Читать книгу A Certain Mr. Takahashi - Ann Ireland - Страница 8

Jean wakes up much earlier than intended to the sound of car doors slamming. She unzips the sleeping bag part way and stares at the ceiling. Morning light glows through the slats of louvered windows, making staff-lines on the opposite wall.

She peers over at her sister, who has curled into a ball in the corner. Probably isn’t used to sleeping without Nelson. A new thought occurs to her: has Colette changed her name? She has to know immediately. Still locked in the bag she caterpillars across the polished floor.

“Colette?”

A phlegmy sound is followed by a rearrangement of limbs.

“Colette!” Sharper now.

Colette’s eyes flutter open. “Mmm?” “What’s your name?”

An odd expression passes over Colette’s face. She rubs her eyes then draws herself up on one elbow to inspect her sister.

“I don’t get it.”

“Your last name. What are you using?”

“Oh.” She falls back onto the pillow, closes her eyes, then says, “Same old name. Colette Hopper. Don’t worry, I’m still me.”

The wedding, if you want to call it that, occurred last March. I got the phone call from Toronto late one night.

“I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

A giggle. “Marry him. Next Wednesday.”

I shook the sleep out of my eyes. “Hold on. Start again.”

“Nelson and I have decided to get married.”

“Oh.” Slow comprehension. “Why?”

Another giggle. “Why not? Anyway, I’m calling to warn you.”

“What do Mom and Dad think?”

“They don’t exactly know yet. But it can’t come as much of a surprise. We’ve been living together for two and a half years.”

“Yes, but—” I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

“You’re still so young!” “Young shmung!”

I had another thought. “You’re not pregnant?”

“God, no.” A nervous laugh. “I’m too young.”

“What’s that date again?” I gazed at the wall calendar. March was a Zen garden with raked pebbles surrounding a big rock.

“The twelfth. But I don’t want you to come up.”

“Why not?”

I’d never get back to sleep. There was a row on the street outside—someone ramming a bottle against a car.

“Because it’s not going to be a ’wedding’ wedding. We’re just hopping down to City Hall for ten minutes, then we head home, back to work.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun. What’s the point? Aren’t you going to have a party?” I began to chatter enthusiastically. “Listen-I could come up a few days before and organize something, nothing elaborate, just a few friends—”

“Thanks Jean, but en-oh. This is the way we want it, plain and simple. Private.”

“Why did you even bother phoning me?”

Outside was the sound of a siren approaching. Maybe someone was being murdered. On the phone, in the background, I could hear a man declaiming in a foreign language.

“Please, Jean.” It was a genuine plea. “It’s going to be tough enough explaining to Sam and Dad. I was counting on you to understand.”

I forced myself to sound cheery. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been asleep, and there’s a ruckus outside my window. Listen, can I at least send you guys a present? Towels? A soup tureen?”

“Nothing too bulky,” advised Colette. “We’ve got enough junk in the apartment.” She hesitated. “I’d really love you to be here— ”

“So why don’t I fly up!”

Colette sighed. “If you come that means Mom and Dad, and suddenly it’s a family event.” She paused for breath. “It’s not what we want.”

“Colette?”

“Yes?”

“Who’s that speaking in the background?”

“Oh.” Colette sounded relieved. “That’s Nelson with the Berlitz records. We’re learning Spanish. There’s just a teeny chance the paper might send us to Central America. Don’t tell anyone. It’s still up in the air.”

I gripped the receiver. Central America.

“Cuando tiene usted más apetito, al mediodía o por la noche?” the man repeated.

“Jean?”

“I’m still here.”

“I better go now. This is starting to cost.”

“Goodbye-and good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“And give my best to Nelson.”

“These are favourites of your father’s,” declares Sam. “I don’t like blue cheese at all.”

“Neither do I,” says Jean. She stands in the middle of the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist, hoping to be useful. She drinks coffee from a white mug with “A.M.” printed in giant letters on it. The kitchen is airconditioned, and Jean shivers. Ace, part spaniel, sleeps on his mat in the corner. She remembers the day they brought him home from the Humane Society in Toronto: a whimpering bald pup who slept for a week with a clock ticking in his basket.

Sam dumps a load of bread crumbs and parsley onto the built-in marble slab. “Here’s what we have to do-are you watching?”

In answer, Jean stands close by and observes the routine. Her mother takes a spoonful of the cheese mixture into her palm and rubs her hands together in a circular motion to produce a ball. Then she rolls the ball over the breadcrumbs so they stick. When this is done she absent-mindedly pops it into her mouth.

“Oh,” she grimaces. “I forgot, I don’t like these.”

There is a sudden awful smell. Ace stirs on his blanket and sweeps his tail back and forth.

“Ace!” Sam wrinkles her nose without looking at the animal.

Jean examines her mother’s hands. They are plump, almost childlike. They dive vigorously into the cheese batter for a refill.

“Where did you get the bracelet, Sam?”

Sam stops and wipes her forehead with her upper arm.

“This thing? Your Aunt Teresa gave it to me. She made it at that course she’s taking in San Miguel de Allende. What do you think?”

“It’s nice. Looks sort of Aztec.”

“I guess so.” Sam inspects the piece. Squares of turquoise have been worked into a geometric pattern against silver. “Though I don’t know how she can stand to do such finicky work. It would drive me wacko. This bracelet is her offering, since she’s not coming to the party. She even sent Martin a strange pendant with a bird on it. Can you imagine?”

“I haven’t seen her since she left Uncle Bob,” says Jean.

“Does she have a new fellow?”

“I’m sure that’s the real reason she’s not coming,” confides Sam. “I didn’t invite the chap she’s living with down there, some potter. Why should I? He’s no friend of mine, or Martin’s.” She waits for Jean to disapprove. When Jean doesn’t say anything Sam asks, “Where’s your sister?”

“Still asleep.”

“Really? I don’t know how she can with all this activity. Pour me a coffee, will you, dear?”

Jean obeys.

“Jean!”

“What?” Jean splashes hot coffee over her wrist.

Sam is pointing at her left hand. “Look how long your nails are!”

Jean’s eyes follow the direction of the point. It’s true. Since she stopped playing, her nails have grown to a normal length.

“Is that all?” She makes a fist.

Sam stares, puzzled. “Martin insists that a cellist... ”

At that moment there is an explosion of laughter, and two men burst into the room. One is Martin. He is holding a glass of Scotch in one hand and his friend’s elbow in the other.

“Look who’s here, Sam!”

Sam turns pale. She wipes her hands on her apron and says slowly, “Cody Sayles. What on earth . . . ?”

Jean scrutinizes the newcomer. He’s big, mid-forties at least, vaguely bohemian, and sports a full beard. His large head is shaved bald. Could be someone from the university. Plays the double bass, she guesses. Bass men are often bald.

“Hi, Sam,” says Cody Sayles.

Sam reluctantly extends her hand, but Cody ignores it. Instead he reaches his big arms around her and lifts her clear off the oak floor in a bear hug.

Sam endures his grip, her mouth pinched into a tight smile.

When he lets go he steps back, grinning boyishly, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his khakis.

“This is our daughter, Jean,” says Martin. “Jeannie, meet Cody—an old friend.”

“Pleased to meet you,” says Cody. He crosses the room and brushes his lips against her cheek. She feels the wiry scratch of beard.

Startled, Jean laughs.

“Forgive me,” says Cody. “It’s just that I’m so happy to meet you. We’ve been out of touch a long time, your folks and I. And here you are”-he shakes his head in wonder—“a grown woman.” He nods toward Sam. “She looks a lot like you did.”

Sam shoots her husband a stormy look.

“We came to get Cody a beer,” says Martin quickly. He pulls a can out of the fridge and snaps it open. When he passes Jean he whispers, “Your mother putting you to work?”

Jean nods. She tries to think of something to say, but he has turned away.

“Shall we go and sit on one of those expensive rocks in the garden?” Martin says, steering Cody out of the kitchen.

Sam crosses her arms and watches the two men exit.

When the door is shut Jean says, “Who was that?”

Sam is still eyeing the closed door, not trusting it.

“Cody Sayles,” she mutters. “A very old story.”

“Oh?” says Jean, waiting for more. There is no more.

Something about Cody reminds Jean of the men at Buffy’s, the Seventh Avenue bar she stops in after teaching the old people. Maybe it’s the boyish face sunk in a middle-aged body. Like Scott, a bearded painter in his early fifties whose skin and clothes are stained with paint and nicotine. He always wears bib overalls and a denim shirt, and his greying hair is tied back in a ponytail. “Hi, Jeannie,” he waves.

“Come and cheer me up.”

“How’s the work going?” she asks, slipping onto a neighbouring stool.

He cringes. “I said cheer me up. Jesus, Jean, I’ve got to get out of here.” He pounds his glass on the counter till beer splashes over his wrist. “If I could get a little bread together I’d scram outta New York so fast you wouldn’t see a blur—you wouldn’t even smell me.”

“Where would you go, Scott?” As if she doesn’t know.

His jaw sets dreamily. “Connecticut, maybe, or an old farmhouse in New Hampshire. All I need is a barn, a fucking barn with a skylight so I can paint, do nothing but paint. No bar scene, no women, no nothing but goddamn snow and fields.” He gulps the final ounce of beer and signals for another. Jean and the bartender exchange winks.

“Sounds good, Scott. When are you going?”

“Maybe in a year, if I get a teaching job.” His voice rises to a near shout. “This place is devouring me, I can’t work any more, the art scene sucks. Look at SoHo.” He pronounces the word with inimitable contempt, “So-Ho-Ho,” then smiles, suddenly grabbing Jean around the waist. “How’d you like to come and live in an old barn in Connecticut with me, Jeannie?”

“Sure, Scott, sounds like fun.”

“No more bullshit, no more landlords, no more filthy air, just nature and”—he thrusts a fist in the air—“Ari!” He pauses then leans wearily against Jean.

“Another drink, my Canadian friend. My warm Canadian friend.”

Sometimes she goes away then, before his hand starts to wander under her blouse. Since his face stays the same she’s not sure if he realizes he’s doing it. Later, when the bar starts to heat up with the younger crowd, Scott lurches home, scowling. He never asks Jean to join him.

Sometimes she stays, or heads to another bar further uptown. It’s not that she drinks much. Occasionally, she’ll admit to herself that she’s waiting for someone. And if she meets someone else while she’s waiting—that’s all right, too. Yoshi won’t mind.

When Colette wakens, Jean is stretched on the back deck with her feet propped on the railing. A newspaper lies beside her, held in place by a Mexican vase.

Unseen, Colette watches her sister for a while. It must be nearly noon, with the sun shot high in the sky and few shadows. Jean’s eyes are open but staring ahead, unfocused.

“What are you thinking about?” says Colette, perching on the railing. She eyes, without alarm, the sheer drop of ten feet below.

Gradually, Jean swings her gaze around to her sister.

“Lots of things,” she says. “Everything.”

“Everything,” nods Colette. She cricks her head back and squints into the sun.

“While I was helping Sam in the kitchen,” continues Jean in a quiet voice, “she suggested I come out here, to Victoria, to live for a while.”

“Really?”

“I told her that was a ridiculous idea.” Jean sighs dramatically. “But now, looking over the cliffs, smelling the fresh wood and flowers—I’m tempted.” She shades her eyes. “Quite tempted.”

“What would you do here?”

“I don’t know. Who cares? Maybe go back to school.”

“Music?”

Jean jerks her feet off the railing, nearly upsetting her sister. “No!”

“Take it easy.”

Jean tries to. “Colette,” she muses. “If you could change one thing in your life-no matter how impossible it seemed—what would it be?”

Colette stands up and turns her back to Jean and the house. She can see the ribbon of water pulled taut between sky and cliff.

“I don’t think that way,” she says.

“Try,” urges Jean.

“I don’t think that way,” repeats Colette distinctly. “If something is going to change, it’s because I make it happen.”

“But don’t you ever wish you could live scenes over again, with your present insight?”

“No.” Colette whirls around. “I have no desire to live backwards.”

Jean lowers her eyes.

“Why are you asking this?” says Colette.

“It’s so hard,” replies Jean, testing.

“What is?”

She takes the plunge. “So hard to talk to you like a normal human being. There’s too much luggage—I mean baggage.” She giggles nervously. “We know so much about each other.”

Colette smiles. “Yet know nothing.”

Jean leans forward, hands clamped over knees. “That’s true. There’re things I’m dying to ask you—but I don’t dare.”

Colette arches her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Do you believe in straight talk, even if it’s painful?”

Colette stares intently at the floorboards. Under her brief brush of hair the skin reddens.

“It’s more complicated … ” she begins. “We’re talking about two different people and two different minds. Sometimes it feels like you’re waiting to pounce on me.”

“How?” presses Jean.

“I have to defend myself … ”

“Explain that,” demands Jean.

“See?” Colette raises her head. “You’re doing it right now. Not letting me be what I’ve become. You want me to be the person I was, that you think you remember. I can’t be that for you.”

She spreads her palms in apology.

Indoors, the telephone rings.

They stop and listen.

“Isn’t Dad home?” says Colette.

“I think so.”

Still no one answers.

“I’ll get it,” says Colette, and makes a run for it.

Sunday mornings during one winter Yoshi rehearsed with the Hart House New Music Ensemble. They did a twentieth-century series, which he led from the piano.

We had to get up early to catch a glimpse of him those icy mornings. I hopped out of bed, 7:45 A.M., into the still house and in a jiffy broke four eggs into a frying pan. The smell yanked Colette out of bed.

At the dining table, placed cunningly against the window, we kept an eye on the progress across the street.

“He’s opened his curtains.”

“There, he just took in the paper.”

Yoshi had the New York Times delivered to him on Sundays.

“Did you see him?” Voice high-pitched and anxious. “What was he wearing?”

We tugged on Hudson’s Bay parkas and mukluks and prepared to shovel the walk. This was our self-proclaimed Sunday chore, whether there was snow or not.

“Don’t look up, Colette, keep shovelling.”

“I can’t see anyway, my hood’s too big.”

Our fingers froze inside woolly mitts, and we could feel our faces crack an unbecoming red after a blast of polar wind. We worked slowly so it wouldn’t be done too soon. I had a special edging technique where the shovel got pressed against newly created walls of snow. It took a long time.

At last...

“He’s coming!” Colette sang between clenched teeth. We weren’t supposed to look up right away. Our tactics involved a cool disregard followed by sudden recognition.

“Hello, Yoshi,” I called finally and waved a knitted hand. A string of snot had looped itself across my mouth and I wiped, fast.

Loping down his own unshovelled walk he lifted both furry arms (for a while he sported a buffalo-hide coat) and crossed them over his head several times.

“Hello, girls. How are you?” he called, face radiating that toe-curling smile.

“Fine,” we chirped, grinning furiously.

Sometimes the Thunderbird took a while to get started in the cold, and we’d listen to the motor cough and heave, half hoping it wouldn’t catch.

Later, around 12:30, we positioned ourselves at the crest of the hill, a long block north, where he passed on his way back from rehearsal. At that time it was a parking lot, a flat, open prairie that got all the wind, and we stood, hands plunged deep into pockets, stamping blood into our toes, and waited for the raven flash of metal to swoop up to the stop sign. Our idea was that he would offer us a ride home and follow it up with an invitation to lunch. This never happened, but not for lack of trying.

“I hear a car, Colette!” My neck bristled.

“Don’t you dare turn!”

The car stopped, spun slush onto the sidewalk and us, and gunned forward: a souped-up family ranch wagon with a child’s face pressed against the rear window. Breathe again.

When we had nearly given up I felt Colette’s hand on my padded elbow. “It’s him, Jean. I know it!”

So fast did it occur that he would be half-way down the hill before I focused on the familiar vehicle and perhaps got a glimpse of black hair.

“Now what?”

“May as well head home.” We watched as it took the curve, parting a ridge of slush, and disappeared. A moment later we strained to hear the muffled thud of a car door.

At least, we consoled ourselves, we’d gotten it right: the positioning, the time, everything we possibly could have considered. One of these days he would see us. The one thought, too awful to contemplate aloud, was that he had recognized us — but chose to drive on.

The bedrooms began to change. First to go were the steel beds, dragged down to the basement so the mattresses could lie flat on the floor.

Then everything had to be white. We had to earn the money ourselves, for paint, brushes, Varsol, and drop sheets. Luckily it was still winter, and we could shovel the walks of the neighbourhood. It took a month and four major snowstorms. One long weekend of round-the-clock painting and both rooms were completely white. I (Maki) did trim, while Colette (Rikko-san), being taller, managed the roller.

It looked so good when the rooms were empty we decided to leave out the furniture.

“Where will you put your clothes, your books, all your junk?” worried Sam.

“We’ll find a way.”

“Who do you think you are?”

Books could be arranged in a neat row on the floor against the wall, with an earthenware jar as bookend. Clothes were more difficult to hide, though we each had a small closet for hanging things. If we could just fit everything into the closets.

“You can’t, there’s no room.”

The halls were littered with bookcases, dressers, and knick-knacks. “We’ll find a way.”

We built shelves out of mandarin-orange crates to go inside the cupboards. Underwear went in one, shirts in another, and so on. Everything fit snugly in its new quarters.

The rooms started out looking nearly identical: white and spare. Then Rikko-san found a long feather; I arranged a tokonoma— alcove —containing a tiny vase with a single dried flower. Rikko-san pinned her kimono to the wall; I hung Japanese calligraphy prints. One day I got fed up and took everything down so my room was bare again.

“I like the emptiness,” I explained.

Martin called it the Cell.

“What do you do up there?”

“Think. Read. Dream.”

I sat in bed and pressed visions of Japan against the bare white walls; cherry blossoms and ancient twisted trees, the click, click of geta, and the shimmering cone of Mt. Fuji rising from a cloud of mist. Images shifted one into the other with the grace of a Noh play.

One day Martin came home with “presents” for both of us. Matching desks. Regular desks with vertical drawers and a map of Canada on top. Nothing you could saw the legs off.

“I thought you girls would be delighted,” he said.

We nodded sadly.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“They just won’t do, Father.”

He refused to take the desks back to the store. Down to the basement they went, with the rest of our oversized furniture.

“Until this nutty phase of yours is over,” he said.

“Tabemash’ta ka?” Have you eaten?

Rikko-san ladled the glistening snow peas onto a section of the plate, then arranged them in careful progression like fingers of a fan. The last pod she allowed to drop from six or seven inches above so it caused a very slight disruption in the pattern. A breath of wind from outside shuffled the leaves of the miniature orange tree.

The scoop of rice settled in the centre like a fist of snow. Pickled cucumbers and daikon— radishes —surrounded it like a necklace. Hashi— chopsticks—were laid carefully to the side of the plate.

She repeated the performance on a second plate and when both were assembled, nodded. She and I, clad in dark blue yukata, knelt at the low table, resting our buttocks on our heels. Pressing our palms together, we bowed, then, with the hashi, carefully picked off a grain or two of rice and placed it on the table. For Buddha.

“What are you doing?”

“I am meditating.”

“What on earth for?”

“Shh, go away.”

We began to practise zazen more or less regularly. I was more disciplined about it, setting the alarm for an unearthly 7:00 A.M. Immediately on waking, I tucked the round zafu pillow under my behind. I kept track each day of how long I sat and what came to pass. Always I wore the black cotton kimono for zazen, and after wrote something on a scroll of rice paper with a bamboo brush.

The passing of one cloud

marks the ravens.

Two abreast.