Picking Bones from Ash (42 page)

Now I know that the mysterious room was the bone room. The boxes were filled with ash and bone, as the Japanese don’t cremate human remains at as high a temperature as we do in the West; the bone is intentionally left behind. Sometimes grieving families don’t have enough money for a burial plot. Sometimes, as was the case with my grandmother’s remains a few years ago, the ground is too cold and frozen and the burial can’t take place immediately after the funeral. In the meantime, the bones need a place to go. The toys were offerings to the spirits of dead children and aborted fetuses. Children, in general, haven’t amassed enough karma to automatically begin the journey toward reincarnation; they need the help of a bodhisattva (an enlightened and compassionate being) to help them get started. The toys and clothes and candy were offerings, desperate gestures, bribes: the saddest and most personal acts of people deeply immersed in grief.

The bone room, that tragic yet clinical space, gets at the heart of what Buddhism is and does in Japan, which is to oversee all aspects of the afterlife. We like to think of Buddhism in the West as being a kind of philosophy, and of course, it can be. But in practice, Buddhism in Japan gives followers a window into the afterlife and very clear guidance at the moment of death and thereafter. A temple is not really a child’s plaything, and knowing this, my mother’s aunt and my mother had tried hard to make my early visits to Japan as devoid of any reference to Buddhism as possible. We focused on festivals, castles, animated television shows, food, and travel. The philosophy, and the grieving of dead relatives and friends, were all in the future.

When I started writing
Picking Bones from Ash
, I had a fairly simple premise: what if a girl was haunted by a ghost and readers thought they knew who the ghost was, but turned out to be wrong? And what if the key to understanding what the ghost wanted hinged on understanding another culture?

I knew that most of my characters would be women, but they would be modeled on the Japanese women I knew, and not the flimsy, suffering-but-beautiful stock characters I’d run into in so many historical novels written by Western authors. I would not write armchair-travel fiction. I thought about the lives of women in my family. My grandmother, who was born into an aristocratic family only to see its wealth and reputation vastly diminished during the early twentieth century and after the war. Despite this, she instilled a firm sense of aesthetics in her children. My mother, who was brave enough to leave her country and her parents to enthusiastically seek out a new life in the US. My aunt, who staunchly ran the temple, seeing it through some very financially troubling times, until she finally persuaded her brother’s illegitimate son to cut ties with his mother and take over. And I thought about the marriages I’d observed since childhood and the quiet way in which men and women formed alliances and relationships—even when not married to each other.

As I thought about all these women, I began to think about the folk tales and children’s tales my mother had read to me and those animated television shows I’d been allowed to watch in Japan as a child. It occurred to me that unlike Disney cartoons, Japanese fairy tales often feature preternaturally powerful women who are not in search of a man.
Growing up, my favorite story had been about the Moon Princess, found inside a fat stalk of bamboo and raised by a poor bamboo cutter and his wife. The princess is wooed by princes from the far corners of Japan and by the emperor himself, but spurns them all, eventually breaking the hearts of her would-be suitors and her adoptive parents (who promptly die) when she returns to the kingdom of the moon. No Disney fairy tale ended this way.

What was more, most of these Japanese stories developed in surprising and unexpected ways. Nature was often a powerful character, adding a quality of chaos to the universe. Evil characters were slippery, and sometimes become forces of goodness and wisdom. Structure, I realized as an adult, did not need to adhere to strict and symmetrical rules to be beautiful. My own characters thus came to life, with all the challenges, pleasures, and difficulties that come from being a girl who truly believes that the most important thing in life is, like the Moon Princess, to be talented and special.

Finally, I wanted to begin to share with readers some of what I believe makes Japan so unique, tantalizing, and rich. For a few years, I wrote for the blog
Japundit
, whose mission, according to its founder, was to show the world all that was Japanese and yet was not “tea and temples.” I’ve been going to Japan for a long time—over thirty years. In my efforts to learn “how to behave correctly,” I’ve listened to what people say and find funny and like to eat and do in their spare time. The tea and the temples are of course bulwarks of Japanese culture and are fascinating, as are the objects of current Western obsessions: love hotels,
Akihabara
, and other marginal cultural establishments. But there is much, much more to Japan—there has to be, with a culture that is over a thousand years old—and in
Picking Bones from Ash
, I wanted to try to unfold some of that mystery for curious readers.

1) At the beginning of the book, Satomi says: “My mother always told me there is only one way a woman can be truly safe in this world. And that is to be fiercely, inarguably, and masterfully talented.” Is Satomi safe in the end? At what cost? And what about the other female characters, particularly Akiko and Rumi? What does it mean for a woman to be safe?

2) Satomi seeks out Western music in Paris, Timothy yearns for spiritual enlightenment through Buddhism, and François reinvents himself in San Francisco. Discuss the ways in which these and other characters—and perhaps you yourself—find freedom through other cultures, and comfort in what is native.

3) On page 246, Satomi tells Rumi, “Here we are. A girl without a mother and a girl with too much of a mother. Which, I wonder, would most people rather be? One inherits history. The other is free to create it herself.” Do you think it is better to inherit history or to create a history for yourself?

4) François teaches Rumi the importance of seeing beauty out of context. How does this skill help her later on? How does it relate to the Buddhist notion of seeing through illusion?

5) Why do you think the ghost of Akiko revealed itself to Rumi and not to Satomi?

6) Masayoshi says: “When parents and children can accept each other—no matter what that means—their relationships with everyone else will change” (page 272). How do you feel about this statement?

7) How did Mockett’s use of interlocking stories and voices affect your reading experience?

8) Mockett has said: “I felt it was important that any supernatural elements in my novel would be grounded in psychological truths, because that’s the ‘reality’ of true supernatural experiences.” How does the supernatural function within her story? Does it add atmosphere? Did it detract from the story?

9) On page 224, Akira says: “The world of the living can be like that of the dead. It is tragic when we lose ourselves in grief.” What do you think about this statement? Is it something that you or someone close to you has experienced?

10) At the end of the novel, Akiko says to Satomi: “You look like a loved person. It always shows on people’s faces. The ones who discover love when they are much older always look startled.” Do you agree?

MARIE MUTSUKI MOCKETT
was born in Carmel, California, to a Japanese mother and an American father. She is a graduate of Columbia University with a degree in East Asian studies. Mockett’s essay “Letter from a Japanese Crematorium” was cited as a notable in
Best American Essays 2008
. She has been a Bernard O’Keefe Scholar for Nonfiction at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference.
Picking Bones from Ash
was shortlisted for the Saroyan International Prize, a finalist for the Paterson Prize, and longlisted for the Asian American Literary Awards. She lives with her Scottish husband and son in New York City. This is her first novel.

This book was designed by Rachel Holscher. It is set in Minion Pro type by BookMobile Design and Publishing Services and manufactured by Versa Press on acid-free paper.