Читать книгу In Plain View - Julie Shigekuni - Страница 15

6

The spring term started the first Tuesday of the New Year, which happened to coincide with the onset of winter weather. Overnight the thermostat had dropped below 60 in the apartment, causing the heat to click on for the first time that season. Daidai woke in a fit of sneezing when a rush of stale air and dust poured in through the vent. “Bless you,” Hiroshi called from his study on the other side of the wall. It was Hiroshi’s habit to take a run in the mornings when he reached a stopping point in his writing or needed a break from grading. Hearing the sound of his chair being pushed back from his desk followed by his approaching footfalls, she hoped she’d been the reason for his staying back, that he’d been waiting for her to wake up.

“Good morning.” She smiled up at him, wiping loose strands of hair away from her face.

“Good, I guess.” He shrugged, extending a box of tissues in her direction.

“Thank you,” she said, kicking off the covers to expose the length of her thigh. “Want to join me?”

“Wish I could,” he said before turning away. “Gotta shower.”

Daidai watched him from behind as he undressed, either not noticing or not caring that she was watching him, and she lapsed into another sneezing fit.

The fact that Hiroshi left the apartment over an hour before the start of his first class that morning didn’t escape Daidai’s attention. After her phone conversation with Louise, she’d located an address for the Holy Heart Monastery and had decided to stop in for a visit. She’d make a day of it and drop by the Hashimotos’ shop afterward with something for Gizo to take to Danji in the hospital.

Needing something to occupy her time while she waited for the morning traffic to die down, she returned to the bedroom to pull out the trunk she stowed under the bed during the summer months and began going through her drawers, replacing the tanks and short-sleeved T-shirts with sweaters. By the time she got in the car, it was nearly eleven thirty, which would leave practically no time to look around, as she’d read online that the monastery closed down during the lunch hour. Fortunately, the freeway traffic was moving along without a hitch, the cars in front and behind on the Ventura Freeway eastbound enabling her to merge right without having to overshoot the exit to avoid being hit, which she’d had to do on several occasions when she’d driven that stretch of freeway more frequently.

It had been years since she’d driven through Coldwater Canyon, so long ago that the vegetation spilling over the hilltops had matured in her absence. The scenery seemed inured to the sudden change of weather, with the glare of sunlight glinting off the pavement and plant leaves showing not a hint of frostbite. Trying to recall the last time she’d driven that route, she decided it must have been high school, long before Hiroshi, on a summer night with a boy whose face she no longer remembered. The windy path seemed built for reflection and self-recrimination, and she thought over the year and a half she’d been trying to get pregnant. Could there be a connection between Hiroshi’s and her inability to conceive and their being somehow unfit to raise a child? Though she’d always trusted Hiroshi, she suspected he might be contemplating or having an affair with Satsuki. Then again, she believed it possible that her judgment had been skewed by being alone so much without work to contemplate. What if the affair was in her head? What if it were her fantasy instead of Hiroshi’s? But her marriage had been fine up to that point.

The monastery had listed the director as Sister Mary Agnes, a woman who’d lived as a cloistered nun for more than sixty years. From the scant description of communal life, Daidai conjured images of austerity and deprivation, but Holy Heart was located in a neighborhood that could be described only as posh. The expensive-looking coupe she parked alongside could not have belonged to a nun. The parking lot abutted an ivy-covered stone wall, and farther down a formidable wrought-iron gate blocked the entrance as if to indicate that the drive had been a waste of time. So close to Hollywood, it looked like a stage set with the small speaker box half buried in ivy and, next to it, the black welcoming bell. As Daidai reached for the bellpull, a middle-aged woman appeared from behind the wall and pushed the gate open. Brushing past Daidai, she reached into her expensive handbag and retrieved a sensor, to which her car responded with a flicker of the headlamps and a happy bleep, and in her wake Daidai passed inside the grounds unnoticed.

Birds of paradise and blue flowering ground cover lined the walkway. The same large, round stones that made up the wall had been sunken into the dirt, which emitted a wet, earthy smell. The trail led to a white stucco building with an arched doorway that served as an entrance. Through the screen door, she could see a small shop, which appeared untended. Knocking, she called out a hello, noting as she poked her head inside a musty sweet smell she couldn’t quite place.

A single band of sunlight lit the cavelike interior, which prevented her from seeing the black-habited nun in the room’s darkness.

“Sorry if I scared you,” Daidai said, having scared herself, supposing she should have listened for a response to her greeting before entering uninvited.

But rather than appear startled, the woman spoke without even looking up. “I’m afraid we’re closed for the lunch hour. Didn’t you read the sign?”

Daidai turned back to the small rectangular plaque that covered the screen door midway up. “I’m looking for Sister Mary Agnes,” she said, undeterred, but received no response to indicate whether she’d even been heard.

Using the counter ledge to hoist herself up, the nun dominated the room with impressive height, yet her brittle movements and the lines around her mouth defined her as elderly.

“Would you happen to know where I might find Sister Mary Agnes?” Daidai spoke slowly and clearly. Having dealt with older patrons at the museum, she recognized the problems generated by faulty hearing, and guessed it was to blame for the missed communication.

“We’re closed to the public during the lunch hour,” the woman repeated, her expression softening into a smile.

“I see,” Daidai said, lowering her voice. “May I wait?”

“Visitors are not permitted inside the grounds during the lunch hour. The shop reopens at one o’clock.”

Daidai wondered whether the nun’s seeming inscrutability could be attributed to her own lack of experience with nuns or clerics of any kind. Turning to leave, she doubted it would do any good for her to return after the lunch hour.

“I only came to bring in the trays, but I can sell you a loaf since you’re here.”

Daidai turned back around, confused. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ahn-bread. Isn’t that what you came for?” The nun leaned her elbows on the counter, seeming to find Daidai as strange as Daidai found the nun.

A smile that felt mildly insincere curved Daidai’s lips. “How much is the ahn-bread?”

“One loaf?”

“Yes. How much?”

“Ten dollars.”

Daidai opened her wallet and slid a twenty across the counter. “Don’t worry about making change, you can just give me two.” She had no idea what had been handed her in the dark, but collected whatever it was she’d paid for and thanked the nun before turning to leave.

“God bless you,” the proprietress called behind her.

Once in the sunlight Daidai was pleased to see the shiny brown tops of two perfectly shaped loaves of bread. She’d planned to pick up something for Danji in J-Town before returning to the Valley, but having the bread meant one less stop. She could give a loaf to Gizo to bring to his father and take the other home to Hiroshi.

Driving the back way out of the hills to avoid freeway traffic, through side streets of Hollywood she’d never even set foot on, she thought how strange it was to have grown up in a city large enough to hold so many secrets. There were the familiar spots, the ones she’d been traveling to or away from all her life, and Hollywood was not among them. She was glad to arrive in J-Town. As if in recognition that she belonged there, a car pulled out in front of Akai Electric just as she approached, and before she’d even shut off the engine, Gizo appeared. Standing on the curb, he grasped Daidai’s shoulder from behind, pulling her into a side hug. “What’s up, Daidai?”

Daidai smiled, wondering if every female Gizo knew got exactly the same greeting.

Bending to open the passenger door, she leaned back into the car and pulled out a loaf of ahn-bread. “I brought this for your father,” she said, presenting it to him ceremoniously, with both hands. “Louise said he’s had some health problems. I was sorry to hear that.”

“How nice of you.” He seemed genuinely touched. “Come in for a minute, fill me in on the latest.”

Inside, the shop didn’t look like she remembered it. Nothing she could put a finger on, but brighter somehow, the aisles slightly reconfigured. “Nice,” she said, though she wasn’t yet sure if she liked how it had changed.

“You like it?”

“Yup,” she decided at that moment. “I do. I like it.”

“It needed fresh paint for years, but that’s not so easy with all the stuff in here.”

Seeing the shelves, full of items put in place by Danji’s hands, Daidai recalled the tremendous amount of sorting that needed to be done after her father’s death. One day soon Danji would be dead, and Gizo would have to do what she’d done. Only Gizo’s task would be far more complicated. Danji was an iconic figure who’d tended his shop on East First Street for as long as she could remember—longer than she’d been alive. Behind the counter, on a high shelf, someone had left a piece of omanju as an offering in front of the lacquered prayer shrine. That and the contents of the shop, displayed in neat rows, created a sense of reverence about the place somehow lacking in other venues.

“How’s your dad doing?” Daidai asked, catching a whiff of paint fumes.

“Dad’s okay,” Gizo said. Picking the bread up from the glass counter, he held the plastic wrap under his nose and inhaled deeply. “How’d you guess his favorite?” He smiled. “I didn’t know they made ahn-pan in a big loaf. Where’d you get it, here at Mikawaya?”

“Nope.” Not having seen the bread as Japanese, Daidai laughed to see that the delight Hiroshi took in Japanese confections was shared by Gizo. “It was made in Hollywood, by a group of nuns.”

“No kidding. Holy bread?”

She could accept the bread as Japanese, but not that it was holy, and suddenly she regretted having told Gizo where the bread had come from. It seemed wrong to let him think she’d gone out of her way to get the bread for Danji when the choice of a gift had come about merely by chance. “I’m not religious,” she said, shrugging and hoping to recalibrate the conversation. “Are you?”

“I gotta believe there’s something out there bigger than I am,” Gizo said. He puffed out his chest playfully, but at the same time his mood had turned serious.

“Same,” she said, realizing she’d not expected his response. Shifting her gaze from the contents of Danji’s store to the expanse of Gizo’s chest, she considered how he’d matured through the years and was struck by a wave of fondness for him. Growing up together had resulted in a feeling shared between them, a belief that maybe they were made of the same thing, or connected in ways she couldn’t have anticipated. “I rather like the idea of holy bread,” she declared, deciding that a wish for Gizo’s father’s good health had been the hidden purpose for her visit to the monastery.

Gizo looked around the store for customers in need of something. With no one but them in the shop, now it was his turn to make a concession. “I thought about you after I ran into you last summer on the street,” he said, facing Daidai with an earnestness she found unnerving. “I always looked up to Hiroshi. He got his education, his good job and pretty wife. Now you’re thinking about starting a family. That’s great.”

Daidai hoped that Gizo was right. Flattered that he’d thought about her at all, she made her own concession. “Growing up, I always wanted to be part of your family,” she said.

“Really?” he said.

“My dad died two years ago,” she added, not remembering if Gizo had ever met her father. He’d worked long hours when she was growing up, which she supposed made him the Irish version of Danji: a hardworking, tough family man.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Gizo said. The sentimentality between them having become uncomfortable, Gizo eyed the bread, reminding Daidai of the child he’d been. “Do you mind if I try some of this?”

“Of course not!” she said, relieved. “I’ve got another loaf in the car. I’ll go get it.”

She was about to swing around when he grabbed her wrist. “Save the other loaf for Hiroshi. Dad’s not supposed to have too much of the sweet stuff, but a little’s okay. If I bring it to him like this he’ll eat the whole thing.”

Untwisting the wire from the plastic wrap that held the bread, Gizo reached inside and tore off a chunk for himself and another for Daidai. She could still feel the heat of his fingers on her wrist. The warmth of the expert hands that had repaired the rice sack caused her to imagine that time had looped back, or maybe it had never moved. The bread had a sticky sweet smell, its taste reminding Daidai how hungry she’d been.