The Samurai’s Garden

Matsu continues to surprise me. Usually he listens to pieces by Mozart or Chopin, which remind me of Pie and her White Russian piano teacher, or to the high female voice of a newscaster declaring “Shanghai’s foolishness at not accepting the good intentions of the Imperial Army.” Only once have I had the courage to ask Matsu what he felt about his country’s victories in China. He was in the kitchen reading a magazine, as his radio played from his room. He looked up at me, and simply said, “Japan is like a young woman who thinks too much of herself. She’s bound to get herself into trouble.” Then he looked back at his magazine and continued to read. I remained silent. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem to need anything more.

Matsu lowered Kenzo’s body from the wooden beam. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch his friend. I could hear the low thud of Kenzo’s body as it fell to the counter. Stunned, I stepped closer to see his blank, bulging eyes and the bluish skin of his face, which looked waxy and unreal. I turned toward Matsu, who stared hard at his friend and didn’t move for a long while. Then he bent down toward Kenzo, whispered some inaudible words into his ear, and carefully closed his eyes. Without saying another word, Matsu turned around and walked slowly out of the tea house, through the waiting crowd, and down the road to home.

“The next thing I knew, Sachi had stumbled, while the crowd kept pushing forward. […] I had just a moment to grab Sachi from behind and lift her to her feet. She was so light, it took so little effort. By the time she turned around, I had disappeared into the crowd […] When the festival was over, Tomoko spread the rumor that it was Kenzo who had saved Sachi, even though he had been carrying the shrine all the time.”

“Didn't Sachi or Kenzo say anything?”

“Sachi never mentioned it, until now. It’s sometimes easier to believe what everyone else believes. Besides, they were sweet on one another, and what could be more romantic?

“And now that she knows the truth?” I asked.

“Sachi only said, ‘Sometimes you can't see what is right in front of you. I’m sorry, Matsu-san.’”

“‘Those years are like another lifetime,’ I told her.”

If I had been brave like some of the others, I would be in the other world now. I still remember the salty ocean water, stained red with blood that morning so many years ago. And I often recall my father’s voice telling me how the samurai maintain their honor by committing seppuku. […]

My father had hoped that by ending my life, he could retain the honor of our family. And in the end, I didn’t even allow him to have that. It would have simply been doing ko, submitting to his wishes. It was an obligation, the supreme duty of a child to adhere to one’s parents, but I failed my father. Only now, as I move toward the end of my life, can I begin to understand the enormous task that was asked of me, and to forgive myself for not completing it.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Tomoko,” he whispered.

“What about Tomoko?” I asked, swallowing the last of the bitter tea.

Matsu gathered up what little was left of the food and wrapped it back up in the furoshiki. “I followed you and the others down to the beach yesterday morning. I wondered if you might try to find your way to peace as she did.”

“I couldn’t,” I began to cry, turning away in shame. Then Matsu leaned over close to my ear. He smelled of sweat and the earth as he whispered, “It takes greater courage to live.”

I remember I turned to Matsu as we stood looking at the rock garden and asked, “Did you know it would be so simple and beautiful?”

“I knew its beauty would appear if we worked hard enough,” he answered.

“But I never expected it to be like this.”

Matsu smiled. “Beauty can be found in most places.”

I turned to face him, really looking for the first time at his thick, strong features. They were so different from Tomoko’s, I thought again that they couldn't really be related. After a moment I said, “I thought I no longer had any desire for beauty. I’ve had it all my life and look what it's done for me!”

Matsu then shook his head, looking out toward the garden. “Sachi-san, you’ve only known the ordinary kind of beauty which appears on the outside. Perhaps you now desire something deeper.”

My heart felt heavy knowing I wouldn't be able to see my mother or Pie anytime soon. And hard as I tried, I couldn't remember any Uncle Sing.

A sudden, high scraping noise coming from the garden startled me from my thoughts. I jumped up and hurried outside to see what it was. There in the far end of the garden was Matsu, sharpening something on a spinning grindstone.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Matsu waited until the last turn of the wheel slowed, then came to a complete stop. He held up the knife so I could clearly see its ivory handle and honed blade. “It was my father’s fishing knife,” he said.

The thickness of age showed on her body, and like Matsu’s, there was a certain strength in it. But it was Fumiko’s face that captured my attention. It was one I would have loved to paint. She was beautiful, not in the way that Tomoko must have been, nor did she have the roughness of Matsu. Her attraction wasn’t in the form of perfect features, but from the deep wrinkles, age spots, and eyes that have seen much of what life has to offer. Fumiko had a face that had been enriched through time.

“I’m very happy to meet you,” I bowed again.

“You are just as Matsu described you,” she said, looking toward him.

“And how did he describe me?” I asked, speaking louder, above the noise of the crowd.

“That you looked just like your oji-san.”

Matsu continues to surprise me. Usually he listens to pieces by Mozart or Chopin, which remind me of Pie and her White Russian piano teacher, or to the high female voice of a newscaster declaring “Shanghai’s foolishness at not accepting the good intentions of the Imperial Army.” Only once have I had the courage to ask Matsu what he felt about his country’s victories in China. He was in the kitchen reading a magazine, as his radio played from his room. He looked up at me, and simply said, “Japan is like a young woman who thinks too much of herself. She’s bound to get herself into trouble.” Then he looked back at his magazine and continued to read. I remained silent. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem to need anything more.

Matsu lowered Kenzo’s body from the wooden beam. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch his friend. I could hear the low thud of Kenzo’s body as it fell to the counter. Stunned, I stepped closer to see his blank, bulging eyes and the bluish skin of his face, which looked waxy and unreal. I turned toward Matsu, who stared hard at his friend and didn’t move for a long while. Then he bent down toward Kenzo, whispered some inaudible words into his ear, and carefully closed his eyes. Without saying another word, Matsu turned around and walked slowly out of the tea house, through the waiting crowd, and down the road to home.

“The next thing I knew, Sachi had stumbled, while the crowd kept pushing forward. […] I had just a moment to grab Sachi from behind and lift her to her feet. She was so light, it took so little effort. By the time she turned around, I had disappeared into the crowd […] When the festival was over, Tomoko spread the rumor that it was Kenzo who had saved Sachi, even though he had been carrying the shrine all the time.”

“Didn't Sachi or Kenzo say anything?”

“Sachi never mentioned it, until now. It’s sometimes easier to believe what everyone else believes. Besides, they were sweet on one another, and what could be more romantic?

“And now that she knows the truth?” I asked.

“Sachi only said, ‘Sometimes you can't see what is right in front of you. I’m sorry, Matsu-san.’”

“‘Those years are like another lifetime,’ I told her.”

If I had been brave like some of the others, I would be in the other world now. I still remember the salty ocean water, stained red with blood that morning so many years ago. And I often recall my father’s voice telling me how the samurai maintain their honor by committing seppuku. […]

My father had hoped that by ending my life, he could retain the honor of our family. And in the end, I didn’t even allow him to have that. It would have simply been doing ko, submitting to his wishes. It was an obligation, the supreme duty of a child to adhere to one’s parents, but I failed my father. Only now, as I move toward the end of my life, can I begin to understand the enormous task that was asked of me, and to forgive myself for not completing it.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Tomoko,” he whispered.

“What about Tomoko?” I asked, swallowing the last of the bitter tea.

Matsu gathered up what little was left of the food and wrapped it back up in the furoshiki. “I followed you and the others down to the beach yesterday morning. I wondered if you might try to find your way to peace as she did.”

“I couldn’t,” I began to cry, turning away in shame. Then Matsu leaned over close to my ear. He smelled of sweat and the earth as he whispered, “It takes greater courage to live.”

I remember I turned to Matsu as we stood looking at the rock garden and asked, “Did you know it would be so simple and beautiful?”

“I knew its beauty would appear if we worked hard enough,” he answered.

“But I never expected it to be like this.”

Matsu smiled. “Beauty can be found in most places.”

I turned to face him, really looking for the first time at his thick, strong features. They were so different from Tomoko’s, I thought again that they couldn't really be related. After a moment I said, “I thought I no longer had any desire for beauty. I’ve had it all my life and look what it's done for me!”

Matsu then shook his head, looking out toward the garden. “Sachi-san, you’ve only known the ordinary kind of beauty which appears on the outside. Perhaps you now desire something deeper.”

My heart felt heavy knowing I wouldn't be able to see my mother or Pie anytime soon. And hard as I tried, I couldn't remember any Uncle Sing.

A sudden, high scraping noise coming from the garden startled me from my thoughts. I jumped up and hurried outside to see what it was. There in the far end of the garden was Matsu, sharpening something on a spinning grindstone.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Matsu waited until the last turn of the wheel slowed, then came to a complete stop. He held up the knife so I could clearly see its ivory handle and honed blade. “It was my father’s fishing knife,” he said.

The thickness of age showed on her body, and like Matsu’s, there was a certain strength in it. But it was Fumiko’s face that captured my attention. It was one I would have loved to paint. She was beautiful, not in the way that Tomoko must have been, nor did she have the roughness of Matsu. Her attraction wasn’t in the form of perfect features, but from the deep wrinkles, age spots, and eyes that have seen much of what life has to offer. Fumiko had a face that had been enriched through time.

“I’m very happy to meet you,” I bowed again.

“You are just as Matsu described you,” she said, looking toward him.

“And how did he describe me?” I asked, speaking louder, above the noise of the crowd.

“That you looked just like your oji-san.”