity of her world—elegant and uncluttered. Matsu handed Sachi the newspapers and magazines, then took the rest of the packages to the kitchen.
“This is for you,” I said. I handed her the soiled, rolled-up drawing, wishing I had wrapped it in another piece of paper.
Sachi bowed timidly.
“D
mo arigat
gozaimasu.”
“I hope you’ll like it.”
Sachi smiled, but hesitated to unroll the paper in front of me.
“Please,” I said, nodding my head.
She turned away from me and unrolled it slowly. When she saw that it was a charcoal sketch of the sea, she quickly turned back to me and bowed again, exposing the scarred side of her face. “I am very honored.”
“It’s just a quick sketch I did this morning. I wanted to bring you a token of my appreciation.”
“You have brought me more than that, you have brought me the sea,” Sachi said, her voice tight with emotion.
I didn’t know what to say, and was saved when Matsu, lifting up his brown package, said loudly from across the room, “And I have brought you a chicken!”
Sachi and I laughed, as she carefully rolled up my sketch and placed it on a table. Her hand patted it gently just once before she turned back to me.
 
 
We ate lunch at the low table in Sachi’s dining room. She had prepared fish cake, rice, thin slices of raw fish, marinated eel, and pickled vegetables. It all came in a black
bento
box, divided into separate sections. While Matsu and I ate, Sachi nibbled at her food, poured tea whenever we had sipped from our cups, and was ready at any moment to go back into the kitchen for more food.
“It was a wonderful lunch,” I said, bowing my head in appreciation.
“I’m happy that you could come,” Sachi said. She slowly rose to collect the empty boxes.
“Let me help you,” I said.
“I’ll take care of it,” Matsu suddenly interrupted. “Sachi, why don’t you take Stephen-
san
out to the garden.”
Sachi glanced down at me and said, “If you would like to see the garden, I would be honored to show you.”
I stood up quickly and felt a stiffness along my legs as I stretched my muscles. “I would love to see your garden.”
I followed Sachi, as she slid open the
shoji
door that led out into her garden.
“It’s wonderful,” I said, even more intrigued than the first time I’d seen it. The sun was overhead, which lightened the color of the rocks, setting them aglow.
“I could not have done it without Matsu’s help,” Sachi said. “Many years ago, when I first came to Yamaguchi, the possibility of having a life had all but vanished. Matsu was the one who insisted I have a garden.”
“And you created this?”
“With Matsu’s help. He showed me that life is not just from within, it extends all around you, whether you wish it to or not. And so, this garden has become a part of my life.”
I wanted to say something back to Sachi, but the words were caught in my throat. Her garden was a mixture of beauty and sadness, the rocks and stones an illusion of movement. What could she have possibly done to deserve such a fate? Didn’t her family ever try to help her? I looked at the slim, shy woman standing in front of me and wanted all my questions answered, but I kept quiet and could only hope the answers would be given to me in time.
 
 
“If we invited Sachi-
san
to the house, would she come?” I asked Matsu on our way back down the mountain. I held my jacket tightly closed against the cold wind. The branches and twigs snapped beneath our feet as we walked. He was just a step ahead of me and in a good mood.
Matsu cleared his throat, slowed down, and turned to me. “She hasn’t left Yamaguchi in almost forty years. In the beginning, I tried to get her to come down, but she was too ashamed.”
“Didn’t her family care what happened to her?”
“Her family gave up on Sachi a long time ago.”
“They disowned her because of the disease?” I asked, flushed with anger.
Matsu shook his head, then said, “It wasn’t so simple. It was a question of honor. Once she became afflicted with the disease, it was Sachi who chose not to dishonor her family any more than she had.”
“What?”
“It was her choice.”
“But why?”
“She saw no reason for them to suffer her shame.”
“Do you think she might come down now?” I dared to ask.
“Again, it will have to be her choice,” Matsu said, picking up the pace and moving farther ahead of me.
I completed the painting of the garden this morning. Finishing it was like saying good-bye to my family again and being cast adrift on some endless sea; I felt that empty.
“It’s finished,” I called out, when Matsu came into the house. A small replica of his garden sat propped on the easel drying. I stood by the painting, eager for some kind of reaction from him; a simple smile of recognition, or at the least, a lingering gaze. Instead, Matsu stepped into the room wiping his mud-stained hands with an old rag. He took no more than a moment to glance at the painting, then grunt his approval before he turned to leave again.
My fingers closed tightly around one of my grandfather’s brushes. The strong, sharp smell of the paints filled the room. Then, as if he knew my thoughts, Matsu stopped and turned to ask, “I have to go into town now, would you like to come along?”
“I’d love to go,” I answered. “Just let me finish cleaning these brushes.”
 
 
It was strange to think that two months had passed without my having seen the small beach village. Yet, even when we came to Tarumi as children, we seldom left the house and beach. It was always Ching or the other servants who walked the mile back and forth to buy food and whatever else was needed. I never thought of it as much more than a few scattered buildings, but now the prospect of seeing the village seemed like a good way to spend the afternoon.
Tarumi was not far from the train station, lying in the opposite direction of our beach house. When Matsu and I approached the small station and worn tracks, a train had just pulled in. People had begun to disembark as we walked toward town. I felt their stares follow me. I knew it was not only because I was a Chinese face in their village, but I also realized there were very few young men in Tarumi. Most of the women were dressed in dark, padded kimonos, but a few younger girls had on Western dresses and coats. I was mesmerized being around so many people again; the subtle sweet and sour odors of perfume and sweat, the high and
low of different voices. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was back in Kobe.
Tarumi looked tired and faded in the gray light. The buildings which lined each side of the dirt road were built of dingy brown wood. The village consisted of a store, post office, and teahouse. Their large, bold characters were carefully painted on signs above each building. Farther down the road were smaller houses where the townspeople lived. Bits and pieces of their lives could be seen in the bicycles and toys leaning against the mismatched bamboo fences. Dogs roamed freely down the road, as the bobbing figures of women and children walked back to their houses. I couldn’t help but wonder which house belonged to Keiko and Mika.
“Come this way,” Matsu said.
I followed him across the road to the teahouse. At the door we were greeted by a thin man with a white towel draped over his shoulder. His eyes were dark and sharp, and I watched as he lifted his right hand against the dull light from the street.
“Matsu, konnichiwa!
I wondered when you would stop by,” he bowed.
“Did you think I would forget, Kenzo?” Matsu answered.
“No, not you Matsu,” he said, with an almost childlike enthusiasm.
Matsu turned, grabbed my shoulder firmly and pulled me forward. “This is Stephen-
san
,” he said. “And this is Kenzo-
san
, he makes the best rice crackers in all of Japan. He’s also the man who gets me bacon and whatever else I need.”
Kenzo and I bowed to each other.
“Come, come sit down,” Kenzo said, leading us to a table at the back of the large room.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, I noticed that besides us, there was a lone old man sitting in the far corner. The neat rows of tables were separated by simple wood panels, while sturdy wooden beams ran across the ceiling. The room felt comfortable and inviting.
“The usual for you, Matsu?” Kenzo asked.
Matsu laughed. “I didn’t walk all this way just to visit with you!”
Kenzo turned around and disappeared behind a doorway covered
by two long panels of blue fabric. On each panel was printed a large white character, which when read together meant, “Great Harmony.”
“Is he an old friend of yours?” I asked.
“One of my oldest,” Matsu replied, his hand moving across his rough cheek. “Kenzo and I grew up together. This teahouse belonged to his family.” He smiled, as if the memory pleased him. “I remember the morning we first met. Kenzo came to your
oj
-san’s
house while I was working with my father in the garden. Unlike me, Kenzo had always been very popular. He was the last one I had ever expected to see. I remember being covered in dirt. I barely said a word. Kenzo stood so straight, dressed in clean, starched clothes. Even as a boy, he was very proud and self-assured,” Matsu said.
“What did he want?”
“He came to ask me if I had time to work on his father’s garden. I was so surprised, I only mumbled that I would stop by his house and take a look. In the end, I didn’t accept his father’s job. My own father wanted me to spend more time on my studies. But soon afterward, Kenzo began to speak to me at school and we became good friends.”
“Is that the same time you met Sachi-
san
?” I asked.
Matsu shook his head. “Sachi was already the best friend of my
im
to,
Tomoko. They were very popular. Most of the time they were off whispering and laughing, never paying much attention to me. It must have been hard for anyone to believe that Tomoko and I were from the same
ry
shin.”
“I guess you were the strong, silent type,” I teased.
“I was invisible to them,” Matsu said, softly.
I looked down and didn’t know what to say. “Kenzo-
san
seems very nice,” I finally said.
“Kenzo was smarter than all of us. He should have gone off to the city like the others. He would be a rich man by now if he had.”
“Why didn’t he leave?”
Matsu coughed and rubbed his cheek again. “As far back as I can remember, Kenzo’s father was always sickly. Being the only son, he felt it his responsibility to care for his mother when his father finally died. We were about seventeen at the time.”
I was about to ask Matsu why he hadn’t left Tarumi, when the
panels of blue cloth parted and Kenzo returned carrying a tray. He placed it on the table and carefully distributed a bowl of rice crackers, a large brown bottle of beer for Matsu, and a pinkish colored cold drink for me.
“D
mo,
Kenzo,” Matsu said, with a nod of his head. Then Matsu gestured for him to take the seat next to me.
Kenzo took the towel from his shoulder and wiped up the water beading on the table. He leaned over and arranged the bowl of rice crackers so that it was exactly in the middle of the table. When he slipped into the chair next to mine, he brought with him the oily smell of cooking, mixed with tobacco smoke.
Matsu had already poured out his beer, quick to drink down half a glass in one large swallow.
Kenzo pointed to the glass in front of me.
“D
zo,”
he said, watching me.
I smiled and bowed my head. The glass felt wet and cold in my hand as I sipped the pinkish drink. It tasted sweet and flowery. “It’s good,” I said, politely.
Kenzo smiled and turned to Matsu. “You see, the young man has good taste!”
Matsu laughed. “What do you expect, he’s just trying to be polite.”
“It’s good,” I said again, not quite understanding what was going on between them.
“You see, not everyone agrees with what the mighty Matsu-
san
thinks!” Kenzo said.
Then, before anything else was said, both Matsu and Kenzo burst into laughter.
“Kenzo has been trying to get someone to like that drink of his for the last twenty-five years,” Matsu explained. “He has tried everyone in Tarumi, with no luck.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Kenzo said, as he wiped away a new water mark left by Matsu’s bottle of beer. “He has always been jealous of me.”
“He’s crazy,” Matsu laughed, lifting his thick fingers to the side of his head.
I took another swallow of the too-sweet drink. Each sip let me know something new; it tasted more and more like flowers, with a strong scent of roses.
“What’s in it?” I asked Kenzo.
But it was Matsu who laughed and answered, “It’s his secret recipe that no one wants.”

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