Lavender and Parsley

by Lisa K Nakamura

  Before Charlotte can say his name, I know who she is talking about. I know who this man is.

  “And so, I ask Mr. Fitzwilliam Peter Darcy to please come and join me here on stage,” Charlotte says to the audience.

  There he is, resplendent in his elegant tuxedo. He grasps Charlotte’s hand warmly, making me feel a stab of jealously shoot through my traitorous heart.

  He begins: ”For those of you who may not know this, my mother, Anne William, dreamed of becoming the next Maria Callas. She was on the verge of achieving her dream when she met my father. Her family wanted her to marry instead of sing professionally, and when she fell in love with my father, Thomas Darcy, she gave up her operatic aspirations.

  “I think she always planned to try singing again, but sadly, she died too soon from breast cancer. Before she died, she told me, “Peter, your sister Emily has the musical talent in the family. You have the gift of words. Tell the stories that remain hidden in the corners and shadows. Give them life so others will hear them. You will touch the world as a writer. That is your gift.

  “I was first introduced to this story inspiring this libretto under the most unfortunate of circumstances, the death of the matriarch of the Murasaki family. Following this passing of his wife, Mr. Murasaki then asked me to write down his words and tell his story. You see, he suffers from Alzheimer’s, which made him eager to record his memories while he could still recollect them. He said he couldn’t tell them to his daughters, that it would be too painful an experience them. He wanted to spare his daughters any suffering he could. For those of you with long memories, this is the same Murasaki family who owned and ran the Ocean Breeze restaurant out on the coast, that self-same restaurant I wrote a scathing review over a year ago.

  “Since then, I have learned not everything is as it seems. Sometimes, one’s pride and prejudices are one’s greatest stumbling blocks to happiness. I was lucky. The kind Murasaki family gave me a chance to redeem myself, to prove to them in subsequent gatherings that I was worthy of their trust.

  “It has been an honor, such an honor to safeguard Mr. Murasaki’s story, to let America see the damage the WWII internment camps caused to Japanese-American families. I share his story in hopes we never visit this dark place again. I dedicate this story to the three indomitable Murasaki daughters: Jane, Lydia and especially Elizabeth. I wrote this for you, dear Miss Elizabeth.”

  Mr. Darcy looks up towards our box, and I can see heads in the audience swiveling around to find Jane and me. I duck into the shadows, afraid to let him see me crying. Jane gazes serenely over the box railing, smiling at the crowd and waving her thanks to the cast on stage.

  In the rush following the show, Mr. Darcy begins making his way towards us on the main lobby floor. He is stopped every foot or so by well-wishers. Charlotte is by his side, and she also encounters audience members who besiege her to express their appreciation. I think she won’t have to worry ever again about funding for any of her future projects.

  Mr. Darcy politely thanks each person warmly, but keeps moving towards us. He catches my eyes above the heads of the crowd, and smiles. Finally he stands before me and I am crying.

  He wraps me in his arms, and all I can think to say is, “I’ve ugly-cried my mascara off! I must look horrible!”

  He kisses the top of my head, saying, “I have never seen a more beautiful woman.”

  I pull away from him to look up at his face, his dear face I never thought to see again. He leans down and finally kisses me. Cameras click, there’s blinding flash and the people surrounding us applaud and cheer.

  Mr. Darcy is not gay. Not in the slightest.

  “Lou-Lou misses you,” is all he says.

  “And you?” I ask shyly.

  Mr. Darcy, the man of a thousand four-syllable words, just looks at me, and says nothing. He just nods once carefully, yes.

  He grabs my hand and we make our way outside and down the steps of the opera house, rushing out into the rainy night, our smiles brightly lighting the way for us.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Darcy

  Twenty Years

  The sun on the horizon is blood red now, the same color as my wine. The golden orb slowly slips into the dark envelope of the night. I swirl the last of the chianti in my glass, then down it in one gulp. The evening closes in around me, and I hear the crickets warming up for their nightly serenade.

  “Elizabeth, isn’t this lovely?” I say out loud. In response, the poplar trees that line the drive bow slightly and whisper in the faint breeze.

  I push myself up from the fading warmth of the brick steps and walk back into the house. I shoo Claudia, Lou-Lou’s gray successor, inside and then carefully shut out the night behind us.

  The house is a simple affair with one large living area and two small bedrooms in back. A tiny shed, separated from the house, contains a rudimentary bathroom and washing machine. Behind it in the garden lies a spider web of laundry lines, a network of rope strung adjacent to a bird bath shaded by almond trees.

  Above the bedrooms is a loft, reachable by climbing a rickety ladder of dubious strength. I would always caution Elizabeth when she darted up the ladder, but in true Lizzy fashion, she would just laugh at me and clamber upstairs anyway.

  The loft was Elizabeth’s retreat. I have not had the heart to disturb it for many months, other than to give it a weekly dusting. She always had lavender from our garden hanging to dry from the ceiling beams. The clean scent perfumed the house with the smell of summer throughout the chilly winter months.

  It’s been three years now since the last lavender harvest. She’s been gone that long, too. The blossoms adorning the rafters crumble with age if I brush them with my hands. They shatter into a thousand-and-one pale violet shards, releasing one last sweet elegy of a summer long past as they fall.

  A tiny desk sits in the corner, an antique Tiffany lamp illuminating its faded marquetry surface. This is where Elizabeth would write. Pictures of her sisters and her two nieces, Laura and Denise, hang on the wall above the desk, smiling into the empty air. A faded sumi-e painting of a beach in Washington adorns the space right next to the tiny oriole window that lets light peek in. Mr. Teddy flops on a faded futon on a wicker seat in the corner. An urn holding Dido’s ashes rests on a shelf above the desk.

  After David Murasaki died, Elizabeth left the food world completely. I think something in her perished with her father. She lost her verve to cook, to be in charge of restaurant kitchens. She turned to writing for comfort, using words as ingredients in the literary concoctions she created. She always said the right words and phrases were like salt and spices, adding flavor to make reading a more delicious experience. She excelled at delectable storytelling.

  Everyone expected her to write a cookbook, begged her to write down and share her recipes. But she refused. Elizabeth never did what was expected of her, and this was no exception. Instead, she wrote about her childhood, using black and white marks on a page to transport the reader, beautifully and poetically, into her world. Her writing was like her cooking; unusual, unexpected and captivating.

  Elizabeth became a bit of a local celebrity, reading her poetry and prose in coffee shops to enraptured audiences. She published three slim volumes, filled with essays, poems and drawings. The local literati adored her. Her books and tours gave her the means to be independent. I cherished this, because it proved that she chose me for myself, not for my name or my family’s wealth.

  I asked her once, when the Ocean Breeze was put up for sale three years after she left it, whether she would like to go back, to take over her father’s restaurant. She considered it for a few minutes, and then said, “It would be like crawling back into the womb. It is simply not possible. I’ve outgrown it.” She never mentioned it again.

  Her father passed away three years after Karen, his wife. He went quietly, a lost whisper of breath. He was Elizabeth’s anchor. When he left us, she became more serious and melancholy.

  My opera, co-creat
ed with Charlotte about Mr. Murasaki’s experiences during WWII as a Japanese-American, did well, so well that Elizabeth and I could afford an extended tour of Europe. We sold the small house in Seattle we had purchased together. We jettisoned every unnecessary material thing in our lives. On a fine spring morning, we packed up Dido and Lou-Lou, and winged our way across the Atlantic.

  We landed in Germany, purchased a new red Golf at the VW factory, and then began a lengthy trek across the Continent. We stopped to tour the monumental Romanesque and Gothic cathedrals in Speyer and Reims. We waltzed in the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. We tiptoed through the tulips in the Netherlands, and then surrendered to the passionate genius of Van Gogh. After chunneling across the Channel and exploring London’s picturesque neighborhoods, we toured the grand houses of Chatsworth, Blenheim and Hatfield in the countryside. At Hampton Court, we looked for the forgotten H and A initials carved together in the wooden panels under the Anne Boleyn Gate.

  Returning to the Continent, we sampled port in Porto, and then watched sherry carefully shunted from one cask to another to ensure proper aging. We danced on the Pont in Avignon. In the Louvre, we tried our best to make the Mona Lisa laugh. We eschewed the faster main highways, opting instead for slow, winding country lanes, which wound through quiet villages where we would spend the night. Each adventure was another highlight in our unconventional romance.

  Elizabeth finally realized her wish to stand with me on the bluff in Toledo overlooking the river. She told me how she and Richard once stood there, when she thought she had lost me forever. It was Richard who reassured her I was loyal and constant, that I would not let her go so easily.

  We peered over the ramparts holding hands, realizing how lucky we were. We untangled the choking snare of wounded pride that threatened our nascent love. I promised her that I would never let her go. She looked at me, and said with sincere trust, “I know.”

  On a chilly morning late that winter, we married in the cathedral in Toledo, Elizabeth finally agreed to become Mrs. Darcy after refusing my offer to become Mr. Murasaki. I think that’s what convinced her to marry me, that I was willing to give up my family identity to make her happy. It took me almost four years to convince her that as my wife she would never have cause to repine. Jane, Charles and Emily flew in from Seattle to stand up with us for the ceremony, to bear witness to our vows.

  It was a small affair, one somehow managing to fill the ponderous cathedral with buoyant love. Elizabeth wore a pristine white velvet gown and sported sweetly fragrant orange blossoms and roses in her hair. The few tourists present smiled at her, and I overheard several whispering to each other how beautiful she looked.

  Tio Eddi and Tia Ana drove up from Madrid, and we celebrated at a local restaurant owned by Tio Eddi’s friend Ramon. In true Tio Eddi style, our quiet wedding dinner quickly became a joyous party for all the guests at the restaurant as he and Ramon cooked up giant pans of paella. Ramon generously opened up his wine cellar, and soon everyone in the restaurant was celebrating with us.

  Newly wedded, we continued our road trip, winding our way through Spain and then into Italy. Our car broke down in Montescudiao, which we interpreted as an omen for us to settle there. After exploring this area of Tuscany, we purchased this old farm and decided to put roots down.

  Elizabeth fell in love with this rustic farmhouse, which she christened Villa Lavanda or Lavender House. She once told me Murasaki meant purple in Japanese, her favorite color. I was charmed by the expansive views of sunrise and sunset from the its front veranda, plus its leafy setting neighboring to a sumptuous olive tree orchard. Dido and Lou-Lou immediately claimed the fireplace hearth for their cozy sleeping spots, and with everyone content and happy, we knew we had found our new home.

  All things considered from our Italian paradise, I thought I would go first. I was prepared to leave her, hoping she wouldn’t mourn my death too greatly. I told her often how I wanted her to find new love if I died, stressing she wasn’t made for unhappiness. The truth is, I wanted to go before her. I doubted I could ever be strong enough to live a life without her.

  As often happens, the best-laid plans go awry, and on one sunny April day, she was gone. Twenty-plus years of happiness and joy ended with a stumble and a gasp of breath. She never knew her heart had betrayed her. She was there, and then, she wasn’t.

  I have been waiting these past three years for the day when I will see her again.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Elizabeth

  Ghosting

  I find this whole floating thing to be off-putting. I am, or was, a woman who likes to walk firmly on her own two feet. This business of being a ghost, of moving somewhere just by directing my thoughts, is just plain weird. I want to go left and end up heading right. It doesn’t help when my mind explodes into a kaleidoscope of memories at my slightest motion. The effect is dizzying.

  You would think after three years of practice, I’d be more skilled at ghosting now. Instead, I find still myself bumping through tables, chairs and walls like an unsteady toddler. If I could feel nauseous, I would, but I feel almost nothing now, neither cold nor hot. I could get caught in a thunderstorm and walk through it unscathed. The only thing that I am acutely aware of is the aching in my heart.

  I remember clearly the day I died. I was sitting with Peter in our cozy villa in Tuscany at the end of the day. We were playing our favorite Word Game. We had been pruning the vines on our tiny plot of land, laughing while cherry trees showered us in a pink blizzard of petals. It was such a lovely April day, warm and clear, shimmering with summer promises.

  We were sharing a bottle of wine from our own vineyard, our usual evening ritual as we looked out upon the shifting light coloring the countryside around our home. I smiled at him, so happy to be with him.

  Suddenly, a few seconds later, I saw myself lying on the ground, my glass of wine spilling onto the grass. Peter was frantically calling my name. In the end, he just picked me up and cradled me in his arms.

  Odd I couldn’t feel his touch. I had the sensation of floating, but I know I wasn’t actually moving. I heard voices, the voices of my dad, mom and my beloved Bachan. “Lizzy, come home. We’re waiting for you,” they implored me.

  “But what about Peter? I can’t leave him,” I cried.

  “It’s not his time yet. He isn’t ready for our world.”

  “Then I’m staying. I want to be with Peter until we can make our final journey together,” I tell them. “I won’t leave him alone. I won’t go without him!” I stamp my foot in silent rebellion.

  Bachan reaches out and strokes my hair. “Ebi-chan, you come up when you’re ready. I’ll make sure to be there when it’s time.” Mom fusses about how even in death, I won’t do what I’m supposed to do. Dad shushes her gently, telling me he’s looking forward to a sensible conversation when I finally do decide to join them.

  I hear another woman’s voice, one I don’t recognize. She whispers how she’s looking forward to finally meeting me, her daughter-in-law, but she can wait until I’m ready. She says she’s so pleased I’ve made her son happy. She pushes me back to earth gently, and says, “Tell Peter I’m here, and I love him.”

  All four voices become fainter. I find myself falling, tumbling head over heels until I land right next to my prone body. I think I make a loud thud when I hit the ground, but Peter doesn’t hear me. Falling specters make no sound. I reach out to push his hair off his forehead and out of his eyes, but my fingers have no substance and pass right through the strands.

  “Shh,” I whisper. I could have shouted, but he cannot hear me. This is the saddest part of all and pierces my heart.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Darcy

  Filling In the Blanks

  I remember that terrible day, how Elizabeth was laughing one minute, and then was so still the next. I’ve watched too many loved ones die slowly, painfully. Though it hurts so much to lose her, I am grateful she went quickly, without lingering in death or sickness
.

  I felt her, you know, in the moments after she was gone. Her hand reached out and smoothed the thinning hair across my brow. I felt my hair move, even though there was no breeze at the time. I sensed her little hand on mine, squeezing it, assuring me that she was still there.

  That day my heart split in two, and I don’t think it will ever be whole again. Oh yes, people say grief fades, but I don’t think it does. I have only become adept at working around it, that’s all. It’s an unwieldy, immovable rough stone in the middle of every room, and I have learned to walk past it without stubbing my toes. But still, it’s there, and when I do run into it, it leaves me with vicious bruises.

  For three years now, I’ve lived with this awareness. I walk through through my daily routine faithfully, one step at a time. It helps me avoid colliding with that painful rock.

  Still, my grief bubbles up unexpectedly, like those oleaginous blobs in a lava lamp. They silently and slowly ascend and then circulate down again in an eternal erratic cycle. They move up and down randomly and never disappear.

  I wake up at everyday at daybreak. Claudia and I share a cup of coffee on the front steps and watch the day unfold. She meows at me, asking for more cream in her dish. Of course, I obey her. I dress in my unwavering uniform khaki pants and blue chambray shirt, and then don my faded fleece jacket. I gave up my tailored suits and power ties a long time ago. Elizabeth was never intimidated by my suit of armor, a fact freeing me to never again bother with that stiff uncomfortable shield.

  I descend the hill from our small villa and walk into town. I pluck a grape leaf from the vines overhanging the road, crushing it to release its fresh green scent. I watch sparrows flitting among the vineyards, perching precariously on scrawny stems of grass.