Plum Wine: A Novel

Chapter 9

4 79 4 9 T hat night Barbara awoke suddenly, her heart pounding. A fox had been speaking to her in a language she’d understood in her dream, but the content was gone. All that remained was a sense of danger. She turned on the light and looked at her scroll. The fox woman’s face was enigmatic but benign. Her translation notebook lay beside the chest. She picked it up and thumbed through the pages. Seiji hadn’t wanted to read that one paper. She’d had to prod him to translate the most important looking section in the 1965 entry. She pulled open the top drawer of the tansu, releasing the pungent odor of camphor into the cold air, and took out the 1965 bottle. The loosely wrapped paper slid off easily. She studied the squeezed-in lines, then looked at her notes. Why would he have been reluctant to read about the weather on New Year’s? Only I read these papers, he’d said, hitting his chest, I, Okada Seiji. Maybe she should have someone else have a look at that section. She poured some wine into a cup already beside the tansu and arranged the electric blanket around her shoulders. She could take the paper to the International House—Michi-san had introduced her to the librarian, who would probably know of some translators. Though it would be much quicker if she found someone on campus. She went through the possibilities she’d considered before . . . one of the students, Miss Ota, Mrs. Nakano. Mrs. Nakano’s office was just across the hall from Mr. McCann’s. Mr. McCann. Of course. He was fluent in Japanese. Several times he’d urged her to call on him whenever she had any difficulty. “Anything I can do for you, dear.” After drinking the wine she straightened the blanket and lay beneath it, turning from one side to another. Seiji would be furious if he knew she was going behind his back. The next morning she went to Mr. McCann’s office. The door was open. She looked in at him bent over his desk, reading a student paper. “Ah, Barbara.” He looked up at her, then stood, brushing back his unkempt grey hair with both hands. “Come in, come in—I was just about to make some coffee.” She took a seat across from his desk. He made instant coffee, smiling at her several times, as if to hold her in place; there was always a slightly desperate edge to his friendliness. Mrs. Nakano had told her that Mr. McCann’s wife had returned quite suddenly to the states last summer, unable to make the adjustment to Japan. He arranged the coffees, then set a box of Whitman chocolates in front of her. “Dozo,” he said, “A little indulgence from home.” “Ah. Miss Fujizawa’s source.” She bit into a chocolate covered cherry. He rustled through the candies, chose two, and sank back into his chair. “So tell me, Barbara-san, how goes it?” “I’d like to ask you a favor.” She eased the rolled up paper out of her briefcase. She noticed that her hand was shaking. 4 80 4 4 81 4 “Fire away.” “I wonder if you could translate a little piece of something.” “It would be a pleasure.” She unrolled the paper, took a deep breath. “This is confidential.” “Aren’t you the mystery woman?” When she hesitated, he said, “Of course, I understand.” She put a blank sheet of paper over the manuscript so that only the squeezed-in section showed, and carefully laid both on the desk between them. “Would you read—just that little part?” “Only this?” He tapped the edge of the paper with his middle finger , then lifted the notebook paper with a fingernail. “Only that,” she said. “A billet-doux?” He waggled his eyebrows. She said nothing. Maybe this had been a mistake. He leaned closer to the paper and followed the calligraphy with one finger. She could smell the coffee on his breath. “Composed recently, I see. January 1 of this year—only instead of 1966 it reads Showa 41. This is the Japanese form of dating—using the Emperor’s formal or death name—in this case Hirohito’s name, Reign of Peace. Some irony there, eh?” “What else does it say?” she asked, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. “The language seems feminine, I’d say...