Plum Wine: A Novel

Chapter 12

12 T he Hakone Hotel, a large stucco building perched on a steep hillside, faced Lake Ashi. In her article about Hakone, Barbara’s mother had written about the famous inverted view of Mt. Fuji reflected in the lake, but today Fuji was hidden behind clouds. Surrounding the water were large hills, their peaks sheared off by the mist. The hotel lobby was packed with an Australian tour group. Barbara was quickly registered and shown to her room, which was large, Western, and antiseptic looking. There was no view of the lake, only the back side of a hill. She was early. She unpacked and looked through the bag she’d bought for carrying Michi’s papers. Made of stiff leather and shaped like a doctor’s bag, it had kept the fragile rolls of paper from being crushed. In the main part of the bag were the six papers she’d brought, three written by Michi’s mother and three of Michi’s; beneath the papers was a bottle of Michi’s plum wine wrapped in a 4 104 4 4 105 4 towel. In one side pocket of the bag were Barbara’s journal, with her mother’s article on Hakone tucked inside, and her translation book; in the other side pocket were Michi’s foxes, in their silks and papers, nested in a cashmere sweater, and—added at the last minute—her diaphragm. It was bold of her to have made this arrangement, what amounted to a rendezvous. Though she did have the excuse of visiting one of her mother’s “sites.” She sat on the bed and unfolded the brittle article her mother had written in 1938.   , ’    by Miss Janet Girard My hosts were determined that I should not miss Hakone, considered one of the seven beauty spots of Japan. Located in the Mt. Fuji area, Hakone is known for its salubrious climate, its mineral spas said to cure everything from dyspepsia to impotence, and its spectacular views of Fuji-san. We were just in time for luncheon at the sumptuous Hotel Fujiya—and what a feast it was! Squab, bass from nearby Lake Ashi, roasted quail eggs served on dainty ivory skewers. There was a platter of what I took to be some form of pickled eggs but which, one luncheon companion informed me, had been preserved in the ground for 100 years, and excavated in honor of my visit. (Oh you shouldn’t have, I said, and devoutly meant it!) Barbara skimmed the rest of the article, which ended with a description of the Hakone Shrine, a haven in battle for hundreds of years. There was an allusion to Japan’s military activities in China, with one “mama-san” unable to hold back her tears at the thought of her son in battle. Not a frisson of nostalgia or regret. She refolded the article. If Michi were here, she’d probably be sharing this room with her; they’d have talked about her mother. But then she wouldn’t be meeting Seiji. She felt a stab of guilt mixed with excitement. What would Michi think about this meeting? She took the journal out of the bag. “Dear Michi,” she wrote, “Here in Hakone to translate your writing with Seiji Okada. I feel so drawn to him. If I saw him on the street I’d turn around and follow him. It’s frightening. . . .” The telephone shrilled. She jumped. A gentleman had arrived for her, the desk clerk said in a neutral voice. He was seated in the lobby, but rose, bowing, as she entered. He looked as nervous as she, his face solemn, his clothes carefully considered—the sweater vest, the good brown pants, shined shoes. “Shall we go sightseeing?” she said. “Yes. Many fine sights here.” “I’d like to visit the Hakone Shrine where my mother was—it’s across the lake.” They walked outside. The large tourist boat was just departing, a large sluggish wake fanned out behind it. A row of people were leaning against the rail. “I think we may hire a private boat,” he said. They walked down the hill to the boat dock. There were low clouds and patches of mist on the water. Inside the boathouse was a young man smoking and listening to a song on the radio. Seiji spoke to him in Japanese, then said to Barbara , “He can take us across to the shrine.” They stepped into a small boat, an inboard...