Fumiko’s voice trailed off, then stopped. The boiling noodles bubbled and sputtered. The steam rose and coiled itself around the small kitchen.
“After our parents died,” Fumiko continued, “I asked Matsu to come to live in Tokyo, but he refused. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do there,’ he said. He did come to visit once, but his heart has always been in Tarumi. Even though he won’t say what, there has always been something or someone holding him here, something as deeply rooted as the pines covering these mountains.”
I smiled to myself, and wondered how Matsu had managed to keep Sachi a secret for so many years. It’s true, Fumiko had moved to Tokyo early on, but she was the only family he had left now. How could he not shout Sachi’s name out, and tell Fumiko that she was the reason he couldn’t leave Tarumi? And how could he not make Sachi more real, more rooted in his life by acknowledging her presence? These thoughts turned around in my mind as I watched Fumiko divide the noodles into three bowls, place some fish cake on top, then set the bowls one by one on the table.
AUGUST 17, 1938
The low sounds of murmuring voices woke me. It took a few moments to realize that it wasn’t a dream, but the soft hum of Matsu and Fumiko whispering in the kitchen. It was very early and still dark outside. I lay quietly as the warm, sweet smell of cooking drifted into my room, slowly drawing me out of a half-sleep. By the time I dressed and joined them in the kitchen, I could see that they must have been up for hours, preparing food to bring to the graves of Tomoko and their parents. On the table were bowls of pickled vegetables, deep-fried tofu, rice balls filled with red beans, and salted fish.
“I was just about to wake you,” Matsu said, when he saw me standing in the doorway. “We have to leave the house very soon.”
“I’m ready,” I said. I wiped the sleep from my eyes.
“Here, Stephen-san, drink this,” Fumiko said, handing me a cup of steaming tea.
I sipped it slowly, watching the two of them work side by side. I could see there was a warmth between them. It was the same way I felt with my brother or sisters, the kind of calm familiarity that comes from having grown up together. It felt good to see Matsu in this morning light, so unlike himself. Sometimes they spoke in whispers, or not at all, their hands slicing and wrapping, moving in perfect rhythm.
We left the house just as the sun rose a red-orange. My thoughts drifted to Sachi and what she might be doing for O-bon in Yamaguchi. There were already many others making their way down the dirt road, carrying furoshikis filled with food for the graves of their family members. We joined the long procession which grew as we entered the village and lengthened down the road which led to the temple. The village itself seemed lighter, cleaner, as preparations for the festivities had begun. Long thin wooden poles about six feet tall or more stood every three feet down the length of the dirt road. Small hooks which protruded from the top of the poles awaited the lanterns to be hung on them. I looked around and felt relieved at not seeing Keiko and her family. Her father had made his feelings toward me clear the last time we were at the temple, and I didn’t want either Keiko or myself to be embarrassed like that again.
By the time we reached the cemetery, there were already bowls of food and clay cups of tea and sake left at the graves. In Hong Kong, we also used to make the yearly pilgrimage to honor our ancestors during the Ghosts’ Feast: first Ba-ba’s side, then Mah-mee’s. While the gravestones here in Tarumi were plain and simply engraved, many of those in Hong Kong were large and elaborate, most of them containing small photos of the deceased embedded in the stone. I had always enjoyed walking slowly down the crooked rows of gravestones, somehow moved by the faces staring back at me. They were images of youth and glamor, age and wisdom. It didn’t matter. I walked away each year taking these faces with me, as if in that short time I had somehow come to know them.
So I felt let down by the time we came to Matsu and Fumiko’s family plots. They were distinguished only by gray stone markers with names and dates written on them; there was no trace of personality surviving. I realized then I had never seen what Tomoko looked like. All I knew was that she had been beautiful as a girl. I wondered if Matsu had a photo of her tucked away somewhere.
Matsu and Fumiko unpacked the furoshikis and placed bowl after bowl of food on the three graves in front of them. Then came another surprise: Matsu stepped forward and began chanting something under his breath, almost in song. His voice was surprisingly soft and melodious. When he had finished, he and Fumiko bowed low toward the graves, and from where I stood a few feet behind, I did the same. Afterward, Matsu suddenly excused himself and began to walk across the cemetery. He carried another furoshiki with him.
“Where is he going?” I asked Fumiko, who was busy washing the dirt off the gravestones with an old rag and a can of water.
Without looking up from her work, she answered, “To see Kenzo-san.”
I wondered what Matsu had told her about Kenzo’s death. Did she know he had hung himself? Could she have any idea of the cause? I watched Fumiko silently scrub the stone, then glance up just in time to see Matsu turn around the corner of the temple.
By the time we returned to the village, it had come alive with people and laughter. Large and small paper lanterns hung from the thin poles, lighting the way for the ghosts to arrive and depart. The lanterns came in all shapes, some resembling the figures of animals and houses, while others were simpler, painted colorfully in red, black, or white. Each dangled from its pole like an ornament. The smell of frying fish, mochi in soy sauce and sugar, and red bean cakes made my stomach growl. Music flowed through the air. It was time to entertain the spirits, to dance and rejoice at their return. The street was filled with people eating and drinking, people who had traveled hundreds of miles to be in Tarumi. There were so many new faces in the village, I felt as if I were somewhere else. Groups of women and children lingered in the street. Old men mingled, trying to remember names and faces from the past. The one thing all these people had in common were the dead they returned every year to honor.
I looked over at Kenzo’s teahouse which stood dark and empty. I could almost imagine seeing him last year during O-bon, his trim figure rushing back and forth, carrying trays of drinks to thirsty customers. He might have slapped Matsu on the shoulder and invited him in for a beer. Only this year he was gone, leaving Matsu to honor him with food and drink. And what must Sachi be feeling this O-bon? I wondered if they were celebrating the dead in Yamaguchi?
It was hard to imagine what the future would bring to any of us. All over Japan they were celebrating the dead, even as more and more Chinese were being slaughtered. There would be no one left to celebrate them. I looked around at all the smiling faces, at Matsu and Fumiko who moved slowly beside me, and wished that one of them could explain to me what was going to happen.
AUTUMN
SEPTEMBER 5, 1938
The first signs of fall have already made themselves noticed in the garden. The smells were first to change, the perfumes sweeter and heavier. Next will be the colors as they turn to the reliable shades of crimson, saffron, orange, and scarlet. There’s something more serious about the fall than any other season. Maybe it’s the light that gradually grows darker, making everything seem less trivial, forcing you to look harder to find your way.
Most of the summer crowds had departed by the last week in August, leaving Tarumi quiet again. When I walked outside this morning I was overcome by a feeling of nostalgia, a memory of being younger and knowing I would have to return to school soon. And though passing another autumn in Tarumi wasn’t exactly like going back to school. It felt the same as returning to something I had lived before.
Of course, all these thoughts dissolved when Matsu called me over to the back of the garden to take a look at something.
“Look,” he said, pointing down to a globe-shaped plant he called “Kerria.”
I looked down to the yellow-orange flowers, their five-petalled blossoms resembling small chrysanthemums. “They
’re beautiful,” I said, trying to share in his enthusiasm.
Matsu squatted down and fingered the small petals. “They’re more than that,” he said. “They usually only bloom one week in the spring. It is a sign of good luck to see blossoms this late in the year.
“Do you think we’ll have any good luck?” I asked.
Matsu looked up at me, then back down at the blossoms. “As long as we don’t have any bad luck,” he answered.
SEPTEMBER 13, 1938
I went down to the beach this morning. It was the first time in weeks that there haven’t been crowds of people. Somehow it feels as if it belongs to me again, that I’ve stayed away all these weeks waiting for an empty stretch of sand. Just as I’ve been expecting Keiko to return again. I found out not long after the O-bon Festival that she and her family had gone to Osaka to visit her mother’s family. Actually, it was Matsu who returned from the post office one afternoon and casually mentioned that they were away. First, he handed me a postcard from Pie, sent from Macao where she and Mah-mee finally went to visit Anne and Henry. Then he said, “That pretty friend of yours went to Osaka with her family. She’s due back in a few weeks, according to Yoshida-san.” I nodded my head, then thanked him for the mail. Even when I turned to walk away and had begun to read my postcard, I could feel his eyes follow me.
Everywhere on the beach there are still remnants of people having been there. Carelessly dropped paper wrappers, a plastic shovel partly embedded in the sand, small mounds of what used to be castles and moats still stand. I felt lonely seeing these things, not for those who’d left them, but for all the things I’ve had to leave. The worst part of being sick was the fatigue, a weakness that set me apart from the rest, which left me nothing more than a spectator. At school I could only watch friends swim, play basketball and cricket. While convalescing at home, I was always a room away from the laughter. But after a year in Tarumi I finally felt stronger than I had in the past two years. Now I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before I had to leave Tarumi behind also, and begin to participate in my other life again.
Lately, the news about the war in China had been sporadic, which simply meant no large Japanese victories, but the silence didn’t fool me any longer. Sometimes I felt as if we were all just suspended in time, waiting.
I walked along the beach, until a flash of light caught my eye. It came from above the dune, and at first I thought it was just the sun playing tricks on me. But when I saw it flash again, I slowly began to distinguish someone walking through the waves of heat to the beach. I stood there and waited, until the slim figure disappeared again behind the dune. The soft crunching of the sand grew louder as Keiko finally rose up and over the dune.
“Keiko-san!” I waved to her.
Keiko saw me and waved back. She tried to move faster, but her wooden sandals made it difficult to run. She stopped for a moment to take them off, then carried them in her hands, freeing herself to run to me.
“I had hoped to see you,” she bowed. Around her neck was a silver chain and pendant I hadn’t noticed before. It must have been what had flashed in the sunlight.
“So was I.” I bowed back. “I heard you were away with your family.”
“Yes,” she said, “we went to Osaka to visit my grandparents.” She looked down toward her feet, then up and away from me toward the sea.
“Is everything all right?”
Keiko hesitated at first, then said quickly, “I won’t be able to see you anymore, Stephen-san.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. It felt like she had just slapped me across the face.
“I’m sorry, but it must be this way,” she said, looking me in the eyes. “I have to go now.”
Keiko quickly turned around and began to walk back in the same direction from which she came. I wanted a better explanation, and instantly followed her back toward the dune. I reached out and grabbed her arm just as she was about to make her ascent. She still carried her wooden sandals in her hands, and as she swung around, they hit me in the chest.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, squeezing her arm harder than I had intended to. “Has your father changed your mind about us?”
“There can never be any ‘us,’” she answered.
Then Keiko pulled away from me, and for a moment I thought she was going to strike me with her sandals again. But she simply stepped away from me, as she fingered her silver chain with one hand and cradled her sandals in the other.
“Not without an explanation,” I said.
“Don’t you see, nothing could ever come of our friendship now.” She looked behind her, checking again to see if anyone were watching us. “My brother was killed at Hsuchowfu. We just received word when we returned from Osaka.”
At first I was stunned. Hsuchowfu! That meant that her brother had been killed back in May. I couldn’t imagine what it must mean for her family to lose their only son. I pulled Keiko close to me and held on tight. I could feel her body choking back her tears, moving up and down in small hiccups. We stayed like this for a long time, until she pulled away just enough that I could see her face was wet. I assumed her tears were for her dead brother, but then she lifted her hand to touch my cheek, pressing her warmth there for a few moments. I thought about kissing her, but I was afraid she might pull away and leave me even faster. When at last I released her, Keiko looked into my eyes but said nothing. She simply turned quietly around and made her way back up the dune. This time I didn’t follow her. I stood there and waited for something, the slightest nod of her head, the light of the sun on her necklace, any small sign for me to follow. But Keiko never once turned back. I watched her climb to the top, then little by little disappear beyond the sand dune.
I haven’t been able to sleep. I got up to write this all down, hoping I could purge myself of Keiko and the ghost of her brother. I wondered how many Chinese he had killed before his own death? I suppose the question held no relevance to a Japanese family who had lost their only son. But what of all the Chinese civilians killed during the last year? Did Keiko and her family grieve for those sons and daughters, mothers and fathers? The madness of war destroyed much more than just the soldiers fighting in it. It picked apart everything in its way, so that no one escaped its clutches. Not even someone as decent and humane as Keiko would be left without scars.
SEPTEMBER 16, 1938
I dreamed of Keiko last night. She was running to me on the beach, but no matter how fast she ran, she could never get any closer to me. I’m not sure what I was doing in the dream, just standing there or running toward her. All I know is, when I woke up, I was sweating profusely, my futon and pillow damp, so I must have been running.
Matsu knows something has changed between Keiko and me, but he hasn’t asked any questions and I haven’t volunteered any information. I’m not sure what to tell him, since we had barely gotten started before our friendship ended. I’ve tried not to be too sullen, but like not having enough to eat, there’s always that longing for more. Once or twice I thought I’d seen her at the beach, but it was only my “imagination playing tricks,” as Mah-mee would say.
The things you remember about a person when they’re gone are funny. No two people will feel the same way, though usually it has to do with scent, or expression, the sound of a voice, an unusual gesture. For me, I can still see the colors of Keiko; the black of her hair against creamy pale skin, her dark blue kimono with white circles, the deep orange persimmons falling from the brown basket she carried. The ache in my heart grows larger every time I think of these colors, and how as each day passes they continue to fade from my eyes.
SEPTEMBER 23, 1938
It has rained for the past week. Then today, the first day of autumn, the rain stopped as if on cue, producing one of the most beautiful days. The sky this morning was a cloudless pale blue. The air was fresh with the damp salty smell of earth and the sea. It was a perfect day to celebrate Shubun No-Hi, the Autumn Equinox, with Sachi.
We left for Yamaguch
i in the morning. I hadn’t been there in a long time and was anxious to see Sachi again. It wasn’t a very pleasant hike up the mountain with the earth saturated and muddy. I slipped on several occasions and by the time we arrived, both Matsu and I were splattered from head to toe, our shoes and the cuffs of our trousers caked with mud. Sachi simply looked at us, covered her mouth, and began to laugh when she saw us sloshing up to her doorstep.
We went around the back of the house to the garden, the stones still dark and shiny, steamy from all the rain. We took off our shoes and carefully rolled up the cuffs of our pants before stepping up to the back door. Sachi was waiting with two yakata robes for us to change into.
“Would you like to bathe?” Sachi asked, eyeing us up and down.
Matsu looked at me, then shook his head. He gestured to the side of the house. “We’ll just rinse and take off these clothes.”
Sachi bowed in agreement, handing him the two robes as she quickly turned back into the house. Matsu led me to the other side where there was a barrel of water. Nearby was a large wooden tub in which to bathe.
“Take one of these,” Matsu said. He handed me a robe, which I could immediately tell was too large for me. Matsu removed his clothes, rinsed them off, and slipped on the robe which fit him perfectly. I did the same, no longer embarrassed by my nakedness. I had gained back some weight over the year, and with all the swimming I’d been doing, I was in better shape than ever before. But when I put on the robe, I could still easily have wrapped it twice around me.
By the time we stepped into Sachi’s house, she had hot tea waiting for us. The table was already set, with covered lacquer dishes neatly arranged in the middle.