The Lonely War (44 page)

Kenji had not only drunk his share of the sake, he had polished off Andrew’s share as well. His face glowed with boozy pleasure.

They hung their kimonos in the closet. Andrew blew out the candles, leaving the room drenched in the luminous moonlight drifting through the window. As they crawled between the sheets, Kenji drew Andrew nearer until they pressed together.

Andrew smelled the rich scent of sake. He didn’t try to move away.

“Don’t leave me tomorrow,” Kenji mumbled. “I don’t want to live without you.”

Andrew lay in Kenji’s embrace. It was the first time Kenji had ever said something so personal to him. He groped for a response, but realized from Kenji’s deep breathing that Kenji had already drifted to sleep. Andrew lay awake, locked within Kenji’s arms, craving one more puff from his pipe, until morning light drifted through the shutters and penetrated his eyelids.

A
T
ONE
o’clock, a monk dressed in a dark gray kimono with white undergarments and a large straw hat came for Andrew. In the tiny hotel lobby, the monk bowed and introduced himself as Omi Tottori, Colonel Tottori’s nephew.

Before leaving the hotel, Kenji caressed the back of Andrew’s neck and leaned over to kiss Andrew’s cheek. He said, “Meet me at Nanzen Temple after your visit. It’s the same
Rinzai
sect as Omi, so he can take you there. I’ll be waiting.”

Andrew nodded but didn’t look at Kenji. He reached into his shoulder bag, where he carried Tottori’s swords and diary, and pulled out Jah-Jai. His fingers caressed the yellow grain weaving through the bamboo before he placed it in Kenji’s hands.

“Keep this for me until I see you again.”

Kenji’s eyes widened. He shook his head and tried to pass it back, but Andrew insisted, telling Kenji that it was only until they met at Nanzen.

Andrew followed Omi along the Kamo River and through the narrow alleys of the Gion district. The last snow had melted, so the streets and sidewalks were dry, but it was bitterly cold. Andrew felt the chill bite through his overcoat.

Kyoto is the spiritual soul of Japan because of its numerous temples and shrines, which were all preserved because the Americans refused to bomb the city during the war. But as Andrew made his way along the busy shopping streets and through the neighborhoods, he realized that if these manicured temples were Japan’s soul, then these wonderful shops and houses and people thriving in the city’s center were the marrow of its bones.

The houses in the Gion district had high walls, tiny gardens, and bamboo blinds over the windows. The symmetry and simplicity of the latticework on doors and windows were beautifully picturesque.  They passed shop after shop, wooden buildings with sagging beams and stone floors, which displayed the handmade wares that made these people unique, even in Japan: noodle shops, teahouses, tofu shops, broom makers, textile shops, flower vendors.

They stopped at a bakery and Andrew bought a half dozen glutinous rice cakes,
mochi
, which were a traditional New Year’s food. They also stopped at another shop to buy pickled plums,
umeboshi
, which are used to make a traditional New Year’s tea. Both, Omi assured Andrew, would make fine gifts for Mrs. Tottori.

While passing a knife shop, Andrew tugged at Omi’s sleeve and pointed, indicating he wanted to have a look. They ducked through the wood-frame doorway and Andrew inspected the array of handmade knives. Some were very elaborate, with mother-of-pearl dragons inlaid on the handle. Some were simple kitchen knives honed razor-sharp.

Andrew selected a knife with a long, thin blade made for gutting fish. The image of a carp was carved into the wooden handle. He asked how much and Omi translated. Andrew pulled money from his shoulder bag and paid the asking price without attempting to haggle.

Omi led Andrew through a narrow gate that opened onto a compact garden. Andrew heard the voices calling from the Changi graves, felt the buzzing at his temples, but he would not take out his pipe, he thought, until after.

A path paved with square stones bent through the garden. They passed under the bare branches of plum trees and walked to the side of the house, where Omi pulled open a sliding door and bowed. Beyond the door was a large room with a traditional
tatami
mat floor, sparsely decorated with low-standing furniture.

In the center of the room, a young woman sat on a yellow cushion beside a table. Her perfect posture enhanced her elegance, and her face displayed an expression of consummate dignity.  Folded around her body and framing her face was the most brilliant long-sleeve kimono that Andrew had ever seen. Embroidered onto the golden colored fabric was an exquisite maroon phoenix. A lavender sash completed the outfit.

No woman on the streets would dare to wear such a brilliant costume. Even a year after the war, they would have been rebuked for going against the tide of patriotic sobriety.

Light bounced off the golden material, shining into Andrew’s eyes. He stood, bewildered, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He could not quite believe that this woman was substantial. She seemed too dreamlike, as if a master painter had created a silkscreen masterpiece to represent the tragic soul of all Japan.

Andrew was captivated by how her black hair fell over her shoulders. Her head turned and he saw a plum-colored stain splashed across half her face.

She studied him for a half second and bowed. She lifted her head and their eyes met again. Deep within her gaze blazed an absolute suffering.

Those shattered eyes brought Andrew face to face with the purity of his own grief. Crushed by her actuality, he wanted to flee from this woman who shrouded herself in immense sorrow. But he knew that running away would be futile. He turned his eyes away, unable to look into the depths of those pupils that mirrored his own anguish. He desperately needed his opium, but it was too late for that. He had to find the strength to see this through without it.

She said, “Please join me. I have prepared tea.”  She spoke Japanese, which Andrew didn’t completely understand, but Omi acted as interpreter, telling Andrew in fairly good Mandarin what Mrs. Tottori had said.

If she was at all shocked by his skeletal thinness, it didn’t show. It was as if she understood perfectly. She lifted her arm and pointed to a pillow across from her. Her long sleeve swayed beautifully as her arm made this graceful movement.

Andrew, still not convinced that she was indeed real, remained speechless. He did, however, remove his clogs and step into the room. He walked to the table and lowered himself onto the pillow, all the time staring at her enchanting features.

Omi removed his straw hat and shoes, and followed Andrew into the room, kneeling behind her.

She spoke again and Omi translated. “We are honored that you have traveled all this way to see us.” She lifted a porcelain pot, filled a teacup, and set the pot on the table. She presented tea to Andrew according to etiquette, bowed, and poured herself a cup.

Andrew studied her movements while he listened intently to the rustling of her silk kimono as she moved.

“The honor is mine. Thank you for seeing me.” Andrew had difficulty modulating his voice while trying to keep his emotions in check. What was so painful, he realized, was that they shared a common bond of inexplicable guilt. Guilt that they somehow had failed to keep their man alive, that there was something they could have done differently but didn’t. Guilt became their union, the heartbreak that made them one.

They raised their cups and sipped.  The tea tasted salty. Mrs. Tottori noticed his surprise and explained, “On New Year’s, it is our custom to drink ‘Great Happiness Tea,’ which is made from green tea and pickled plums. The plums add a slightly salty flavor.”

Omi proved indispensable, for he was truly a well-intentioned interpreter. He seemed to disappear and Andrew felt as though he and Mrs. Tottori understood each other perfectly.

A handful of seconds tiptoed by, each one separate and distinct, each one a burden. Time peeled away until it didn’t exist at all. She picked up a plate of
mochi
.

He set down his cup to accept one. He took the bag of plums and
mochi
that he had purchased at the market and asked if she would accept his gift.

She took the bag and peeked inside, making a show of seeming overjoyed. She excused herself, took two of the cakes, and laid them as offerings at the house altar where the family’s ancestral spirits were enshrined. She placed another two cakes on display in the
tokonoma
, the formal alcove, beside a hand-painted lacquer bowl. That done, she shuffled to her pillow and knelt.

“I must say, Mrs. Tottori,” Andrew said, “You are younger than I had expected.”

“Please to call me Ayoshi. There is no need for such formalities. We are brother and sister, brought together by the love of our husband.”

“Ayoshi, you grant me too much honor. Hikaru was your husband. He loved you. I was merely a companion while he was away at war.”

Ayoshi’s shiny black hair came alive as she shook her head. She told Andrew that, long ago, when she was hardly more than a girl, her family had sent her to Oregon as a picture bride, only to be rejected by her intended husband because of her facial scar. The man sent her back to Japan in shame. Her family was so humiliated, and her chances of marriage so remote, that they were ready to sell her into prostitution. That’s when Hikaru Tottori heard of her troubles and called on her family. He proposed that she marry him before he had ever seen her.

Andrew’s eyes widened. He understood that she needed to tell her story, to say it aloud before putting it behind her forever. Warmth washed over him, gratefulness that he could perform this service of allowing her to release her immense guilt out loud. His eyes encouraged her to continue.

“He married me not for love but because he was too kind. He did not love women. I need husband, he need son. Love came after. I loved him for his kindness, for saving my life. He loved me for making a home and giving him a son. But the love in his heart, Andrew, was you. I knew he loved you before he knew. A wife understands. You gave him happiness that I could not. I am forever grateful.”

Andrew sat stunned.

“My brother, I love you for what you gave our Hikaru.”

For the first time since Tottori’s death, Andrew could feel the pain retreating without the aid of his pipe. The voices hushed. A warm stillness massed inside his chest, which felt as dense as silt.

A toddler bounded into the room. A mass of jet-black hair crowned a face dominated by round, pink cheeks. He wore a blue kimono and white socks on his tiny feet, and he squealed as he ran into his mother’s arms.

The mist of sorrow lifted from her face and a burst of joy radiated from her. She was transparently smitten, and he was comically and hopelessly enchanted with her. He reminded Andrew of a cartoon character, Mickey Mouse—small and yet animated to appear larger than life.

She hugged the boy to her slender body and turned to Andrew.

“This is our son, Andrew Tottori.”

“Andrew?”

“Of course. Hikaru insisted. That’s when I knew that you brought light to his soul. My only regret is that Hikaru never held his son. Would you like to hold him?”

Andrew nodded.

Ayoshi whispered in the boy’s ear. Little Andy jumped up and leaped into Andrew’s lap, grabbing Andrew by the neck and squeezing. Tears formed in Andrew’s eyes and slid down his cheeks. Ayoshi wept as well. He felt immense joy intertwined with immeasurable sorrow, and he saw those same emotions mirrored in her face.

The boy leaned away and saw Andrew’s tears. He pressed his chubby face to Andrew’s cheek and licked the tears off. Andrew could not help laughing at the boy’s unexpected antics. For a brief moment he forgot how near he drew to the climax of his elected path, and his sorrow dissipated. He was left only with the joy of having this boy licking his face like a puppy.

Little Andy released his grasp and sat in Andrew’s lap, smiling at his mother.

Andrew withdrew the swords from the shoulder bag that he had carried over a thousand miles. “These belonged to your father. He had me bring them here so you could have them.”

The boy’s eyes bulged as he took the short sword in his stubby fingers. He glanced at his mother to see if it was true, and she nodded while wiping the tears from her cheeks. She said something to the boy that Omi did not translate. The boy crawled off Andrew’s lap and carried both swords to the
tokonoma
, laying them next to the cakes that Andrew had brought. He ran from the room with a squeal of delight.

A question hovered in her pupils. Knowing what she wanted, he said with an unsteady voice, “However much Hikaru loved me, I love him more. For his strength, his honor, his gentleness, his humor, and for the goodness I found in his heart.”

She bowed. “Thank you. You make my sadness easier to endure.”

“I have these for you.” Andrew removed Tottori’s diary and the two scrolls from his bag, and placed them on the table.

She picked up one of the scrolls and read the haiku poem written on it while Omi translated:

Content,

I feel like the calm sea,

After a storm.

A single tear was trapped within her eyelashes. A long moment of living silence hovered over the table before she picked up the second scroll and read silently. She lifted her head. “Hikaru’s last wish was that you and I raise his son together. I am to teach him beauty and grace, and you are to teach him strength of character. Together we shall lead him down the path to manhood.”

Andrew could still smell the scent of Andrew Tottori lingering about his neck, feel the warmth of the boy’s hug. Something shifted inside his heart and he was about to agree, but he heard the voices returning, growing loud in his head. His vision darkened, becoming a thousand pinpoints of red and orange light, and the pain, that hideous pain swelled from the base of his neck to his crown, merging into one excruciating spike at the top of his forehead. He felt a cold chill run from his heart to his testicles. He shook his head while reaching for his pipe. He mumbled, “As much happiness as that would bring me, I cannot. I must complete the path I follow. I must leave you now.”