Plum Wine: A Novel

Chapter 16

4 135 4 16 W hen Barbara returned to Sango-kan, she was glad to find Mrs. Ueda there, with dinner prepared for her. She’d imagined a dark, deserted building. It was unsettling , however, that Mrs. Ueda had known exactly when she was returning—apparently Miss Fujizawa’s secretary had called the hotel to inquire about her schedule. If she’d had a reservation with Seiji at the ryokan, it would be all over campus by now. Mrs. Ueda had already set the table and put, beside Barbara’s place, a letter bearing a Scots postmark. It was from her father, a few scrawled sentences and a photograph of him and Gina on a golf course. “I’ve wanted to golf here ever since I got my first chipping iron. How are you doing in the land of the geisha and the rising sun? Sure do miss you, Baby. Please write your old man.” The picture had been taken from a distance, he and Gina tiny figures on an emerald green fairway. She could just make out his silver hair and dark eyes; he looked as far away as he was. Mrs. Ueda was studying the picture through her reading glasses. “A distinguished looking man. And your mother is quite youthful.” “She’s my stepmother. My parents are divorced.” “Ah. And has your mother remarried?” Barbara shook her head. “She’s too bitter.” “It was his decision, then.” “Yes, though she was really just as unhappy. I think she wishes she’d been the one to break things off.” “I am sorry for her. After my husband returned from the war he took up with a pan-pan girl, a prostitute. I was bitter too, for quite some time.” “Did you get divorced?” “No,” she said with an abrupt laugh. “He drank himself to death with sake.” “I’m very sorry,” Barbara said. “How about Michi-san? Did she have a happy marriage?” Mrs. Ueda sighed and shook her head. “Poor Nakamoto’s life was a hard one. Her husband was killed during the war.” “But—before that?” “They had only a brief time together. It was happy enough, I suppose.” “Was it an arranged marriage?” “I believe so, yes.” Barbara helped Mrs. Ueda bring dinner to the table, and they sat down to eat. “I’m afraid the pork is altogether too dry,” Mrs. Ueda said. “No, it’s delicious. And so kind of you to have it waiting for me.” “I’m afraid I haven’t the knack for domesticity like Nakamoto.” “I wondered if you have a certain print of hers, by Yoshitoshi— the fox woman leaving her child.” “I do not have such a one by any artist. I would recall the subject .” Mrs. Ueda filled her mouth with pork, and chewing, studied Barbara. “How have you heard of this print?” 4 136 4 4 137 4 “Michi-san and I had several conversations about foxes—she told me her mother claimed to understand their language. I happen to have a fox woman scroll with me that my mother got here years ago, and I’m interested in all those stories.” She took a deep breath; she was babbling. “I know that Michi-san had this print at one time.” “Perhaps it was lost in wartime. So many things were lost in war.” When she went back upstairs, Barbara took the black bag to the three-mat room. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the tansu and began unwrapping Chie’s bottles in order. There was nothing unusual inside the first few papers: no fox woman print, just the sheets of calligraphy she’d come to expect. The writing on the 1939 paper was strange, more like random brush strokes than calligraphy. The same was true of the sheets wrapped around the next few bottles. There were no wines for the years 1943 or ’44. The 1945 bottle had several thicknesses of paper around it. Maybe the print was here. She peeled off layer after layer of blank rice paper. There must be something important inside. The final layer was soft white cloth; the bottle beneath it felt lumpy and strange. She laid it on the tatami to undo the cord and cloth. For a moment she stared, her mind moving slowly. The bottle was empty, its sides fused together. The glass looked squeezed, as though by a huge hand, and the neck was twisted back against itself. She stood, dizzy, and walked into...