by Mitch Cullin
As they approached the building, the breeze off the river started to blow more freely and the warm afternoon suddenly felt cooler. The sounds of the city, muted by the breeze, were less bothersome as they paused for a smoke—Mr. Umezaki setting the suitcase at their feet before lighting Holmes's cigar, both then sitting on a fallen concrete column (a convenient ruin, around which grew various weeds and wild grass). Other than what appeared to be a smattering of newly planted trees, the area provided little else in the way of shade; it was mostly an open stretch of land, which—absent of anyone else other than an elderly woman accompanied by two younger women—resembled a deserted, hurricane-swept shore. A few yards away, at the fence that encircled the Atom Bomb Dome building, they could see the women, each one kneeling and dutifully placing a paper crane necklace among the thousands of necklaces that were already there. Then inhaling and releasing smoke between pursed lips, they sat mesmerized by the sight of the reinforced-concrete structure—a ravaged symbol standing close to ground zero, a forbidding memorial to the dead. After the blast, it was one of the few buildings not reduced to melted rubble—the skeletal steel frame of the dome arching above the ruins and prominent against the sky—while almost everything else below it had fragmented and burned and disappeared. Inside, there were no floors, as shock waves had collapsed the interior material into the basement, leaving only the vertical walls in place.
Yet, for Holmes, the building conveyed a kind of hopefulness, although he wasn't exactly sure why. Perhaps, he mused, the hope manifested from the sparrows perched along the building's rusted girders and the patches of blue sky present within the hollowed dome—or perhaps, in the aftermath of unfathomable destruction, the building's defying perseverance was in and of itself a harbinger of hope. But several minutes earlier—as he had first glimpsed the building—the very propinquity of the dome, suggesting so much violent death, filled him with profound regrets for where modern science had ultimately brought mankind: this uncertain age of atomic alchemy. He'd recalled the words of a London physician he'd once interrogated, an intelligent, thoughtful individual who, without any conceivable motive, had killed his wife and three children with strychnine, and who, subsequently, had set his own house on fire. When repeatedly asked about the reasons for his crime, the physician, refusing to speak, finally wrote three sentences on a sheet of paper: There is a great weight beginning to push down on all sides of the earth at once. Because of it, we must stop ourselves. We must stop; otherwise, the earth will reach a complete standstill and cease to go round from all we have pressed upon it. Only now, many years since, could he attach some modicum of meaning to that cryptic explanation, however tenuous it might be.
“We haven't much time,” said Mr. Umezaki, dropping the butt of his cigarette, then crushing it underfoot. He consulted his watch. “No, I'm afraid not much time at all. If we want to see the garden and catch the ferry for Miyajima, we should probably be going—that is, if we want to make the spa near Hofu by evening.”
“Of course,” said Holmes, situating his canes. As he rose off the column, Mr. Umezaki excused himself, wandering over to the women so he could get proper directions for Shukkei-en Garden (his friendly greeting and inquisitive voice carrying in the breeze). Still savoring his cigar, Holmes watched Mr. Umezaki and the three women, all standing beneath the somber building, smiling together in the afternoon sunlight. The elderly woman, whose creased face he could see quite plainly, was smiling in an unusually blissful manner, betraying the childlike innocence that sometimes reemerged with old age. Then, as if on cue, the three bowed, and Mr. Umezaki, after doing the same, about-faced sharply and walked quickly away from them, his smile promptly dissolving behind a stoic, somewhat grim expression.
13
AS AT THE Atom Bomb Dome, a high fence surrounded Shukkei-en Garden, put there in order to prevent entrance. Mr. Umezaki, however, was undeterred, and, as had apparently been done by others, he found a fissure in the fence (mangled open with wire cutters, Holmes suspected, and pulled back with gloved hands, creating a wide-enough gap for a body to squeeze through). Presently, they found themselves strolling on the interconnected, circuitous footpaths, which were powdered with a grayish soot and wound around dark, lifeless ponds or the sticklike remains of charred plum and cherry trees. Maintaining a leisurely pace, they often stopped to look off the paths, taking in the burned, fragile remnants of the historical garden—the blackened vestiges of tea-ceremony rooms, a meager grouping of azaleas where once hundreds, possibly thousands, had flourished.
But Mr. Umezaki kept silent about all they observed and—much to Holmes's dismay—ignored whatever questions were asked regarding the garden's previous splendor; moreover, he showed an infuriating hesitation to stay beside Holmes—sometimes walking ahead, or abruptly lagging behind on the paths while Holmes, unaware, went forward. In fact, after getting directions from the women, Mr. Umezaki's mood had turned rather sullen, suggesting some unwanted information had been passed on. Most likely, Holmes imagined, that the garden of his memory had become an inhospitable, restricted domain—a place where public access was now forbidden.
Except, as was soon evident, they were not the only trespassers there. Coming toward them on a path was a sophisticated-looking man—in his late forties or early fifties, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows—holding the hand of a cheerful small boy, who skipped alongside him in blue shorts and a white shirt. As the two approached, the man nodded politely at Mr. Umezaki and spoke something in Japanese, and when Mr. Umezaki replied, he nodded politely again. It seemed the man wished to say more, but the boy tugged at his hand, urging him on, so the man simply continued nodding and walked by.
When Holmes asked what the man had said, Mr. Umezaki shook his head and shrugged. The brief encounter, Holmes realized, had had an unsettling effect upon Mr. Umezaki. Repeatedly glancing over his shoulder, Mr. Umezaki appeared distracted and, walking close to Holmes for a while, gripping the suitcase handle with whitened knuckles, looked as if he had met an apparition. Then, before once more hurrying ahead, he said, “How odd. . . . I believe I have just passed myself with my father, though my younger brother—my actual brother, not Hensuiro—is nowhere to be seen. As you were convinced I was an only child, and having lived the majority of my life without a sibling, I didn't see any point in mentioning him to you. You see, he died of tuberculosis—in fact, he died only a month or so after we strolled this very pathway together.” He glanced back while quickening his steps. “How very strange, Sherlock-san. It was many years ago, and yet now it doesn't seem so distant at all.”
“It is true,” Holmes said. “The disregarded past has sometimes startled me with vivid and unexpected impressions—moments I had scarcely remembered until they revisited me.”
The footpath brought them to a larger pond and curved toward a stone bridge that arched over the water. With several tiny islands dotting the pond—each bearing traces of tearooms and huts and other bridges—the garden suddenly felt vast and far from any city. Farther ahead, Mr. Umezaki had stopped, waiting for Holmes to join him; then both men stared for a time at a monk sitting cross-legged on one of the islands, his robed body upright and perfectly still, like a statue, his shaved head lowered in prayer.
Holmes stooped near Mr. Umezaki's feet, taking a turquoise-colored pebble from the path and dropping it into a pocket.
“I don't believe there is such a thing as fate in Japan,” Mr. Umezaki eventually said, his gaze fixed on the monk. “Following my brother's death, I saw less and less of my father. He traveled a lot in those days, mostly to London and Berlin. With my brother gone—his name was Kenji—and my mother's grief pervading our household, I wanted terribly to accompany him on his trips. But I was a schoolboy, you see, and my mother needed me near her more than ever. My father was encouraging, though: He promised if I learned English and did well in school, then someday I might travel abroad with him. So, as you can imagine an eager child doing, I spent my free hours learning to read and write and speak English.
I suppose, in a way, that kind of diligence fostered the resolve I needed for becoming a writer.”
When they began walking again, the monk lifted his head, tilting it to the sky. He chanted lowly under his breath, a guttural, droning sound that drifted across the pond like ripples.
“A year or so later,” Mr. Umezaki continued, “my father sent me a book from London, a fine edition of A Study in Scarlet. It was the first novel I read from start to finish in English, and it was my introduction to Dr. Watson's writings concerning your adventures. Regrettably, I wouldn't read the English editions of his other books for quite a while—not until I'd gone from Japan to attend school in England. You see, because of my mother's state of mind, she refused to allow any books dealing with you—or England—to be read in our home. In fact, she got rid of that edition my father sent me—finding where I'd hidden it, disposing of it without asking my permission. Luckily, I'd already finished the last chapter the night before.”
“A rather harsh reaction on her part,” said Holmes.
“It was,” said Mr. Umezaki. “I was angry at her for weeks. I refused to speak to her, or to eat her meals. It was a difficult period for everyone.”
They came to a range of hillocks on the pond's northern shore, where—past the garden property—a neighboring river and distant hills provided a pleasant backdrop. A deliberately placed boulder was nearby, functioning as a kind of natural bench, its upper half having been leveled and smoothed. So Holmes and Mr. Umezaki sat, enjoying a good overview of the garden grounds from their vantage point.
Sitting there, Holmes felt as worn down as that age-old boulder, resting by hillocks, somehow remaining present when everything else that had been previously recognized was receding or gone. Across the pond, beyond the opposite bank, were the curious shapes of fallow trees—the crooked, unproductive limbs of which no longer shielded the garden from the city's houses and busy streets. For a while, they stayed there, saying very little and contemplating the view, until Holmes—pondering what Mr. Umezaki had told him—said, “I pray I am not being too inquisitive, but I take it your father is no longer living.”
“My mother was less than half his age when they married,” Mr. Umezaki said, “so I'm quite sure he's dead, though I have no idea where or how he passed on. To be honest, I was hoping you could tell me.”
“How exactly do you propose I do that?”
Bending forward, Mr. Umezaki pressed his fingertips together; then he glanced at Holmes with intent eyes. “During our correspondence, was my name not familiar to you?”
“No, I cannot say that it was. Should it have been?”
“My father's name, then—Umezaki Matsuda, or Matsuda Umezaki.”
“I am afraid I don't understand.”
“It appears you had some dealings with my father while he was in England. I've been uncertain on how to broach the subject with you, because I feared you might question my reasons for inviting you here. I suppose I assumed you'd make the connections on your own and somehow be more forthcoming.”
“And when would these dealings have occurred? For I assure you I possess no memory of them.”
Nodding gravely, his fingers now unlatching the traveling bag at his feet, Mr. Umezaki proceeded to open the suitcase on the ground, digging deliberately through his own clothing, and retrieving a letter, which he unfolded and handed to Holmes. “This arrived with the book my father sent. It was for my mother.”
Holmes brought the letter near his face, scrutinizing what he could.
“It was written forty, maybe forty-five years ago, correct? See how the paper has yellowed considerably along the edges, and how the black ink has turned bluish.” Holmes gave the letter to Mr. Umezaki. “The contents, unfortunately, are lost on me. So if you will please do me the honor—”
“I'll do my best.” With his expression remote and transfigured, Mr. Umezaki began translating: “After consulting with the great detective Sherlock Holmes here in London, I realize that it is in the best interest of all of us if I remain in England indefinitely. You will see from this book that he is, indeed, a very wise and intelligent man, and his say in this important matter should not be taken lightly. I have already made arrangements for the property and my finances to be placed in your care, until such a time as Tamiki can take over these responsibilities in adulthood.” Then Mr. Umezaki began folding the letter, adding as he did so, “The letter was dated March twenty-third. The year was 1903—which means I was eleven and he was fifty-nine. We never heard from him again—nor was any further information discovered as to why he felt compelled to stay in England. In other words, this is all we know.”
“That is regrettable,” said Holmes, watching as the letter was placed back inside the suitcase. It was not possible, at that moment, to tell Mr. Umezaki that he believed his father was a liar. But he could address his own mystification, explaining that he wasn't sure if a meeting with Matsuda Umezaki had ever happened. “It is conceivable that I may have met him—then again, I may not have. You have no idea how many people came to us during those years, literally thousands. Yet very few stand out in my mind, although I think a Japanese man in London certainly would, don't you? Still, one way or the other, it really does escape me. I am sorry, for I know that isn't very helpful.”
Mr. Umezaki waved his hand, a dismissive gesture, which, as if by choice, caused him suddenly to cast off his serious demeanor. “It's hardly worth the trouble,” he said, his voice becoming casual in tone. “I care little about my father—he disappeared so long ago, you understand, and he's buried in my childhood, along with my brother. It's for my mother that I had to ask you—because she has always wondered. To this day, in fact, she continues to agonize. I realize I should have discussed this with you earlier, but it was difficult bringing it up in her presence, so I chose our travels to do so.”
“Your discretion and your devotion to your mother,” Holmes said genially, “are commendable.”
“I appreciate that,” said Mr. Umezaki. “And please, this small matter mustn't cloud the true reasons for why you're here. My invitation was sincere—I want that made clear—and we have much to see and talk about.”
“Naturally,” said Holmes.
Except nothing of substance was said for a good while after that exchange, aside from brief generalities spoken mostly by Mr. Umezaki (“I fear we should be going. We don't want to miss our ferry.”). Nor did either man feel inclined to prompt a conversation—not as they left the garden, not even when they found themselves on a ferry bound for Miyajima Island (keeping silent even when glimpsing the huge red torii that stood above the sea). Then their awkward silence would only increase, staying with them as they rode the bus to Hofu, and as they settled in for the evening at Momiji-so Spa (a resort where, according to legend, a white fox had once nursed its wounded leg in the healing hot springs, and where, while sinking into a tub of the famed water, one might spy the fox's face floating amid the steam. It dissipated only just before supper, when Mr. Umezaki looked straight at Holmes and smiled broadly, saying, “It's a lovely evening.”
Holmes smiled in return, though without enthusiasm. “Quite” was his concise reply.
14
BUT IF Mr. Umezaki had, with a slight raising of his hand, discarded the issue of his father's disappearance, then it was Holmes who was preoccupied by the quandary of Matsuda. For the man's name, he later became convinced, had a vaguely recognizable ring (or was this sense, he wondered, based solely on the already-familiar surname?). And so during their second overnight stay—while eating fish and drinking sake at a Yamaguchi inn—he inquired further about the father, his initial question being met with a lingering, uncomfortable stare from Mr. Umezaki. “Why are you asking me this now?”
“Because my curiosity has gotten the better of me, I am sorry to say.”
“Is that so?”
“I am afraid it is.”
Thereafter, all questions received thoughtful answers, with Mr. Umezaki growing increasingly effusive as his
cup was repeatedly emptied and refilled. Though by the time both men reached intoxication, Mr. Umezaki occasionally stopped in midsentence, unable to complete what he had been saying. For a while, he stared hopelessly at Holmes, his fingers tightening around his cup. Soon he ceased talking altogether, and it would be Holmes, for once, helping him to stand, to walk from the table, to go unsteadily forward. Presently, they would retire into their respective rooms, and the next morning—when sight-seeing at three nearby villages and shrines—no mention was made of the previous evening's discussion.
That third day of travel would stay with Holmes as the highlight of his entire trip. Both he and Mr. Umezaki, while feeling the disagreeable aftereffects of having drunk too much, were in great spirits, and it was a glorious spring day. Sitting on buses, bumping through the countryside, their conversation drifted from subject to subject in a natural, lighthearted manner. They talked of England, and they talked of beekeeping; they talked of the war, and they talked of travels both had undertaken in their youth. Holmes was surprised to hear that Mr. Umezaki had visited Los Angeles and shaken hands with Charles Chaplin; in turn, Mr. Umezaki was fascinated by Holmes's account of his adventures in Tibet, where he had visited Lhasa and spent some days with the Dalai Lama.
