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Authors: Gail Tsukiyama

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BOOK: The Samurai's Garden: A Novel

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SPRING

MARCH 28, 1938

I
t
has been much warmer the past few weeks. Since the day I saw Keiko, I’ve felt much lighter. It’s as if the darkness of winter has lifted. Every day I can see spring arriving in the smallest ways, mostly in the form of the double cherry blossoms sprouting from Matsu’s weeping
Higan,
and the clear, light scent I smell every time I step into the garden.

When I returned from my swim today, Matsu followed me into my room from the garden. “There’s a letter for you,” he said, putting the thin blue envelope down on the table.

“You’ve been to the village already?” I asked, surprised.

“I needed to get some rice,” he answered, “and I thought I would save you a trip getting the mail.”

I looked away from him, down at the large, even writing on the envelope, and knew instantly it belonged to Pie. “It’s from my
im

to,”
I said, happily.

Matsu smiled in a knowing way. “I’ll be in the garden,” he said.

After he left, I quickly grabbed the letter and read it, anxious to know how Pie was. I could see her large, dark eyes and hear her high, clever voice as I read her words.

“Dear Big Brother,” she wrote, “
You must be angry at me for not writing, but when I explain why it has been so long, I know you will forgive me.” I couldn’t help but feel a lump in my throat at her explanation. “For the past month, I have been going after school to the Red Cross refugee center in Wan Chai. I do everything, from rolling bandages to sorting donated clothes and filling care packages. Mah-mee doesn’t know what I’m doing, so please don’t say anything. She thinks I’m at the Queen’s Theatre watching the latest Errol Flynn movie, or shopping in Central. She wouldn’t understand the way I know you will. Mah-mee is afraid of all these poor and starving refugees pouring into Hong Kong from China, and prefers that we stay at a safe distance. It doesn’t matter that the Japanese
devils have raped and slaughtered their families and friends, leaving them homeless and running for their lives! Mah-mee believes she does more than her share by donating to her charities. She would rather live her own life of mah-jongg games, while pretending all those starving in the streets are invisible. Besides, I don’t know why, but Mah-mee has been in a bad mood lately, going out, or hiding in her room. Ching won’t let me make a sound when I’m at home, so I might as well be out
.

“
When you return, you won’t recognize the Hong Kong you left. In the past few months, the mountains near Wan Chai have become
home to thousands of refugees. They live in makeshift houses made of whatever they can find, like wood scraps or cardboard. Entire families are crowded into filthy, dark boxes. They’re like ants on a hill. It doesn’t take long before these families are sick with a hacking cough or diarrhea. When it rains heavily, most of the shacks slide down the mountain sides like paper houses. Many families have been buried in mud and debris. No sooner is one shantytown gone, than another goes up in its place. It isn’t enough to try and give them money, I had to do something.”

Pie’s words had gone straight to my heart. At twelve years old, she already had more courage than any of us. The only thing that had dampened my happiness was the slight, innocent remark at the end of Pie’s letter. “I heard Mah-mee tell Ching she would like you to come home soon, because it might no longer be safe for you in Japan. I can’t wait to see you again!”

I could almost hear my mother’s voice ring out in the still air. I put down the letter, wishing I could tell her how safe I felt here with Matsu and Sachi, and how I was just getting to know Keiko.

APRIL 15, 1938

I made up my mind to see Sachi again this morning. I’d waited long enough for Matsu to grieve. But I got out of bed only to discover the house empty. I checked every room for Matsu, but he had apparently slipped away sometime while I was still asleep.

While I waited for him, I clicked on his radio and heard some unexpected good news: “The battle of Taierchwang was merely a temporary setback. The Imperial Army will continue to push forward
against Chinese resistance. Those lives lost in the name of our Imperial Majesty have obtained great honor.”

Then I kept busy by completing another sketch of the garden I’d begun earlier. I decided to start another painting in my grandfather’s study, when I heard Matsu finally walk in from the garden. He paused a moment at the
shoji
door and coughed before he entered the room.

“I heard on the radio there were big losses at the battle of Taierchwang,” I said.

Matsu simply grunted in response.

I continued to mix the paints, halfheartedly trying to begin work. I was looking for any distraction to continue the happiness I’d felt since I heard of the Chinese victory at Taierchwang. I finished squeezing out some yellow paint onto the wooden tray.

But instead of quickly leaving the room as he usually did, Matsu stood by the desk watching me. He reached out and touched the white canvas propped up on the easel. “Good,” he said, “another painting.”

“I hope I can begin something,” I answered.

“You will,” he said, knowingly.

I wished I could be as certain as Matsu, who never seemed to have a second thought about anything. He was always as definite as stone. I looked away from the empty canvas.

“I’ll leave you to your painting,” Matsu said. “I have to start lunch.”

“It’s still early,” I mumbled. I only half heard him as I continued to mix colors.

“I thought we would visit Sachi afterward.”

I nodded absentmindedly. Suddenly, what Matsu had said sunk in. I looked up with a quick jerk of my head. I wanted to tell him how happy I was about going to see Sachi, but he was already out of my grandfather’s study and back in his kitchen. I could hear him pour water into the old, battered pot he loved and set it with a dull clank on the fire to boil.

The walk to Yamaguchi was filled with anticipation. We left shortly after a simple lunch of noodles and fish cake. Matsu carried
a small package that I guessed might be a gift for Sachi, but neither of us said anything. We walked up the mountain road in silence, each occupied with our own thoughts.

Besides seeing Keiko, and receiving Pie’s letter, I was finally going to visit Sachi. As happy as I felt, I couldn’t get rid of the bitter taste that I might have to return to Hong Kong soon, and that this could be my last visit to Yamaguchi.

As we came closer to Yamaguchi, Matsu slowed down and turned around, as if he suddenly remembered I was there behind him.

“Do you smell something burning?” he asked.

I stopped, and for the first time really paid attention to the trees and brush around me. There was a slight breeze which blew hot air our way. I instantly realized how quiet it was. There were no birds singing, and it seemed like I could even hear the slight intake of Matsu’s breathing, and then it hit me: the faint smell of smoke that tinged the air. I looked up to the otherwise clear sky and saw a dark cloud of smoke rise above the trees between us and Yamaguchi.

“Look!” I said.

“Go back!” Matsu turned and began to run up the path.

I paused for a moment not knowing what to do. Matsu had already left a veil of dust behind him. Without thinking, I followed him up the road, moving as fast as my legs and lungs would allow me.

Matsu quickly created a distance between us, steadily running up the last half-mile to Yamaguchi. The heat and smoke grew stronger the farther I climbed. My heart was beating hard, but I refused to let my burning lungs slow me down. I paused once and looked up to see Matsu disappear into the smoky clearing. I took several deep breaths and continued up the path, following Matsu into the center of the small village, blinded by the stinging smoke as I used my hands to shield my mouth and eyes. I couldn’t help but think of Pie’s letter, and how the refugees who lived on the mountains were swept away by the rain. Yamaguchi had survived for years on this mountain; it would take more than rain to bring her down, but no one ever said anything about fire.

From what I could see, the houses on the edge of the clearing
were still untouched by the flames. Whatever was burning came from the other side of the village, closer to where Sachi lived. My heart felt as if it would jump out of my chest. The deeper I ran into the village, the thicker and darker the smoke became. I coughed, and felt a stinging dryness in my throat as I searched my pocket for a handkerchief to cover my mouth. I forced myself to keep going and began to hear muffled voices rising above the hissing and crackling of burning wood. Before I knew what was going on, I was clipped from behind by someone who ran past me. I was knocked forward, but managed to right myself before I fell.

“Mizu!”
the man shouted.
“Mizu!”

I followed him. The large wooden buckets of water he carried splashed from side to side and onto the ground as he hurried toward the fire.

“Let me help you,” I shouted, as I caught up to him. Whether he understood me or not, he relinquished one of the buckets, the rough rope scraping against my palm. With two hands, I was able to balance it without losing so much water.

Farther on, I could feel the intense heat and see the orange-red flames engulf a wooden shack, then jump up to the sky. The flames seem to swallow it within minutes as the hazy shapes of men and women rushed forward with buckets of water to put out the roaring flames. Other men climbed trees, cutting down the overhanging branches before they caught fire. I glanced quickly around but couldn’t find Sachi. From out of nowhere, I heard Matsu’s voice yell out directions to contain the fire before it reached any more of the houses. Behind me I heard a woman’s voice scream and begin to sob. I swung my bucket of water as hard as I could, watching the water fly up to the roaring flames, doing very little to extinguish them.

Someone touched my shoulder and I turned around to see the man who’d given me the bucket. He gestured for me to follow him. He was small, yet powerfully built, but when we came to a large water barrel, I noticed the fingers on his hands were almost all eaten away. The thick, coarse ropes from the buckets of water he carried had burned long, red strips across his forearms. With the stumps of his arms he moved with remarkable speed, lowering a bucket into the barrel and pulling it up again filled with water. I dunked my handkerchief and tied it over my mouth and nose,
then filled my empty bucket, too. It was plain to see that the barrel would never hold enough water to put out the driving flames. Still, we filled our buckets and repeated our struggle over and over again.

It felt like hours before the last flames were finally put out, and the smoke cleared enough for us to see that the fire had only consumed two or three houses. Using dirt from a fire break Matsu dug around the houses, the fire had been smothered before it could travel any further. We all stood dazed, covered in black ash and dirt. In the distance, I could see Sachi’s house untouched. Huddled on her steps, she consoled another woman whose house had been lost.

I pulled my handkerchief off and wiped my face. When Matsu realized I had been one of the firefighters, he came over and gripped my shoulder. “Your
o-t

san
would be very proud of you.”

“How did it begin?” I asked.

Matsu rubbed the smoke from his eyes, red from the burning heat. “Nobody’s certain yet,” he answered. Then, in a voice filled with concern, he asked, “Are you all right? How are you feeling?”

I smiled. Even though my lungs still burned, and the desire to cough pulled at my throat, I didn’t want to worry Matsu and simply said, “I’ve never felt better.”

Matsu and I looked at the smoldering fire, as the villagers gathered around it, throwing water onto the blackened debris which hissed and smoked. I watched, and swallowed the smoky air. Most of the villager’s dark veils and cloth bandages had fallen away during their desperate fight with the fire. But none of the terrible scars, the missing noses, fingers, and limbs stopped any man or woman from fighting bravely to save Yamaguchi. They stood around, and wiped the black ash from their faces, already making plans to rebuild.

“It’s a good thing you decided to visit,” I said.

Matsu laughed. “The
kami-sama
of the village must have been with Yamaguchi today.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” I added.

Matsu looked away. “It’s a good thing we stopped it. If the fire
had burned out of control, they would have lost everything.”

“Is this the first time they’ve had a fire?”

“This is the biggest one that I know of,” Matsu said. “They have been very careful. You must be, to live so far away and survive without any real mishaps.” Matsu shook his head. “I guess it will only become harder as we all grow older.”

I thought of how difficult it must be, to be so far from help in case of any emergencies. There was no Red Cross to turn to, no volunteers like Pie to help out, no family. It seemed so unfair that they would always have to fight alone to keep what little they had.

“D

mo arigat

, gozaimasu,”
we suddenly heard a voice from behind us.

When we turned around, Sachi was kneeling on the ground, bowing so low her forehead touched the dirt.

Sachi poured out green tea into her familiar clay cups as we sat at her low table. The smell of smoke seem embedded in every crevice, from our clothes to the
tatami
mats.

“I told Tanaka
-san
not to save so many magazines. They were just sitting there ready to catch a spark,” Sachi said, shaking her head. “Now they have lost everything they had.”

“It can be replaced,” Matsu said.

Sachi shook her head sadly. “They should not have to rebuild their lives twice.”

“As long as they are alive to do so, that’s what is important,” Matsu said, as he drank his tea, then pushed the cup toward Sachi to be refilled.

BOOK: The Samurai's Garden: A Novel

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