If I cooked my own flesh
To feed my mother-in-law--
She would complain about the flavor.
---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.
When Jun-san laid hands upon me, I remembered what Sasaki-san had always said to do should a man who was not my husband make an unwelcome advance upon me, and I brought my knee up sharply. It worked wonderfully well; I think Sasaki-san would have been proud of me. Jun-san doubled up immediately, clutching himself, then sank to his knees and toppled over very slowly, moaning.
But then he did not move, and I began to be afraid I had hurt him very badly, perhaps permanently, so I ran to the cold box and wrapped some ice in a towel to put on the injury. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that so hard," I apologized. Although we did not speak the same language, we still managed to understand what the other meant—part of the time. "Please forgive me—but I knew all that about respecting me as a sister was nonsense."
He groaned. "I never meant to hurt you that badly." I said, moving the ice so no single spot would get too cold, "You must understand that if I am not your wife I am not about to submit to any bizarre European sexual practices. I suppose that since you are European then to you mashing your lips down on somebody else's and moving them around must seem normal. At home, though, that is the sort of thing for which a man goes to a prostitute." I could not imagine Minoru kissing me—our marital relations, when they took place at all, were enough of an indignity without having him in my face like that. Especially when he had been drinking to excess.
Although that touch of Jun-san's lips did not entirely disgust me…
It seemed to me important to explain exactly why I had kneed him, so I got the dictionary and did so. By the time I was certain he understood, he had recovered enough to sit up, although he did not look very comfortable. Also, Jun-san looked at me strangely at the beginning, but then sadly, and apologized.
He gestured for me to bring him that astonishing book with the page that changes, and I got it. He tapped at the squares and then turned it so I could read: 'Who is Junaemon?'
"How did you learn of him?" I asked. The shock of seeing that beloved name was almost as great as when he kissed me.
He took back the book, tapped some more, and showed me: 'You made a jacket for him.' It was the wrong word for the kind of jacket, but that hardly mattered.
"Yes," I said.
Turning the book to face him,—and why could I not use that book to translate my words as he did his? It was so much quicker than hunting through a dictionary—he tapped and showed me, 'You embroidered a letter into it. It was a love letter. You loved him.'
I seized the dictionary and through it, asked him, "How did you learn of it?"
'I met a man who found the jacket. He gave me a translation of the letter.'
I could not look at Jun-san for shame. My face turned scalding hot, and I turned away. Those words I sewed in secret, one at a time, were never meant for anyone's eyes, not even those of Junaemon-san, or I would have made them easier to find. All my life I have striven to do my duty, first to my parents and my name, then to my young lady the Future Consort and the Shogun—and his mother. When I was married to Minoru I did my best, insofar as I was able, given my barrenness, to be a good wife and daughter-in-law.
As a woman, the things I do for myself, that I want for myself, are selfish, meaningless and empty. My fulfillment is achieved through the things I do for others, or so I have been told, and perhaps it is so, for in making that jacket for Junaemon-san I was happier than I had been for years. Was my love for him selfishness, then? Be like a well, I was told. A well provides for all in the house, uncomplaining. But even the deepest wells run dry when a drought goes on too long. Where are the rains that will replenish me? Every word I sewed was a drop of water to ease my parched heart.
Jun-san reached out and touched my elbow to get my attention. When I looked at him, he held out the book. 'Don't be embarrassed.' it said. 'It was a beautiful letter. If I marry, I would want my wife to feel that way about me. I hope I would feel that way about her.'
My heart sank. He would cast me out of the house and then what would I do?
He took back the book and tapped some more before he showed me, 'Here and now, women do not need dowries to marry. Women work at all kinds of occupations and live independently. Few marriages are by arrangement. When women marry, it is usually to the person of their free choice.'
I looked at him very closely. Some people do get to marry of their free choice. The daughters of farmers, craftsmen and merchants get to meet young men of their own class in the ordinary course of life, and many times I had looked at some young wife behind a shop counter and wished to change places with her, for although merchants are small minded people who only care about making money, there a woman might be valued for her efforts, not condemned to sit in useless luxury. Had I been the daughter of a kimono maker, my skill with a needle would have served me better, and I might have married into another family of kimono makers on the same street. I might have known my husband before we met to drink the wedding sake, perhaps even have played with him when we were children.
Instead I was sent into the Inner Household of a child Shogun, and everyone told me I was lucky to get to leave and marry at nineteen rather than serving until I was twenty-nine like everybody else. Did I want to end up like Lady Aoi who kept disappearing into actors' dressing rooms every time we went to the theater and coming back with her hair mussed? She could never pay her gambling debts because she spent her allowance buying presents for her lovers.
Jun-san had taken the book back while I thought and now showed me, 'People who are thinking of getting married take their time to get to know each other first. They do things together that they both enjoy, like go to concerts and (a word I didn't understand). They talk about what is important to them, have meals and many other things to learn if they are compatible before they make a lifetime commitment. This is called dating. I would like us to try that.'
I used the dictionary to ask him if people did this in Japan, because there is no telling what Europeans may think is normal, but if it is going on at home then it must be socially acceptable.
"Yes." He tapped the squares for a while and then showed me a long piece of writing about 'relationships' and 'gender roles'. I did not understand all of it and what I did understand I am not sure whether to believe. I will have to think about it and read it again.
I got the dictionary and asked him what 'dating' would entail. Because to be honest I do not want to go back out into the city again soon if it can be helped. It is a filthy, violent dangerous place—at least the parts of it I have seen close up, and it troubles me deeply. I think that this house and its garden are about all I can handle at the moment.
He pointed to the bags he had brought in with him. I went over, and discovered they were full of food, some of which were foods from home, pickled plums and crisp toasted seaweed sheets, wasabi, soy sauce, noodles, flaked bonito, kombu, and more. It was mostly in thin crackly clear wrappings like most things seem to be. In another one there was a thin flat box with a picture of a group of samurai on the front of it. He seemed to want that, so I brought it over to him, and he used the book to explain that it was that word I didn't understand, called the Seven Samurai, and it was like a play that could be watched over and over again. It was considered a very fine (incomprehensible) and the director Kurosawa was one of the best in the world. We would watch it and have dinner and then discuss what we thought of it.
What I think of him is a much more interesting question. He thought to buy clothing for me, without being asked, and he bought food I might like, and whatever this movie thing is,--it is very good of him. If he is consistently this kind and considerate...
I don't know.
I don't know.