Chiyo bowed politely, but she did not seem overjoyed at the sight of him.
The four walked along the shore together. Marcia felt no need for speech. There was promise and hope in Alan’s presence and for the moment she need only take joy in his being here.
When they had seen enough of the festive night they walked back toward the inn. Alan was staying at a western-style hotel near the ferry, but he came up the hill with them. When they reached the inn, Chiyo and Laurie went on ahead, while Alan held Marcia at the gate for a moment.
“I’ll only be here for a day or two,” he said. “I want to see you. Will you come for a walk with me tomorrow morning? Just you alone?”
“Of course,” she said, and put her hand into his.
He said good night gravely and turned away. Laurie had taken off her shoes and gone inside, but Chiyo waited for Marcia.
“I must stay with you now,” she said. “If this man is here, then it is better if I stay.”
“What do you mean?” Marcia asked.
But Chiyo only looked at her without expression and went into the inn.
During the night it began to rain and the tumbling sound of the stream past their window increased to a roar. But it was a lullaby sound that did not disturb the sleep of guests in the inn.
22.
In the morning the downpour was steady and drenching and Marcia woke to see the little stream turned into a torrent, its tributary swollen, the waterfall leaping its rocks in a fury of foam. In disappointment she remembered her promised walk with Alan.
The maid came in to open the shutters and clear away the bedding, shaking her head over the rain. When Chiyo looked in on them, the girl explained that there was a typhoon off Kyushu and they were getting the edge of it. The rain was likely to continue all day, according to the radio.
Chiyo ordered the reasonably western facsimile of breakfast, though somehow a bowl of soup arrived after the hamu-ando-egu and there was an apple for dessert.
Paying no attention to the weather, Alan turned up by nine o’clock and waited in the shelter of the entrance veranda, sending word up to Marcia. When she came downstairs she found him wearing rubber boots and a long slicker.
“If you’ve got rain togs, fix yourself up,” he said. “We’re going for that walk. I’ve borrowed a Japanese umbrella from my hotel.”
Marcia ran upstairs and put on her rain things. There was a moment’s difficulty with Laurie, who wanted to come along, but Chiyo managed to interest her in the prospect of learning some Japanese games. So Marcia went back to Alan ready for a walk in the rain.
Her galoshes fitted snugly about the ankles and her raincoat had a high collar. She tied a bright silk scarf about her head and clung to Alan’s arm as they stepped into a roaring world. The oiled paper of the big umbrella, pulled tautly over ribs of bamboo, was like a drum beneath the rain and they had to raise their voices to speak above the uproar.
When they left the crooked streets of the little village behind, they set off along a winding road that led upward on a hillside of maple and pine and bamboo. The green look of the hills seemed intensified in the rain, and even the wet tile of roofs and brown rocks by the road took on a satiny sheen. A stone lantern wore a cap of wet green moss, and a torii gleamed bright vermilion, as if it had just been painted. The fragrance of wet pine was everywhere in the clean, spiced air.
With her arm through Alan’s, Marcia could feel the strong sure movement of his body beside her own as they climbed the hill. A long flight of steps turned upward toward a temple far above, and they climbed toward it slowly, pausing at times to look down upon the mist-hidden sea and the great red torii rising near the shore. Halfway up they came to a small pavilion where a roof and platform had been built to house a big bronze bell.
“Let’s stop a moment,” Alan said.
The drumming roar quieted as he lowered the umbrella and set it streaming against a post of the open pavilion. Here they were out of the downpour, but the very air was liquid with mist and Marcia could feel the drops gather upon her face.
The platform was on a level with the tops of tall cryptomerias which grew in a ravine cutting steeply down below the bell pavilion. Yet there was still more hillside above and they could glimpse the gate guardians of the temple farther up—two fierce statues of pinkish-red stone, gigantic in proportion, scowling at any insignificant human who paused before them.
They could talk, now that the drumming had quieted.
“You saw Nan before you left?” Marcia asked.
“I saw her a few days ago, briefly. But she’d had no word then from Talbot, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Marcia sighed. “I don’t know what he may do, what he may be planning.”
“You have only to keep out of his way until you’re aboard your plane,” Alan said.
It seemed simple enough as he put it and she wished she could make herself believe in his words. But she could almost feel the strange pull of that house in Kyoto, as if it drew her back to some inevitable reckoning.
She moved farther into the pavilion where she could look up at the great bronze bell overhead. The underside of the roof above it was hung with hundreds of white prayer papers, fluttering when the wind touched them. An entire tree trunk had been peeled of its bark and suspended so that it could be freely swung by anyone who wanted to strike the bell.
“Do you suppose we might ring the bell?” Marcia asked. “I’m sure there must be luck in ringing a temple bell.”
“That sign probably invites us to,” Alan said. “But only one boom at a time. I understand these bells are used as fire alarms when they’re rung steadily.”
She reached for the braided red and white cord that swung the log back as far it it would go, then released it to strike the side of the bell. The sound was a musical whisper through the woods and Alan laughed out loud.
“We can do better than that!” He caught at the cord and set the log to swinging rhythmically back and forth before he released it and the deep-toned voice of the bell trembled on the air and mingled with the sound of rain and tumbling stream. Then he held the log until it hung quiet again, so that it would not strike the bell a second time.
Marcia moved to the wet railing and looked down upon the rolling green of the treetops. Alan was close beside her end the moment was suddenly alive with promise. The wet mist against her face, the smooth dripping rail under her hands, the freshly washed colors, even the taste of rain upon her lips—all added to the acuteness of her senses.
She turned to him, knowing that this was the moment she had been moving toward ever since the night on the plane when he had lowered himself into the seat beside her.
He saw the turning of her head, the way her chin lifted, and he bent to kiss her mist-wet mouth. Strangely his touch was not altogether gentle. There was a demand in him now, even something of impatience that brought a swift response surging through her. Then he released her almost angrily.
“Let’s find a place where we can be dry,” he said. “There are words we need to get out of the way between us.”
She gave herself up to his lead, pulling her raincoat about her throat, slipping her hand through his arm as he raised the umbrella. Once more they stepped into the rain, retracing their steps to a lane that curled along the hillside. They followed this until village roofs were visible once more, clustered below, and here in this high place they found a teahouse.
The single-story building was built at the cliff’s edge, with a stone supporting wall slanting beneath. There were stepping stones leading to the door and lilies growing in the garden. At the entryway a woman came to help them out of their wet things. They went through the clean, open rooms to a place where they could sit on cushions before a low black lacquer table. Here they could look out through the open side of the room at the view below, while the wide overhang of the roof shielded them from the rain.
No one spoke English here, but Alan knew the word for tea—ocha, and the woman smiled and bo
wed.
While they waited, Alan said little and she saw a sternness in his face that disturbed her. He stared out at the red and black pines on the hillside, lost in thoughts she could not share. But when he sensed her anxiety and looked at her, his eyes softened and she knew, whatever the anger that stirred him, it was not for her.
The tea came quickly and the small flowerlike cakes with sweet bean jam between layers. The pungent green liquid warmed after the chill of the rain as Marcia drank it, holding the hot cup gratefully in cold fingers.
“You’ve made your decision?” Alan asked her suddenly. “You’re going to break away from this marriage to Jerome Talbot?”
“My marriage with Jerome was over long ago,” she said. “I came out here to save something that was already gone.”
“Nevertheless, you came to Japan. You came absorbed by one man. You came out here in love with him.”
“That’s true,” she said sadly. “I’d been running blindly for a long time after something that wasn’t really there. Sooner or later I had to stop. I couldn’t go on loving him when I found out how he had changed, what he was really like.”
He said nothing and she sensed a waiting in him. Somehow she must make him understand. She must be as honest about herself as it was possible to be.
“When you run for a long time and then find that you no longer have a goal, there’s only one thing to do,” she said. “You have to stand still for a while. Completely still, as if you were in a vacuum. Maybe for a time you’re afraid of any movement at all, because movement means pain, and you’ve had enough of pain. You don’t really want anything new to run after.”
He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. Quietly she went on, her look unwavering as she met his gaze.
“That day when we picnicked at the temple I was standing still. I was afraid to move in any direction, and yet there was a sort of peace for me that day because I was with you.”
“I knew you weren’t ready,” he said. “But I couldn’t be sure you ever would be. I came here to find out.”
She turned her hand palm up beneath his. “Emptiness isn’t what I want. I want to move again, to feel again. But not with my eyes closed. I don’t want to move blindly toward something that’s only part of my own imagination.”
“You’ll be safe this time,” he said gently. “I’m waiting for you, Marcia.”
“It’s not only safety I want,” she told him.
He leaned across the little table to cup her face in his hands, and this time there was no anger or impatience in his kiss.
It was still raining when they put on their things and started back toward the inn. They walked close together in the dry little world beneath the Japanese umbrella and Marcia knew that she would remember these as moments of intense happiness, no matter what the future held.
Once, as they rounded a turn, a farmer in a straw rain cape and shaggy straw hat went past them, looking somewhat askance. Marcia laughed softly, remembering the symbolism of the umbrella in Japanese prints.
They found their way downhill to the inn more quickly than they had come up. Alan went with her to the veranda, where maids came running out to be of service. They exclaimed over Marcia’s wet stockings and damp clothing, and took away her raincoat, murmuring solicitously. But at the same time they seemed to be trying to tell her something as well. Something that had them plainly excited.
“Will you wait while I run upstairs?” Marcia asked Alan. “Perhaps Chiyo can translate.”
He sat down on the ledge and she hurried upstairs past her own empty room and into Chiyo’s. Neither Chiyo nor Laurie were in sight. One of the maids had followed and now she began to make gestures, as if to indicate that Chiyo and Laurie had gone out.
Puzzled, Marcia went into her own room and looked around to see if Chiyo had left any sort of message. Laurie’s things had been picked up and her suitcase was missing. As she stood there, suddenly frightened, groping for some reassuring explanation, she heard Alan’s voice calling to her from downstairs.
“Marcia! There’s a telephone call for you. Can you come down here and get it?”
She was breathless by the time she reached the telephone and heard Chiyo’s voice at the other end.
“We’re in Miyajima-guchi.” Chiyo’s words came in a rush. “We’re taking a train in a few minutes. Ichiro is here. He came to Kyoto to see me and found me gone to Miyajima. Your husband sent him after Laurie because he could not leave Madame Setsu and come for her himself. Talbot-san has threatened to cost Ichiro his job in Kobe if he does not do this. I could not stop Ichiro, so it is better if I go with them.”
“But, Chiyo—” Marcia began desperately.
Chiyo’s voice was suddenly faint. “I must go now. Ichiro is calling me. Don’t worry—I will look after Laurie. But come soon to Kyoto.”
The receiver went dead. Marcia hung it up limply and returned to Alan.
“I’ll have to go back,” she told him. “I knew we would never get away as easily as this.”
“I’ll go with you,” Alan said. “Hurry and pack. We’ll get the next train we can catch for Kyoto.”
23.
Japanese vacationers were leaving the island that day and there was a crowd on the dock to see friends off on the boat. Several gay young men stood in the bow and tossed serpentine streamers to pretty girls in kimonos on the dock. The loudspeaker wailed the music of “Auld Lang Syne” and everyone was properly sentimental. For such an occasion the emotional lid was off.
Marcia stood beside Alan at the rail and watched Miyajima slip away as if her heart went with it. Among the trees she could see the roofs of the temple above the bell pavilion, and the teahouse with its sturdy supporting wall, where she and Alan had sat talking as if the problems that faced them could be easily solved. There was the shore with its hundred stone lanterns, the lovely shrine and the famous red torii in the water. No tears came into her eyes, for this was no time for weeping. Now she needed to pour all her strength into the meeting of forces that lay ahead.
As she had known it must do, the house had pulled her back to its secret life, so strangely twisted and hidden from the world. Now she must face it again and find the way to resolve the hold it had upon her, once and for all.
The colored serpentine streamers broke and fell into the water, trailing limp and wet behind the ferry. Alan drew her away from the rail and they found seats in the cabin until the ferry docked at the mainland.
There was little talk between them. Alan was grave and thoughtful and he understood without question that she must go back to the house, that she must be with Laurie.
Once he said, “Don’t give up. There’s a way out of this. We’ll find it.”
She did not answer. There seemed to be no means by which she could take hold of her problems. By the time the law moved its slow, ponderous machinery, Laurie might be lost to her for good, and, more important, lost to herself. For the moment Marcia knew only that she must return to the house in Kyoto and take up her life from that point on. She dared not think of Alan. She dared not take comfort in the touch of his hand, or the affection in his eyes.
They caught a local to Hiroshima and took a Kyoto train from there. It seemed to Marcia that she had always traveled on Japanese trains. As the mountains slipped by on one side, the island-dotted sea on the other, she felt that all this was as familiar as the coast of California.
The train was a slow one and they reached Kyoto in the evening.
Alan took her as far as her gate. “You can reach me through Nan, if you need me,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch with her.”
His hand rested lightly on Marcia’s arm. She nodded and turned quickly away because her throat was tight with aching and she could not speak.
As she walked through the garden she could see the lights burning in her own room, though Jerome’s was dark. Sumie-san came joyfully to welcome her and said that danna-san—the master—was out. But Raurie-san was sad and cried much.
&nbs
p; Marcia hurried into the bedroom and found Laurie in bed, her eyes puffy from weeping. She flung herself into her mother’s arms and clung to her fiercely.
“Minato-san made me come!” she cried. “When I didn’t want to leave you, he said Daddy was very sick and wanted me right away. But it wasn’t true—it wasn’t true at all! Mommy, I don’t want to stay here any more. I’m afraid of Daddy the way he is now. We were happy on Miyajima—please let’s go away again.”
“We’ll go away soon, darling,” Marcia said. “But now I’m here, so you can sleep and not worry. No one is going to take you away from me.”
She sat beside Laurie’s bed and pretended to read until the child fell asleep. Then she went into the wide, dim hallway she had hoped never to see again.
Up the dark stairs she went, to the upper floor. Here in this quiet place on the veranda perhaps she could think, plan. As she must plan somehow. The moonflower was there where she had left it, and now she saw that it had been transformed. There among the large green leaves were three enormous ghostly blooms, scenting the night with their sweet, spicy odor. Marcia bent over it, breathing the heady scent. What was it the odor reminded her of?
She was still there when she heard the key turn in the lock of the partition door. Moving swiftly in her stockinged feet, she stepped onto the tatami of the room behind and drew herself back in a shadowy corner.
Once more she saw the woman in white. Madame Setsu came smoothly along the gallery, her silk kimono sleeves rippling with her movement. For once she wore no scarf about her head and her long black hair hung down her back, caught loosely with a tortoise-shell clasp. In the dim light the scarlet of her obi looked almost black. Her perfume blended with that of the moonflower and the similarity was evident.
Marcia leaned against the wall, holding her breath, and felt beneath her fingers an electric switch. She could light the veranda if she wished, but she held her hand still, watching.
Madame Setsu went straight to the plant and bent lovingly above the white flowers. One graceful hand reached out to touch them lightly. Then, before Marcia could move, Haruka plucked the three blooms from the vine and held them up in her hand.
The Moonflower Page 24
