The Moonflower

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “Have you kept in touch with any of them?” Marcia asked.

  “Not many. I stopped off in Honolulu on the way out here to see one friend from that time. Of course some never left Santo Tomas. I remember one girl, a nurse. There was supposed to be no communication between men and women in the prison, but we managed to get around that. And of course the nurses were allowed to attend us.”

  His face had softened as his thoughts turned back.

  “Her name was Susan. Everybody loved her. She didn’t just nurse our bodies with the few medicines she was able to get hold of. She cared about what went on inside us too. She helped keep our spirits up. I was lucky because she cared about me especially. And I about her. We’d have married, I think, if we had come out of Santo Tomas together. On the last Christmas Eve we thought we’d make it. Army Liberators flew overhead and dropped Christmas card greetings from the President and the Armed Forces. We knew it would be over soon, if we could just hold on. But Susan gave too much of herself. She was always sharing her rations with the sick, or giving them away altogether. She ran on spunk and courage almost up to the end. I blamed the Japs for her death and hated them pretty fiercely for a while. I suppose that’s why I could hardly wait to write The Tin Sword when I got home. I had a lot of spite to get out of my system in those days.”

  There were tears hi Marcia’s eyes. He lifted her hand and put it to his cheek for a moment.

  “Sometimes you remind me of her. Not in appearance—she was very different—blond and rather small. But you have something of the same spark. Something that won’t be quenched.”

  Her throat tightened at the touch of his cheek against her hand—a light, quick gesture that released her at once.

  “I had a bad time when I was freed,” he said. “They flew my mother home, but I came back the slow way on a transport ship. I suppose I was in pretty bad shape from malnutrition and I’d lost my grip on life besides. Maybe I didn’t even want to live at first.”

  She stayed very still, waiting for him to continue. He got up from the sill and his movement broke the thread of emotion that had drawn too taut. He stretched widely and smiled down at her.

  “Anyway, here I am! And I’ll confess my taste for life has never been stronger.”

  “When we first met you,” Marcia said, “you told Laurie you were coming to Japan to find out something about yourself. What did you mean?”

  He rested a foot upon the step beside her and leaned on his knee. “After I got that book off my chest and spilled out all my hatred of the Japs on a pretty personal basis, I quieted down and began to get my bearings. I realized that I’d been writing about an inhuman species called ‘Japs.’ But I didn’t really know anything about the Japanese. I kept wondering what made them tick and what I’d think of them at firsthand after what I’d experienced.”

  “And now that you’ve had a firsthand chance?”

  “I’ve learned a lot,” he said. “For one thing I can better understand how the Japanese soldier was stamped into a mold when the tin sword was put into his hands so early.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The modern Japanese soldier had no use for a sword. But the physical sword they gave him was a psychological sword as well—the samurai sword of his fathers. Devotion, sacrifice, all the stuff of honored history. And the blade was kept sharp, to assure death rather than dishonor and surrender. But even with all the early, harsh training they were given, not all of them were brutal. War gives the brute a better opportunity to show himself, whatever his race.”

  “And how do you feel about the Japanese now?”

  He answered without hesitation. “I like them personally. And I admire them tremendously. They’ve taken complete defeat and the devastation of a good deal of their country and they’ve built upon it through hard, courageous work. They haven’t whined and they haven’t sulked. Japan is beginning to hold her head up among nations again, not because of a war machine and superior power, but because she can be respected for what she is doing. The country’s gaining a new self-respect that the people have needed for a long time.”

  Marcia nodded. “I’ve felt that too in the little I’ve seen.” She looked up at him and saw the softening in his eyes as he watched her.

  The past seemed to fall away, and the dark present. It was as though she had only to reach up to him and he would lead her out of all trouble, away from her fear of Jerome and her concern about Laurie. Yet even as a comforting warmth engulfed her, she knew it was illusion. She could not reach out to him until she had loosened the bonds that held her in fear to Jerome.

  Laurie came running back, out of breath. “Oh, do come and look!” she cried. “I’ve got something to show you. Please come and see.”

  Alan held out his hand and pulled Marcia up. Afterwards he did not let her go, but held her fingers lightly in his as they followed Laurie beneath the great cryptomerias.

  Ahead Laurie skipped along toward the place where an arched brick viaduct, almost Roman in design, carried the rushing stream they had heard. Beneath the main arch stone steps climbed the hillside to a level where more temple buildings were ranged and priests moved serenely in the sun.

  Marcia watched as Laurie darted under the arch, and ran up the steps to a point where she could look down on the flowing water, charmed by every new discovery. It was good to see her once more vitally alive without the nervousness that beset her when she was with her father.

  When they had explored the hillside for a distance, they started home, walking slowly, holding to this new, unspoken companionship between them for as long as possible. Alan went with them to their gate, and Marcia held out her hand in wordless thanks.

  His eyes were grave. “Don’t let yourself be panicked,” he said. “But get away from this house soon.”

  She nodded mutely and followed Laurie through the gate. But before she and Laurie had reached the house she stopped her daughter and rested her hands lightly upon her shoulders, looked into her wide brown eyes.

  “Never forget how kind Mr. Cobb is,” she said. “Don’t let anyone talk you out of believing in him.”

  A cloud went over Laurie’s face, but she agreed dutifully. “Yes, Mommy. He is nice.”

  That evening before she went to bed, Laurie played again with the Japanese doll. And she did not think of the demon mask, or inquire what had happened to it.

  18.

  The next day Jerome went out early and when he had left the house Marcia hurried downtown and booked passages home by plane. She set the date for three weeks ahead, not daring to force the issue at once, even if she could get space during the busy tourist season.

  On the way home from her errand a plan came to her which might aid in solving the problem of getting Laurie away without too much of a disturbing upheaval. It had occurred to her that she might find an ally in Chiyo.

  When she came home from getting her tickets, she went to the Minatos’ gate and rang the bell. When the maid answered, she asked for Mrs. Minato and was shown in. Before she saw Chiyo, she heard the soft, plaintive singing she had so often heard before. Upstairs someone picked at the strings of a samisen.

  On the evening when Minato-san had brought her here, the wooden shutters had been placed around the lower floor, closing it in for the night, so she had seen little of the house. On this warm, drizzly July day the paper shoji had been slid back, and even one or two of the inner fusuma, which served as walls between the rooms, had been removed. Thus most of the downstairs was open to the garden and any possible stirring of air. There could be no concealment in such a house. Chiyo sat on the tatami polishing something slender and shining, singing as she worked. As she turned the object in her hands, Marcia saw that it was a long, slightly curved sword.

  Chiyo stopped singing at the sight of her guest and bowed to Marcia. While her emotions were well-schooled and she revealed no surprise, it seemed to Marcia that there was an uneasiness in her, a concealed tension. Once she glanced upward as if the samisen music distu
rbed her.

  Marcia stepped out of her shoes and sat down on the cushion Chiyo offered. “So it’s you I’ve heard singing,” she said.

  Chiyo smiled. “It is an accomplishment I learned after I came to Japan. Madame Setsu likes to hear me—she finds it soothing. But sometimes I sing only for myself.”

  “But always such sad songs,” Marcia said.

  “When the heart is sad, so must the singing be,” Chiyo agreed. She motioned to the long weapon she held and to another shorter sword which lay beside her in its scabbard. “My husband’s swords.”

  “You mean he carried these as a soldier?” Marcia asked.

  Chiyo looked shocked. “Oh, no! These are the swords of his family. They belonged to his great-grandfather, who was a samurai, and to several ancestors before that. Perhaps you have never seen a samurai sword before? This one is a work of art.” Chiyo picked up the shining blade by shielding it in a silk cloth and held the hilt toward Marcia.

  The hilt had been bound in strands of silk and leather, with diamond-shaped openings in which ornaments had been set. Marcia bent to examine them, without touching the sword.

  “These are the menuki,” Chiyo said. “That means the ‘fist place.’ The great metal workers of Japan created beautiful sword ornaments. These are copper and gold—a design of heron flying. Of course this is a ceremonial sword, worn only for dress occasions. In the old days a warrior had three swords. One for ceremony, one for fighting—and then a short sword, like this one here.”

  Chiyo gestured toward the straight, stocky sword which also had an ornamental hilt and carved guard.

  “What was the short sword for?” Marcia asked.

  “This one was the samurai’s constant companion. His fighting sword had to be left at the door when he went visiting, but this one he never took off except when he slept. And then it was probably ready to his hand. The samurai’s rank and his honor were vested in this sword. And if his honor was destroyed he committed seppuku with it and died. What you call hara-kiri.”

  Chiyo gave the long blade a last brisk polishing and slipped it carefully into a scabbard which had a great bow of silk tied around it. Then she rose and made a little bow to Marcia.

  “Excuse me, please. I have something which must be returned to you.”

  Quickly she crossed the tatami to the steep Japanese staircase and went up it to the floor above. Marcia, waiting, looked about the spacious airy rooms, unmarred by the westernization of the other half of the house. Outside in the garden she could hear the children playing. The samisen music had ceased and there was a soft murmur of voices upstairs. In a moment Chiyo came down again, carrying the moonflower plant.

  “This should have been returned to you,” she said. “Madame Setsu finds it hard to understand that others live in this house. I don’t know how she got the key, but she must have gone into your part of the house and when she saw the plant standing there, she believed it to be hers. I have explained to her and we are both very sorry.”

  “I understand,” Marcia said gently. “Tell her I wish her to keep the plant if it gives her pleasure. I know she must like moonflowers. That poem—”

  “The yu gao is her favorite flower,” Chiyo said. “But I will get her another. She must not take yours.” She set the plant down and knelt again on the cushion beside Marcia. “There is something you wish to tell me?”

  “Today I booked my flight home to the States,” Marcia said. “Laurie and I will leave in three weeks’ time.”

  Chiyo said nothing. Her eyes were downcast and she waited in silence.

  “When I came here,” Marcia went on quietly, “I didn’t know what it was that kept Jerome in Japan. Now I understand and I do not hold it against you. I’ve changed, as Jerome has changed, and now it no longer matters. But when I go home I mean to take Laurie with me. You, as a mother, can understand that?”

  Chiyo bowed her head in agreement.

  “Then will you help me?” Marcia asked. “My husband opposes my taking Laurie away. He has threatened to stop me if I try. But if you wish you can surely persuade him to let her go. He will listen to you as he will not to me.”

  Now Chiyo looked frankly puzzled. “Why should he listen to me?”

  “Because—” Marcia made a small, helpless gesture with her hands, “because he loves you and you can influence him. I am giving him up to you, Chiyo. When I leave Japan I will never come back. Surely you can do this much for me.”

  “Ma-ah!” Chiyo made the Japanese exclamation of dismay and shook her head, as if she repudiated Marcia and refused any promise of help. Then, surprisingly, she bent her head and covered her face with her hands.

  “What is it?” Marcia cried. “What’s the matter?”

  For a long moment Chiyo remained as she was, rocked forward. Then slowly she straightened and faced Marcia again and now shocked dismay was written openly on her face. As she rose from her knees she seemed uncertain and concerned. Softly she went to the foot of the stairs and looked up before beckoning to Marcia.

  Bewildered, Marcia went to stand beside her and Chiyo gestured upward.

  “Go upstairs,” she whispered. “Go up quietly. Make no sound.”

  “But—why?” Marcia asked, having no desire to encounter Haruka Setsu.

  In her gentle way Chiyo was imperious. “Go!” she said. “It is better if you see for yourself.”

  Hesitantly Marcia climbed the stairs. The murmur of voices was audible again, and she paused at the top step, looking about. Opposite her, across a small hallway was a closed paper shoji, its white panes glowing from lamplight beyond. A shadow lay across the paper panes—the shadow of a woman in Japanese dress, and beside it, even as she was about to turn away, a second shadow stirred. For just an instant the profile of a man showed in silhouette against the light, then he turned his head and the shadow was blurred.

  But that single clear instant was enough. The man in the room beyond was Jerome Talbot.

  Quickly Marcia crept down the stairs, her feet sliding on the slippery wood in her haste. In the room below Chiyo waited for her pityingly.

  “One time Ichiro brought you here so you would know,” she said. “But you did not understand.”

  “No,” Marcia said, “I didn’t understand. I’ve been wrong from the beginning.”

  “You must not remain here now.” Chiyo spoke in a whisper. “I am going out. Will you come with me? I wish to speak to you away from the house.”

  Shock possessed Marcia. She knew that horror lurked in this discovery and that sooner or later she must face it. Now there was urgency in Chiyo’s request and she gave in to it.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  Chiyo carried the moonflower and they left it inside Marcia’s gate. Then they went down the lane toward a cross street where the tram cars ran. Both women were silent on the trip downtown. At Sanjo Bridge they left the car and Chiyo led the way down an embankment along the river, where a group of school children sat on the stones, busily painting pictures of the scene. Chiyo paid no attention to the familiar sight, but led Marcia farther along the bank away from the young artists.

  “Here it is quiet,” she said. “Soon I must go to my drum lesson nearby, but first we can talk.” She reached into her kimono sleeve for a piece of tissue and dabbed at her nose, clearly close to tears.

  Marcia waited, feeling drained of all emotion.

  “It is my husband, Ichiro,” Chiyo began. “He wants very much to go to Kobe to work and he still insists that I go with him. Because of my cousin Haruka I cannot go. It is impossible to leave her. Also your husband wishes me to stay to care for her. Yet it is best for Ichiro to take this work in Kobe. He has been too long what the Japanese call a ‘useless person.’ He says now that he will leave me if I do not go with him. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Perhaps it would be better for you if he went away?” Marcia asked.

  Chiyo looked shocked. “He is my husband. There is no other man for me.”

  And a
ll this while, Marcia thought, she had not seen what was there before her eyes. She had always used the wrong key. Jerome’s kindness toward Chiyo, his consideration for her, all stemmed from the fact that she was indispensable to him in caring for Haruka.

  “When I first met him,” Chiyo went on, “Ichiro had just returned from Malaya. He was very sick. Not in his body, but in his spirit. His family had died in Tokyo during the war, as mine had also. Many turned away from him, as happened to returning soldiers who came home in disgrace. He needed me very much, though I was so young—only sixteen. I had no one but Haruka, and he accepted her too, and the—the circumstances under which we had to live if I was to care for her. Even now he has great kindness for Haruka and he would take care of her, if I could take her away from here.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Marcia asked. “Perhaps it would be better for everyone.”

  “She is so good, so brave,” Chiyo went on, as though Marcia had not spoken. “And she is so very—beautiful. And pitiful. I disliked you at first for coming here because I thought you might hurt Haruka. Now I believe it would be better for her to be hurt and stop this thing.”

  “Jerome is in love with a woman who is—” Marcia faltered and paused.

  Though she did not speak the word, Chiyo understood. “What is madness? Which one of us is not mad in some way? Your husband perhaps too! Even you for coming all this way to get him back. How foolish I thought you when I first saw you here. Yet I do not think you foolish now. Or mad. Perhaps Haruka is the wisest of us all, because she is so very close to the other life. It is necessary to watch her always, lest she step across.”

  She turned back toward the street and Marcia went with her.

  “It is unfortunate that you cannot take your husband home with you,” Chiyo said. “That would be the best thing. Haruka would be sad, but she would come with Ichiro and me and perhaps she would recover from the sorrow of his going. But if your husband stays, there is no way out for any of us.”