The Samurai's Garden

  I walked to the village this afternoon to wire my father that I would be staying in Tarumi for the holidays.

  DECEMBER 25, 1937

  I woke up this morning to my first Christmas in Tarumi. Matsu slid open my door and said in a light, easy voice, “Come along. There’s something I want you to see.”

  I quickly got up and slipped on my clothes. Matsu stood in the genken, impatiently waiting for me.

  “What is it?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  Matsu moved out of the way as I approached, pointing to the garden. “I thought you might like a Christmas tree,” he said. There in the far corner, Matsu had decorated one of his pine trees with colorful pieces of origami cranes and fishes.

  I stood silent, and didn’t know what to say. I had just been in bed with thoughts of what I would be missing back home in Hong Kong. Every year when we were young, my mother insisted on having a live Christmas tree with ornaments in our house. We would get up to the warm aroma of pine, only to be quietly pushed into the dining room for breakfast by Ching, while we waited for my parents to get up so we could open our presents. The two or three hours of waiting were excruciating for Pie and Henry. Pie barely ate, while Henry ate everything in sight, as they both stared back and forth from the clock to the tree. I was old enough to know that my parents were sleeping off the effects of the Christmas Eve party they had attended the night before and wouldn’t be up for hours.

  For years, our Christmas dinners were held at The Hong Kong Hotel. There, we sat down for a five-course continental dinner, including goose, potatoes, and bread pudding. Along with dinner came my mother’s yearly lecture on how to use the numerous pieces of silverware lined up beside our plates. “Always move from the outside in,” her voice sailed across the table at us. The first year of this tradition, Ching was also asked to come along, but refused to eat a thing when she saw the complicated set of utensils. If she couldn’t use chopsticks, she wouldn’t eat. After that, Ching remained in the safe confines of her kitchen, and my mother took on the responsibility for us at Christmas dinner.

  “It’s the nicest Christmas tree I’ve ever had,” I finally said.

  Matsu nodded happily without saying a word. He stayed for a moment longer and stared at the tree. Then I saw him smile to himself, satisfied with what he had created. He turned around and began to walk to the kitchen. “How would you like your eggs cooked?” he asked.

  JANUARY 1, 1938

  I’d always heard how Ganjitsu, New Year’s Day, was a national festival for the Japanese. Having grown up in Hong Kong with the firecrackers and vibrant-colored celebrations of Chinese New Year, I find there’s something more spiritual in Japan on this day of renewal. There’s the giving of simple gifts, visits to the temples and shrines, and debts that are repaid from the previous year. All the bad and hurt are erased, and everyone is granted a fresh start for the coming year. So I couldn’t have been happier when it was decided that we would be going to Yamaguchi to celebrate the New Year with Sachi.

  After an early breakfast this morning, Matsu and I wrapped up the food he had prepared in a furoshiki to take with us to Yamaguchi. For days leading up to the New Year, Matsu had been busy preparing sushi, herring roe, and red bean cakes. The sweet aroma of boiling beans filled the house. Over the doorway Matsu had hung a kado-matsu, a type of wreath he made out of pine, plum, and bamboo boughs. I also noticed that there were two more of these wreaths leaning against the wall in the genken.

  Earlier in the week I had gone into the village and bought Sachi a miniature pine tree, no more than a foot tall, set gracefully in a clay planter. This morning I gave Matsu a good-luck daruma doll, which stares blindly with no eyes painted in. The custom is to paint in an eye and make a wish. If the wish comes true, then the other eye can be painted in. Matsu stared at the eyeless face for a few moments, then bowed toward me before he placed it gently on a kitchen shelf. He quickly disappeared into his room, and returned a moment later with a book of Japanese poetry for me.

  On our way out of the house, Matsu stopped to pick up one of the wreaths he had made for Sachi, while I waited for him, cradling the miniature pine in my hands.

  “What does the wreath symbolize?” I asked, when Matsu returned with a second wreath and we started down the road.

  Matsu swung the furoshiki he carried and glanced down at the wreath he held in his other hand. “Each tree is symbolic of prosperity, purity, longevity, and loyalty.”

  “Who is the other one for?”

  Matsu turned around as if someone might be there. “For Kenzo-san,” he finally said.

  By the time we arrived in Yamaguchi, the entire village was alive with celebration. Men and women wore bright, colorful kimonos. The small houses seemed to have come alive with ferns, wreaths, and oranges adorning their doorways. We couldn’t move a few feet without being offered dried chestnuts and toso, a sweet sake. Matsu happily declined all offers, intent on our seeing Sachi first.

  Unlike the festive atmosphere of the village, Sachi’s house appeared quiet and unassuming. The only sign of the New Year was what Matsu called a shime-nawa, a rope of twisted straw festooned with strips of paper hanging across her entranceway. It was supposed to bar all evil spirits from entering the house.

  Sachi opened the door even before we reached it. She bowed low several times, then led us excitedly into the house. Instead of the subdued colors she usually wore, Sachi had on a red and yellow kimono. They were the first bright colors I’d ever seen on her. Before anything else, she insisted we each have a bowl of zoni, a broth containing mochi. She looked beautiful as she moved around nervously packing the mochi and black beans she had prepared for the celebration. Afterward, we would join the rest of the village in celebrating the New Year.

  Later, as I sipped toso along with Matsu, Sachi, and the rest of the villagers of Yamaguchi, I realized how this was Hajime—a first ceremony for me. If the New Year represented a new start in doing everything, from taking a first bath to planting a new flower, this day would be a new start for all of us. I wondered what Keiko was doing as I watched Matsu and Sachi happy again, hoping this could mean a new start for the two of them. I tried to imagine Kenzo thinking the same thing down in Tarumi, as he looked at the pine and bamboo wreaths hanging on the doors of the village houses, remembering his two oldest friends.

  JANUARY 15, 1938

  In the past week I’ve received a new watch, a cashmere sweater, two shirts, and some books in the mail from my parents and Pie. It felt like the holidays haven’t ended. Then yesterday I received a letter from King. It was postmarked from Hong Kong, which meant that he had returned home from Canton for the holidays and I hope had received my card.

  I immediately realized how much I missed him. His easy words brought back to me my old life at Lingnan University, the manicured grounds and stately brick buildings, the long hours of studying, and the late night rush for bowls of jook to fill our hollow stomachs. It was only toward the end of his letter that the magic disappeared, and I was left stunned by his words.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard some version of the Nanking massacre. It’s been reported that thousands of innocent Chinese men, women, and children have been killed and raped needlessly by the Japanese bastards. I would fight right now if I thought it would do any good, if I thought we had any chance against them. But as they move closer to Canton, I know that many Lingnan students are too afraid to return after the holidays. I’ve persuaded my family to let me go back. But only after my solemn promise that I would return to Hong Kong if the Japanese devils get too close. I only wish you were taking the boat back to Canton with me.”

  I suddenly felt as if the walls were closing in on me as I folded King’s letter, stuffing it back into the thin envelope. There had been nothing on Matsu’s radio about the massacre, only another victory speech of how the Imperial Army had bravely captured Nanking and Tsingtao with little resistance. There was part of me that wanted to be back in the thick of things with King, that g
rieved for all those helplessly slaughtered in Nanking, even while another part of me couldn’t imagine having to leave Matsu, Sachi, and Keiko. I tried to sit down to write King a letter, but couldn’t seem to get beyond the first line: “I received your letter and wish I could be with you …”

  FEBRUARY 4, 1938

  Setsubun, The First Rites of Spring, has arrived even with the winter cold still with us. Matsu told me last night to get a good night’s sleep so I would be ready to go with him to the Tama Shrine.

  “What for?” I had asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough tomorrow,” he answered.

  I rose early and dressed warm, thinking we would get an early start, but we didn’t leave till late, and it was after noon by the time we reached Tarumi. Many of the villagers were also making their way up the mountain to the shrine. I could see that through the torii gates and near the shrine, a crowd had already gathered. I looked around at what were now familiar faces, looking for Keiko and her family. Matsu also seem to be looking around for someone, whom I could only guess to be Kenzo. I’d hoped the silence between them would disappear with the New Year, but it remained. They had not spoken since the incident at the house, and though Matsu was quiet about what he felt, I could often feel his sadness.

  But neither Keiko nor Kenzo was among the crowd. Our attention was soon drawn to a clanging noise and the two Shinto priests who stepped up onto the wooden platform. They were dressed in red and gold samurai-like robes, and each carried a large bowl filled with what appeared to be beans.

  “What are they doing?” I whispered to Matsu.

  “It is called mame-maki, bean throwing. Every year, winter and its demons of cold and pestilence are thrown out with the beans. They are also symbolic of the earth being impregnated with the seeds of life.”

  Matsu’s voice was soon drowned out by the growing excitement of the crowd. They raised their hands and began to push forward as the priests dug deep into their bowls and threw out handfuls of beans at us. As the beans rained down, the crowd began to chant in unison: “Fuku wa uchi, oni wa soto,” which I understood to mean, “In with good luck, out with the devils.”

  By the time we started back to Tarumi, it was late afternoon and I felt tired. I hesitated asking Matsu to stop, since the only place I knew of to rest was Kenzo’s teahouse. The festivities of the past few months and the walk to the shrine had been more than I was used to. I had gained strength from all my exercise, but when we at last walked back into Tarumi, my body felt a sticky weariness.

  The village seemed to come alive as villagers slowly filled the streets again. There were people running everywhere, and my heart began to race as I looked hard again for any sign of Keiko. As we approached Kenzo’s teahouse, I saw a large crowd gathered in front. Matsu made a grunting sound, but said nothing. He stopped for a moment, hesitated, then walked over to the teahouse.

  “What is it?” he asked, as we came nearer the crowd.

  Several excited faces turned our way, eager to tell us what they knew. But when they saw that it was Matsu, they stopped abruptly and held their tongues. Whispers drifted through the crowd, and it was evident many had heard that the two friends were at odds. Whether they knew the cause or not didn’t seem to matter to the growing gossip. It felt like an eternity before an older woman, dressed in a heavy, dark kimono, stepped toward Matsu and said quietly, “It’s Kenzo-san.”

  Matsu pushed roughly through the crowd and hurried into the dark teahouse. I followed him without thinking. It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when I began to make out the shadows, the first thing I heard was a moan erupt from deep down in Matsu’s throat. I rubbed my eyes and followed his frozen stare upward to the wooden rafters. Above the counter, not more than three feet away from us, hung Kenzo’s limp body.

  Matsu lowered Kenzo’s body from the wooden beam. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch his friend. I could hear the low thud of Kenzo’s body as it fell to the counter. Stunned, I stepped closer to see his blank, bulging eyes and the bluish skin of his face which looked waxy and unreal. I turned toward Matsu, who stared hard at his friend and didn’t move for a long while. Then he bent down toward Kenzo, whispered some inaudible words into his ear, and carefully closed his eyes. Without saying another word, Matsu turned around and walked slowly out of the teahouse, through the waiting crowd, and down the road to home.

  FEBRUARY 5, 1938

  I’m not clear how I made it back to the house yesterday after Kenzo’s death, but my legs were weak and heavy and I was short of breath and coughing by the time I stepped through the bamboo gate into the garden. All I remember is I felt as if I couldn’t breathe, drowning in the sweet, nauseating smells that came from the garden. I felt sick to my stomach, and before I could reach the house I had thrown up by the steps of the genken. After that, time felt like a dream. I don’t know where Matsu suddenly came from, but he helped me into the house, cleaned me up, and put me to bed. I remember his face, tired and pale. I wanted to say something about how sorry and embarrassed I felt, but I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

  I stayed in bed most of the day recuperating. Other than my legs feeling weak and wobbly, my lungs felt fine again, but Matsu insisted I rest. I didn’t have the energy to resist. He checked on me constantly, bringing me rice crackers and a clear seaweed broth to drink. I could see how tired he still looked, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, helped along by the whiskey which lingered on his breath. Neither one of us said a word about Kenzo, though I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the frozen image of his bluish skin, and his glaring, dead stare.

  All morning I could hear Matsu’s radio play from the kitchen. The classical music lulled me in and out of sleep, until a Mozart concerto was abruptly interrupted by the grating sound of a woman’s high-pitched voice. I shook myself awake to listen: “The Imperial Japanese Army in China continues its brave, victorious march south. It is futile for the Chinese to resist any longer. They should simply surrender to the kindness of the Japanese Army and all will be well.”

  For some reason, Matsu made no attempt to turn the radio down, or to switch stations as he usually did when the news came on. Instead, it was as if he purposely let the piercing, self-righteous voice grow louder.

  “It is the will of our most Imperial Majesty that Japan find its proper place in the world. It won’t be long before the Japanese Army holds Canton within their grasp.”

  I listened with a thirst to know what was going on in China, and how it might soon affect me. After the Japanese army reached Canton, there would be little to stop them from continuing on to Hong Kong. The British colony had always been a business center, not a military stronghold. I lay in bed and began to worry about whether I should return to Hong Kong to be with my mother and Pie. I wondered what my father planned to do, and if I should instead join him in Kobe. My heart began to beat faster with each thought.

  After lunch, Matsu checked to see if I needed anything. When he saw that I had eaten and was feeling much better, he seemed to relax as he picked up my empty dishes and carried them back into the kitchen. I must have fallen asleep, only to awaken a few hours later to find the house completely quiet. I lay in bed and listened for any sounds of Matsu moving around the kitchen: the scraping of a stool against the wooden floor, or the dull clink of metal as he sharpened his knives. When I heard nothing, I felt strangely alone and afraid. Then when the wind suddenly blew, the shoji windows shook as if the whole house was moving.

  I rose from the futon, my back sore from lying down so long. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and then out into the garden. There was no sign of Matsu anywhere. I wondered where he had gone as I stood alone, amidst the black pines and the blooming Japanese quince. I breathed in slowly to settle my nerves. Unlike yesterday, the sweet, intoxicating smells of the garden embraced me, surrounding me with a deep sense of comfort.

  Matsu didn’t return until almost evening. I was in my room, trying to read a book when I heard
his heavy steps in the genken. A few moments later he slid open my shoji door, and bowed quickly to let me know he had returned.

  “How are you?” he asked abruptly.

  “I’m feeling better,” I answered. I felt silly now for having been afraid when he was gone.

  Matsu stared down at me for a moment, then rubbed his cheek and gave a soft grunt of approval. He appeared more at ease, his face softer in the evening light. I wanted to ask him where he’d been, or tell him how I’d been worrying both about him, and about this insane war that was quickly approaching my family and friends. I sat up on my futon hoping to continue our conversation, but Matsu had already turned away, hurrying to the kitchen to begin our evening meal.