The Moonflower Page 5

  She called Laurie in to get her ready for lunch just before Nan’s maid came for them. Isa-san arrived promptly at twelve-thirty and, unlike the servants in Jerome’s house, she wore western dress—a neat blouse and skirt, with a western style cloth coat over them, and her hair was bobbed and waved. She spoke a little English and was happy to air it as she led them the short distance uphill.

  Nan Horner’s small house was in modified Japanese style, with one or two western rooms. Luncheon was served in a Japanese room where, to Laurie’s delight, they sat on green silk cushions—zabuton—on the floor, centered around a brazier of charcoal which Nan called a hibachi.

  “Japanese rooms are wonderful to live in, except in winter,” Nan said. “But maybe that’s what makes the Japanese a hardy race. I have a fireplace in my office, so I can keep fairly warm. In summer I set up a small table and chairs there on the veranda and have my meals practically in the garden.”

  Even now, the snowy garden seemed very close through the sliding glass doors that held away the outdoors. Winter sparrows hopped about in the snow feeding on crumbs which Nan had flung out to them, and snow-laden branches made a delicate pattern against the sky.

  Marcia found herself studying Nan with more than a little interest. She found her a rather handsome, forthright woman of whom Jerome might well be fond. But to read anything more into the relationship would be foolish, Marcia assured herself, on guard now against the rancor she had felt the previous evening.

  “I hope this is our last snowfall,” Nan said. “It’s nearly March and the camellias will be out soon. Spring comes quickly in Japan. You’re lucky to be here for the spring season.”

  “I know,” Marcia said. “I’ve read so much about Japan—I’m looking forward to the flowers,” and was relieved Nan seemed to take it for granted that she would stay.

  Today Nan wore a full brown skirt and a burnt-orange cardigan. Her short hair had been brushed carelessly back and her face seemed more angular than ever beneath deep-set dark eyes. She reclined with easy grace on a floor cushion, which Marcia’s pencil-slim skirt made sitting on the floor more difficult.

  “There are so few foreign houses available in Kyoto,” Nan said. “Besides, Japan is my home and I’m used to the customs. Except for heating arrangements, I find them comfortable.”

  Isa-san knelt beside them, stirring the beef and vegetables of sukiyaki in a modern electric frying pan.

  Marcia found the simplicity of the room restful and attractive. There were no furnishings other than the low lacquered table on which the meal was being served. In one corner was an indented alcove with a hanging scroll of painted plum blossoms, a graceful branch in the vase beneath it.

  “That’s the tokonoma—the alcove of honor,” Nan said. “We had trouble with the Occupation people at first. They didn’t know any better and they shocked the Japanese by using those alcoves for storage purposes and goodness knows what.”

  “Did you live in Japan before the war?” Marcia asked.

  “I’m a B.I.J.,” Nan told her. “Born in Japan. My father ran an export business for many years out here. I grew up in the business, so to speak, and when my parents died before the war, I went right on with his work. When I saw trouble coming, I returned to relatives I’d visited a few times in the States. But I came out again right after the war ended and I’m back in exporting now. At first the Occupation used me as an interpreter.” She gave Marcia a level glance. “That’s how I met Jerry Talbot. I was assigned to the group he was working with in Hiroshima.”

  “Then you really did know him from the time he first came to Japan,” Marcia said.

  The sukiyaki was ready now, and Isa-san served it over rice in small bowls. Marcia and Laurie had both practiced with chopsticks a few times in San Francisco, so they ate as Nan did, though with considerably less skill.

  “When you dine in real Japanese style,” Nan said, “the rice comes last. But Americans like it with the meat and vegetables.”

  Throughout the meal Nan Horner seemed friendly enough. She kept the talk going, cheerfully, impersonally, encouraging Laurie to talk about her school and the things she liked to do for fun. But all the while Marcia felt little warmth. She sensed that the other woman was performing a charitable duty, rather than welcoming Jerome’s wife. Neither liking Marcia, nor disliking her, merely doing what needed to be done. In spite of her earlier resolution, Marcia’s sense of uneasiness about Nan gradually returned.

  When they had finished eating, their hostess got up agilely, tugged her skirt into line and thrust up the sleeves of her cardigan.

  “For the summer months I like to get into a cotton yukata at home—that’s the cool summer kimono—but Japanese dress is no good in wintertime unless you wear long flannel underwear, as of course the men do. Even under western business suits. It’s not aesthetic, but it keeps them warm. Come along to my office where you can be more comfortable.”

  Marcia was glad to get up and stretch cramped legs. A narrow polished hall led to a room near the entrance. There a welcome fire burned in the grate and there was a desk, a sofa, and comfortable chairs. Over the mantel hung a New Hampshire snow scene and Nan nodded at it wryly.

  “Just to remind me where I stem from. My parents came from New England, though I seem to have taken root out here. I like Japan and the Japanese. And of course Kyoto is the place in the world that I know best.”

  Laurie was drifting around the room looking at everything with her usual eager interest. Bookshelves lined one wall, crowded with the lore of Japan, and there were other shelves with art objects on them. Marcia picked up a small rounded vase with plump sides glazed in a soft dark red, a design of storks and leaves in white and green against the red.

  “That’s an old piece of cloisonné,” Nan said. “Perfect of its kind. I like the way a thing has a right to exist in Japan merely because it’s beautiful. It needs to serve no other purpose. Maybe there’s a lesson for the rest of us in that. Not that the contemplation of beauty alone will move the world ahead. I don’t hold for clinging only to the past hi Japan. New generations must be served—but I hope they don’t forget their heritage.”

  Marcia turned the plump little vase in her hands. It was a delight both to the eye and to the touch and she could imagine the artist’s joy in such work.

  “I envy you in a way,” Nan said. “Seeing Japan for the first time. Seeing it with a fresh eye. But what made you take so long about coming?”

  Startled by the sharp question, Marcia threw a hasty glance at Laurie. The child had carried a book of colored pictures over to the hearthrug and was studying it, paying no attention to her elders.

  “The time never seemed right for coming until now,” Marcia said quietly. “Laurie was in school and—”

  “You’ve taken her out of school now, I suppose?” Nan’s tone was dry. “Sit down over here where it’s comfortable.” She patted a big armchair and then dropped into a swivel chair behind the desk.

  Marcia sat down without comment. She did not want to be quizzed by Nan Horner. Her reasons for not coming to Japan were too personal and private, and they were no fault of her own.

  Nan removed the top of a small brass incense burner on her desk, dropped in a cone of incense, lighted it and replaced the top. Her fingers moved absently and a thoughtful frown creased her forehead.

  “I used to wonder about you,” she said, not looking at Marcia now. “After Jerry married you, that is. I used to wonder what sort of woman you were when you didn’t come out here to be with him. It could have been arranged, I thought, if you had wanted to come.”

  At this direct attack, Marcia sat up suddenly. “That’s not fair! You don’t know anything about it.”

  “Don’t I? Well, maybe not. But I thought he needed you and you weren’t where you belonged as his wife.”

  This was outrageous meddling. Marcia checked the angry words that rose to her lips, but her answer was curt. “I always wanted to come,” she said simply.

  The sce
nt of sandalwood drifted up from the brass burner in a thin blue ribbon of smoke. Nan sniffed it absently.

  “If I had been his wife, I’d have come. I wouldn’t have let anything block me. I might as well say these things before Jerry gets here. They need to be said.”

  Marcia found that her lips had a sudden tendency to tremble and she tried to steady them. She mustn’t let this woman’s words upset her.

  Nan glanced in her direction and her manner softened unexpectedly. “Never mind. Though you haven’t said so, it’s none of my business. And of course you were ridiculously young for him. And still are, for that matter.”

  “You sound like my mother,” Marcia said. “How does any third person know what is right for a man and a woman?” Then she changed the subject firmly to make it clear that she would discuss Jerome no further with Nan Horner. “Tell me about the Japanese family that lives next door to us. Did you say Minato was the name? I saw two children outside this morning and a very pretty young woman who seemed to be their mother.”

  “That would be Chiyo. She’s pretty all right, and she comes from a good family. It’s a mystery how she ever came to marry Ichiro Minato. I suppose it was the war.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Marcia said.

  “Ichiro grew up to be a soldier. The military government did a good job on him, and he doesn’t know how to be anything else. Chiyo is like a doll—delicate and fragile. I’m not unsympathetic to Ichiro’s problems. In fact, I’m rather sorry for him. But there’s such a contrast between the two of them.”

  “She wasn’t very friendly,” Marcia commented. “She took her children into the house as if she didn’t want them to play with Laurie. And she didn’t return my greeting in a very friendly fashion.”

  Nan played with the top of the incense burner. “If I were you, I’d leave the family next door strictly alone. You’ll find most Japanese eager to be courteous and friendly. They harbor no hard feelings and they don’t expect us to. But this situation is out of the ordinary.”

  “In what way?” Marcia asked.

  Nan got up from the desk and went over to see what Laurie was looking at. “Take my advice and stay away from the Minatos,” she said, closing the subject. “What’s that book you’ve found, Laurie?”

  Marcia knew that a door had been shut in her face. Now she felt more curious than ever about the Minatos. And especially about the lovely Chiyo.

  Laurie had risen from the hearth and was showing the book she had found to Nan. It was a book of masks.

  “I was looking for that horrid face that hangs on the wall in Daddy’s room,” Laurie said. “Do you think it might be in this book?”

  “It’s a mask of dark cherry wood,” Marcia explained. “It seemed such an evil-looking thing that we covered it up for the night.”

  Nan laughed wryly. “I know the one you mean. In fact, I found that mask for Jerry. It’s not an original, but it’s a very good copy. It represents the villain from an old tragedy. He was not, as you might surmise, a very nice fellow. But he’s not in that book, Laurie.”

  The sound of the bell at the gate tinkled through the house and Isa-san came bowing in to announce a visitor. “Yamada-san,” she said. Nan seemed to hesitate for a moment, then she told the maid to show the visitor in.

  “You’ll like my friend Yamada-san,” Nan said. “He is a gentleman of the old school. And a publisher of some of the best literature appearing in Japan today.”

  Yamada-san appeared in the study door, a small, elderly figure in a dark gray western suit. He was bald except for a ring of gray hair around the back of his skull, his face and head the color of old ivory, with heavy gray eyebrows bushed above keen, sparkling eyes. Yamada-san’s was a venerable, kindly, intelligent face. He bowed low in the doorway, and then came in to shake Nan’s hand in the western manner.

  Nan introduced him and it seemed to Marcia that the name “Talbot” made him cast a penetrating look, immediately hidden by lowered lids.

  Again there were bows all round, and Marcia found herself bowing too, as one did so easily in Japan. Yamada-san produced a flat box which he handed to Nan. It was of rough-textured navy blue cardboard, open along one side, with a white label pasted upon it. Marcia saw that it served as a cover for a square red book, gold-lettered along the spine. As Nan slid it from the box her expression seemed a little sad.

  “So it’s ready,” she said. “And very handsome too. You’ve done a beautiful job with this, Yamada-san. Thank you for bringing it to me. This is my copy?”

  “Is for you,” Yamada-san said, bowing benevolently.

  Nan seemed touched. “Thank you. I appreciate this. Please sit down. Isa-san is bringing tea.”

  The publisher seated himself, clearly pleased by Nan’s reaction. As Nan slipped the book back into its box, Marcia held out her hand.

  “May I see it?” she asked.

  “You won’t be able to make much sense of it,” Nan warned. “It’s all in Japanese.”

  The leaves were creamy and rough-textured, with three lines of Japanese characters running vertically down each page.

  “There seems to be very little printing,” Marcia said, and held the book open so Laurie could look at it too.

  “That’s because it’s poetry,” Nan explained. “The form is very simple and traditional. An exact number of syllables is required. I read it in manuscript and tried my hand at translating a few of the poems. Though I’ve lost the proper syllable form in these translations. Perhaps I can give you a sample—an approximation, at least.” She took the book back. “Here is one:

  “‘Pine trees twist their limbs

  On the bare hillside—

  Samurai fighting.’”

  “What’s the name of the book?” Laurie asked, fascinated by the strange brushwork.

  “It’s called The Moonflower, after the title poem. At least that’s what we would call it. The Japanese call the plant yu gao. Gao is the word for our morning glory, and yu means evening. Here’s the poem:

  “‘Ghost white spirit flower

  Open to the moon;

  Death comes at dawn.’

  “Of course mere isn’t any rhyming. That doesn’t matter in Japanese. It’s the symbolic picture, the delicacy of the thought that is considered important. Am I right, Yamada-san?”

  The venerable head nodded in dignity. “Many fine thoughts about death here,” he said, leaning over to tap the pages with a forefinger. “Very noble, very sad.”

  Nan slipped the book back into its case with an air of finality and laid it on the desk. Marcia had the feeling that her hostess wanted to see the publisher alone, and when Isa-san came in with a bamboo-handled teapot and little cups on a lacquered tray, Marcia rose and said that she and Laurie must get back to the house.

  Nan offered no objection, but saw them to the door, while Yamada-san sipped his tea and waited. When they had their coats on, Marcia held out her hand to Nan.

  “Thank you for inviting us for lunch.”

  “Jerry will be home soon,” Nan said. “He’s sure to be along any day now because of—”

  “The full moon?” Marcia said. “What did you mean by that exactly?”

  Laurie had her galoshes on and she ran ahead into the yard. Nan put her hand suddenly on Marcia’s shoulder.

  “Listen to me, please, Mrs. Talbot. You’ve come to Japan too late. The wisest thing for you to do now is turn right around and go home. Go home before Jerry even knows you’re here. Believe me, that’s the only answer. It’s too late for anything else.”

  Marcia stared at her in complete astonishment. Did this woman actually think that having come all this way, she would give up and go back? But before she could find words of protest, Nan held out her hand in a formal good-by. There was nothing to do but follow Laurie to the gate, where Isa-san came to bow them out.

  They walked home along the snowy lane between bamboo fences, while the tiled eaves of stepping-stone houses, each a level lower than its uphill neighbor, seemed to
march down the hill beside them. They went in through their own gate and took off their shoes and galoshes.

  In the entryway stood a man’s pair of shoes and Marcia’s heart began to thud. Laurie squealed with excitement at sight of the shoes and darted into the hallway. Jerome stood near the foot of the stairs, with Marcia’s cable in his hands, while Sumie-san and Yasuko-san hovered about him in eager welcome.

  5.

  The dim hallway seemed an endless length as Marcia moved toward her husband. The moment was here, but she was no longer keyed up in preparation for it. She was suddenly frightened. Always she had pictured herself running eagerly into his arms, and now she could not. She had told herself that she would know the answer to her coming the moment she saw his face, and now she did not.

  Jerome Talbot motioned the servants away with a careless gesture. His leanness, as always, made his height appear greater than it was, and his face seemed even thinner than Marcia remembered. His eyes were the same, though—hollow-set and dark, with vital fires burning in their depths. There were new lines about the mouth, a feathering of gray at the temples that caught at her heart. Because he was older than she was, she had always dreaded any sign of his aging. Love for him rushed through her in a wave of longing, yet now he regarded her somberly, without welcome, and she could not move toward him.

  It was Laurie who broke the cold awkwardness of the moment. To Laurie this was her adored and fascinating father, and she did not take time to look for any difference in him. In an instant she had catapulted the length of the hall and hurled herself into his arms. He swung her up automatically and planted a kiss on her cheek, then set her down again. She folded both arms about one of his and clung to him in an ecstasy of affection.

  “Are you surprised?” she cried. “We did send you that cable, only you didn’t get it in time. But I think a surprise is nicer, anyway. Don’t you think so, Daddy?”

  Marcia felt her throat constrict. She knew so well how Laurie felt. The child had flung herself upon him in an outpouring of affection, as if by the fervor of her devotion she could force from him the affection she longed for in return. The temptation to imitate her daughter was strong, but Marcia held herself firmly in check.