The Moonflower

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  When they had eaten and the things were cleared away, they began to unpack what they would need for the night. Sumie-san came in again and explained with gestures that a bath had been prepared and was now atsui. Since Nan Horner had vouched for them, Sumie-san seemed to accept their presence cheerfully. She bore Laurie away to introduce her to the attractions of a Japanese bath, leaving Marcia alone for a little while.

  Marcia undressed and put on a quilted blue robe. Then she moved slowly about the room, looking for something of Jerome, something to reassure her, to put her in touch with him again. The disappointment of this arrival, the big cold house, the appearance of Nan Horner, had all seemed to cut her off from Jerome, to point to a stranger. Urgently she began to seek in this room the man she knew and loved.

  Book titles revealed his ruling absorption in science and there were various books about Japan as well. One volume she pulled out was a treatise on abnormal psychology and for some reason she glanced uneasily at the mask above the bed.

  Its brooding presence ruled the room. The glaring eyes saw every corner, the unholy snarl seemed to mock whatever man might build of worth. The thing was undoubtedly a work of art, but how could Jerome bear to have it scowling down at him from the wall day in and day out? But then this was the sort of macabre humor he had begun to enjoy in late years. Here she had found something of him she did not want to remember.

  An unfathomable distance seemed to lie between the two extremes of the mask and the gentle snow scene of two young lovers. How were they compatible? she puzzled. Until she knew, she felt she would have little understanding of the man Jerome Talbot had become, and that was a frightening thought—to come all these miles to confront a stranger.

  Across the room against a wall that lay in shadow, another picture caught her eye. She picked up a shaded lamp nearby so that she could see it more clearly. This was a framed photograph, grimly realistic in its subject—a picture of shattered buildings left from a bombing. Broken walls and tumbled bricks spread ruin in all directions, with one half-destroyed building dominating the scene. This structure was taller than the other ruins and had once been a concrete building several stories high. It was still crowned by the naked girders of an open dome. In one corner of the picture a word was printed and Marcia bent to read it. The word was HIROSHIMA.

  She set the lamp back on its table, remembering how terribly Jerome had been disturbed by what he had seen and heard in Hiroshima when he went to Japan in the early days of the Occupation. He had written so much home to her father, and he had felt, as her father had felt, that he himself had been instrumental in that cruel devastation. He had allowed himself to be worn down by a sense of the human guilt in which he believed he played a part. The long, non-atomic bombing of Tokyo must have been almost as devastating—what difference did it make to the people who died? Yet he had not been as troubled by that.

  Strangely, it was this picture of Hiroshima which brought Jerome closer to her. She could understand his wanting to remember, to be continually reminded in a world which so easily forgot. Pity for his self-torture welled up in her and she went to sit before the fire, thinking of him intently, searching back through the years.

  She was still sitting there when Laurie came back from her bath, flushed and rosy-warm, to snuggle happily into the big bed. According to Laurie there was nothing more fun than a Japanese bath. Marcia dropped a kiss on each sleepy eyelid and followed Sumie-san down chill hallways to the bathroom.

  It was a big room, steamy and warm, with a slatted wooden floor around a huge sunken tub. Shallow steps led down into the water. By means of gestures, and accompanying giggles of amusement, Sumie-san made it clear that one washed thoroughly with soap and cloth, sitting on a low wooden stool. Then suds were rinsed away before the bather stepped down into the neck-deep tub of clean hot water. She also offered to stay for back-scrubbing assistance, but Marcia shooed her away and performed her ablutions alone.

  When at length she lowered herself by degrees into the water, she found it certainly atsui, but not unbearable. Resting on a ledge with the water lapping about her neck, she let the heat soak away her weariness and worry and lull her into a state as sleepy as Laurie’s. There was a big American bath towel with which to pat herself dry and then she bundled into her robe and ran back down the hall to the bedroom where the fire was sinking to darkened embers.

  Laurie was sound asleep, brown braids flung across the pillow. But there had been a change in the room. Before Laurie had fallen asleep, she had stood on the bed to hang her plaid muffler over the mask on the wall. A good idea, Marcia thought wryly.

  When she had turned off the lights, she went to the window to look out upon the white expanse of garden. Big snowflakes fell softly into a silent world. Beyond the bamboo fence the city of Kyoto lay invisible and Marcia could not be sure it was really there. She put on her nightgown and crept into bed beside the small, warm body of her sleeping daughter.

  Far away, from some distant street, came the sound of three haunting notes played on a bamboo flute. Always the same three notes, wandering on through the night, with long silences between. Snow whispered at the window as she fell asleep.

  4.

  It was strange the way a bright new morning could dispel the concerns and the gloom of such a night. In the morning Marcia awoke to a resurgence of hope and courage. The snow had ceased to fall and pale sunshine brightened the windows. Beside her Laurie still slept as Marcia lay quietly beneath warm covers, letting new buoyancy flow through her.

  Last night weariness and disappointment had made her fearful and suspicious. This morning she was rested and her depression of the night before seemed foolish. What did it matter that Jerome was not here to greet her? She was here in his home, ready to be part of his life as she had never been allowed to be part of it before. When he had written that disturbing letter he had been far away from her, but now, soon, she would see him, speak to him, touch him, and she knew with all confidence that she could bring him back to her, help him dispel whatever dark witchery held him in Japan. No matter what his self-torture, his self-blame stemmed from, it could not stand before her loving devotion.

  Now she could remember Nan Horner with less rancor. It was natural that Jerome would have friends, and undoubtedly a woman of such obvious assurance and capability would take it upon herself to aid him if she could. But to regard her in a possible romantic light as a person who might hold him to Japan, was nonsense. Remembering the surge of antagonism she had felt toward the woman the night before, Marcia winced in distaste. She had never been jealous and possessive, and she must not again allow weariness and momentary depression to betray her. Jealousy was ugly, destructive, and she would have none of it. The mere act of dismissing the emotion gave her a sense of virtue and confidence.

  When Sumie-san and Yasuko-san tiptoed in to light the fire and find out about breakfast, Marcia sat up in bed and smiled at them brightly. Laurie stirred and yawned and looked about her with wakening interest.

  Breakfast would be served here, where it was warm, whenever she liked, Yasuko-san indicated. They might have a fine Japanese dish called hamu-ando-egu, which set Laurie burrowing into her pillow to hide her laughter. Marcia noted Sumie-san’s observant glance at the plaid shrouded mask and thought the little maid caught her eye with understanding.

  When the tray came there was toast for breakfast and a couple of juicy tangerines, to say nothing of a six ounce bottle of pasteurized milk for Laurie. The ham and eggs were definitely international, and the world seemed far less hostile than it had last night. Over the mantel the lady in white hovered dreamily and her black-clad companion held the umbrella solicitiously over her head. Hiroshima hung in a shadowy corner where it could be forgotten for the moment.

  After breakfast Laurie was eager to get into coat and snow pants and go out to play in the unfamiliar snow of the garden. Sumie-san set to work at once on the guest room into which they would be moved. Marcia felt she would be glad to leave Jerome’s room
with its strange contrasts and unanswered questions. That room was not Jerome as she knew him.

  Shortly after nine o’clock Nan Horner appeared briefly. Marcia went out to the entryway to speak to her, since she didn’t want to take off her shoes and come in.

  “You’re invited to lunch at my house,” Nan said firmly. “Twelve-thirty will be fine. I’ll send my Isa-san to fetch you. I’ve a couple of appointments downtown this morning, but I’ll look for you both at lunch. No need to ask whether you slept well. You look like a different woman this morning. Be seeing you.”

  And off she went abruptly and breezily, giving Marcia no chance to answer. She and Laurie would go, of course, Marcia assured herself, thrusting back a twinge of resentment at the other woman’s highhanded manner. It would be good to talk to another American, especially one who had known Jerome in recent months.

  Marcia had flung on a coat to go to the door and now she walked curiously the length of the hall to the drafty stairway at the rear. This might be as good a time as any to have a look at this Japanese villa which her husband had made into his home.

  The stairs were foreign in style and wide, taking a square turn to the right at a landing halfway up. The uncarpeted steps were made of the same cypress wood with its silver-gray tone that had been used for flooring in the rest of the house. Nowhere had the wood been marred with varnish or paint, and the gleam of the natural wood was pleasing.

  On the second floor the stairs ended in a tiny pocket of hall, with sliding Japanese doors all about. She slipped one door open, nearly putting an unwary finger through a paper pane, and looked into a Japanese room. The floor was covered with those squares of thick, springy matting, marked off with black tape which Marcia had read were called tatami. She stepped out of her slippers and crossed the matting to another sliding screen on the opposite side. Here was a second room, opening beyond onto a wooden gallery that seemed to run all around this upstairs area. Windowless wooden shutters, sliding in grooves like the doors, closed off the outer world and little daylight seeped into this upstairs gloom.

  The bare floor of the gallery felt cold as glass beneath her stockinged feet. She did not go back for her slippers, however, but followed the gallery around to the front of the house. The outside shutters slid easily at her touch and she moved one a few inches so that she could look out. Now she could see the way in which the house was placed in relation to the hillside. This gallery overlooked the stepping stones of the front entrance and faced downhill. The house had been placed in a garden area, with its back toward the uphill side. The entrance gate of the Minato family, where she had gone last night, was around to the left. She could not see it from where she stood, but now at least she could see Kyoto. She thrust the shutter back still further and stepped eagerly into the opening.

  The morning sun shone on a glittering white world of snow-crusted roof tops spread out below. The gray tiles of eaves made geometrical markings beneath the burden of snow. The green of pine trees and the occasional red of a shrine made exclamation points of color in the black and white scene. Kyoto was a vast, spreading, hilly city, surrounded by the serried flanks of snowy mountains. The voice of Kyoto came to her in the distant murmur of traffic, in the sound of horns, and of a temple bell booming, low and deep. But here on this hillside the snow hush lay upon houses and street and it was very still. Marcia breathed deeply and found an exhilaration in the air. How eager she was to know Japan, how ready to love it as Jerome must love it.

  She slid the shutter back into place and followed the gallery around to the other side of the house. There she opened another shutter and looked down on the garden where Laurie was playing. This side garden was far larger than the narrow one which led to the front door. It held an ice-filmed fishpond with a tiny bridge over it, a stone lantern, capped with snow, small pine trees, and brown shrubbery. In a corner near the fence a plum tree spread dark branches, its lovely, deep pink blossoms just opening against the snow. However, all this perfection of arrangement had been spoiled by a high bamboo fence with pointed spikes along the top which cut across the center of the garden and separated it from the rest of the garden at the rear.

  From her vantage point Marcia could look down into both gardens and as she watched, two Japanese children came out in the snow beyond the bamboo fence. The boy, who was older than Laurie, and a bit larger, wore dark trousers and a dark jacket, under which sweaters padded him into a roly-poly figure. The little girl might be about six. She wore a quilted kimono and she too was padded into barrel shape. Both children had round rosy cheeks and the girl’s hair was cut in straight bangs across her forehead and a straight bob all around. The boy wore a black, visored cap, with his black hair showing beneath.

  Thinking in terms of playmates for Laurie, Marcia regarded both children with interest. But there was a closed gate between the two gardens and Laurie could not see the neighbor children through the tight bamboo fence. At the moment, however, Laurie was in no need of companionship. As Marcia watched, she rolled one snowball after another in her mittened hands and flung them exuberantly in all directions—at a stone lantern, at a pine tree, even at her mother, when she saw her standing on the veranda above. And finally, she flung one over the fence into the next garden.

  The snowball landed squish on the little girl’s head and she stared at her brother in astonishment to see if he were playing some trick. The boy had seen the snowball come sailing over the fence and he looked in that direction, clearly puzzled. Neither child had glanced up at the other section of the house where Marcia stood watching.

  Laurie sent her second snowball soaring high over the fence and the boy hesitated no longer. With an impish grin, he rolled a good-sized ball of his own and hurled it back at the unseen assailant. It swooped over Laurie’s head and she looked up at her mother.

  “There’s somebody over there!” she shouted.

  Marcia laughed and nodded. Laurie ran in a streak for the gate and tried to pull it open, but when she found it firmly locked, she clambered to its top where she could look over into the rear garden.

  The tableau was an amusing one: the American child climbing precariously to the top of the gate, gazing with interest at the two astonished Japanese children on the other side.

  “Hello!” Laurie called.

  The boy made a face at her. “Harro!” he echoed with cheerful mockery, while his padded little sister stared with eyes like bright currants in her round face. In a moment, Marcia was sure, the children would have taken matters into their own hands and broken past both fence and language barrier. But a sudden interference thwarted them.

  From the other house came a Japanese woman in a dark blue kimono, running deftly through the snow on her geta, and took the two children by the hand. She saw Laurie clinging to the gate and shook her head at her, evidently forbidding her to climb over. When she turned and started back for the house with the children, Marcia decided to speak.

  “Good morning,” she called down to the trio.

  The woman was young and very pretty, Marcia saw as she looked down. She had the exquisite chiseling of features that is both feminine and Japanese. Her skin was the pale color typical of a well-born Japanese woman, and the darkness of her eyes and brows contrasted with it attractively. But unlike the children, she did not smile up at Marcia in open friendliness.

  She bowed politely in Marcia’s direction and then swept the two children with her into the house. Marcia had the depressing feeling that she had been gently, courteously rebuffed. Plainly the young woman had not wanted her children to play with Laurie, nor had she wanted to give Marcia any friendly, neighborly greeting other than that demanded by good manners.

  Laurie slid back to her own side in disappointment and began to roll snowballs again. There seemed no reason why she should not be allowed to play with the children next door, if they wanted to play with her. Perhaps Jerome had given some order that the children were not to be allowed on this side. Certainly he had taken special pains to seal off this
part of the house from the rest.

  Well, there was nothing to be done about the matter now. Before she closed the shutter, Marcia glanced down the gallery to the end and saw that a very un-Japanese door had been placed there. A door with a Yale lock. She went over and turned the knob gently. It was locked. That was natural enough, if Jerome rented out the other half of the house to tenants. There was no reason for the uneasiness that filled her, yet something of the foreboding she had felt the night before in this house returned to haunt her.

  She closed the wooden shutter and retrieved her slippers. There was nothing more to be seen up here—just four bare Japanese rooms, the veranda running around three sides, and a ceiling-high partition cutting off this half of the house from the rest.

  Thoughtfully she went downstairs and looked into the guest room next door to Jerome’s bedroom, which Sumie-san was now tidying. The little maid had fastened back her kimono sleeves with purple bands to leave her arms free. Over her head she had tied a clean white cotton towel, and she looked workmanlike and busy.

  The guest room was smaller than Jerome’s and would therefore be easier to keep warm. The walls had been covered with a bamboo patterned wallpaper, now fading a little with age. Several pieces of comfortable, clean-looking cane furniture stood about. There was a low coffee table and small twin dressers of beige wood. This room had two beds, which would make for more comfortable sleeping, and there was a light beige scatter rug on the floor before each bed. The only pictures were two innocuous Japanese floral prints over the mantel. There were no disturbing details of any kind.

  The morning passed quickly enough as she unpacked her suitcases and Laurie’s and hung up their clothes in a wardrobe closet made of the same light-colored wood as the rest of the furniture in the room.