Plum Wine: A Novel

Chapter 24

24 T he rainy season began in early June, days of gentle soaking rains. Barbara woke to the sound of it on the tile roof and to the odors of wet earth and leaves that blew in through the open window of the three-mat room. Remembering that Michi’s mother had called these the plum rains, she went several times to the plum grove where the golden fruits grew larger every week. At the edge of Michi’s garden, and elsewhere on the campus, there were hydrangeas in bloom, delicate masses of blue. Barbara picked armfuls of the flowers and buried her face in them, their heavy wetness luxuriant against her skin. She put vases of hydrangeas in every room of her apartment; their sensuous presence made her long for Seiji. After their visit to Boso, she and Seiji had seen each other only a few times, and when they were together, he seemed nervous and remote . His aunt had reestablished her presence in the teahouse, so most of their meetings were furtive encounters in the small room 4 218 4 4 219 4 next to the pottery. One day Seiji said he was looking for another place they could meet, “somewhere we may be private together and continue to make our translation.” “I hope it will be soon,” she said, putting her arms around him. “Very soon,” he promised. The first couple of weeks in June, Seiji was busy working on new pots and delivering them to Mashiko; this was fine, she told herself, there were papers to grade and the end of semester exams to prepare. They would be together during the summer holiday, perhaps afterwards as well. Meanwhile, she had her Japanese to work on. She was proud of how well the lessons were going, though Mr. Wada said she needed to take more patience in learning the written characters. He complimented her on her improved speaking ability, but she was discouraged by conversations she tried out on the train; often her comments to fellow passengers set off a torrent of language she could not understand. One night Barbara went to the main building to call her mother. “Bobbie?” came her sleepy voice. “I’m sorry, I called too early.” “Usually I’d be up by now, you know me. But lately I’ve just been so busy that I’m in a state of total exhaustion.” Barbara leaned against the wall while her mother talked about her writing, the bridge club luncheon she’d hosted, staying up until the wee hours cutting the edges off watercress sandwiches. “I’m in love,” Barbara blurted out. “What? Now this is something worth waking up for. Is it someone at the consulate? Or that Fulbright man you mentioned?” “Mr. McCann?” Barbara laughed. “No. He’s Japanese. His name is Seiji Okada.” “A Japanese?” “Yes. Why not?” “Well—it never occurred to me, somehow. Japanese men are so—short,” her mother said with a laugh. “They’ve grown since the war.” “They have?” “Better nutrition.” “Well, that’s good.” Both of them began to laugh. “Oh, me.” Barbara could imagine her mother wiping her eyes. “What does this man do?” “He’s a potter, an artist, wonderfully talented. And he’s just great—so sensitive and funny.” “Be careful, Bobbie, you don’t want to get yourself into a mess.” “What kind of mess?” “You know what I mean. Rushing into something you’ll regret, like I did.” There was a long silence. “I’ve got to go, Mother,” she said. “I’m late for dinner at Miss Ota’s. “Miss who’s?” “Ota.” “Well, you don’t need to snap my head off.” “I’m sorry, Mother. Goodbye.” She walked back to Sango-kan, and went to her apartment to brush her teeth and comb her hair before going to Miss Ota’s. Regret had always been her mother’s theme. She’d heard the story many times, how her mother had gotten married too quickly, swept off her feet, she said, by her father’s disarming ways. By the time she realized she’d made a mistake, it was too late, she was pregnant. She’d never added, Barbara realized, that she had no regret about having her. Leaning close to the mirror she thought of the Zen koan to “describe the face you had before you were born.” She held to the edge of the sink, looking into her eyes until the face around them was...