fireflies

Yesterday's weather was magnificent. Cool, overcast morning. Then thunder shook the building where I work. Rain fell lightly at first, then in sheets. The rain grew whiter, rounder, colder. Hail, the size of pachinko balls (?!) falling with more thunder. I gestured for one of my students to stand up and have a look, but being a good girl, she didn't dare stand and look out the window during class.

cherry petals
in a hailstorm
like morning fireflies

by afternoon, the sun cast long shadows and all the hail had melted. There was a cool breeze and the only remnant of the morning was in the memory of the rain and the fluttering petals outside the window.

The Arrangement

He sat down on the bed in the tiny room he rented in the big city. His rabbit, Harry, seemed to be watching him, so he gently lifted the animal onto his lap and began stroking the fur between its ears. The fur was so thick and soft he could hardly believe it. It made him reflect on the wonder of life and all the things man hadn't yet touched and ruined.

"You're what keeps me from going nuts, Harry," he said, looking the animal square in the face. Harry's eyes were blank. He had a lot of stress there in the city and sometimes it made him a little crazy. Harry rested there peacefully on the man's lap and the hand with its long fingers stroked the rabbit's fur.
Continued...
Harry had been a wild rabbit when the man took him as a pet, so he wasn't white or black or any carefully bred color. The fur on his ears was peppered black and golden brown. He had a jaunty little tuft of white fur on the top of his head. Across his face there were stiff little white guard hairs in among the soft, velvety fur in myriad shades of tan. He had long black and white whiskers. Some of the fur on his cheeks was so soft and long, like a very young child's hair who's never had a haircut. But as he stroked the fur above Harry's eyes, that was his favorite. It was black down by his skin, then golden, and then black again at the tips. My god, what a beautiful creature, he thought.

"Your whiskers are fine," the man said.

He stroked the fur along the animals cheek and its long whiskers flicked out as his fingers moved across them. Harry didn't flinch. He was used to this.

The man stroked along the whiskers again. His thumb was shaking again. He should probably go to the doctor, he thought. It had been like that since he was younger, since he moved away from home and started life on his own, started finding himself, started to develop his own "non-conformist" personality, as he liked to think. He should probably go to the doctor. But he probably wouldn't, he thought. They probably won't have a clue what's wrong anyway. Probably just make it worse. I get along just fine, he thought.

Watching his own fingers stroke the rabbit's fur there, in that detached way of his, he thought how that hand looked like an artificial hand, if you disregarded the shaking (hell, you had to know what to look for to even notice it). It was bony, and too thin. It was like a prosthetic hand, a wooden hand, a piece of beautiful sculpture, one of Tilman Riemenschneider's hands, he thought, with a little pride.

Harry was lying in his lap with his ears out straight, a little stiffly. The man thought he could almost feel Harry breathing. He loved Harry. And Harry loved him, at least as much as a beast can, because he never tried to get away, nor did he flinch like most animals will when they are picked up.

But he felt kind of bad about having taken him out of the wild. A wild animal belongs in the wild, and he knew it all too well.

The bell rang on his intercom. He set Harry down on his bed and went to the door. He always hated this part. When he was hidden away from all the bustle in his little room, away from all the hate and rudeness and selfishness of that city out there. He peered through the peephole. It looked like another salesman. People were always hassling him.

The salesman had the ubiquitous dark suit. The shiny, peach tie that was apparently in fashion lately. Pockmarked face. Narrow eyes. He felt revulsion and backed away from the peephole. He went back to the bed and sat down and waited for the salesman to leave. There was only the bed in the room, and a low table and a small bookcase. There wasn't room for anything else. No chairs, no nothing. A sofa was out of the question. It was a bleak room, but he didn't mind.

He lifted Harry onto his lap again and began stroking his fur again. The bell rang again and he winced.

"Go on now," he said in a low voice. "Take your peach tie and go sell something someplace else."

He waited quietly, very still. Then finally he heard the man walking away. He went back to petting Harry. The smooth, thick, richly varied colors of his fur. He was reflective again. He wanted to freeze life. Keep it in its best state, without any interruptions, without salesmen. He felt behind the animal's ears. It was rough and dry back there.

"Poor fella," he said and knit his brows, wrinkled up his forehead. Oh well, nothing comes out the way you hope completely, he thought.

"I guess I'll have to take that follow-up course," he said. He'd gotten up the nerve the previous spring to leave his little room and take a course at the community center in taxidermy. Then in the late spring he'd found Harry.

He set the dried hare's mask down on the low table lovingly and laid back on the bed with his forehead still wrinkled up, thinking.

Well, there was that to do...

"Leaves" is finished. (At least if I consider it a first draft). And frankly, I'm glad to be rid of it. Now I can try to write a real story -- one that's not 10,000 words. A real, short, three-pager kinda story.

(silence)

If I can just think of something to write about. ;-)

Anyway, that's two down and two more to go. The poems, I've neglected lately. But maybe I can finish all this up some time soon.

Rambling... the whole idea for "Leaves" came from a walk by a river last December. That and the imagery of Ophelia from Shakespeare's Hamlet.

Fiction is often derived from experience. But sometimes it goes the other way. Ever come across a scene from a novel with a vivid (and tasty) description of a meal and then want to go out and try it? Reading "Crime and Punishment", or Turgenev makes me want to drink vodka.

Writing the camping scene on the mountain from "Leaves", the image stuck with me. Stuck with me enough that I did a sort of reenactment the other day. I might write about it sometime soon.

Oh well, that's enough for today. Goodnight!

"Leaves"

Leaves Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

"Leaves" Chapter 10

The significance of the word "hamlet" lies in its patronizing euphemism. In this country where Paul had chosen to live, in the not too distant past, a feudal system of government prevailed. And of course it was marked by a well-defined class hierarchy. How people came to be in a particular class is not important, for no one knew and, frankly, few people cared. Paul had left his own country because of the incessant barrage of unsolicited opinion -- the bumper stickers, billboards, television advertisements. Strangers -- people you will never meet -- telling you what they think about religion, about birth control, morality, politics, about most anything, really. And all without your ever having asked. In his fragile state of mind before leaving, those strangers, those opinion soap-boxers, were speaking directly to him. And soon, they were speaking directly in his mind.
Continued...
So he left and he came to this country and for a while, he enjoyed the narcotic anonymity it afforded. But here, he was slowly learning, the opinions were just as pronounced, just as self-assured, just as grounded in the obscurity of tradition, just as beholden to the culture's mythos. And that these opinions (these prejudices) weren't displayed on the bumper of some dullard's car, but rather hidden in whispers and in narrowed, judging eyes -- this just served to make it more sinister and, ultimately, more oppressive.

The name for the untouchables in this country's language, when translated directly and a bit roughly, yields "people of the hamlets". They were the lowest of the class system, the unclean, the "un-human". They worked in all the "unclean" professions, serving as butchers, cobblers, tanners, all the jobs that involved killing animals (luckily, fish were not considered "animals", otherwise the "unclean" would be a majority rather than minority). Others worked at the cremation or burial grounds. Historians speculate that this hierarchy was a result of Buddhist taboos. But those same historians never bother to mention that Buddhism came here from another country. And they never mention how Gautama Buddha preached that all people, all classes, were equal.

Ms. Matsumoto's forefathers were from this line of "unclean" people. And incredibly, people still seemed to care. They still seemed to check before hiring you. They still seemed to hire an investigator to check your family background before allowing you to marry their son or daughter.

The class system had been officially abolished and the peasantry allowed to take surnames about a century earlier. But laws written on paper can be evaded. Especially when those who are supposed to enforce the laws disagree with them and decide to look the other way. Especially when there is an unspoken agreement that the hierarchical system will be preserved. Just dress the window nicely, thank you. Leave the dirty laundry in the back room and never speak of it, thank you very much. Yes, that will do.

---

After a week, Paul's arm had mostly healed. He was left with only little points of white scar tissue dotted up and down his forearm and onto the palm of his hand. Shizuka told him it was time for their visit.

In the afternoon, they drove northwest, with the road winding and descending into foothills.

"Are you going to finally tell me where you're taking me?" Paul asked.

"I told you. To see the lacquer shop," Shizuka said.

"I've seen enough lacquer to last me a while."

Shizuka wondered what he meant.

"Whoa! Whoa! Watch it!" he said suddenly. Shizuka was drifting off the road.

"Sorry!" She smiled at him and he motioned ahead, to the road.

"I love to see your smile," he said. "But I also enjoy not dying in a car crash."

Shizuka laughed loudly, as if it were simply a joke about an impossibility.

"But what are we gonna find out at a lacquer shop?"

"I don't know," Shizuka said, lying. Lying was alright when it was for his good.

Later, after nearly an hour, Shizuka pulled off the road.

"I want to check the map," she said.

"OK."

Shizuka pulled a folded map from a pocket down by her legs on the driver's side door. She unfolded it and examined it for a moment.

"Are we going to Kiso?" Paul asked.

"What?" She looked up at him.

Paul tapped the part of the map folded back in her left hand. She unfolded it and started laughing.

"Oh! I made a mistake! A big mistake!" She was still laughing and Paul gave her a perfunctory smile. Then he turned to the window and looked out at the countryside. "What the hell does this girl have in mind?" he was thinking.

"I made a mistake. We have to go back." Shizuka pointed to the map.

"OK." Paul looked at the map. "It's not far."

Shizuka looked down the road and then back behind her. There were no other cars and she flicked the turn signal lever and turned the car in a wide U and started driving back the way they'd come. After ten minutes, she slowed to nearly a stop in the middle of the road, just short of a gravel road going up a hill. There was a sign that read: "Matsumoto Lacquer Art"

"I think it's here," Shizuka said.

"OK. Onward and upward," Paul said, a little sarcastically.

Shizuka drove up the gravel road. The wheels spun a few times in the gravel and the road wound through tall cypress and cedar trees. Then there was a clearing and an old wooden house with a thatched roof. Off to the side there was a small building with earthen walls, crumbling in places, revealing layers of straw and mud and in the corner, a gridwork of bamboo slats.

"This is a nice place," Paul said.

But whereas Shizuka would usually smile cheerfully when Paul mentioned he liked something, now she wasn't smiling. "Yes," she said, looking pre-occupied. Perhaps even worried.

"I think I want to live here," Paul joked. Shizuka looked at him but said nothing.

They walked up to the door and Shizuka knocked softly. A breeze picked up and Paul could smell the cedars. Then a door down along the house slid aside and a woman looked out quizzically. Shizuka raised her hand briefly in a slight wave.

"Little Shizu?" the lady asked. Shizuka nodded.

The lady disappeared and they heard quick footsteps on a creaking floor.

"She's my cousin, Haru," Shizuka said.

"So you know her?" Paul asked, stupidly. "I mean..." he trailed off.

There was a reason Shizuka had been lonely all those years and had never married. She, too, was a "person from the hamlets". When she was with Paul in the grove by the river and she saw what she took to be urushi, and what was written there, she thought immediately she might know who had written it. Or who would know.

Ms. Matsumoto came to the front door and opened it. Her eyes were wide and bright, as if she were caught off-guard at Shizuka's visit. Then she looked at Paul and forced herself to smile briefly.

"This is my friend, Paul," Shizuka said.

The lady gave a polite nod and brief smile again. But it was betrayed by her face which still had the look of astonishment. Then she realized how obvious her surprise was and she remembered etiquette.

"Please come in," she said.

Inside the entrance, Shizuka took off her shoes and Paul sat on the raised floor and unlaced his boots and took them off. They followed her cousin, Haru, over the wooden floor to a low table set off to the side from a fire pit. The room had a lingering scent of smoke and the floor was dark and had been polished by feet for many years. Haru said something and then went off to another room at the back.

"She's bringing tea," Shizuka said. Her face was still strangely serious, it seemed to Paul.

"So what's going on?"

Shizuka smiled. "Just be patient."

Paul tilted his head to the side while watching her. "Oh well," he thought. He looked up into the ceiling, the wooden lattice-work was darkened, yellowed from many family fires in the sunken hearth there in the middle of the room over the years. This was a house to live in, he thought. To be away from people. He hadn't been joking when he said he wanted to live there.

Shizuka noticed him looking up in the rafters.

"This house is more than 150 years old," she said and relaxed her expression into not quite a smile.

It would seem that going to that house was a dangerous thing to do. Shizuka was girlish sometimes, and perhaps naive. But usually it was an act. She was girlish, but she was not stupid. "Nori I'm sorry" was what she'd seen written there in the woods. And the "girl from the hamlet" made her think first of Haru, her dear cousin. Haru, who'd suffered so much.

That could only mean that Haru had some connection with the girl, Noriko. And why write "I'm sorry"? But the thought of Haru doing something terrible... The thought never really entered Shizuka's mind. She couldn't allow such a thing to enter her thoughts. She was sure she knew Haru too well for such a thing to be possible. She could never do something like that. Haru was kind. And bore her suffering well. Better than she herself could, Shizuka was sure.

Haru came back into the room carrying a tray with stoneware cups and a porcelin teapot. She sat down and poured out tea for Paul and Shizuka and offered a cup to Paul. He thanked her. She still had that look of astonishment. Her face was like a young girl's, Paul thought. A frightened, timid young girl.

He'd noticed when she sat down across from him what a pretty woman she was. Small, strong. Hair streaked lightly with gray, but still young. Her, living in this house -- it seemed like the real tradition of this country to Paul. When everyone else dyed their hair and lived in crackerbox houses, this woman, this girl, it seemed, with her pretty face, not wanting or not needing to wear makeup. This, was what he'd come to this country seeking.

Shizuka was talking with her. Paul followed some of it. She spoke very softly, this woman named "Haru". He thought her name might mean "Spring". As Shizuka spoke, Haru was nodding often and looking down. Finally, Shizuka turned to Paul.

"Paul, could you show her your arm?"

He looked from Shizuka to Haru. Then he pulled back his sleeve and laid his arm palm up on the table. Haru looked at it, again seeming worried and a little astonished. Shizuka said something and Paul recognized "urushi".

Haru looked up from his arm to Shizuka and then into Paul's eyes. She seemed agitated.

"You mustn't touch it!" She said suddenly in English and then reached out to take Paul's arm, so quickly that Paul jumped and almost jerked his hand back.

She held his wrist. Her hands were rough, he noticed. But the way she held his hand, his wrist, was very gentle and told him much about her.

She looked down again and still holding his arm, began shaking her head and saying "I'm sorry" very softly, again and again. Finally, she laid his hand down on the table, still not daring to look up.

Shizuka stood and went around the table and kneeled by her. She put her hand on Haru's shoulder. They were quiet for minutes and then finally Paul got up his nerve.

"Haru...was it you that I saw last week? By the river?"

She looked at him sadly but didn't answer.

"It was Sunday night," Paul said. Then a moment later, "I saw someone go into the trees. With a hood."

Haru cast her eyes down again. She said "yes" and sniffled. She wiped her face with her fingers and looked up at him for just an instant. Then her eyes darted back down.

"It's alright Haru," Shizuka said.

As he tried to reconcile all of these pieces, Paul was suddenly anxious about sitting so near her. He didn't have the benefit of knowing her for such a long time, as Shizuka did. It came and went in just a flash, but it was the fear that people have of being in the company of the mentally disturbed. And he couldn't know it, but it was the same uneasiness people sometimes felt with him -- with Paul. His reasons for being there and running away from his own country should have served as warning that his own mind was less than "tranquil".

Paul looked at Shizuka. "How..." he started, but then lost his nerve. Then, plunging in, "How does Haru...". "How did you know the girl? That died?" he said, turning to Haru.

"I didn't do anything wrong," she said. "I didn't mean to..."

Shizuka turned to her and spoke very softly, still holding her. Haru told her everything, about the girl's, Noriko's visit. About her marriage that never took place (which Shizuka knew), and the fact that Noriko was the man's daughter, which came as a surprise to Shizuka.

Shizuka turned to Paul and apologized for speaking in their language.

"Don't worry," he said, looking up from the table. He was following their low conversation as best he could.

Haru explained that the girl came to her after fighting with her father. She said that at school, they'd been taught briefly and cryptically about the "former" outcasts. She was a clever girl and seeing the discomfort her teacher had, and the quick way they'd skipped over that short paragraph in their history books, she sensed that she was being lied to. But asking her father hadn't helped and he exploded, forbidding her to ever mention it again. But Nori's mother was less tactfully quiet and had let slip (with a little pride) that her father was so angry because he'd once been engaged to one of "those poor people". But little Nori shouldn't worry herself over all this, her mother had said. However, her mother made a mistake, for she also told the girl her name, the woman's name, and vaguely where she lived -- in "a rundown old house in the country". "Poor woman," Nori's mother had said, shaking her head and thinking that was the end of that.

But Noriko was clever and persistent, perhaps even with a stubbornness inherited from her grandfather. And she'd found Haru and Haru had not lied to her and that had been the terrible mistake.

"I just told her the truth," Haru said finally. She looked up at Shizuka and Paul, pleading for their understanding. "But I don't understand how... Why that man got her."

"He was crazy," Paul said. "Crazy people can do anything. There's no understanding it."

And it's true -- there's no understanding why Sagawa would confess to killing the girl when he hadn't done it. The only person who could understand her death was Noriko. She was so distraught at Haru's story, so ashamed, that she confronted her father again and matched his rage with her own (which was strangely self-destructive for such a young girl). But above all, it had been shame -- from what she was and from the hidden hate she'd found. That, and (like Paul) vindictiveness had led her into the grove to take her own life.

"I wish I could understand," Haru said.

Paul could not look at Haru for very long when she seemed so forlorn. His uneasiness had been replaced with tenderness for her. He was gradually comprehending just how much she'd suffered.

"Last week..." Haru said. "I was thinking about her. I couldn't stand it." Then, "I wanted to visit where it happened and pay my respects. In my own way." She was quiet. Then finally, "I was a little crazy I guess. To do it the way I did."

Paul shook his head, trying to tell her he didn't think it was crazy.

"But I almost felt that Noriko was my own daughter. I can't explain it," Haru said, and she lowered her head again.

"I'm sorry!" she said louder. "I feel I did a terrible thing."

"It wasn't your fault," Shizuka said.

"But Paul was injured."

"It's OK," Paul said.

Shizuka patted her shoulder.

Paul was gazing out of the old house where Haru had slid the door aside, and he was surprised he could put everything out of his mind so cleanly. The shadows from the trees at the edge of the clearing were growing longer. Down beyond the forest and the road, there were terraced fields curving down to the valley floor. In one of them a farmer was burning straw from the summer's harvest of grain. That clear light and the breeze in the tops of the cedars was fleeting. Paul liked this time of year most out of all the seasons. Everything was forgotten. Almost everything could be forgotten. He was a sentimental man, but not in a way that most people would accept. He thought he'd like to come back to this house some time. He'd like to come back alone, he thought.

Later, they said goodbye to Haru. She asked them to come see her again and they promised they would.

On the drive back, they were both somber. As darkness came, Shizuka suddenly looked over at Paul.

"We can never marry someone from here," she said. "Unless it's another of our group."

Paul looked at her, but said nothing.

"That's why I'll never let you leave me," she said, laughing once, a bit nervously.