The Samurai's Garden: A Novel (12 page)

BOOK: The Samurai's Garden: A Novel

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DECEMBER 7, 1937

My father and I spent the rest of the evening speaking about the ongoing war. I listened politely, wishing I could be back alone in my room. It felt like I was sitting across from a stranger, as I searched for words to fill up the thick silence. Even the subtle signs of familiarity—my father combing his fingers through his gray hair, or constantly adjusting the knot of his tie—couldn’t bring me ease. I watched him nod his head sadly, confirming my fears about the fierce Japanese drive that continued toward Canton. At the rate they moved through China, Canton would be overtaken within months. The carnage of death and destruction left my father speechless. I couldn’t even begin to imagine Sachi and Matsu as my enemy, yet it felt strange to think that as I sat comfortably within their midst, Japan continued to ravage our homeland. I always knew my father loved Japan second only to China, and it now appeared he would have to show his loyalty to one or the other. I had no doubts his loyalty lay with China, the land of his ancestors, but it wouldn’t be without pain. I felt the heaviness of his thoughts, and couldn’t help but wonder if it meant I would soon have to return to Hong Kong to be with my mother and Pie. The words moved slowly to my lips, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

Matsu made us miso soup, deep-fried bean curd, thin-sliced marinated beef and rice for our evening meal, then disappeared for the rest of the night. For a while, I could hear Bach playing low from Matsu’s radio in the kitchen, and then: silence. When we had exhausted our strained conversation, my father asked if I would like to spend the holidays in Kobe with him. After I gave him a noncommittal response, he stood up, excused himself, and went out for a walk. By the time I heard him return, I was already in my darkened room, pretending to be asleep.

I woke up to find my father had taken an early train back to Kobe. There was a dampness in the air, and I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to see him again. I suppose he felt the same. All I know is that a numbness had settled in me, and I barely felt a thing.

There was a stale taste in my mouth all morning. My father had returned to his other life in Kobe, and I knew I’d failed both of my parents. I wasn’t able to accept my father’s mistress, yet I couldn’t make her disappear from our lives as my mother wanted.

“Your
o-t

san
left very early this morning,” Matsu said, waking me from my thoughts.

We sat and ate our usual breakfast of rice and pickled vegetables at the kitchen table. I had hardly said a word all morning. Usually, I would be the one to talk and ask Matsu questions, but his interruption only irritated me. Matsu had disappeared for the entire evening, and now he wanted to know what had happened. I simply nodded my head, without answering.

Matsu didn’t say anything more. When he finished his food, he stood up and went about his business in the kitchen. I couldn’t help but sulk. I ate solemnly, forcing the rice into my mouth until I had eaten most of it.

“It was good,” I said, as I handed him the bowl and bowed, hoping to make up for my rudeness.

Matsu nodded, then began to wash the bowl. When I was almost back in my room, I heard him raise his voice to ask, “What are you doing today?”

I couldn’t stay cooped up in the house, even though I knew I
had to write a letter to my mother. “I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk later.”

Matsu came to the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’m going to Tama later. You might like to see it.”

“What’s there?” I asked.

Matsu smiled. “It’s a Shinto shrine. Didn’t your
go-ry

shin
ever tell you about the one at Tama?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

My parents had never placed a great emphasis on religion. What I learned during my childhood was through attending St. Matthew’s, a Catholic primary school in Hong Kong. The classes were taught by nuns, who swept down the halls in mysterious dark skirts and veils. Each morning before class, we recited “The Lord’s Prayer,” which would hum through my head for the rest of the day. As a little boy, I had taken it all in; the pageantry of mass, the colorful robes of the priests and bright stained glass windows, the secret knowledge that I had been saved. When I moved on to a private English middle school, I felt I had lost a childhood friend who had known all my secrets. Yet it seemed to gradually fade from my mind as life went on.

“It’s not far from Tarumi,” Matsu continued. “We can leave in a few hours.”

“You never struck me as the religious type,” I said, beginning to feel better.

Matsu swung the towel over his shoulder as he turned back into the kitchen. “There’s still a lot you don’t know about me,” he said.

I began a letter to my mother, making sure to keep it focused on my father’s visit and the upcoming holidays. I had once hoped to be with my family at Christmas, but as it approached with no word from Hong Kong, I relaxed at the thought that I would be spending it in Tarumi. The letter felt as if it took hours to write. I had no idea how much my mother knew of the situation between this woman Yoshiko and my father. Instead, I wrote my mother of my father’s unexpected visit, our brief discussion of the money he had withdrawn to help this friend in her business, and how worried
he had been about my accident. My words felt clumsy and scattered, but I had to tell her something. I changed the subject to the ongoing war. I didn’t want to alarm my mother, but I wanted to know if she needed me to return to Hong Kong. Then I asked about Pie, whom I hadn’t heard from in a long time. Was she all right? How was she doing in school? I smiled just to think of her, realizing how much I wanted to have her curious questions and quick mind here to dispel all the sadness I felt.

I ended the letter trying to reassure my mother of my father’s decision to help his friend. “It’s a business arrangement more than anything,” I wrote, though I knew she would never really believe it. All I could hope was it might give her the excuse she needed to pretend that all was well again. I hated lying to my mother, I hated my father for making me have to.

I was happy to be out of the house and in the fresh air. We walked down the beach road and through the main street of the village to the Tama Shrine. It felt as if the entire village were asleep. Not one dog came to sniff or snap at our heels as we sauntered down the road.

Matsu carried a bundle wrapped in a dark blue and white cotton
furoshiki
. “It’s our lunch,” he said, with a smile.

But as we approached Kenzo’s teahouse, Matsu suddenly became quiet. I could see the muscles in his neck tense. I wondered what would happen if Matsu and Kenzo should meet on the street. Would they pass by each other in silence? Or would they continue the angry words started at the house? I strained to see inside the darkened teahouse, but there was no movement.

From the village we continued on a dirt road that led up into the mountains. It wasn’t long before we came to a clearing, and in the center of it: the Tama Shrine, posed serenely on a rise above the village of Tarumi. The first thing that caught my eye was the three identical faded red gateways, which you walked through in succession to the entrance to the shrine. Each one was simply made of two upright wooden posts, with a lintel across the top which extended past the upright posts and was carved into the slight curve of a smile. Just below it was another horizontal beam that connected the posts without extending beyond them. They
each resembled a large bird perch. I had seen similar gateways in Kobe, but with elaborate carvings and designs, constructed in iron or stone.

“The
torii
gates,” Matsu said. “It is said when you pass under them, the worshipper will be purified in heart and mind before reaching the shrine.”

We continued up a path lined with odd-shaped, flat stones, and through the remaining two
torii
gates. The shrine itself was housed in a simple, square, wooden building, which looked like any house in the village. Matsu stopped at a stone trough by the entrance. There was a wooden ladle hanging by its side which he picked up and dipped into the water. I watched him drink from it, but instead of swallowing the water, he rinsed it around in his mouth, then spit it out into the dirt. He dipped the ladle into the water again and rinsed each of his hands. When he had thoroughly cleansed himself, he handed the ladle to me and gestured for me to do the same thing.

“To purify yourself before entering the shrine,” Matsu whispered, as if he didn’t want to disturb the gods.

I tried to copy his movements, surprised at how cool the water tasted. I was tempted to swallow it, to quench my thirst after our long walk, but I could feel Matsu’s eyes watching me, so I simply repeated what he had done. Only then did he turn and remove his sandals, leading me into the wooden building which held the shrine.

Inside, there was a strong smell of burning incense and sweet rice wine. We stepped up onto a wooden platform where the shrine itself was no more than a stone table with an intricately carved wooden box. It housed what Matsu told me was the fox deity; the
kami,
Inari. In front of the shrine were thin sticks of burning incense and an empty blue-glazed rice bowl. To the right of it, a wall was covered with what seemed to be hundreds of small white slips of paper. Matsu whispered that they contained prayers and offerings from the villagers. I carefully watched as he stepped up to the altar and clapped three times, then reached up to pull gently on a thick, braided rope attached to a wooden clapper in the ceiling. The quick, slapping sound echoed through the small building. Then as Matsu closed his eyes and bowed, I stood quietly out of the way and waited.

When Matsu straightened up again, he reached down into the
furoshiki
he carried and brought out some sticky rice to place in the glazed bowl before the shrine.

“You?” he asked. Matsu stepped out of the way and urged me forward.

I shrugged my shoulders and hesitated. I felt embarrassed doing something so foreign, but Matsu pushed me toward the shrine, then placed my hands out in front so I could clap as he had done. “You must let the gods know you are here,” Matsu whispered.

I quickly clapped three times and pulled on the rope. I stared hard at the enclosed shrine and the bowl of rice. The burning incense stung my eyes. I bowed low and tried to concentrate on some kind of prayer. My mind was confused. Who or what should I pray for? There were too many thoughts cluttering my head to choose only one. I wanted to pray for my parents’ marriage, or Sachi and Matsu’s happiness, or for the war to end in China. I could feel Matsu standing behind me, waiting. So I simply closed my eyes tight and prayed for all of us.

On a slope covered with pine needles overlooking Tarumi, we sat down to eat the lunch Matsu had brought along. He unwrapped the
furoshiki
to reveal a three-tiered, black lacquer food box and a thermos of green tea. Each layer of the box was filled with assorted sushi and fish cakes. I was impressed that he had prepared everything in such a short time. Matsu lifted off the top layer of the box and handed it to me. With my fingers I picked up a fist-shaped sushi of rice wrapped in marinated tofu, and took a bite out of it.

“Do you visit the shrine often?” I asked.

Matsu put an entire sushi into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before he answered, “Only when I feel it’s necessary.”

BOOK: The Samurai's Garden: A Novel

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