by Mitch Cullin
“It's a shamisen performer,” said Mr. Umezaki, standing to peek over the wild grass, his chin tickled by stems.
“A performer of what?” Holmes grabbed his canes.
“A shamisen—it's like a lute.”
With Mr. Umezaki's aid, Holmes rose alongside him, gazing past the wild grass. They spied a long, thin procession of children up the shore, moving slowly southward in the direction of the beachcombers; at its head walked a wild-haired man in a black kimono, plucking a three-stringed instrument with a large pick (the middle and index fingers of one hand pressing against the strings).
“I've known his sort before,” said Mr. Umezaki after the procession had streamed by. “They're beggars who play for food or money. Most are accomplished—they actually do quite well in the bigger cities.”
Like those entranced with the Pied Piper, the children trailed the man closely, listening while he sang and played for them. When the procession reached the beachcombers, it stopped, as did the singing and playing. The procession disbanded, and the children encircled the musician, finding places to sit in the sand. Joining the children, the beachcombers untied the ropes around their bundles, shrugging off their loads, and came to kneel or stand behind the youngsters. Once everyone was settled, the shamisen performer began—singing in a lyrical yet narrative style, his high-toned voice interspersed with chords that gave a kind of electric vibration.
Mr. Umezaki lazily tilted his head to one side, looking at the beach, and then, almost as an afterthought, said, “Should we go hear him?”
“I believe we must,” replied Holmes as he stared at the gathering.
But they didn't hurry from the dunes, for Holmes had to gaze upon the shrub a final time, yanking several leaves and depositing them into a pocket (the samples eventually getting misplaced somewhere en route to Kobe). Before crossing the beach, his eyes required a few lingering seconds on the prickly ash. “Haven't met the likes of you,” he told the plant, “and I won't ever again, I fear—no—”
Then Holmes could depart, pushing through the wild grass with Mr. Umezaki, making his way onto the beach, where soon he sat among the beachcombers and the children, listening as the shamisen performer sang his stories and tugged strings (a partially blind man, he would learn, who had traveled Japan mostly by foot). Gulls dipped and glided overhead, seemingly buoyed by the music, while a ship grazed the horizon, sailing for port; all of it—the perfect sky, the engrossed audience, the stoic performer, the alien music, and the subdued ocean—Holmes could see with total clarity, fixing on that scene as the pleasant apex of his journey. What remained thereafter, however, flashed through his mind like glimpses of a dream: the procession re-forming in the late afternoon, the half-blind musician leading the entire group along the beach, guiding his followers between burning pyres of driftwood; the procession finally entering the thatched-roofed izakaya near the sea, greeted inside by Wakui and his wife.
Sunshine radiated the paper-covered windows; the shadows of tree branches were fuzzy and black. Shimonoseki, last day, 1947, Holmes had written on a napkin, which he then tucked away as a reminder of that afternoon. Like Mr. Umezaki, he was on his second beer. Sold out already, Wakui had informed them, of the special cake created with prickly ash. He'd make do anyway, cooling himself within the izakaya. He'd enjoy some drinks for a while, and the knowledge of what had been found. There, in the late day, as he drank with Mr. Umezaki, he saw the solitary shrub, thriving beyond the city, insect-pestered, a spiky thing, lacking beauty but still unique and useful—somehow not too different from himself, he was amused to think.
Patrons were filing into the izakaya, summoned by the shamisen music played at the end of the bar. The children were going home, faces sunburned, clothes sandy, waving bye to the performer and thanking him. “His name is Chikuzan Takahashi—he walks here yearly, Wakui says—and the children stick to him like flies.” But the special cakes were sold out, so it was beer and soup for the wandering musician, and Holmes, and Mr. Umezaki. The boats were unloading their haul. Fishermen were shuffling down the streets, arriving at the open doors of the establishment, breathing the inviting aroma of alcohol, which hit them like a calming breeze. Even now the setting sun was beckoning the evening, and Holmes felt—was it in the second or third or fourth drink, in the finding of the prickly ash, in the music of a spring day?—a sense of something complete, ineffable yet replete, as in the gradual waking from a full night's sleep.
Mr. Umezaki lowered his cigarette, leaned forward across the table, and said as softly as he could, “If you'll allow me, I wish to thank you.”
Holmes looked at Mr. Umezaki as if he were a nuisance. “What on earth for? It should be I thanking you. It has been a splendid experience.”
“But if you'll only allow me . . . You've shed light on one quandary of my life—perhaps I haven't received every answer I've sought, but you've given me more than enough—and I thank you for assisting me.”
“My friend, I assure you I have no idea what you're speaking of,” Holmes said stubbornly.
“It's important I say it, that's all. I promise not to speak of it again.”
Holmes toyed with his glass, at last saying, “Well, if you are so grateful, you might better display it by replenishing my cup, for it appears I'm running low.”
Then Mr. Umezaki's gratefulness overtook him—in more ways than one—and he promptly ordered another round, and soon another, and another—smiling throughout the evening for no obvious reason, asking questions about the prickly ash as if he was suddenly interested, conveying his cheer to patrons who glanced at him (bowing and nodding and hoisting his glass). Even intoxicated, he was quick on his feet, helping Holmes stand up once they had finished their drinks. And the next morning, while riding the train destined for Kobe, Mr. Umezaki maintained his gregarious, mindful bearing—grinning and relaxed in his seat, apparently untroubled by the same hangover that plagued Holmes—indicating sights along the route (a temple concealed behind trees, a village where a famous feudal battle had occurred), periodically asking, “Are you feeling okay? Do you need anything? Should I open the window?”
“I am quite all right, really” was Holmes's grumbled answer; how, in those moments, he missed the hours of reserve that had previously marked their travels. Still, he was aware of return trips being always more tedious than a voyage's beginning (the initial departure, in which everything then encountered was wonderfully singular, and each subsequent destination offering a multitude of discoveries); so whenever heading back, it was better to nap as much as possible, slumbering while miles subtracted and his oblivious body raced toward home. But stirring repeatedly in his seat, cracking his eyelids and yawning into his hand, he became conscious of that overly attentive face, of that unending smile hovering nearby.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I am quite all right.”
Never before had Holmes imagined he'd welcome the sight of Maya's unforgiving expression, or that, upon arriving in Kobe, the normally affable Hensuiro might convey less enthusiasm than the overreaching Mr. Umezaki. Yet for all the annoying grins and disingenuous vigor, Holmes suspected Mr. Umezaki's intentions were, at the very least, honorable: In order to create a favorable impression during his guest's final days there, to eliminate the aura of his own erratic moods and unhappiness, he wanted himself recognized as a changed man—as someone who had benefited from Holmes's confidence, and as someone who would be forever appreciative for what he now believed was the truth.
This change, however, wouldn't transform Maya. (Had Mr. Umezaki even told his mother what he'd learned, Holmes wondered, or did she even care?) She avoided Holmes if possible, hardly acknowledging his presence, grunting her disdain as he sat down at her table. Ultimately, it made no difference whether Holmes's tale of Matsuda was shared with the woman or not, for the knowing would be no more comforting than the unknowing. Either way, she'd continue blaming him (the reality of the situation having little consequence, naturally). Moreover, the latest rev
elations would only suggest that Holmes had inadvertently sent Matsuda off to be cannibalized and, as a result, her surviving son lost his father (a devastating blow to the boy, which, in her mind, had deprived him of a sufficient male role model and turned him away from any woman's love other than her own). Regardless of which lie she chose—the contents of a letter sent ages ago by Matsuda, or the story told to Mr. Umezaki late one night—Holmes knew she'd despise him nonetheless; it was pointless expecting otherwise.
Even so, his last days in Kobe were pleasurable, although surely uneventful (several tiring walks around the city with Mr. Umezaki and Hensuiro, drinks after supper, early to bed). The details of what had been said or done or exchanged was beyond his memory's retrieval, and instead it was the beach and the dunes that filled the gap. And yet, having grown wary of Mr. Umezaki's attentiveness, he took from Kobe a feeling of true affection for Hensuiro—the young artist gripping at his elbow without any ulterior motives, graciously inviting Holmes into his studio room, showing his paintings (the red skies, the black landscapes, the contorted blue-gray bodies) while modestly casting his stare down to the paint-spattered floor.
“It's quite—I don't know—modern, Hensuiro.”
“Thank you, sensei, thank you—”
Holmes studied an unfinished canvas—ravaged, bony fingers clawing desperately outward from beneath rubble, in the foreground an orange tabby cat gnawing apart its own hind paw—then he studied Hensuiro: the sensitive, almost shy brown eyes, the kind, boyish face.
“Such a gentle soul, I think, with such a harsh outlook—it is difficult reconciling the two.”
“Yes—I thank you—yes—”
But among the finished pieces leaning against the walls, Holmes came to stand before a work that was different from Hensuiro's other paintings: a formal portrait of a handsome young man in his early to mid-thirties, posing against a backdrop of dark green leaves, and wearing a kimono, with hakama trousers, haori coat, tabi socks, and geta clogs.
“Now who is this?” asked Holmes, unsure at first if it was a self-portrait he was seeing, or perhaps even Mr. Umezaki in his younger days.
“This my bro-ther,” Hensuiro said, and as best he could, he explained that his brother was dead—but not because of the war or some great tragedy. No, he indicated by moving an index finger across his wrist, his brother had killed himself. “This woman he loves—you know—like this, too.” He slashed at his wrists again. “My only bro-ther—”
“A double suicide?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I see,” said Holmes, bending for a closer look at the subject's oil-colored face. “It is a lovely painting. I like this one very much.”
“Honto ni arigato gozaimasu, sensei—thank you—”
Later, in the minutes prior to his departure from Kobe, Holmes felt an unusual desire to hug Hensuiro good-bye, except he resisted doing so, offering only a nod and the tap of a cane against the man's shin. It was Mr. Umezaki, however, who stepped forward on the train station platform, bringing his hands to Holmes's shoulders, bowing before him at the same time, saying, “It's our hope to see you again someday—perhaps in England. Perhaps we can visit you.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes.
Afterward, he boarded the train, claiming a window seat. Outside, Mr. Umezaki and Hensuiro remained on the platform, looking upward at him, but Holmes—disliking sentimental departures, that often overwrought need to make the most of a parting—avoided their stares, busying himself with situating his canes, stretching out his legs. Then, as the train began pulling from the station, he glanced briefly to where the two had been standing, and frowning, he saw that they had already gone. Not until approaching Tokyo would he find those gifts that had been secreted into his coat pockets: a small glass vial containing a pair of Japanese honeybees; an envelope with Holmes's name written on it, containing haiku from Mr. Umezaki.
My insomnia—
someone cries out while asleep,
the wind answers him.
Searching in the sand,
twisting and turning, the dunes
hide the prickly ash.
A shamisen plays
as dusk ushers forth shadows—
trees embraced by night.
The train and my friend
have gone—summer beginning,
springs' query fulfilled.
While the origins of the haiku were certain, Holmes was perplexed by the vial when holding it near his face, contemplating the two dead honeybees sealed within—one mingling upon the other, their legs intertwined. Where had it come from? Tokyo's urban apiary? Somewhere along his travels with Mr. Umezaki? He couldn't say for sure (any more than he could explain most of the oddments that ended up in his pockets), nor could he envision Hensuiro collecting the bees, placing them carefully into the vial before slipping them inside his coat, where they lurked among scraps of paper and tobacco shreds, a blue seashell and grains of sand, the turquoise-colored pebble from Shukkei-en Garden, and a single prickly-ash seed. “Where did I find you? Think. . . .” No matter how he tried, he couldn't remember the vial coming into his possession. Still, he'd obviously gathered the dead bees for a reason—likely as research, maybe as a memento, or, possibly, as young Roger's present (a gift for tending the beeyard during his absence, of course).
And again, two days following Roger's funeral, Holmes saw himself read over the handwritten haiku, the page discovered under stacks of paper on his desk; fingertips at the creased edges, his body slumped forward in the chair, a Jamaican between his lips and smoke twisting toward the ceiling; saw himself set the page down sometime later, inhale the fumes, exhale through his nostrils, look at the window, look at the hazy ceiling. Saw the risen smoke float like wisps of ether. Then saw himself riding on that train, coat and canes in his lap, past diminishing countryside, past the outskirts of Tokyo, beneath bridges erected above the railroad tracks. Saw himself on a Royal Navy ship, amid enlisted men as they watched him, sitting or eating by himself, a relic from an age that had dismantled itself. Avoiding most conversation, the seafaring meals and the monotony of travel being a strain on retention. Returning to Sussex—Mrs. Munro had found him napping within the library. Going afterward to the beeyard, giving Roger the vial of honeybees. “This was meant for you. Apis cerana japonica—or perhaps we'll simply call them Japanese honeybees. How's that?” “Thank you, sir.” He saw himself awaken in darkness, listening to his own gasps, feeling his mind had at last deserted him, but finding it still intact by daylight and cranking to life like some outmoded apparatus. And as Anderson's daughter brought him his breakfast of royal jelly spread upon fried bread and asked him, “Has Mrs. Munro sent any word yet?” he saw himself shake his head, saying, “She has sent nothing.”
But what of the Japanese honeybees? he deliberated now, reaching for his canes. Where did the boy keep them? he wondered, standing while glancing at the window—seeing the overcast, gray morning that had proceeded from the night, stifling the dawn as he had worked at his desk.
Where exactly has he put you? he thought when finally exiting the farmhouse, the spare key to the cottage pressing against his palm, enclosed in a hand wrapped about a cane's handle.
21
AS STORM CLOUDS spread above the sea and his property, Holmes unlocked Mrs. Munro's living quarters, shuffling inside to where the drapes had been drawn, and the lights were kept off, and the woodsy barklike smell of mothballs obscured whatever else he inhaled. Each three or four steps, he paused, peering ahead into the darkness, and readjusted his grip on the canes, as if anticipating some vague, unimaginable form to spring out at him from the shadows. He continued forward—the taps of his canes falling less heavily, less wearily than his footsteps—until trudging past Roger's open doorway, entering the only cottage room that wasn't sealed wholly from daylight. Then, for the first and last time, he found himself among the boy's few possessions.
He took a seat at the edge of Roger's neatly made bed, looking over the general surr
oundings. The schoolbag hanging from the closet doorknob. The butterfly net standing in a corner. Eventually, he stood, wandering slowly about the room. The books. The National Geographic magazines. The rocks and seashells on the chest of drawers, the photographs and colorful drawings on the walls. The objects covering a student's writing desk: six textbooks, five sharpened pencils, drawing pens, blank paper—and the vial containing the two honeybees.
“I see,” he said, lifting the vial, briefly staring at the contents (the creatures being undisturbed within, remaining as they had when he discovered them on the Tokyo-bound train). He lowered the vial to the desktop, making sure its placement was in no way changed. How methodical the boy had been, how precise—everything arranged, everything aligned; the items occupying the nightstand were also ordered: scissors, a bottle of rubber cement, a large scrapbook with an unadorned black cover.
And soon it was the scrapbook that Holmes took into his hands. Sitting again upon the bed, leisurely turning the pages, he examined the intricate collages depicting wildlife and forests, soldiers and war, ultimately bringing his gaze to the desolate image of the former prefectural government building in Hiroshima. When at last finishing with the scrapbook, the weariness he had carried since dawn seized him completely.
Outside, the diffusive sunlight grew suddenly dimmer.
