The Painting (22 page)

I’m not sure how it helps anyone to think there are eight million gods floating around in this world, says the monk. If you adhere to that, you ignore the core of the Buddhist teaching.

Which is? asks Sato.

You’ll suffer if you remain attached to this transient world. And that’s not a philosophy. It’s true. Anyone can know it if he examines his life. But I suppose you need the ability to reflect.

Sato grins at him. Is the composed monk becoming angry, experiencing emotion like the rest of us?

Please, Sato, says Hayashi.

Oh, we’re just having a little fun, says Sato. Aren’t we?

Shintoism is just a clever way for the government to unite the country, says the monk, biting the inside of his cheek. That’s all it really is. It’s a pagan belief system that says the emperor is of divine origin and everyone must obey him. It’s filled with silly rituals and frivolous festivals. If I throw a coin to the rain spirit, I will win favor and receive rain. And to the sun god, I pay an extra
yen to ensure enough sun. For this, they are killing monks. They are burning down monasteries.

And Buddhism isn’t full of rituals and festivals? says Sato, rubbing his hands together.

The monk is about to blurt something, but forcibly stops himself, turns swiftly, and marches down the hallway.

There is a moment of awkward silence.

Please, says Hayashi, twisting his napkin in his lap. Please. I must ask you. Sato. Everyone. Please. Let’s enjoy tonight.

Yes, says Ayoshi, startled at Sato’s raw bluntness. And now her little fantasy of leaving with Sato and traveling to Europe shrivels up and is cast aside; ludicrous, how could she put up with his rudeness? His almost instinctual need to stir up calm waters?

You are both our guests, says Hayashi.

Sato snatches up a blank sheet of black paper and puts it back down. We were just having a little discussion, says Sato. He grabs the bottle. Now, Hayashi. What were you saying? He turns his gaze up to the ceiling. Oh, yes. What would you like to forget?

Hayashi pauses, trying to collect his thoughts and compose himself. The last bowl I made. I’d like to forget that.

Really? I thought it was rather interesting, says Ayoshi.

Tell him that again, says Sato.

It was different. But you destroyed it. You always do that.

Hayashi raises his eyebrows.

She glances down at his feet. Wrapped in white bulky sheets—the maid did it, she’s sure—his feet nest in healing herbs. And there is the monk, now in dry clothes, his face composed, the earlier anger almost disappeared, but a spark still lights his eyes, and a hint of it resides in the pursing of his lips.

Come. Sit down. Join us, says Hayashi.

There are big bowls of steaming sukiyaki, tempura shrimp, and an array of colorful sliced fish. The monk sits next to Hayashi, across from Ayoshi. Sato has stationed himself at the head of the table. He opens a green bottle.

Everyone must try this, says Sato. Wine from France. He opens the bottle and pours everyone a glass. With all due respect to the monk, the French have their own form of Shintoism. They treat wine as if animated by supernatural beings. Wine is their god and they drink until they become animated.

He will only have one more glass, the monk tells himself, then he will excuse himself to say his evening prayers. His teacher once said the person who upsets you the most is your best teacher, but what can this man possibly teach him? Sato is still talking about this new drink of wine, and Ayoshi is smiling, as if applying some balm to this obnoxious man. He’s not prepared to think ill will of her, but it’s curious that she should have such a friend as this man. It reflects on her character, he thinks, though he’s not sure how.

A
FTER DINNER, THEY SLIDE
open the door and step out onto the wooden deck. The moon fans itself onto the wooden panels, and the snow lights up the garden. Hayashi finds his flute and asks the monk to play the bronze gong. Together they fill the garden with haunting sounds. The night air, dazzled now with stars, makes room for the music to fall over them like a web.

Sato takes Ayoshi in his arms. This is called dancing, my friends, he says. Western style.

The monk watches Sato’s hand on her narrow back. When Sato’s index finger presses too hard, he has to look away. Sato swirls her around and around, and her laughter rings out in the night. After the song ends, Sato dances over by Hayashi and takes the flute from his hands. Hayashi rises and takes Sato’s place.

No, no, says Sato. He pushes them together. There. That is dance. You move together, not separate bodies in space. Together. Together. Better.

Sato sits and begins again. He gestures to the monk to play a higher note.

Ayoshi’s fingers rest lightly on Hayashi’s back, not daring to move them from their original spot, as if she might break something. He seems so fragile, compared to Sato. Delicate bones and fragile flesh. She holds him carefully, worrying about his feet. This can’t be good for them. This morning, his work on the teahouse and now this, this dancing. He’s carefully rolling
through his heel, his arch and ball, an acute attention to the placement of his feet.

Are you all right? she asks.

Fine, he says.

Your feet.

I said I’m fine.

She wishes he would sit down; he’s too clumsy and he’ll be in such pain tonight. Gradually they pull apart again. She feels the night air on her face. When the music stops, Ayoshi and Hayashi drop their arms to their sides. The monk slips into the house, excusing himself politely, and Ayoshi watches him go, surprised at what she was expecting; she thought she’d dance with him next.

Both of you need more practice, says Sato. Once a week. My orders.

Ayoshi glances into the darkness; not his feet, not tonight. She won’t do it. She can’t do it.

What if she began again with the plum tree, not the river? If she didn’t wait for him to speak to her, but painted the tree on the paper. Maybe Urashi would find her again, the blood-red leaves scattered around her.

Listen, says Hayashi.

In the quiet they hear a sound like a squeaky door rapidly opening and closing.

A snowy owl, she says.

I haven’t seen one since I was a boy, whispers Sato. What’s it doing down this far south?

I’ve never seen one, whispers Hayashi. What’s it look like?

Ayoshi tells him it’s pure white with black speckles and yellow eyes. The immature females are darker. It could be a male or older female, but I think it’s a female, she says. She must be in the tall cedar tree, nestled in the limbs. She likes that tree.

You’ve heard it before? asks Hayashi.

I heard her when I first arrived.

A straggler, says Sato.

Maybe she’s disoriented, says Hayashi.

I think she’s lost, says Ayoshi.

The three of them stand in the dark listening.

There she is. On the bottom limb on the right. See?

Oh, says Hayashi. Oh, my. She’s like a slice of the moonlight. Stunning. Look at her wings. And the owl turns its neck around, and there are its yellow blazing eyes. I should go get the monk.

No, let the monk be, says Sato. The bird is an adventurer. That’s what she is.

No, says Ayoshi, she’s lost.

H
IS FEET THROB
.

Hayashi steps inside to find a chair, and Ayoshi, looking for another bottle of sake, follows him inside. She sees his face contort in pain. Shall I? asks Ayoshi, her voice meek, betraying her reluctance.

No. You’re having such a good time. Please, go on.

Ayoshi hesitates only a moment, then returns to the porch with Sato. Hayashi calls for the maid.

Oh, says the maid, her mouth dropping open. You’ve stood too long, sir. They’re very swollen. They must hurt terribly. She brings a bucket of ice. You shouldn’t have danced, sir. He thrusts his feet into the bucket and picks up his flute and twirls it round and round, something to move his mind from the pain shooting up his calves, his knees, his thighs. When she is done, the maid wraps his feet in heavy wool socks. He asks for his boots.

Please, sir, you should rest.

He waves her off. A candle glows in the studio. Ayoshi must have left Sato and gone to the studio to paint. A walk to the garden will fill his lungs with the cold. When spring comes, he will plow the back fields and plant new green tea plants. Fields of tasseled green tea will stretch to the woods.

He’s full of reverie tonight. Perhaps it’s the glistening snow, he thinks, but it isn’t that; it is Ayoshi’s laughter ringing. She looked lovely tonight, her face lit up with smile after smile. More lovely than he’s seen her in a while. She’s been so happy since Sato and the monk arrived.

The light from the studio glows on the midnight grass. Perhaps he’ll knock
on the door and say hello. He might try to make that bowl again, the one she said she liked. What did she see in it? he wonders. Probably just being polite. But maybe if he did it again, she could point out what is redeeming.

His feet begin to speak. No, let her be.

Hayashi walks over to the construction site and picks up a nail, suddenly remembering his earlier promise to the monk. Why did he say anything? He drops the nail. He’ll have to meet with the officials again. What can he say? Why would they listen to him? Pain shoots up his legs. For the first time, he wishes the monk had never come.

FRANCE

A
NEW SHIPMENT IS ARRIVING
, says Pierre, and the way he stands, with his chin tilted up, that ingenuous smirk on his face, Jorgen knows Pierre wants him to inquire what it is.

It is early October, the morning light seems unnaturally muted, and there is a touch of winter in the air. When Jorgen woke, he threw on his clothes, intent on finding Natalia, and he hoped by the time he reached her, he would have hacked from the block of ice inside the right words to convince her not to go. But here is Pierre, pulling on his earlobe.

Pierre shifts on the heels of his boots, unable to contain his surprise. Pigeons, he says.

Jorgen leans into his crutch. What?

Carrier pigeons, he says again with a triumphant smile.

Whatever for?

Pierre says that Paris is now almost completely encircled by Prussians. The Prussians, they are so much smarter than the French, found and severed the secret underground telegraph wire that lies in the bed of the Seine; they’ve already cut the overhead lines and now the government is desperate for a communication system. The balloons are so unreliable, and so, carrier pigeons
will carry out messages and mail. I’ve won several lucrative government contracts, he says. They offered to pay me one hundred francs a bird, but I got them up to two hundred.

How are you going to get them into the city?

The tunnel.

But not all of them will make it through the sewer line.

Pierre shrugs. There’s more where they come from. It turns out there are quite a few carrier pigeon breeders in Tours.

Jorgen’s fingers ache from the cold air. Dirt clusters underneath his nails, a stain of grease on his index finger. What do you know about pigeons?

Nothing. But
I
don’t need to know anything.
You
do because I’ve just put you in charge of them. The birds will be housed in the backyard. A cartload is arriving any minute.

Jorgen leans his back against the wall. Housed in what?

Again a triumphant smile. You are going to build the aviaries. Today. And tomorrow. And however long it takes.

A detonation of a cannon resounds, echoing from the Sevres and Meudon hills. Pierre and Jorgen wait until the sound dies down.

You can use two of the clerks to help.

Jorgen doesn’t move.

What are you waiting for?

I need to run an errand, says Jorgen.

Pierre stares at him, a dark gaze, his jaw clenched with uncompromising severity. I need this done now. There are plenty of hungry men out there who would do anything to have your job.

They stand glaring at each other. The moment drags on. Jorgen swallows and does a quick calculation, and he can’t do it, can’t leave now, not enough money. Goddamn stuck, he thinks, and this is the thing that kills a man’s spirit, he knows.

But your sister, says Jorgen, without thinking.

Pierre crosses his arms in front of him, waiting for him to explain.

He tells him what his sister has done.

The army? repeats Pierre. The French army? She is such an embarrassment
to my family. She’s joined the army? What a fool. It’s her mother’s blood, not my father’s, he mutters. Her mother was a simple housemaid. He thinks about it for a moment. Well, we’ll throw her a going-away party. Send her off with a big hoorah. Get her good and drunk for once.

I was going to try and talk her out of it.

How? Pierre says, half laughing, a derisive flicker in his eyes. How exactly were you going to do that? You don’t know, do you? I thought so. She’s too headstrong. A dangerous idealist, and at her worst, a self-righteous bore. Let her save the world. That’s what she told you, right? She’s joining the French army to save Paris. She will lead the march to victory, in God’s name, of course. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes spittle from the corner of his mouth. And she has such nerve to call me arrogant.

Pierre looks at him gravely. If you leave, don’t bother coming back.

Jorgen leans into his crutch and grits his teeth. Neither one of them speaks for a long time. Send the two clerks, says Jorgen.

Good, Pierre says, smiling sickly. He turns to leave, and stops. Oh. For every pigeon that, shall we say, expires, it comes out of your wages. Pierre heads down the stairwell, his hard footsteps punctuating the floorboards.

Jorgen grabs his crutch, stomps down the stairwell, and flings open the back door. He picks up a stone and throws it. The two clerks step outside, slack jawed, shifting on their booted feet, waiting for instructions. Jorgen glares at them. Idiots, he thinks, and he fights the urge that burns in every muscle to walk right out.

Boss says we answer to you today, says the tall one with dark, lazy eyes.