The Moonflower

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “I think I’d better stay home with Laurie,” she said evasively.

  “Bring Laurie along.” Nan was brisk. “Dinner at a Japanese eating house will be a new experience for her.” She gave Marcia an appraising look. “You’re certainly off your feed these days. What have you got against my little dinner?”

  They were sitting once more in the western-style study in Nan’s house. Nan had been showing her some priceless kimonos she had bought when the war had first ended and peeresses were eager to part with their treasures. There were other kimonos Nan had exported to the States in the conduct of her business, but these she had kept. Perhaps she would give them to a Japanese museum sometime, she said. She had not enjoyed this particular aspect of her work.

  Marcia picked up a magenta colored ceremonial kimono and let the cool silk slip absently through her hands. “I don’t think I have to tell you why I don’t want to attend a dinner with the Minatos present,” she said.

  Nan pressed out one cigarette and reached for another. “You talk in riddles today. What am I supposed to know about the Minatos?”

  “I don’t want to be in the same room with Chiyo,” Marcia said, miserable now. “It’s hard enough to be under the same roof.”

  Nan made a slow business of lighting a fresh cigarette. Her eyes did not meet Marcia’s as she spoke. “Chiyo is to be pitied, you know. She’s in a difficult position. It won’t help matters for you to dodge this dinner. I hope you’ll reconsider.” Nan waited, an air of persistence about her.

  Suddenly the struggle seemed no longer worth the effort to Marcia. If she must, she could surely find the courage to endure Chiyo’s company for an evening. Soon, very soon now, she must bring herself to take the final step and go home to the States. Then what happened at this dinner would no longer matter.

  “All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll come.”

  Nan nodded her approval. But when Marcia rose and picked up Alan’s book, she held out her hand.

  “Mind if I keep that for a few days? There’s someone I’d like to show it to.”

  “Keep it as long as you like,” Marcia told her.

  In the days that followed before the dinner, Marcia tried to dwell only on the agreeable aspects of the coming affair. So far she had not been to a real Japanese eating house and she would enjoy the novelty. It would be a pleasure to see Alan again and she was looking forward to meeting the gifted Madame Setsu. Of moody thoughts about Chiyo, she would, she told herself sternly, have no part. She would concentrate on playing the role of Jerome’s wife in public for one last time as gracefully as she could. It was Chiyo, if anyone, who would be at a disadvantage.

  On the afternoon of the dinner Jerome went to the laboratory, leaving word that he would come directly from his work. So Marcia and Laurie went downtown with Nan. They took a cab because of the difficulty of parking in narrow, crowded streets.

  The restaurant was one which did not cater to the general public and where no one spoke English. Guests came only by reservation and each meal was especially prepared and served in an individual room, so that only a few parties could be accommodated at any one time.

  As they walked up a narrow side street toward the door, they passed three exquisitely gowned girls, elaborately painted, their hair combed in the stiff convolutions of an antique style.

  “Are they geisha?” Marcia asked.

  “Maiko,” Nan said. “That’s what apprentice geisha are called in Kyoto’s Pontocho. That’s the alley we just crossed which runs parallel to the Kamo River. It’s a famous geisha quarter, but those little girls aren’t the full fledged thing as yet. Here we are. And of course everyone, including the cook, is out to greet us.”

  There was the usual business of shoe-removing, to the accompaniment of much bowing and welcoming. Then a hostess in a dark kimono led them up a flight of narrow wooden stairs, with a special warning for Marcia to take care. The stairs were slippery and very steep, and there was no rail. The Japanese ran up and down agilely in their tabi, but Marcia found herself clinging to the edge of the steps as she climbed.

  They were shown into an airy mat-covered room, with a low black lacquer table set in the middle of it and cushions all around. There was no other furniture and as usual no decoration except for the painting and flower arrangement in the tokonoma. More and more Marcia was coming to enjoy the uncluttered appearance of a Japanese room. When only one or two treasures were displayed at a time, and these were changed every few weeks, the beholder really saw and enjoyed them. In western houses, where everything was put on display, the owners quickly ceased to see what lay about them, and there could be little real savoring of beauty.

  The other guests began to arrive at once. Chiyo looked like the proverbial Japanese butterfly in her flowered kimono with its graceful sleeves. Ichiro was sober for the moment and dressed to the teeth in a proper western business suit.

  Marcia was grateful for Nan’s presence and her readiness to make conversation. It was possible to greet the Minatos courteously and then move away from them, with as little to say to Chiyo as possible.

  When Alan came in, Ichiro bowed to him so deeply and politely that Alan looked startled, though he shook hands with the former soldier in a friendly way. When they took their places on the silk cushions around the low table, Ichiro’s interest in Alan did not seem to abate.

  Yamada-san had discarded western dress for the occasion and wore a handsome kimono of dark gray, with his family crest in white on the sleeves and back. The kimono suited him and added to his essential dignity of manner. Mrs. Yamada, Nan explained, would not be with them. It was not the custom to take one’s wife out to dinner. And in any event, Mrs. Yamada was in Kobe lecturing on birth control. Since Chiyo was American born, her presence tonight was a different matter.

  “Though I’m sure Minato-san wouldn’t take her out to an affair of his own,” Nan added in an aside to Marcia.

  She placed Yamada-san on her right, and when Jerome arrived he sat on her left, with Chiyo next to him. In spite of her determination to carry the evening off with courage, Marcia could not help wincing at the elaborate consideration Jerome turned upon Chiyo. Once, across the table, he caught her look and Marcia saw how brilliant his eyes were with mockery. If he meant to bait her deliberately, then the evening might be worse than she anticipated.

  The guest of honor was still absent and when Marcia asked Nan about Madame Setsu, Nan gave her a surprised look.

  “Madame Setsu won’t be here. She belongs to old-fashioned Japan and it wouldn’t be considered proper for her to attend—even though we’re celebrating publication of her book. What we foreign women do is, of course, another matter.”

  Ichiro Minato continued to grin and bow in Alan’s direction, as if something had wound him up, and Nan, noting his efforts, spoke to him.

  “You’ve read the book I loaned you, Minato-san?”

  Minato drew in his breath with a hiss. “Hai—yess–ss,” he said. “Is good book,” and he beamed at Alan appreciatively.

  “Marcia brought the Japanese edition of your book over to show me,” Nan explained to Alan. “I thought she wouldn’t mind if I let Minato-san read it. Apparently it has made quite a hit with him.”

  Alan looked puzzled. “But why should it? It’s hardly a flattering picture of the Japanese—especially of the Japanese soldier.”

  Minato’s grin grew a little wider and he reached cordially across the table for another western handshake. “Cobb-san, Minato-san, brothers,” he said.

  Chiyo came to her husband’s aid. “Ichiro understands what you have written because he too was in a prison camp when he was captured in Malaya. That is how he got that scar on his forehead—when an Allied soldier struck him with the butt of a rifle.”

  Alan started to speak, but Chiyo, her delicate skin flushing, went on quickly.

  “Those soldiers of the Allies were angry over what they found when they came into the country to free their own people. They had reason for anger. Since Ichir
o was there, he took the punishment, though it was not his fault. He did not complain. But this is why he feels great sympathy for you, Mr. Cobb.”

  Alan returned Minato’s smile. “The other side of the coin,” he said. “I’m interested to know this, Minato-san.”

  One of the Japanese hostesses brought in a basket of white, flowerlike objects which Marcia couldn’t identify for a moment. When the basket was offered her, she took one doubtfully and found that it was a warm, damp hand towel, which had been beautifully folded in the shape of a flower.

  While the guests freshened themselves with the towels, Nan explained to Marcia and Alan that this was to be no sukiyaki dinner, such as Americans usually ordered. Tonight they were to be served a more formal type of Japanese meal. It began with tiny bowls of clear soup, in which bits of vegetable, fish and seaweed made undersea patterns. After that the succession of small covered dishes increased as course after course was set down around each place by the women who waited on them. Nothing appeared in quantity. The pattern of the dishes, the texture and color of the bits of fish, vegetables and meat were all part of an exquisite design. The Japanese must feed the eye first of all at a dinner.

  Nan had placed Laurie next to Alan and after a few moments of odd restraint on Laurie’s part, she had warmed to him as to an old friend, and was having a lovely time. Once or twice Marcia saw Jerome watching the two across the table and she did not find his expression reassuring. He looked at though he thoroughly disapproved of Laurie’s friendship with Alan.

  Everyone was being kind to Laurie, including Yamada-san, who went out of his way to suggest certain morsels as being especially worthy of her attention. A heady evening for a young lady of seven.

  A heady evening for Ichiro Minato, too, as quickly became evident. A young woman sat at his elbow, pouring warm saké into his cup whenever he drained it, and before long he began to show indications of becoming the life of the party.

  The Japanese, it appeared, did little drinking in their homes, and the men could become gay with considerable rapidity on a few cups of saké. Marcia could hear a boisterous group in another room of the eating house, where the men were already well into the spirit of the evening.

  It was Chiyo, however, who brought about the most difficult moment as far as Marcia was concerned. So far Chiyo had hardly glanced in her direction and had not spoken to her at all after the first greeting. But now, as if she wanted to distract the attention of the others from Ichiro, Chiyo addressed Marcia directly.

  “I understand that you are going home to America very soon, Mrs. Talbot,” she said.

  There was a momentary silence, while everyone looked at Marcia, who had never felt’ more helpless in her life.

  Laurie cried, “But you said we’d come here to stay! Why do we have to go home?”

  Jerome ignored Laurie’s outburst and added his own dry question. “Yes, my dear—you’ve kept us surprisingly ignorant of your plans. We’d all like to know exactly what they are.”

  Marcia said, “But I—” and fell unhappily silent. At that moment one of the Japanese serving women knelt beside Alan to fill his saké cup. Alan turned suddenly so that his elbow caught the little cup and knocked it out of her hands. There were a few seconds of confusion, just enough to give Marcia time to collect herself. Jerome waited for her answer and she gave it quietly.

  “I haven’t made my plans yet,” she said, and met his eyes without wavering.

  She knew suddenly that Alan had created the disturbance deliberately to save her humiliation, but she did not dare glance in his direction to thank him. All her will was concentrated on an outward poise that would get her through the evening without revealing her inward strain.

  At the end of the dinner rice was served with a wooden paddle from a big lacquered box, and then fruit was set out on a large plate for the guests to help themselves. Of course green tea had been poured constantly all through the meal for those who were not drinking saké.

  When they were through, Nan set the book of poetry called The Moonflower on the low table before her.

  “I’m not going to make a speech,” she said, “but a number of us have had a part in the publication of this book and I know we’re all delighted with the result. It has been beautifully printed and bound, Yamada-san.”

  The publisher bowed his head in thanks for her words.

  “Of course Jerry Talbot’s role was pretty important too—since he took care of part of the cost of printing it,” Nan went on. “So thanks for being a patron of the arts, Jerry. I’m glad I could find a publisher for it, and I’ll send copies home to America with great pleasure when we get to the translation.”

  Marcia looked at Jerome in surprise. At no time had he hinted that he had taken any part in the publication of this book, though she remembered seeing it in his room and wondering about his interest in it.

  “It would be nice, Jerry,” Nan went on, “if you would read one or two of her poems. I’ve done a bit of free translation to help.”

  Jerome took the book and leafed through the pages. Then he read aloud the title poem about the moonflower, the “ghost white spirit flower” that met death at dawn. Marcia listened in surprise. She had never known that Jerome cared anything for poetry, or that he could read it so well. He chose another poem about the fall of the cherry blossom at its moment of glory, and then read several that must have grown out of the war. All carried the sadness and futility that seemed to be the keynote of so much Japanese literature.

  “Nice job,” Nan said shortly when he finished, and Marcia knew she was moved and trying to hide the fact.

  Indeed, there was a note of emotion close to the surface and touching everyone except herself and Alan, who remained somehow on the outside.

  “I will tell Madame Setsu about this,” Chiyo said softly. “It will give her much happiness.”

  “Do you know Madame Setsu well?” Marcia asked, and was unprepared for the sudden silence that greeted her words. Jerome wore his usual sardonic expression, Chiyo stared at her hands in her lap, while Nan took the book back from Jerome and set it down on the table with a little slap, breaking the silence.

  “Cat got everybody’s tongue?” she asked. “Haruka Setsu is Chiyo’s cousin. Didn’t you know that, Marcia?”

  Startled, Marcia shook her head. Chiyo’s cousin? Then the woman in white who walked in the garden, the woman who had come so strangely in the night to stand beside her bed, the sick woman in the other part of the house, was the poet who had written these strange, sad lines. But there was an undercurrent of some meaning here that Marcia did not understand. And before she could seek the answer, Nan got up and stretched her cramped legs. The dinner was at an end.

  As they were leaving the room and complimenting their hostesses, there was an incident near the stairway. By now Ichiro was not very sure on his feet and at the head of the stairs he lurched into Chiyo. Jerome, just behind him, pulled him back none too gently. Ichiro glowered at Jerome for an instant, and then seemed to sober abruptly and completely. But in that moment Marcia was aware of the sharp antagonism that existed just below the surface between the two men.

  When they were downstairs and cabs had been summoned, Jerome asked Alan if they could give him a lift. He accepted and the Talbots, Nan and Alan got into one cab, while the others went their own way.

  Jerome seemed in an affable mood as he sat beside the driver in the front seat, half turned so that he could talk to those in the rear. Marcia held a sleepy Laurie on her lap, the child’s head against her shoulder.

  “Sorry I haven’t been able to set up a date with you sooner, Cobb,” Jerome told Alan. “What about coming over to the house Sunday afternoon, if that suits you?”

  “I’d like that,” Alan said readily. “I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  They dropped him at his living quarters and went on.

  “I like that young man,” Nan said. “Though I had a look at his book, The Tin Sword, before I loaned it to Minato-san, and I must
admit it’s a pretty bitter outpouring.”

  Jerome raised dark eyebrows. “Bitter? From Cobb? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Don’t underestimate him, Jerry,” Nan said. “You’re not always perceptive about people, you know.”

  Jerome seemed to take a rebuke from Nan when he would not from anyone else. He shrugged, dismissing Alan. But Marcia was interested in pursuing the subject of Alan’s book further.

  “What I don’t understand is why the Japanese wanted to read his book,” she said. “Why should it sell so widely here, considering what it’s about? I should think they’d have hated it.”

  “I don’t suppose they enjoyed it,” Nan said. “But once the lid was off and they really found out what was going on, they had almost a compulsion to know the worst. Alan says every Japanese he has met who has read his book has been apologetic and eager to prove that Japan is no longer like that.”

  Laurie stirred against her mother’s shoulder, not asleep after all. “Daddy,” she asked, “why did you say Mr. Cobb was someone bad?”

  Jerome laughed out loud, clearly amused. “That’s a misquotation, I’m afraid. My point was slightly different. We’ll talk about it sometime when you’re awake. You’re much too sleepy to make sense tonight.”

  Laurie let her head fall back on her mother’s shoulder. Marcia held her close, but all her senses had been alerted. What had Jerome really told the child that Laurie should have such a notion? And why should Jerome try to undermine Laurie’s friendship with Alan Cobb?

  Nan’s thoughts must have run along the same line, for when Jerome turned away to watch the road ahead of the cab, she leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.