The Samurai's Garden

by Gail Tsukiyama

  “But you and Matsu might never have become friends if it weren’t—”

  “There is no excuse,” Sachi interjected, her voice trembling.

  I put down my teacup and looked hard at what I could see of Sachi’s pale, tired face, partially hidden under the dark scarf. Something in her voice made me want to reach across the table and take her hand. Without thinking I leaned toward her, and in the next instant my hand moved up and slipped under her scarf, resting on the white, puckered scars. They felt smoother than I expected, like the exposed veins on an arm. Sachi sat frozen at first, not really acknowledging what was happening. Her eyes reacted first, opening wide with realization as she let out a small cry and quickly turned away from me.

  She rose from the table and backed away from me. “You must go now, Stephen-san.”

  “I came here to tell you you don’t have to hide from us. The scars make no difference to me, and I know they never did to Matsu,” I said frantically.

  Sachi continued to back away. “I will not dishonor you any more than I have,” she repeated. “Please, you must go now.”

  I stood up, my heart beating faster. I knew I couldn’t leave without convincing Sachi that she could never disgrace anyone. I didn’t want to upset her, and I had no idea what possessed me to touch her scars.

  “I just want to talk,” I pleaded. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  Sachi shook her head slowly. “There is nothing to talk about.”

  “There’s a great deal to talk about. Matsu needs you!” I said at last.

  Sachi stopped. She seemed startled. She stood perfectly still for a moment, then, without saying a word, pulled the scarf down and away from her face. She turned the damaged side of her face to me, as her left eye strained to open wider. The scars appeared like a matted white web, stretched from her chin to her eye. Part of her nose was eaten away and there was a small depression near her mouth, which made her lower lip sag downward. I was more astounded to see her entire face uncovered than I was by the distorting scars. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a chignon, and in her good eye I could still see her youthful beauty. If Sachi was trying to shock me then she was in for a surprise. I had known from the moment I met her that she was very attractive. But it wasn’t until I came to know Sachi that I began to see how beautiful she really was.

  “Does Matsu need this?” she whispered, the dark scarf gathered around her shoulders.

  I never took my eyes away from her scarred face.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  Sachi bowed her head and said nothing.

  I thought Sachi would lead me to the front door for a brief and final good-bye. Instead, she simply bowed and gestured for me to follow her. I stood up and waited, as she slid open the shoji panel which led out to her garden and we stepped outside.

  The sunlight hurt my eyes as they adjusted to the bright light, and to the spare clarity of the garden. The strong smell of wet pine added to the sense of peace and quiet she had created.

  Sachi immediately went to work as if I weren’t there. She took hold of a claw-tooth rake and stepped out into the sea of gray stones. Then, with quick, easy strokes, she began to recreate the wavy patterns in the stones in front of her. Her scarf was still draped around her shoulders and she no longer made any attempt to cover her face. The crackling sounds of the stones hitting against one another reminded me of the tiles in my mother’s mah-jongg games.

  At that moment I hoped my mother was feeling all right. When I first received the letter from her about my father, I couldn’t believe what I was reading, followed by my own selfish thoughts of having my already disrupted life disturbed again. Until this moment, I had blocked out what my father’s indiscretion really meant to my mother, the hurt she must feel. I knew that as soon as I got back to the house, I would write my mother a long letter.

  I stood aside and watched Sachi gain strength and momentum as she worked. She moved backward, covering her tracks with each new stroke as she worked her way to where she had begun. Suddenly, Sachi stopped and turned to me.

  “Would you like to help?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to ruin the pattern,” I answered, as I stepped back and shrugged my shoulders.

  Sachi raised her right hand up to cover her laugh. “How can you ruin stones, Stephen-san? You can only rearrange them, and who knows if it won’t be for the better.”

  She handed me the rake and stepped out of my way. Very slowly, I began to move it through the stones in front of me, careful not to disrupt the smooth, wavy lines the stones formed. It was a strange feeling, much different from working with the fluidity of brush and paint, or water and earth. The weight of the stones pulled against each stroke and left a distinct feeling of strength and permanence.

  “I often change the patterns in the stones,” Sachi said. “When I first began the garden, I would sometimes change the pattern several times a day.”

  “What did Matsu say?” I stopped and asked.

  “Matsu said nothing. He knew it was the only way I could keep my sanity.”

  I remained silent, not knowing what to say.

  Then Sachi’s voice filled the air again. “Who could know that Matsu would save my life. I always thought it would be Kenzo, until that fateful day that Tomoko took her life.”

  “Tomoko?”

  “Matsu’s imto-san,” Sachi paused. “His younger sister. She was my best friend and very kirei. It was as if she received all the beauty in the family.”

  “She took her own life?”

  “Because of this,” Sachi said, pointing to her scarred face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sachi shook her head. “Tomoko was one of the first in Tarumi to realize that something was wrong. She found a rash on her arm that wouldn’t go away. At the time, we thought it was nothing. When it began to spread, Tomoko didn’t know what to do. She became quiet and wouldn’t leave her house, even when I begged her to walk with me. As girls, we often walked down to the beach and back, laughing and drawing attention to ourselves. It was as if we owned the whole village.”

  “Did you know Matsu then?”

  “Only as Tomoko’s o-nii-san: the always silent brother working in the garden.” Sachi paused. “Why Tomoko was one of the first chosen, no one will ever know. Perhaps because the two of us were too vain, too frivolous.”

  I picked up the rake and moved toward Sachi. “You don’t have to say any more,” I said to her.

  “I have kept silent for so long, I’ve lost the reason why,” Sachi answered. “Perhaps it is the right time for me to remember the past. You see, the morning it had spread to her face, Tomoko went mad. It was Matsu who came to get me, hoping I could somehow calm her. But Tomoko refused to let anyone see her. Nobody knew what was going on. She’d always been the most beautiful girl in Tarumi, and she carried the temperament of one who often gets her own way. Even her father’s anger didn’t make any difference. It wasn’t until several months later that others in the village began to come down with the disease. And it was a whole year after that before I found the first signs of it on my arm,” Sachi said, touching her scarred skin.

  “Was Tomoko still alive then?”

  Sachi shook her head slowly. “She was the first, and all alone then. No matter what she did; drink strong teas, spread herbs on her face, pray to the gods, nothing worked. The disease remained, only to worsen as each day passed. Tomoko wouldn’t see anyone. I was only able to speak with her through her shoji door. Most of the time she would answer my pleading with a flat, ‘Go away.’ It was less than a month later that Tomoko took her life. Matsu was the one who found her, lying face down in her own blood. Tomoko had committed seppuku. She had sliced herself open with her father’s fishing knife.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I leaned heavily on the rake. The cold wind blew as we stood among the sea of gray stones.

  Sachi let out a small sigh, then took the rake from my hands. “Even though Matsu was Tomoko’s brother, and one of Kenzo’s b
est friends, I had paid very little attention to him. He was always so quiet. Even Tomoko joked about his silence. ‘Matsu is like a mountain,’ she would say, ‘nothing will ever move him.’ How he and Kenzo became such good friends none of us ever understood. Yet, there was something magical between them. Kenzo began to spend more time with him in the garden or fishing, trying to break down the wall Matsu had built around himself. Kenzo was always outgoing. He was nice-looking and full of jokes and ideas. Everyone liked him, or wanted to be around him at his o-tsan’s teahouse. I was so honored when Kenzo chose to be with me. Even Tomoko was happy for me. She always had plans to move to Tokyo and work for some large company. Tarumi had always been too small for her. She always seemed to be looking for something more.”

  “And you never wanted more?” I asked.

  “I was never as brave with my dreams.”

  “So after Tomoko’s death, you began to know Matsu better?” I continued.

  Sachi smiled. “Matsu was the only one who wasn’t afraid to speak to me about Tomoko. From the beginning, he faced her death with a certain respect and understanding. He knew that beauty was everything to her. Without it, Tomoko’s only choice was death. I was devastated, and Matsu was the only one who gave me any peace. Kenzo tried to console me, but for some reason I couldn’t face him. In a strange way, he reminded me more of Tomoko than Matsu did.” Sachi abruptly stopped, then touched my arm. “It’s getting very cold, Stephen-san. We should go back inside.”

  I glanced at the lines I’d created in the stones. They weren’t as even as Sachi’s, but the waves were apparent, and I had felt the simple power of moving them. I followed Sachi into the warmth of her house. She went into the kitchen and came out with a pot of tea and some rice crackers.

  “How was Matsu as a young man?” I asked, sitting down on the low cushion by the table.

  “Much as he is now. He never had the same ways as the others. He kept to himself. But I do know that Tomoko was wrong about Matsu never going away. He did have dreams of leaving Tarumi.”

  “So why …” I stopped, realizing the answer sat across from me.

  “I believe that Matsu has always had an inner strength, even as a young boy. Some are born that way, perhaps. Certainly Matsu was,” Sachi answered.

  “So you came to be his friend after Tomoko’s death?”

  Sachi nodded. “Yes, after her death. He came to my house the morning after Tomoko was buried to give me her lucky stone.” Sachi pointed to the two shiny black stones that sat on the table in her front room. “We found them when we were young girls and always associated them with good luck and all the other dreams of youth. I remember Matsu handed it to me saying, ‘From Tomoko.’ Nothing more. Then he bowed, turned around, and began to walk away. I was the one to stop him. After all the years of ignoring him, I needed to hear his voice.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me Tomoko was at peace, and that I should go on with my life.” Sachi stopped and smiled to herself. “Somehow, I believed him.”

  “Matsu’s words do have a certainty to them,” I said.

  “Stephen-san, does Matsu know you’re here?” Sachi suddenly asked.

  I picked up my teacup and sipped from it, avoiding her eyes. “I left him a note saying I went for a walk.”

  Sachi stood up. “I think you should go back now. Matsu will be worried.”

  I looked up at her. The scarf no longer hid her lovely face. Something in the urgent tone of her voice let me know that our conversation was over.

  “Can I see you again?” I stood up and asked.

  “I would be honored to have your company, Stephen-san.” Sachi bowed. “As long as Matsu knows.”

  “I won’t deceive either one of you again,” I said.

  She simply smiled.

  When I left, Sachi stood at the door. She leaned slightly against its wooden frame, her dark scarf once again pulled up to cover her face.

  DECEMBER 6, 1937

  I left Yamaguchi, my head filled with Sachi’s rich insight and careful words, that slowly began to give me the pieces of her story with Matsu. I couldn’t forget the oddly smooth feel of her scarred face, and how she finally trusted me to see and touch it. Even if I had had to lie to Matsu about going to Yamaguchi, I realized how much I needed to know that Sachi was protected again, safe from Kenzo’s cruel words.

  As I entered through the bamboo gate, Matsu was in the garden, kneeling by the pond and sprinkling food into the murky water. I could tell by the quick turn of his head that he was anxious.

  “I went to Yamaguchi,” I quickly confessed, my eyes avoiding his.

  “Is Sachi all right?” he asked.

  “She’s fine. I just needed to see for myself.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes.”

  Matsu nodded his head and let out a grunt of satisfaction. Then he slowly stood up and pointed toward the house. “Your o-tsan is waiting for you,” he said.

  “My father’s here?”

  “He arrived about an hour ago,” Matsu said.

  I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. I hadn’t expected to see my father until I had had time to think about what I wanted to say to him. A hundred thoughts went through my head as I walked slowly toward the house. As I removed my shoes in the genken and stepped into the hall, I decided it was best to let him do most of the talking.

  I found my father waiting for me in my grandfather’s study. He sat comfortably on a low cushion, sipping tea. Amidst the confusion of all my painting supplies, he sat impeccably dressed in a dark-gray suit, with a matching fedora on the floor beside him. Paints and canvases lay scattered upon the floor and on top of the cloth-covered black lacquer desk, which I had pushed aside to accommodate my easel. Matsu no longer paid attention to how I used the room. When it became clear that my painting would have to share the small house with us, we reached an unspoken understanding. While Matsu’s kitchen and garden were his domain, my territory consisted of my room and my grandfather’s study. We always approached each other’s area with a certain amount of care and respect.

  I entered the study, with its sharp, strong smell of paint and turpentine.

  I bowed instinctively. “Ba-ba, I didn’t know you were coming. I’m sorry you had to wait. I went to visit a friend.”

  His eyes looked worried and unusually tired as he reached up and touched my arm. “You look well, Stephen. I’m happy to see that you are strong enough to be up and around. Mah-mee and I were very worried about you. I know you wrote her to say you were recuperating, but at the last minute I decided it might be better if I came to see for myself.”

  I straightened up and stood before him. “I’m fine.”

  My father smiled, then looked at the easel where the painting of the garden sat. “You’ve become quite accomplished.”

  I know I blushed, I could feel the warmth move through me. After so many years, I was still embarrassed and apologetic when it came to explaining my painting to my father. “I’m just getting started again. I’m sorry for all the mess,” I said shyly, as I moved a white canvas out of the way. “You really didn’t need to come all this way.”

  My father motioned for me to sit down on the cushion across from him. “I not only wanted to see if you were well,” he hesitated, “but I also needed to speak to you about another matter.”

  I wanted to turn around and leave the room while I still had the chance. Instead, I sat down heavily on the stiff cushion, my legs weak from nervousness and the long walk. I swallowed my anxiety, then calmly said, “I received a letter from Mah-mee.”

  My father cleared his throat, as his tired eyes avoided mine. Then in a strained voice, he said, “Mah-mee told me she had written to you. At first, I was very angry that she would tell you of our personal matters, especially while you are still recuperating. A Japanese woman would never do such a thing.”

  I looked away from him, trying hard to mask my anger. “Maybe Japanese women aren’t so aware of what their husband
s are doing,” I snapped. I leaned over and poured myself a cup of tea, hoping I could restrain myself from saying anything else that I might later regret.

  I could feel my father stare hard at me. At first I thought he would be angry at my lack of respect, but he simply took off his wire-rimmed glasses and began to wipe them with his handkerchief. He seemed to be deep in thought. When he finally put his glasses back on again, he looked at me and said, “Your mother was never to have known.”

  “How could you have deceived Mah-mee like that?” I asked, my voice shaking.

  “I never wished to hurt her. You must believe me, Stephen. The money had been put aside from my business dealings. I know it was foolish of me not to have kept it in another account, but there has always been enough money to cover all the household expenses, including Mah-mee’s spending.” My father stopped and shook his head slowly before he continued. “But business has been slow with this war escalating, while your Mah-mee’s spending has increased.”

  I thought of how lonely my mother must sometimes be, always losing herself in charities, her constant shopping sprees for the latest styles from Europe, and the long lunches and mah-jongg games that often ended in losses.

  “How long have you been seeing this woman?” I wanted to know.

  My father paused. “For more than twelve years,” he finally answered.

  I was stunned. My father had been with this other woman since Pie was born. It would have been easier to forgive him if it had been a casual, quick affair—one born out of male need and satisfaction, rather than one that had the strength of time and, most likely, love.

  My father sipped his tea and spoke calmly, “It isn’t what you might think. Yoshiko works at a department store near my office and is a very good woman. She has devoted her life to me, and I wanted to make sure she would be comfortable through this insane war.