Hidden Flower

by Pearl S. Buck

  When he came in she besought the doctor with her eyes, with the gesture of her hand at her bosom, unbuttoning the fastenings of her blouse.

  “Poor creature, do so,” Dr. Steiner said heartily. “I will dry up the fountain when the time comes. Take him.”

  So Josui, in a daze of happiness, received Lennie, and she went into the bedroom and closed the door, and there alone with him she fed him her milk. He seemed almost strange with her, he mouthed the nipple, so much softer than the one he had known, the rubber, the hard glass. Then suddenly he understood and he began to drink deep draughts of the blessed milk, his great eyes fixed upon her face. And she looking down into those eyes felt her sorrow round itself, she was complete in grief, so that she wept and her tears fell on his face. She wiped them away with her palm, and continued to gaze at him, trembling with love.

  He slept soon, filled with milk, and she laid him in his bed. She hung over the crib, studying his face, his hands, his shape, his bare feet. She recognized Allen’s mouth, the sweet curve of the lips, yet the firm chin denied the sweetness, this chin was like her father’s. But the hands were hers, and the square shoulders came from someone unknown, hers being gently sloping, and Allen’s not like these, either. Then she saw the eyelashes. They were American, for no Japanese had such lashes, long and curling upward from the Asian eyes. His eyes were of Asia, encircled with these western lashes. But whose lashes? Not Allen’s, but from some ancestor of his, whose name she would never know, the extravagant lashes of a beautiful American woman, living or dead, whom she would never know.

  The door opened and Dr. Steiner came in and silently the two women stood adoring the child.

  Thus the holy week began. For one night and two days were only the beginning of the communion between the three of them. Josui told at last the brief history of Lennie’s life. When she talked, she remembered things she had forgotten, or perhaps not even noticed when they happened.

  “When we first stood together under the wisteria,” she told, “that is, you know when we first—kissed—”

  “I do not know,” Dr. Steiner said. “I have never kissed a man. What happened to you?”

  “We felt a stir of air, a whirl of some small breeze, although the day was still and there was no wind,” Josui said remembering. “We felt another presence with us. Do you believe it could have been his unborn soul?”

  “I do not disbelieve,” Dr. Steiner said.

  It was not only Josui who told Dr. Steiner. The doctor had remained silent in America in the presence of those who could never understand sorrow because they had known so little, those who had never known death because they had not seen the death of a million innocents, young and old, and now she told to Josui what she remembered and must remember until her brain was dust.

  “At first, you must know, we could not imagine that they really killed little children of mixed blood. It was not your blood, but it was my blood, mixed with the Germans. They said we must have only pure blood—as though human blood is not pure wherever it is found! Your blood, my dear, is not different from mine. We bleed the same red stuff, though I am ugly old Jewess, and you are such delicate young Oriental girl.”

  And holding Lennie on her broad lap, her full skirt spread between her thick knees, she tried to tell Josui how he was the triumph of her faith. “He is so beautiful, this child. He proves what I know, that human beings in any crossing and in any mixture can be superb. You understand superb, my dear? It is a height.”

  Lennie had no time to sleep in the bed except at night when they were compelled at last to give over talking and sleep, the doctor lest her hand shake with fatigue when it held the knife tomorrow, and Josui because she was young and stretched upon a cross of love and loss. He slept in the arms that held him, the soft slender arms, the strong short arms. He slept when he was carried about the rooms, when he lay upon a wide and comfortable lap, or against a swelling bosom where he fed. He was wrapped in love. He was adored by the two, all his hidden first memory, enough to last his lifetime out, was of love and love and love. He was the most welcome child in the world.

  And so there came the last day of the week, and Josui made ready to go. In the earlier days she had dreaded this last day, but now that it was here she found herself able for its arrival. She would not have taken Lennie away from this house. He was safe here. Outside there was no welcome, no waiting. But here he had no rival. The huge heart of this woman, who had lived through life and death, loved no one except all humanity and him. He was safe.

  “Stay, my dear,” Dr. Steiner urged. “We will live together, three of us. I earn enough.”

  But Josui would not stay. “He does not belong to me,” she insisted. “If I stay, one day he will ask for his father. I cannot hear him ask the question I cannot answer. Let me go.”

  She was determined to go, determined to leave Allen even in this child, in whom she was startled sometimes to see a look that made her remember another look too like it in Allen’s face, a laughing happiness that broke her heart because it had ended soon.

  So she took the medicine to dry her breasts, she bound them tight again, she made ready to leave the house. She would go to San Francisco where Kobori waited and when she saw him she would know what she could do. Peace she bore in her soul, the peace of finished love. When the moment came to leave, she held Lennie in her arms. Upon his feet he wore small pink and blue shoes that she had made and embroidered in butterflies. Then she put him in Dr. Steiner’s arms and stepping back, she bowed her deep Japanese bow. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you now and for all my life and his.”

  “Come back,” Dr. Steiner said, holding Lennie against her shoulder.

  Josui bowed once more. “Thank you,” she said again. But she did not speak what she knew, that she would never come back. Her gift was final. Between the past and future no link held.

  At the railway station in San Francisco Kobori waited. He had dressed with care, amused with himself as he did so. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to look one’s best, and whatever life destined for him, he could accept it the better for grace in detail. So much was beyond his control that it gave him some satisfaction at least to perfect small matters which he could control. He had chosen to wear a custom-tailored suit of a heavy cream-colored Shantung silk, correct for the somewhat unusually hot day, A mist hung over the distant mountains, and might by evening creep down to the shore, but as yet the sun prevailed.

  The train was on time and he saw Josui before she saw him. She was beautiful and slender again, and though his heart rushed to meet her he knew better than to show impatience. She had, he hoped, recovered from the experience of love, but the newly recovered must not be overwhelmed, and he must in decency give her every chance to refuse him. He was depressed by his own honesty, for he could not enjoy good fortune unless he let her know the news that the papers had published since last they met. He had decided, after hesitation, not to write her the news but to tell her, so that face to face with her he might watch those glorious eyes and catch their least light of hope, which would on the other hand convey wisdom.

  He took off his hat and approaching her quietly, he put out his hand in the western manner. This was less conspicuous on the railway platform than the Japanese bow.

  “Josui,” he said.

  She had not seen him, but at the sound of her name she turned toward him.

  “Kobori, how kind to meet me!”

  She took his hand lightly and withdrew hers soon.

  “I thought it was understood that I was to meet you,” he replied.

  They walked together closely along the platform and through the station, the porter following with her bag. He could not keep from looking at her face. She was not pale as he had feared she would be. She seemed calm, she looked well, there was a delicate color in her cheeks and her dark eyes were content, though remote. She was older, more quiet, more contained, but for him these qualities deepened her beauty.

  He summoned a cab and helped her enter and th
en took his seat beside her. “I have arranged for us to have luncheon together,” he said hesitating, wondering if he had decided too much.

  “That will be pleasant,” she replied.

  He gave the name of the restaurant to the driver and then leaned back. She sat at a distance from him, her gloved hands folded over her brown leather handbag. She wore a light-tan suit, very plain, a white blouse ruffled at the bosom, a small brown straw hat. She looked somehow more American than he remembered and he felt mildly distressed by this, until he remembered that he had not seen her in western dress until now. Then he was surprised to see that it did not dim her beauty as it did for most Japanese women. Her features stood the test of severity, her profile was clear under the strange little hat.

  But he found nothing to say. What should he say? He did not wish to ask any questions about the child. He did not wish even to know whether the child lived or what she had done with it. The child had nothing to do with him or now with her, unless of course the news he had to tell might change her mind, whatever her mind was, and that he did not know.

  Josui turned to him after some minutes with a slight smile.

  “You are well?” she inquired politely.

  “Quite well,” he replied.

  “And your parents?”

  “They are well,” he replied.

  “That is good news,” she said.

  “Now,” he said, “you are also looking very well.”

  She laughed. “Then we are all well!”

  Fortunately the restaurant was near, the cab stopped soon, he paid the driver and tipped him too much and they got out. He would have liked to take her arm as he saw American men take the arms of women they escorted, but he was too shy to do so, and he led the way into the restaurant, a small expensive place, where he had already engaged a table and ordered the dishes. It was a Creole restaurant, the food was of New Orleans, and while he would have preferred a Japanese place with good Japanese food, he felt it better not to be recognized until Josui disclosed to him her mind.

  The table was by a window which provided a good view of the bay and the cloth was white, the silver polished and the dishes clean. All was correct, and upon the table were some flowers he had bought; pale-purple asters and lemon-colored lantana.

  He sat back is his chair which was too small for him and for the first time he felt happy and at ease. “Now,” he said, “you must eat what I have ordered. It is considered the best Creole food. It is not too different from the food of Asian countries, though spiced more than our own.”

  “I am hungry,” she declared. “My appetite has returned now that I am no longer sad.”

  It was good news that she was no longer sad and he smiled broadly. Then he remembered his own news which in honesty he must give her. But he would wait until the soup came. The waiter was bringing it now, a silver tureen, not too big, and two bowls, and the ladle. When the bowls were filled, they looked at each other, he invited her to begin and they drank the soup without conversation. Both had been taught that one does not divert the mind of host or guest from good food.

  There was, however, a long wait until the next course. “These shrimps,” he explained, “which are to be the main dish, cannot be prepared until we arrive.”

  “We are not in a hurry, are we?” she replied.

  “No,” he said again. He wiped his mouth with his white linen napkin. “Not at all.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, I welcome this time. I have some news for you. I do not know whether you will consider it good.”

  “News?” she repeated. Her mind flew to Allen first. But what news of him? Or perhaps it was news of her parents.

  “Within the last fortnight,” he said with painful care that she comprehend, “I have learned that in this state of California the judges of the court have decided that it is now possible for white persons to marry Japanese.”

  He looked at her with a deep penetrating gaze. She understood its passionate inquiry and she returned the look fully.

  “What is this to me?” she asked.

  “I thought you ought to know,” he said. “I thought it might make a difference. That is, if you wish, you could write this news to the American whose name I will not speak. It is now possible for you to live here together.”

  “It is not possible for us to live together anywhere,” she said, “It is no longer possible.”

  His heart was a big lump in his bosom, it slowed its beat, and he could feel the heavy muscle contract. “You mean you do not wish it?”

  “It is not a matter of wish,” she replied in a steady voice. “It is a matter of cannot.” Then she broke, only a little. “Do you not see, Kobori, that I cannot? The law no longer matters. I know him now as he is. It is not enough for a life.”

  His lumpish heart actually shook his bosom.

  “Do you mean you no longer have any—”

  She spoke the word for him. “Love? Perhaps not—perhaps, yet, I have. That, too, does not matter. Love is not enough, either. It is not enough for me. Perhaps it is enough for Americans, but not for me. I know that now.”

  He drew in his breath with a long hissing sigh. “Does this mean that you will come back to Japan?”

  “Yes, Kobori, as my father did.”

  The waiter came inopportunely at this moment carrying a tray and upon the tray was a fine pottery dish of shrimps. He set it down before Kobori with pride and placed the spoon and fork at his hand.

  “You, Monsieur, will wish to serve Madame yourself,” he suggested.

  Kobori was surprised, and with awkward hands he took up the utensils. Then he looked helplessly at Josui. “I have never done this before.”

  “Let me.” Josui put out her slender hands and with quick grace she took the silver fork and the flat spoon. She was adept, she was skillful. “Hold out your plate, Kobori. I will serve you.”

  Gratefully he held out the plate. “Thank you,” he murmured. He thought, watching her, how fortunate was it that he had kept the pink pearls from India, the true pearls, and he said tenderly, “Though I am the host, yet you do everything better than I.”

  She smiled and did not answer. It was quite natural to serve this large helpless man. She would be doing it, she felt, for the rest of her life.

  The day was hot, too, in the little town in Virginia, a silent day in midsummer, lifeless, though the trees hung green and flowers glowed hotly along the guarding wall.

  Mrs. Kennedy was fresh from her afternoon nap, and coming down the polished staircase, a slender figure in cool and cloudy blue, she paused to look out to the swimming pool. She had been wakened by the sound of voices and splashing, and for a moment she had felt a fury of indignation that she had been waked. Then she recognized the voices, Allen and Cynthia, and fury fled. The two were coming together. She had been so careful not to talk about Cynthia, not to take her for granted, ever since Allen came home last winter, sick with a terrible cold, an unexplained fatigue, a weariness almost sullen. They had gone at once to White Sulphur Springs to stay a month, and she had asked no questions until he had talked to his father. Even then she asked no questions. Tom had merely told her that the Japanese girl had packed up and left, not even leaving a note. Allen had resigned his job and given up the apartment and come home.

  “Tom, it’s a mercy.” That was all she had said.

  He had not replied to this but she was used to his unanswering silences. It was now understood that there was really nothing more to be said. It was nobody’s fault, and perhaps the girl, foreign though she was, perceived that a woman could not give up her only son. She had been patient with Allen as she had never been, for her love had always been impatient, critical, demanding his homage. Oh, she knew when she offended because when she was crossed she could willfully offend. But now she let him contradict her and treat her with a new ruthlessness.

  “Please let me decide for myself.” He said that over and over again about the smallest matter, as, for example, when she urged him to try the blanc mange. He disli
ked the dish but she had tried a new recipe and it was delicious, the milk and eggs so good for him in his rundown condition. He was very disobedient and troublesome, almost as he had been when he was a little boy, but now she yielded to him everywhere because he had come home again.

  She stood by the window looking fondly at the two who stretched themselves under the sycamore tree on the terrace. They were dripping wet but the day was so hot and never mind. They were beautiful, both so tall, but she must warn Cynthia not to allow herself to get heavy as she grew older. Married women, especially after the children came, were inclined to fatten, though she herself had never put on a pound.

  She let the silken curtain fall and walked across the long cool room and touched a bell. Harry, the old butler, came at once, fresh and clean in his white duck suit.

  “Harry, you mix some drinks and take them out to Master Allen and Miss Cynthia,” she ordered.

  “Yas’m.”

  “Make sure you have plenty of ice and take them on the silver tray, you hear? I don’t like that old painted tin tray you keep using. Take out four glasses. Mr. Kennedy and I may join them.”

  “Yas’m.”

  He went away and she sat down, wondering if, were she and Tom to go out, they would be interfering with what might even be a proposal. For the last month she had thought that any day, any night, Allen would come and tell her, “Mother, today Cynthia has promised—”

  She leaned back, careful not to damage her curls, and closed her eyes, smiling, waiting.

  Cynthia was rubbing her hair dry with a green bath towel. Allen, lying on the grass at her feet put an idle question. “Do you choose a green towel because you like green, because you know you are most beautiful in green, because your bathing outfit is green—”