The Samurai's Garden

by Gail Tsukiyama

  “What about your own family?” I asked. My cold stare moved from the empty teacup I was cradling to his concerned, attentive gaze.

  My father never flinched. “I have never compromised my devotion either to you children or to your mother. It was because I loved you all that I could never leave one for the other. Yoshiko has always lived quietly with the fact that my family came first.”

  “And you think that makes everything all right?”

  There was a sudden noise from outside that made us stop. We both watched as Matsu shuffled by the front window carrying his gardening tools. My father waited for him to pass before he answered.

  “I’m not here to apologize to you, Stephen. This has never been a simple matter for me. I have spent my life doing what I thought was the right thing to do. I’ve never tried to hurt anyone, not in my business dealings and certainly not with my own family. I’ve always followed my judgment in everything, weighing one decision against the other. But in this matter, I didn’t have any choice but to follow my heart. We are all here to live out our own fates. I just hope you can try to understand what has happened. The most important thing is that you know I love you all very much.”

  I watched my father as he calmly continued to explain himself. He spoke slowly and precisely as if well rehearsed. I don’t know why I should have thought anything would suddenly have changed in his appearance. Still, I looked closely for it in his tired, dark eyes, and in his graying hair that was always neatly combed back with an oil smelling of roses. I was old enough to understand everything he said, but as his mouth softly formed the words, I knew the sense of integrity I had long admired in him had died, and that I was already grieving for its loss.

  “So now what?” I asked, after an uncomfortable silence between us.

  “We go on living,” he answered.

  “Are you and Mah-mee going to divorce?”

  My father leaned forward and grasped my arm. “Nothing will change, Stephen. Nothing.”

  DECEMBER 7, 1937

  My father and I spent the rest of the evening speaking about the ongoing war. I listened politely, wishing I could be back alone in my room. It felt like I was sitting across from a stranger, as I searched for words to fill up the thick silence. Even the subtle signs of familiarity—my father combing his fingers through his gray hair, or constantly adjusting the knot of his tie—couldn’t bring me ease. I watched him nod his head sadly, confirming my fears about the fierce Japanese drive that continued toward Canton. At the rate they moved through China, Canton would be overtaken within months. The carnage of death and destruction left my father speechless. I couldn’t even begin to imagine Sachi and Matsu as my enemy, yet it felt strange to think that as I sat comfortably within their midst, Japan continued to ravage our homeland. I always knew my father loved Japan second only to China, and it now appeared he would have to show his loyalty to one or the other. I had no doubts his loyalty lay with China, the land of his ancestors, but it wouldn’t be without pain. I felt the heaviness of his thoughts, and couldn’t help but wonder if it meant I would soon have to return to Hong Kong to be with my mother and Pie. The words moved slowly to my lips, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

  Matsu made us miso soup, deep-fried bean curd, thin-sliced marinated beef and rice for our evening meal, then disappeared for the rest of the night. For a while, I could hear Bach playing low from Matsu’s radio in the kitchen, and then: silence. When we had exhausted our strained conversation, my father asked if I would like to spend the holidays in Kobe with him. After I gave him a noncommittal response, he stood up, excused himself, and went out for a walk. By the time I heard him return, I was already in my darkened room, pretending to be asleep.

  I woke up to find my father had taken an early train back to Kobe. There was a dampness in the air, and I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to see him again. I suppose he felt the same. All I know is that a numbness had settled in me, and I barely felt a thing.

  There was a stale taste in my mouth all morning. My father had returned to his other life in Kobe, and I knew I’d failed both of my parents. I wasn’t able to accept my father’s mistress, yet I couldn’t make her disappear from our lives as my mother wanted.

  “Your o-tsan left very early this morning,” Matsu said, waking me from my thoughts.

  We sat and ate our usual breakfast of rice and pickled vegetables at the kitchen table. I had hardly said a word all morning. Usually, I would be the one to talk and ask Matsu questions, but his interruption only irritated me. Matsu had disappeared for the entire evening, and now he wanted to know what had happened. I simply nodded my head, without answering.

  Matsu didn’t say anything more. When he finished his food, he stood up and went about his business in the kitchen. I couldn’t help but sulk. I ate solemnly, forcing the rice into my mouth until I had eaten most of it.

  “It was good,” I said, as I handed him the bowl and bowed, hoping to make up for my rudeness.

  Matsu nodded, then began to wash the bowl. When I was almost back in my room, I heard him raise his voice to ask, “What are you doing today?”

  I couldn’t stay cooped up in the house, even though I knew I had to write a letter to my mother. “I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk later.”

  Matsu came to the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’m going to Tama later. You might like to see it.”

  “What’s there?” I asked.

  Matsu smiled. “It’s a Shinto shrine. Didn’t your go-ryshin ever tell you about the one at Tama?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  My parents had never placed a great emphasis on religion. What I learned during my childhood was through attending St. Matthew’s, a Catholic primary school in Hong Kong. The classes were taught by nuns, who swept down the halls in mysterious dark skirts and veils. Each morning before class, we recited “The Lord’s Prayer,” which would hum through my head for the rest of the day. As a little boy, I had taken it all in; the pageantry of mass, the colorful robes of the priests and bright stained glass windows, the secret knowledge that I had been saved. When I moved on to a private English middle school, I felt I had lost a childhood friend who had known all my secrets. Yet it seemed to gradually fade from my mind as life went on.

  “It’s not far from Tarumi,” Matsu continued. “We can leave in a few hours.”

  “You never struck me as the religious type,” I said, beginning to feel better.

  Matsu swung the towel over his shoulder as he turned back into the kitchen. “There’s still a lot you don’t know about me,” he said.

  I began a letter to my mother, making sure to keep it focused on my father’s visit and the upcoming holidays. I had once hoped to be with my family at Christmas, but as it approached with no word from Hong Kong, I relaxed at the thought that I would be spending it in Tarumi. The letter felt as if it took hours to write. I had no idea how much my mother knew of the situation between this woman Yoshiko and my father. Instead, I wrote my mother of my father’s unexpected visit, our brief discussion of the money he had withdrawn to help this friend in her business, and how worried he had been about my accident. My words felt clumsy and scattered, but I had to tell her something. I changed the subject to the ongoing war. I didn’t want to alarm my mother, but I wanted to know if she needed me to return to Hong Kong. Then I asked about Pie, whom I hadn’t heard from in a long time. Was she all right? How was she doing in school? I smiled just to think of her, realizing how much I wanted to have her curious questions and quick mind here to dispel all the sadness I felt.

  I ended the letter trying to reassure my mother of my father’s decision to help his friend. “It’s a business arrangement more than anything,” I wrote, though I knew she would never really believe it. All I could hope was it might give her the excuse she needed to pretend that all was well again. I hated lying to my mother, I hated my father for making me have to.

  I was happy to be out of the house and
in the fresh air. We walked down the beach road and through the main street of the village to the Tama Shrine. It felt as if the entire village were asleep. Not one dog came to sniff or snap at our heels as we sauntered down the road.

  Matsu carried a bundle wrapped in a dark blue and white cotton furoshiki. “It’s our lunch,” he said, with a smile.

  But as we approached Kenzo’s teahouse, Matsu suddenly became quiet. I could see the muscles in his neck tense. I wondered what would happen if Matsu and Kenzo should meet on the street. Would they pass by each other in silence? Or would they continue the angry words started at the house? I strained to see inside the darkened teahouse, but there was no movement.

  From the village we continued on a dirt road that led up into the mountains. It wasn’t long before we came to a clearing, and in the center of it: the Tama Shrine, posed serenely on a rise above the village of Tarumi. The first thing that caught my eye was the three identical faded red gateways, which you walked through in succession to the entrance to the shrine. Each one was simply made of two upright wooden posts, with a lintel across the top which extended past the upright posts and was carved into the slight curve of a smile. Just below it was another horizontal beam that connected the posts without extending beyond them. They each resembled a large bird perch. I had seen similar gateways in Kobe, but with elaborate carvings and designs, constructed in iron or stone.

  “The torii gates,” Matsu said. “It is said when you pass under them, the worshipper will be purified in heart and mind before reaching the shrine.”

  We continued up a path lined with odd-shaped, flat stones, and through the remaining two torii gates. The shrine itself was housed in a simple, square, wooden building, which looked like any house in the village. Matsu stopped at a stone trough by the entrance. There was a wooden ladle hanging by its side which he picked up and dipped into the water. I watched him drink from it, but instead of swallowing the water, he rinsed it around in his mouth, then spit it out into the dirt. He dipped the ladle into the water again and rinsed each of his hands. When he had thoroughly cleansed himself, he handed the ladle to me and gestured for me to do the same thing.

  “To purify yourself before entering the shrine,” Matsu whispered, as if he didn’t want to disturb the gods.

  I tried to copy his movements, surprised at how cool the water tasted. I was tempted to swallow it, to quench my thirst after our long walk, but I could feel Matsu’s eyes watching me, so I simply repeated what he had done. Only then did he turn and remove his sandals, leading me into the wooden building which held the shrine.

  Inside, there was a strong smell of burning incense and sweet rice wine. We stepped up onto a wooden platform where the shrine itself was no more than a stone table with an intricately carved wooden box. It housed what Matsu told me was the fox deity; the kami, Inari. In front of the shrine were thin sticks of burning incense and an empty blue-glazed rice bowl. To the right of it, a wall was covered with what seemed to be hundreds of small white slips of paper. Matsu whispered that they contained prayers and offerings from the villagers. I carefully watched as he stepped up to the altar and clapped three times, then reached up to pull gently on a thick, braided rope attached to a wooden clapper in the ceiling. The quick, slapping sound echoed through the small building. Then as Matsu closed his eyes and bowed, I stood quietly out of the way and waited.

  When Matsu straightened up again, he reached down into the furoshiki he carried and brought out some sticky rice to place in the glazed bowl before the shrine.

  “You?” he asked. Matsu stepped out of the way and urged me forward.

  I shrugged my shoulders and hesitated. I felt embarrassed doing something so foreign, but Matsu pushed me toward the shrine, then placed my hands out in front so I could clap as he had done. “You must let the gods know you are here,” Matsu whispered.

  I quickly clapped three times and pulled on the rope. I stared hard at the enclosed shrine and the bowl of rice. The burning incense stung my eyes. I bowed low and tried to concentrate on some kind of prayer. My mind was confused. Who or what should I pray for? There were too many thoughts cluttering my head to choose only one. I wanted to pray for my parents’ marriage, or Sachi and Matsu’s happiness, or for the war to end in China. I could feel Matsu standing behind me, waiting. So I simply closed my eyes tight and prayed for all of us.

  On a slope covered with pine needles overlooking Tarumi, we sat down to eat the lunch Matsu had brought along. He unwrapped the furoshiki to reveal a three-tiered, black lacquer food box and a thermos of green tea. Each layer of the box was filled with assorted sushi and fish cakes. I was impressed that he had prepared everything in such a short time. Matsu lifted off the top layer of the box and handed it to me. With my fingers I picked up a fist-shaped sushi of rice wrapped in marinated tofu, and took a bite out of it.

  “Do you visit the shrine often?” I asked.

  Matsu put an entire sushi into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before he answered, “Only when I feel it’s necessary.”

  “Why did you feel it was necessary to come this morning?” I asked.

  “I thought it might be necessary for you to come here,” he answered.

  “For me?” I asked, surprised.

  “Because of your o-tsan’s visit,” he answered, picking up another sushi.

  I suddenly felt Matsu knew everything. I grew angry at the thought that he might even be a conspirator in what my father had been doing. The half-eaten piece of sushi I held slipped from my fingers onto the ground.

  “Did you know my father had a mistress?” I asked, accusingly.

  Matsu stopped eating as his eyes grew wide at my question. The smile on his face disappeared. “I don’t concern myself with your o-tsan’s private matters,” he answered.

  “Is that why you’ve remained our servant for so long, so you can keep my father’s secrets?” I snapped. I regretted my words even as I said them. I knew it was wrong to take my anger out on Matsu, but it was too late. My shame seem to echo through the cool air.

  “I have found great honor working for your oj-san and your o-tsan,” Matsu answered.

  I quickly stood up, dusted my trousers of pine needles, and bowed very low toward Matsu. “I’m sorry, I had no right to say that to you, Matsu-san.”

  Matsu took his time before he finally looked up at me, his stare softening. “It was the anger speaking, not the man,” he said. He patted the ground beside him for me to sit down again. “You must realize, Stephen-san, that it changes nothing about the way your o-tsan feels about you, but only what you now feel for him. It is sad to think that sometimes one person’s happiness must come at the expense of others.”

  I nodded my head and remained silent. I thought about my father, and how he had always worked hard for his family. My illness had grieved him deeply, and it was his idea that I come to Tarumi to recuperate. I glanced over at Matsu, embarrassed by my behavior. He sat deep in his own thoughts. Only then did I remember how he too must be thinking of Sachi and suffering from the loss of his friendship with Kenzo.

  “At first,” I paused, “I thought you might have come here to pray for Kenzo-san.”

  Matsu turned toward me. “It is useless to pray for someone else. I come here to pray for myself.”

  “But you’ve known him since you were young. He’s your best friend!”

  “Then we will have to leave it to the strength of our history together,” he said.

  I lay back onto the ground and pillowed my head with my hands, absorbing all Matsu’s words. I wondered if it might be like that for my parents. Would their history together be enough to hold them in marriage? Could I somehow change the events between my mother and father? It made me feel a little better to think of such possibilities. I closed my eyes and listened as the wind softly whispered through the trees.

  DECEMBER 21, 1937

  A letter arrived from my mother today. I’d been waiting to hear from her, yet I hesitated to open it at first, frigh
tened of what her words might tell me. Since my visit to the Tama Shrine, I tried not to think of my parents’ marriage. It felt like just another casualty that seem to be slipping from my life.

  Dear Stephen,

  I have not been well lately. I received your letter and I’m grateful you were able to speak to your Ba-ba. He told me, too, that the money was used in a business venture. And for me not to worry. Under the circumstances, it seems I have no choice but to believe him. After all, I am just a woman with four children to raise but with no education in making a living. Your Ba-ba and I married when I was only fifteen. A perfect match. His Auntie Chin saw me walking with my sisters down in Central. She rushed to tell her nephew, your father. You’ve heard this story many times, forgive me. I’m old now. Almost forty. I wouldn’t know what to do out there in the world.

  I know I shouldn’t tell you of these thoughts, Stephen. I want you to know I’m not complaining. I have had a better life than most. If it must change somewhat to suit your Ba-ba’s needs, so be it. Perhaps our marriage is at the point he and I must go our separate ways. I can accept this fact—I must—provided the family stays together in every other respect. Your Ba-ba has agreed to this.

  Our main concern is that you feel better. I hoped to be with you during the holidays. I know you’ll understand my health keeps me here now. I’ve already sent your Christmas presents. Your Ba-ba would like you to go up to Kobe to be with him. I think the trip will do you good.

  Until then, my Stephen, know that I love you. My main concern is for your health and happiness in the coming year.

  Ching reminds me to tell you to keep warm and dry.

  Much love,

  Mah-mee

  I put down the letter and immediately felt melancholy for the life I once knew in Hong Kong. The sound of my mother’s voice through her letter sent a dull ache to my heart. In the past few years, my parents had ceased to be the same two people I had known and grown up with. I remembered holding their hands as a little boy, never feeling more secure as I walked between them down Lee Yuen East Street. In my mind I heard again the frantic bargaining of street vendors and customers, and the grinding halt of the streetcars in Central. In the evenings back then, before my father’s business began to take him away, we’d sit and eat Ching’s minced duck and salted chicken around our big black lacquer table, my parents trying to make conversation as we children teased and tumbled over ourselves. Now the thought that they would stay together in marriage as a business arrangement filled me with heaviness. I had to admit that things had begun to change shortly after Pie was born. My father went more often to Japan, for longer periods of time, until he lived there more than with us in Hong Kong. The Ba-ba I knew as a small boy was no longer the same. Whenever he came home on brief visits, bringing gifts and quick hugs, I began to feel that somehow even the air we breathed was different.