Bicycle Days (18 page)

He paused again at the edge of the water, thinking that it was a very strong current for such a small river. The problem didn’t seem to bother Grandfather, who was so still in the water that he didn’t even appear to be fishing. But with the first step, Alec felt the water rushing under his foot, taking his balance with it. Letting out a yell, he began to go over, his waders filling with water. Grandfather reached out with one hand, grabbed hold of the top of Alec’s waders, and hauled him to a standing position.

“Thanks,” Alec said, feeling very wet.

Grandfather said, “You move too much.” And went back to fishing.

After about an hour, Grandfather brought out a small snack of dried seaweed, rice, and Japanese pickles. They sat on the bank and ate in silence. Alec had already wolfed down his
portion and was looking around for more food when Grandfather grunted and stood up to resume fishing.

By midafternoon, Grandfather’s bag was almost full of trout, a few scaly tails poking through the opening. Every so often, Alec would look at them enviously, wondering how the old man could be so lucky. Sometimes it seemed to him as if he, Alec, were fishing for both of them, reeling in and then casting in a long, sweeping arc that sent the lure almost to the other side of the river. A few feet away, Grandfather looked practically asleep, the rod held loosely between his fingers, swaying back and forth just enough to keep the lure from sinking. He never reeled in unless there was a fish on the line. Alec thought he looked as if he could go on fishing that way forever. Like a bird, perhaps an egret, hunting for its supper.

Finally, Grandfather’s bag couldn’t hold any more trout. He reeled in. Alec watched him walk to the bank, thinking how sure of himself the old man looked. The thought was still in his mind when Grandfather suddenly stopped moving and clutched his head. His face had turned ashen.

Alec took a careful sidestep toward him. “Grandfather? Are you all right?”

Grandfather didn’t respond. He was only a step from the bank, but he made no attempt to move. Alec hurriedly reeled in and, throwing his rod onto dry land, maneuvered himself beside the old man.

“Let me help you, Grandfather. Are you sick?” He took Grandfather’s fishing rod and threw it on the bank near his own.

“It is nothing,” Grandfather said, but Alec could hardly hear him.

Holding him by the elbow, Alec walked him to the bank and helped him to sit down with his back against a smooth rock. Grandfather was no longer clutching his head, but his face was still pale. His breathing was strained and sharp, clearly audible above the hushed gurgle and hiss of the fast-flowing river.

“I will take you home,” Alec said, trying to sound confident.

Grandfather waved him away. “No, Alec. The pain has already gone. It was nothing. A headache.”

“Grandmother will worry.”

“You will not tell her,” Grandfather said. “Do you understand? Now, go back to the river and fish. I will watch you while I rest.”

Alec studied the old man for a few seconds, finally deciding that he was probably right, that it was just a headache. He picked up his rod and waded back out into the river. It seemed no time at all before he was cold and wet again, wanting nothing more than to throw his rod into the river. But he felt the eyes on his back and kept going, trying to make each successive cast longer than the one before it. While casting, he would shift his feet around to get more leverage, often fighting to regain his balance in the strong current.

After another twenty minutes without any sign of a fish, he returned to the bank. Grandfather was still resting against the rock, but already his face had regained some of its color. Removing the water-filled waders, Alec found a minnow in one of the legs. Sore and soggy, he sat down next to Grandfather.

“You said you like to fish,” Grandfather said.

“I like to fish.”

Grandfather shook his head. “You move too much. The fish are not stupid. They know you do not have patience.”

Alec thought it over in his head, made sure that he hadn’t misunderstood. He had just spent five hours in the water without getting a single bite, and he was being told that even the fish knew he had no patience.

“I am a terrible fisherman,” he said.

To his surprise, Grandfather shook his head again. “No.”

Alec waited for more, but there was none. The old man stooped down, gathered up all of the equipment in his arms. From across the water, Alec heard the call of a lone bird looking for its mate. He stared at the river, feeling the power behind its motion.

While they walked, Grandfather sang an ancient Japanese
farming song. Carried by the rhythm of men working in the fields, the words lifting and pushing into the darkening valley, Alec felt his tired feet light against the ground.

He woke gradually to the sound, a distant
thwack
coming from behind the house. He had learned already to sleep through the dark glow of early morning, rising instead with the sun already up.

Again he heard the
thwack,
coming now at regular intervals. He put on his yukata, rolled up the futon, and stored it in the cupboard. Downstairs, he said good morning to Grandmother and sat down to breakfast. He mixed a raw egg in a small bowl with a little soy sauce and poured it over a bowl of rice. Grandmother poured tea for him.

After breakfast, he walked outside. Grandfather stood just beyond the porch, legs spread to shoulder width, an axe raised straight above his head, the blade gleaming like silver in the sun. Shirtless, he wore white cotton workpants rolled up to his thighs and a large white headcloth that covered most of his silver hair. His eyes appeared to be closed; his face was pure concentration. And then the axe swung down in a single, fluid arc, the blade landing with a
thwack
in the top of a log of wood. For a second Alec thought he could see the blade hesitate as it made contact, before accelerating through to split the wood exactly in half. The two pieces flew apart, each landing in separate piles, which looked neat enough to have been stacked by hand.

Grandfather bent down to pick up another log, placed it vertically on a small wooden block in front of him. He balanced himself and raised the axe.

Alec cleared his throat. “Good morning, Grandfather.”

Slowly, the axe came down. “Good morning, Alec.”

“Would you like some help?”

Alec wasn’t sure but thought he saw a subtle change of
expression in the weathered face; the line of the mouth softening around the edges, the eyes again showing a look of amused approval.

After a while, Grandfather said, “Yes. Come here.” He offered the axe, handle first, in Alec’s direction.

Alec walked over, paused, then took the axe in his hands. The handle was made of beautiful, light-colored wood, worn smooth where the hands would be placed. But the blade was magical. Like a samurai sword Alec had once seen, the shining steel had been crafted in layers, perhaps hundreds of them. Feeling its weight, he ran his thumbnail lightly along the sharpness of its edge.

Grandfather stepped back and Alec took his place in front of the splitting block. He tried to concentrate on the log but kept thinking about the sharp pine needles that had worked their way into his sandals. He knew as the blade started its downward arc that the angle was off; he had rushed his preparation. The metal barely caught the wood at all, splintering the edge and sending the rest of the log tumbling off the platform. Alec didn’t move for a few seconds, waiting for his arms to stop vibrating from the shock. He kept his head down, counting the splinters, afraid to look at the old man.

Finally Grandfather walked over to him, took the axe from his hands. “You do not think,” he said.

“I know.”

“You do not know, Alec. You expect too many things.”

As if proving the old man’s statement, Alec couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He nodded dumbly.

Grandfather hoisted the axe above his head, testing the weight. The blade hovered, then began to dance in the sunlight. He brought it down in one clean motion, splitting the log. Alec bent down, picked up one of the halves. It was split perfectly, the grooves of the wood clean and precise. He put out his hand. Gently, Grandfather placed the axe in it.

“Until dinner,” he said, and walked into the house.

Alec watched his small form disappear into the shadows. And then he started to work.

The next day was Alec’s last at the farm. It had been raining all afternoon, and he had already finished the one novel he had brought with him. Grandfather had been resting upstairs since lunch. Alec guessed he had another headache and had briefly considered telling Grandmother about it. But then he remembered his promise to the old man.

He sat now at the low table, looking out through the porch at the cherry trees. In a few weeks, the blossoms would emerge, showering the land with color. But for now, the green leaves held their place, soaking up the rain. Dark thunder clouds sat on top of the valley like a hat. Behind him, sounds of cooking came from the kitchen. Something heavy was set down hard on the counter. And then the staccato clack-clack of a chopping knife against a wooden block. In the background, something was frying.

Grandmother’s yukata was gray, the cotton soft and worn. She looked up when Alec entered the kitchen, nodding her head as though she had been expecting him. Alec stayed where he was for a moment, watching her while she chopped and diced vegetables. Her head was bent low over the chopping block, the blade of the long knife rising and falling in steady passes by her ear. The motion was precise, restricted, yet her expression remained free and relaxed, her mouth slightly open. The knowledge that he was there seemed to satisfy her; she didn’t look at him again, just continued chopping. Occasionally she would throw a handful of the diced vegetables into a big iron casserole sitting on the stove.

Alec cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Grandmother, but what are you making?”

The blade of the knife stopped suddenly, poised somewhere above her right ear.
“Nabe.”

Alec nodded his head, realized he hadn’t thought of what he was going to say next. “That’s nice. I like
nabe.”

Acknowledging his comment with a brief smile, she went back to the vegetables. She was slicing onions now, the translucent rings falling in a neat row.

“When I was small, I used to help my mother cook,” Alec said.

The sound of the knife against the chopping block continued uninterrupted.

Alec tried again. “Excuse me, Grandmother, but would you like some help?”

This time she looked up. “Alec, you want to help me cook?” She laughed.

“Excuse me, but yes.” He wasn’t sure if she was making fun of him.

“Come here.” She handed him the knife, handle first. “You can do this, yes?” She walked over to the sink, began rinsing a colander full of long, white noodles.

His first cut was tentative; afraid of making a mistake, he slowly pushed the blade through the onion, as if it might break from too much pressure. There was no sound. He kept an eye on Grandmother, whose back was turned. She turned off the water after a while, cocking her head to one side. Alec struggled with the onion, his arm feeling tense, the knife unwieldy in his hand. He squinted against the sting.

“It is okay if it is not just right,” Grandmother said after a while, still turned toward the sink, head tilted in the air.

“Thank you,” Alec said.

She gave a quick nod of satisfaction. Alec relaxed his grip on the knife, tested it against the crisp flesh of the onion. After a few minutes, the translucent rings began to dance and hop to the beat of the knife as it struck the chopping block. They fell in a row that was not as neat as Grandmother’s had been, though it was neat enough—as orderly as the piles of split logs he had made the day before. Ignoring the sting in his eyes, Alec
bent low over his work. The blade passed swiftly by his right ear.

Grandmother laughed. “So. Alec is a cook.”

Alec looked over at her, then put down the knife so he wouldn’t hurt himself. “I need practice. I always need practice.”

“Yamadera is a good place to practice,” she said. “With Grandfather, you can practice fishing and chopping wood—do you understand ‘chopping wood’?” She walked over to where he was, picked up his knife, and wielded it over her head like a heavy axe. “Chopping wood, yes? And with Grandmother, you can practice cooking. If it stops raining, you can also practice gardening. In Yamadera, these are the important things, Alec. In Tokyo, in the cities, these things are no longer important. But we have always lived here. Always, and we will never leave.”

“Kiyoko talks about Yamadera often,” Alec said, thankful for the chance to finally mention her. “Sometimes I think she likes Yamadera more than Tokyo. She would like to live in the country, I think. Here in Yamadera, with you and Grandfather.”

“This is Kiyoko’s home,” Grandmother said softly. “In Tokyo, people do not understand what is important. But Kiyoko is different. She understands these things, and perhaps Tokyo people do not understand her.”

“When Kiyoko was young, Grandmother—when she was a baby—what was she like?”

“Kiyoko was always very beautiful. And she was quiet. But sometimes she liked to talk to Grandfather. She would help me cook, but she would sit on Grandfather’s lap—
here.”
She patted the front of her thighs. “She would sit and listen to him talk.”

She scooped up the onion he had sliced and carried it over to the casserole on the stove. Using her hands, she mixed it together with the other vegetables already in the pot. Then she wiped her hands on her yukata.

“It is sad that Kiyoko has not married yet,” she said as if talking to herself.

Alec was still wondering how he should reply when he heard the creak and groan of the stairs.

He said, “Grandfather is coming.”

She turned to wait for her husband, and Alec thought he saw a look of worried expectation on her face, like a girl waiting to catch her first glimpse of a blind date.

Grandfather’s sleeping yukata was black and as soft and worn as the gray one Grandmother liked to wear while she cooked. It was oddly creased and wrinkled from having been slept in. The belt knot had slipped round his waist so that it now pointed out from his hip. His hair, usually slicked back with tonic, was disheveled, tufting at the back of his head. Like his robe, his face had taken on bed lines. They merged with his own wrinkles, which had grown deeper from sleep, and pulled the tightness from his face.