She ceased to look at the buildings they were passing—new and well built, with no signs of ruin. Instead she was staring up at the sky. When she spoke Marcia felt a prickling up her spine.
“I will never forget the light,” Chiyo whispered. “So golden-white and terrible, flashing everywhere all at once. Haruka was with me in the street and she clutched me to her, shielded me with her body before the concussion came and leveled buildings all around us. The roar stunned our ears and we were pelted with a dreadful rain of molten glass, and hot tar from a nearby road-repairing job. Being a small person, I might have been killed if Haruka had not shielded me against her side. I was fortunate to be wearing a light-colored kimono which reflected the rays. Haruka wore the dark-colored mompé—the baggy overalls women wore during the war—so she was not so well off.”
The train had pulled into the station, but Chiyo paid no attention to the passengers getting off. Laurie had drawn close to her mother and Marcia put an arm about her as Chiyo went on.
“We were stunned for a few minutes. But we were alive, though others lay dead in the street near us. A dreadful brown cloud was rising over the city. I remember the flashes of bright color on the underside, and a redness like blood. A muddy rain began to fall as the windstorm moved in after the blast. A storm of flame and wind and debris. We must have been only a few blocks from the edge of total destruction. Yet we were alive.”
“I didn’t know,” Marcia murmured. “I thought you were in Tokyo during the war.”
“That was in the beginning. My family in Tokyo were killed in the bombing there. So I had come to live with my cousin and her children in Hiroshima. Haruka’s husband died in the fighting in the Pacific islands. Her old mother and three children died here. I was in the street with her on the way to market, or we would have died too, in the ruins of her house. As it was, she saved my life.”
Chiyo’s face twisted in sudden pain.
“You see how it is with my cousin? This is how she has suffered.”
“Yes,” Marcia said softly. “I see.”
“I must never forget. I must pay my debt. Soon, I think, I will return to Kyoto.”
The train took on a few new passengers and pulled out of the station. Chiyo seemed to rouse herself and return to the present.
“The next stop is Miyajima-Guchi,” she said, “where we take a ferry for the island.”
21.
The waters of Hiroshima bay reflected blue of sky and green of mountains as the little ferryboat approached the island of Miyajima. Somewhere on shore the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” were drifting from a loudspeaker, a little startling to hear in these Japanese surroundings.
High, wooded peaks rose in a central ridge ahead. In the shallow water near the shore stood the great red torii sacred to the island, forming a gateway to the heart of the famous waterfront Shinto shrine. Far above, a many-tiered red pagoda lifted its pinnacle against the green hills. Nearby were temple roofs and small teahouses clinging to wooded cliffs.
“So beautiful,” Chiyo said wistfully. “Never have I seen this island before. It is good to come here.”
On shore a porter from their inn awaited them and led the way to a jeep which served as the hotel car. Away they bounced over rutted roads, through narrow twisting streets with open shops on every side. The little town was gray—like every Japanese town. When they were first built, the unpainted wooden houses glowed beautifully golden for a time, but they weathered at length to shades of gray and dusty brown. When gray tile roofs were added, the overall picture was a dull monotone. No wonder exclamation points of vivid color were needed in torii and shrine.
At the gate of the ryokan, the Japanese-style inn, they left the jeep and followed stepping stones through the garden to the entrance. An entourage of the inn help came gaily to greet them and carry in their pieces of baggage from the car. On the veranda several women in kimonos knelt in low bows, greeting them with the usual welcome of “Irasshai!” Eager hands helped with shoes and the smiles were interested and genuine. The woman who led them upstairs made much of Laurie and she was able to air a little of the Japanese she had learned in Kyoto from Sumie-san and Tomiko.
Down narrow hallways with polished wooden floors, up flights of steps and down another maze of corridors they went until their hostess opened the shoji to the room Marcia and Laurie were to share. Chiyo was given a room adjoining.
Marcia’s first impression was one of sheer beauty. Not because the room with its honey-colored mats, its tokonoma alcove and painting, was any different from other Japanese rooms, but because the art of the Japanese house was more clearly illustrated here than Marcia had ever seen it before.
The simplicity, the lack of decoration made the view it framed on its open side all the more perfect. The outdoors became a part of the room’s decoration. Beyond the tatami was a narrow strip of veranda, with low modern chairs of beige wood, and a small table set between them beside the rail. Beyond and a story below lay a miniature mountain gorge, with a waterfall tumbling over wet rocks and gushing into a flowing stream that dipped toward the sea. On the far side of the stream a hill rose, steep and green, and at a place where the stream deepened and quieted, a curved wooden bridge spanned its width. Through the open wall the sounds of waterfall and stream came in and were a part of the room.
The smiling maid brought freshly starched and clean-smelling blue-and-white yukata for them to put on. It was pleasant to slip into the cool cotton kimono and sit on the floor unhampered by tight western clothes. Tea was served at once, and small pink and green cakes with a thick soy bean jam between crisp layers.
A back rest was produced for Marcia, so that sitting on the floor would be comfortable. The guests were assured that the bath was ready for them whenever they wished—the hot bath of a natural spring.
“Oh, let’s not take baths now!” Laurie objected. “Let’s go explore, before it gets dark.”
But Marcia was all for the bath and she gathered up towel and soap and followed the maid outdoors. The bath house was at a distance from the inn, which might make it awkward when it rained. Marcia had slipped into geta and was discovering that it took a little practice to learn the proper tipped-forward walk that enabled one to keep the clogs on the feet.
She was relieved to find that the bath had been reserved for her alone and would not be a communal Japanese affair. The maid let her in and left her at the door. Marcia stepped into a huge-steamy room with a tiled floor and a sunken pool, large enough and deep enough to swim across, filled to the brim with piping-hot water.
By now she was accustomed to the luxury of the Japanese bath, and when she had washed with soap and rinsed away grime and suds, she lowered herself slowly into the pool and sat on a ledge, with the water to her neck, soaking away all physical and mental strains.
In this warm, cavernous room, with the water laving her body, it was possible to think quietly as she had not been able to do in Kyoto. Now she could face clearly and without confusion that moment of discovery when she had known that it was not Chiyo to whom Jerome was tied, but Haruka Setsu. What pain and dark unhappiness there must have been for him in that relationship. She knew now that there had been times when he had longed to break away to a more reasonable life. His marriage must have been a deliberate step in that direction. Yet always Haruka had drawn him back to her through his unhappy obsession. Here in Miyajima, where she was safe, Marcia could think of Jerome with pity.
She thought of Alan too, and wondered when she would see him, before she left Japan. Wondered without anxiety because the question was only one of “when.” Somewhere he would come to her, and she would be ready for the next step, whatever it might be.
She climbed dripping out of the pool and stood on the tiled floor, while she toweled herself dry. Then she stretched, arms high above her head, her slim body warm and languorous as a cat’s. She slipped into the yukata, careful to fold the left side properly over the right, and tied the narrow green sash about her waist. When she
returned to her room she felt rested and calmer than she had been in weeks.
A Japanese dinner was brought to their room, where Chiyo ate with them. Again there were the small bowls, the tasty dabs and bits, the fluffy, steaming rice. The meal seemed especially appetizing served by two smiling, kimono-clad maids, while the odor of pine, the murmurous sound of the stream, filled the room, and the hillside opposite grew dark in the fading light.
After the meal they went for a brief walk along narrow, busy streets, looking into the shops. When they returned to the inn, the maids had taken the bedding from the cupboards in their rooms and set out their beds for the night.
The tatami itself, being a stuffed matting, was not hard, but springy, and upon this had been laid piles of three purple and brown futon—the thick padded quilts which served as mattresses. Chiyo said that three were a concession to the pampered western body. In the other room she herself would sleep on only one. White coverings sewed to the quilts served as sheets, while the pillows were small and came in a hard variety that felt like a sandbag, as well as a slightly softer version. At least the old wooden pillows upon which the Japanese had once slept were no longer popular. They belonged to the day of elaborate head-dresses, when a lady combed her hair for the week and wanted nothing to disturb it.
Sliding wooden shutters gave them privacy, and a low cylindrical parchment lamp had been set on the floor near the heap of bedding to serve as a night light.
Laurie, already in pajamas, bounced about on top of the beds, sampling them for softness, delighting in everything that was different. Yet she seemed too keyed up in her enthusiasm and Marcia tried to quiet her.
“Tomorrow’s another day and there will be lots to do. So do pop into bed, honey, and go to sleep.” Laurie, however, had found that a tatami was wonderful to turn somersaults on, and would not be quieted.
Marcia, kneeling on a cushion before the tiny Japanese dressing table that was like a doll’s dresser, brushed her hair and braided it. Then she crossed the hall to the washroom—a bare room with a wooden floor and a sink along one side. There were two taps, both running cold water. Adjoining was the room know to all tourists as the benjo. No Japanese lady would think of using the word—there was a more elegant term which meant “wash-hands.” But the simple name had stuck as far as foreigners were concerned. The little wooden door had a latch, which could also be opened from the outside. There were special slippers which one wore in the benjo, though the polished floor was scrupulously clean. A long porcelain basin was set into the floor, and near it had been placed a blue vase containing a single lily. The combination made a surprising still life.
When Marcia returned to her room she found that Laurie had slid open one of the wooden shutters on the little veranda so that cool night air blew in from outdoors. Marcia stood beside her, looking out at the dark, pine-scented night. They could see white froth where the little waterfall spilled over rocks and up the stream a little way were a few scattered lights. The rushing sound of the water mingled with the sighing of wind in the Japanese pines.
“It’s so beautiful,” Laurie said in a hushed voice. “Our house in Kyoto isn’t like this.”
“Try to forget Kyoto for now, dear,” Marcia said. But she did not add that they would not be returning there. Laurie had not yet come far enough from her father.
They left the sliding door open and snuggled down in their wonderfully comfortable Japanese beds. Nothing could have been warmer or more cozy. The little night light shed a faint golden glow in its immediate vicinity, but it did not brighten the room too much. In her keyed-up state Laurie did not fall quickly asleep and Marcia heard her moving and turning for a long while before her breathing became even.
Marcia lay awake, thinking over the long day, remembering Hiroshima and all the things Chiyo had said, pitying poor Haruka Setsu, who had lost everything in the blast.
The next few days in Miyajima were tranquil and lovely. The weather held clear and they climbed the hills, roamed the shore, and visited the beautiful shrine on the water. Marcia began to have the feeling that the island was cut off from the rest of the world, out of reach, out of touch. There was no word from Jerome, as she had half feared there might be. Nan did not write, nor did Alan, but Marcia was content to mark time and dream a little. It was enough to watch Laurie relax and grow less nervous.
Only Chiyo seemed restive and troubled. Marcia knew she was concerned about Haruka, that she missed her children and worried about Ichiro. But so far she had made no attempt to leave for home. Surely everything was all right in Kyoto, Marcia assured her, or Nan would let her know.
Late one afternoon, when Marcia had gone for a walk alone, she came back to the inn to find Laurie in a state of eager anticipation.
“Something wonderful is going to happen tonight!” she announced. “One of the maids just came up to let us know. Tell her about it, Chiyo!”
“We are very fortunate,” Chiyo said respectfully. “You have seen the stone lanterns on the shore of the island? There are more than a hundred of them, as well as many bronze lanterns in the shrine. When someone gives a handsome sum to the shrine, the priests light all the lanterns. A wealthy Japanese has asked that this be done tonight It is a good night because there are clouds. The moon will be hidden, and the tide will be high. On a dark night when the tide is full this is a very famous sight. We must go down after dinner to see it.”
One treated all “famous” sights in Japan with reverence, as Marcia was beginning to learn.
After dinner, when it was fully dark, they walked down the winding little street to the waterfront where a glowing new world had come to life.
Lighted stone lanterns made a bright passageway of the road along the shore. The several low red buildings of the shrine were connected by broad galleries built out over the sea. Now, at high tide, the shrine seemed to float upon the water, glowing with light, a curved red-lacquer bridge spanning a stream at one point to reach it. Reflected lights shimmered in the water and in the distance lights shone along the shore of the mainland.
Laurie could not be restrained. She would dart away to see something the grownups were too slow about reaching, then come dancing happily back. Her eager smile made quick friends for her among the Japanese and she found a little girl her own age to talk to, with a few words and a good deal of sign language. This was Laurie as she used to be, and Marcia hoped that nothing would obstruct the healing.
Chiyo found a place where they could stand near the water and look back along the magically lighted shore. Tonight there was a wistfulness about her, as if present beauty made memory all the more poignant. When Laurie danced off with her new friend, Chiyo began to speak in her low, musical voice, and her words were of the terrible time after the bombing.
Listening, Marcia forgot the enchanted world of Japanese lanterns, the gay holiday crowds.
“We lived like animals in the ruins,” Chiyo said. “Haruka had been hurt by the glass and hot tar and she had developed radiation sickness. Her body had been between me and the flash, so I was not so badly injured, only a little cut on one hand. But ill as she was, Haruka would not leave the place where her home had been. She believed that if we waited there her children and her mother would come back to find us. She would not believe them dead, though I knew there was no hope. Some stranger gave us food on the second day. We ate nothing on the third. Then I learned about a place where the injured were being cared for, and I made Haruka come with me because I knew she would die if she was not tended. But there were so many, so many, and so few to help. And this was a new sickness which doctors did not know enough about. We had no family left in all Japan and Haruka’s husband was long dead in the Pacific. So we lived in a shack of wood and tin that I built with my own hands—a child’s bands, really. And I became like a wild thing, fighting for my life and for Haruka’s.”
There was a starkness in Chiyo’s face as she remembered.
“Talbot-san found us there. He saw how ill Haruka was and he to
ok her into his care. At first I was bitterly angry with the Americans for what they had done, but they were my people too, and I could not continue to hate them. I want now to be Japanese because this is my husband’s home. But I hate only war.”
“I can see now,” Marcia said softly. “I can understand a little better.”
Chiyo did not look at her. “Talbot-san was not there when the bomb fell on Hiroshima, but he too was burned by the blast.”
“Yes,” Marcia said, “I know.”
In the light of many lanterns there was a shine of tears in Chiyo’s eyes.
“I wanted to hate you when you came,” she said. “Because of Haruka. But hating hurts only the one who hates. That house has been bad for us all. I am glad Ichiro has gone out of it. Soon I must take my children and leave it too. That is the only way. But there is always Haruka. How am I to save her?”
Marcia had no answer for her question.
Laurie, who had been in sight a moment before, had disappeared through a group of approaching Japanese, and Marcia moved to follow her. She had a feeling of deepening affection for Chiyo as they walked together between the rows of glowing lanterns.
On ahead Laurie had managed to find an American in the crowd and had gone up to him unhesitatingly. As she turned and the man came with her, Marcia’s heart thudded unexpectedly, for the American was Alan Cobb.
As he approached the gleam of lanterns fell across his face, highlighting its firm, strong lines. Laurie danced along at his side in delight. With her father’s shadow lifted, there was no mistaking her affection for Alan.
“Komban wa,” he said. “Good evening.”
She had known he would find a way, Marcia thought She had known he would come and she made no effort to hide her joy in seeing him. His eyes studied her for a moment, as if he reassured himself that all was well.
“My classes are out for vacation, so I came here as soon as I could get away,” he said.
The Moonflower Page 23
