CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ベゴニア
Begonias
Smug, clever men like to say, "this conflict can either unite or divide us." I hate this phrase. It is rarely one or the other.
Watarai's outburst shattered us into a thousand tight-knit factions. Nobody liked Sāya—but nobody liked a traitor who dragged his feet to fight for his country. When the news began to come in about foreign interference in China, nobody liked a foreigner, either. I wondered if I counted.
I lived in fear of Major-General Yamabuki's shadow. Why he hadn't come for Nagihiko yet?
Was it because unlike Misaki's father, Fujisaki Nagihiko didn't legally exist? Major-General Yamabuki could hardly call up a boy who died in infancy, nor a girl, for a military fitness examination. No— he'd need some concrete proof of wrongdoing. At this moment, the only concrete proof of wrongdoing was three seats over from me, prettily reading out a section from an Imperial Rescript.
My question was answered the next morning, not by the newspaper, which we had collectively stopped reading, but by Yamabuki Saya's bragging. It was hard to avoid when we were crammed cheek by jowl at a table for meal-times.
"I, Yamabuki Sāya, am now the daughter of a Lieutenant-General," she said loudly, while her friends oohed and applauded. "Of the 10th Division Army."
"Ooooh!" one of the sycophants said stupidly. "What does that mean?"
"He's sailing for China this week," she said, looking straight at us. "To kill the Tungchow mutineers."
I avoided her eyes, but my heart sang with relief. The now-Lieutenant-General Yamabuki wouldn't have time to verify anybody's biological sex an ocean away, in the thick of Chinese rebellion!
"That's not all," she added, loudly. "Hotori-san's father has received a promotion."
Several girls' ears perked. I still hadn't the faintest idea what anyone saw in him.
"He's now a Count?" another girl gasped.
"He's a Count now," Saya said, angry at her thunder being stolen. "By order of the Emperor himself."
"How nice for him…" one of the girls said, wistfully.
"I don't suppose any of us would be high-ranking enough for the son of a Count," said another.
"Isn't it nice to dream?" a third girl said, gloomily.
I sympathetically patted Amu's hand, knowing what a blow this must be. She wasn't even paying attention. She was staring at something none of us could see.
The arrow thudded into the target, wobbling slightly in the icy November breeze. Several stifled oohs and aahs exhaled into foggy mist.
The physical education teacher was a retired veteran of the Kwangtung Army. You would have thought he was still trying to invade Manchuria from the way he bore down on us.
"Yamamoto," he barked, wielding his pointer stick like a katana. "Eyes on the target, not your hands. Kusanagi, arm straight. Fujisaki…"
Nadeshiko anticipated her daily praise.
"Pity you weren't born a boy," he said. "You're an excellent sportsman."
I rolled my eyes and mimed a gagging motion. Yaya stepped on my foot.
"Is this a competition, Fujisaki-san?"
"No, sir," he said, jaw locked.
"Correct. Not a dance, not a competition. It is discipline for your body and spirit. You need to treat it as such."
The resident Nadeshiko Fan Club murmured their dissent at this. I basked in Nagihiko being held accountable, though I had no idea what for.
The smirk was wiped off my face when he called for the next three to come up.
Nadeshiko tugged off her glove and her chest protector. She handed her bow to Amu with a knowing smile. I glared and wondered if I would ever stop wanting people who were in love with someone else.
"Hold my jumper," I said, holding it out.
Yaya dived forward to catch it. I loved how the winter bite of November air felt on my hot face.
"Place your footing!" the physical education teacher called. We turned to the left.
I felt the pointer on my feet, telling me to move them back. I moved them back.
"Ready your bow!"
I positioned my arrow perpendicular to the bowstring, which was nearly the same height as me. The roll of straw on a wooden scaffold was within my sightline. I dimly felt the teacher's pointer push my elbow out.
"Raise!"
We raised the bows above our heads.
"Mashiro, higher."
It was as high as I could go. Unpityingly, his pointer whacked my left elbow and forced it into an unnaturally bent-back position.
"Draw!"
I was reminded of the Kouen Academy students doing drills in the rain. At least they were concrete exercises to synchronize one's activities to a battalion, not nonsense body and mind exercises with arrows. I wish I had been born a boy. What was the use in doing this?
He waited until we were in the full draw, which pulled the bow and arrow down to run parallel to one's mouth. My arms shook under the strain of holding the bowstring back for so long.
I stared at the target, and decided it didn't matter.
"Release!"
My sweaty fingers slipped off the bowstring. The arrow lodged itself deep into the frozen, frostbitten earth a stone's throw from my feet. My arms locked in place, and I felt relief flood my muscles.
"Lower bows," said the teacher. Amu's arrow had grazed and bounced off the wooden scaffolding and was lying in the dirt. The third girl's arrow hit the target. My arrow had been the farthest off-target, by far. When would I ever have to shoot a bloody arrow in my conjugal future? When I executed my husband?
"Hinamori, a little more concentration," said the teacher, approaching the middle target. "Good."
Then he walked by mine.
"Watch Mashiro-san," he said. Was he seriously inviting everyone to laugh at me?
"Eyes fixed on the target. Posture maintained post-release." The tension was racing away from my muscles. I didn't feel anything, preferring numbness to the fire of envy.
"Strength can be built up," he added. "The target does not matter. But emptiness of the mind can only be cultivated from within."
I smiled. Onlookers assumed it was arrogance, but I was barely repressing my laughter at getting called empty-headed as a compliment.
"I don't know why Nade-chin got a big lecture," Yaya argued, biting into a raw radish. Whoever was on gardening duty had to beat Yaya back from snacking on the vegetable yields, not unlike a deer.
"Well, if he's grading on empty-headedness…" I breathed on my hands and rubbed them on my legs. "Sāya-san ought to have put us all out of business."
Amu gave me her Rima-chan-that's-not-very-nice stare. Nadeshiko had the gall to look humble.
"Sensei was right. I had no discipline," she said. She caught Amu's eye, biting her lip and smiling. "As a matter of fact, I think I was showing off."
I linked arms with Amu, determinedly not looking at Nagihiko. As though Amu would be impressed by stupid archery antics!
I thought of the gold courtship book that my literature teacher had given me and wondered if target practice was in there.
"We're on dinner," I reminded her. "Let's go."
"Ah, you're right," said Amu in surprise, watching the sun blotting weakly through the trees. "We'd better hurry. See you at dinner?"
After a fortnight of being in Nadeshiko's heart-aching presence, being alone with Amu was peaceful. I missed her. I hadn't been much of a good friend. I didn't know what was going on with her at all.
One hand was stuffed under my shirt for warmth while the other gripped the fire iron. We were in the covered outdoor area where the stoves were for boiling water. Amu had the sack of rice ready.
Waiting for a pot to boil was a dull business, especially when one was feeding up to fifty girls. I stabbed the fire vehemently, and a gust of smoke flew up in my face. I coughed and rolled my turtleneck up over my chin.
"You know," Amu said offhandedly, "The army's trying to make an electric rice cooker, so you don't have to boil water or use gas."
"Sounds like an electrocution death trap," I said. "Amu, is there something going on you're not telling me?"
Amu jolted, as though I had caught her with her pants down. "Wha—?! No, of course not, Rima! I'd tell you, wouldn't I? I just mentioned the army thing because, um, I heard it from someone at Kouen Academy, and…"
"It's not that," I frowned at the fire. "Only you've been so out of it. You leave at weird moments. Do you have an embarrassing illness or something?"
Amu exhaled. "Oh," she said, relieved. "No, I'm not sick, just…"
I waited.
"Just… lots of things that have my attention right now, I guess," she muttered, more to herself than me. "Which… oh!"
Amu leaned forward, looking suddenly coy.
"That reminds me. Do you want to see what I received from a certain someone, the other day?"
I lifted the rim of the pot. The water was still full of little bubbles, and no closer to boiling.
"Okay," I said, blowing on my hands again. "Show me."
Amu rifled in the breast pocket of her uniform excitedly. She unfurled a small roll of parchment and handed it to me. The handwriting had a light, airy quality to it, written vertically with a brush:
Autumn winds howl
Between us, yet
In my longing
We could touch,
I feel.
"So, what… what d'you think?" Amu said, anxiously. "Do you… do you think it's good?"
"It's alright, I suppose," I said, with no point of reference to compare it to.
Amu wilted. I wondered if it was given to her by Hotori-san. Was that why she was asking me, and not Nadeshiko? Suppose she had shown it to Nadeshiko already? No, she would have blabbed her mouth off about it.
I looked at Amu suspiciously, truly wondering now why she was asking me and not her best friend.
"It sounds like something out of the Man'yōshū," I said, feeling very intellectual.
"That's good, right?"
"Yes," I said uncertainly. "Professional, yet creepy."
I didn't want to think about some Kouen boy longing to be close enough to touch someone. Perhaps she was asking me because she wanted a good excuse to reject him. That's me, alright, I thought with irony. Rima the man-hater.
"What would you say to something like this?" Amu asked, anxiously.
"Me?"
"In response to it. I mean, in Genji, if you get sent a poem, you're supposed to reply…"
"Who sent it?" I asked, brusquely. "That affects my answer."
Amu turned the greyish colour of rice porridge.
"I- I- It's a secret!" she sputtered. "I don't want to tell you! It'll colour your objective opinion!"
It was someone I hated, then. I sifted through the suspects in my head. Hotori-san? Glasses boy? It couldn't be Sōma-kun, who didn't know how to read.
I swallowed. A poem was just the sort of thing Nadeshiko would do. Yet, the poem was not nearly as florid as the one I had heard him recite previously. I doubted he would send something so up-front by Fujisaki standards. Touching? No, he would have compared Amu to a tree or something.
"Write back and say if he touches you, I'll call the police," I suggested.
"Rima, you can't just—!" Amu ran a hand through her fringe. "And besides," she said, in a more reasoned tone, this time, "It has to be in poetry form."
She really was serious about responding, then.
"Nadeshiko's better at this sort of thing. You should ask her," I said, trying not to sound angry.
Steam rattled free of the pot's lid. "Water's on," I added.
I wanted to grab that stupid courtship book and flip frantically through it right now, but after dinner, we had to set the table. Then we had to spoon out a bowl of rice for everyone, a ladleful of oden, a slab of hardtack. My toe tapped impatiently on the floor. I could feel the twanging beginnings of a headache behind my eyeballs. It was like a koto player stringing out the Nagasaki Wandering Song on my optic nerve. And it was all Nadeshiko's fault.
"Alright," Amu panted, hot from the kitchen. "I think we're almost done– hey, can I ask you something?"
"Okay," I said, moving under the hanging oil lamp in the kitchen. A moth was flinging itself desperately against the glass. My forehead was sweaty. Disgusting.
"Is it alright if Yamamoto-san sits with us?"
"Yamamoto-san?" I asked, idly. "Why?"
"Um… I'm not sure what happened, but her and Kusanagi-san aren't speaking anymore."
I shrugged. Amu took it as assent.
I tried to eat dinner, but I wasn't hungry. Amu and Nadeshiko were shoulder-to-shoulder. Yaya was on my left. Yamamoto was cold, strange, and didn't talk. In the end, I pushed my un-eaten dinner towards Yaya, and tried to study the atmosphere between Amu and Nadeshiko, instead.
Nadeshiko always appeared relaxed and breezy, but I now knew her by nature to be tightly-wound and repressive with explosive periods of misbehaviour. There was nothing different from usual: still repressive, still tense. Like me, she was calculating the group dynamic. Unlike me, the calculation seemed focused directly at the bowl I pushed towards Yaya.
"Ah... something about the first day of winter makes me so tired," Nadeshiko said musically, getting to her feet. "Is this what getting old feels like?"
I repressed my laugh and sneezed.
"Will you all forgive me if I retire early?"
"Aw, Nadeshiko..." Amu pouted, as though this had ruined her whole evening.
Once again, I had come up empty-handed. Exhausted, I stood up to follow Nadeshiko.
"You tired too, Mashiro?" Utau asked, shuffling a deck of cards. "We're gonna play koi-koi with stakes."
I looked to the teachers at the other end of the table, chatting in blissful ignorance of Utau's gambling ring. Utau raised her eyebrows, as if to say just let them try and stop me.
"Maybe next time," I said.
I followed Nadeshiko, grateful for the excuse to leave. She took a candle and lit the grass-paper wick off a nearby oil lamp, before placing a lantern-shade over it. It was only when we were halfway across the frozen lawn that I realized I had forgotten my jumper in the messroom. Even though it was the first day of winter, I felt quite comfortably cool without it.
"You're going to catch a chill," Nagihiko said, breaking the silence.
"I feel fine," I said, despite the headache still pounding behind my eyes. It was only after he spoke that I realized Nagihiko didn't chat much with me, either.
Because he hated me. I glared mutinously at his back. He entered the dormitory first and carefully put the lantern down on the floor.
"Go ahead and use the bath first," he said, lifting his middy shirt over his head to reveal a white underrobe. He took a kimono box down from the top shelf. He hadn't been lying. He had puffy under-eyes and a dull sort of expression.
"I won't back until late," he said courteously, in response to my expression. "I need to go over a set with Mother."
The stars winked out the window like ice chips on a black field. I looked over at Nagihiko's clock. It was nearing the end of the hour of the Dog.
"She pushes you too hard," I muttered under my breath, irritable.
Had he heard me? He tied his obi with that unreadable expression again.
"It's just for now," he said. "To tell you to the truth..."
My eyes were glancing from the courtship book, back to him. Yes? Yes? What was the truth? Was he avoiding Amu because he was maddeningly in love with her, burying himself in his work?
"I got the part in a production of The Wisteria Maiden," he said, very fast, as though he had been wanting to tell someone.
"Oh," I said. "Where? When."
"Home," he said modestly, moving his obi around to the front so he could tie the knot. Hiroshima? "With a theatre troupe, over New Years' Break. It was the piece my father performed at his naming ceremony, so if I can do it well, I think..."
I wish I understood a shred of this, but I was too caught up in Nagihiko's uncharacteristically shy smile to use my brain.
"It's been a while since I went to a kabuki play," I said, instead of I'd like to see you perform it. It had been over eight years, more than a while. Back when we had money. I wondered wistfully if I could still lock down some rich dullard for income.
His face suddenly turned serious.
"I am far too unskilled for the likes of your eyes, Mashiro-san," he said. I eyed him with dislike.
"I will just have to wait until you're playing at the kabuki theatre in Ginza, then," I said, hot all over. "And ask my husband for money to go."
He gave me a look again, like the one when I asked him how he'd dance in geta. It wasn't angry. It wasn't affectionate. It was the expression a man has when you twist a knife between his ribs.
I snatched up the courtship book and left for the bath. He really was vile, I thought angrily. It took several tries with the matches to light the stove underneath the basin. Wasn't he just saying no politely? I could have died from embarrassment. Why tell me, if he didn't want me to watch? I could no longer tell if he regretted being my friend, or not.
While the bathwater heated, I scrubbed myself so furiously that little pink spots appeared on my décolletage. As I finally sank into the narrow tub, I closed my eyes, letting the water lap at my chin. Then, I grabbed the courtship book, holding it daintily just out of reach of the water.
There was an index, but I couldn't be bothered to read it. I rifled through the pages at random, reading the chapter headings. I sighed, inhaling steam and feeling my headache subside slightly.
To my surprise, the book wasn't about real-life courtship, but the classical romances of novels and the Edo period. The headings went by my eyes in a grey blur: Construction of Poetry and Verse —Performance — Martial Skill — Feminine Craftsmanship —
I found "showing off by shooting targets" easily enough (martial skill, kyūdō aptitude) but found no enlightenment on if it was a courtship tactic or simply an old-timey standard for attractiveness. I was forced to conclude that Nagihiko was just big-headed.
On female craftsmanship, there was a good deal of pontificating upon the magic of a woman's hands, of the little cares she takes to demonstrate wifely aptitude. I couldn't help but snicker, thinking that everything Nadeshiko did was a desperate, never-ending quest for wifely aptitude.
In classical works, the ideal woman is soft-spoken, with feminine language. She cooks well and is fond of small animals and children. She sacrifices everything for her family and dutifully obeys her mother-in-law. She is pragmatic, a stern but fair mother, intelligent and a skilled household manager. She is pretty in a gentle, unobtrusive way, but not flashy or over-decorated. Often a token of her love is a meal, a handmade traditional object, or a flower arrangement to demonstrate refined taste. In literature, flower motifs are used often in tandem with their traditional seasonal and emotional associations.
I reread the last two sentences and mutinously recalled the nageire waiting in front of Fujisaki's office, and Amu crooning over the stupid begonias. I wondered if this was any indication of a pining heart, or just Nadeshiko trying to be a woman. Or just liking flower arrangements.
To be sure, I flipped to the section on flower language and cross-checked every flower I could recall Nadeshiko touching.
The glass cherry blossoms she always wore in her hair was transience of life, which I found utterly insipid. Begonias were unrequited love. This was all news to me, who loyally followed British flower meanings.
On poems there was a full chapter, using all sorts of Heian period books as sources and examples. But I still didn't know if Nagihiko had sent it. Even if he had, how could I prove it was him, unless I did something insane, like break into his desk and compare brush-strokes?
I paused, and rose from the bath, dripping lukewarm water. I put the book down.
I did up my nightgown and put on a pair of tabi socks on to muffle my movements, and because it was cold besides. Finally, I pulled my wrapper on, because I was freezing cold again.
Nadeshiko's lap-desk was a pretty thing I had long coveted, lacquered in black and inlaid with gold paulownias. It folded down from a trunk-like shape into something resembling more of a secretary desk. For convenience reasons, she had left it unlocked, which was foolish.
For a moment I simply sat on the cushion in seiza and enjoyed the little charade of being Nadeshiko. I'm so pretty, and elegant, and my legs aren't going numb at all! Think, Rima. Put yourself in her shoes. Where would she hide her brushes and paper for sending illicit love letters to your best friend?
In the indented compartments at the back, I felt the familiar inkstone and inkstick. My fingers scrabbled at the other tiny little square compartments, finding a collection of stubby pencils, a fountain pen, and a strange square block. My hand paused on it, confused.
Upon fishing it out, I realized it was the seal with his male name on it that we had bought together last summer. I smiled and put it back.
Nothing. I lifted the back panel next, finding a sheaf of writing paper and a book. A book! I didn't know Nadeshiko read. I was almost delighted to find out this little secret, until I opened it and realized it was an anthology of ghost stories from the 1700s.
Ew! What in tarnation?
There was a thinner book behind it with no title. I absently flipped to a random page.
April 5, 1937
Weather: unusually cold for spring, but cloudless skies like the underside of a porcelain bowl.
On our last day in Nagoya, an old student of my father's came to call. We could not stay long, as we needed to be at the Nagoya Station to catch the train. I should have liked to speak with him, but I suppose it can't be helped.
News from the journey: Yu-san's home life is a funny one, and I never tire of listening to it. The latest is that her father is now restricting all gentleman callers to the garden-gate. Mo-san is as jealous and insufferable, as usual.
It took me several lines to realize it was Nadeshiko's diary, if only because it was written in the self-defeating way of an old-timey novel. I flipped forward, trying not to feel stung. Surely Mo-san could only be me, however hard he tried to disguise it.
July 24, 1937
The cicada calls
from the tall grass
In the thick summer's air
Will this love
Last but a season?
Love, last a season? I flipped ahead two pages, trying to find more clues.
August 2, 1937
I have been accused of selfishness. While that may be true, I want to chase happiness, as well.
I officially hated him. Why must even his diary entries be vague, ominous? And why wasn't I in here?
August 30, 1937
Rejected. I have made a grievous mistake.
So had I. For in that horrible moment, the brass doorknob twisted.
My limbs jerked, and my heart jumped into my throat. Should I jam the door? Or move as fast as I could? There was no time! I stuffed the diary under the ghost story book just as Nagihiko appeared in the doorway. I didn't know if it was simply tiredness or wishful thinking, but he went a little pale.
"Fujisaki-san," I said, furiously. My entire face was on fire, and my voice felt like it was shaking. "I've been ransacking this thing. Where do you keep pencils?"
"Up here," he said, shortly. It confirmed my worst suspicions.
"Thank you," I said, grabbing one and staggering back. I turned around and snatched Agnes Grey off the bedside and made like I was taking notes on my own copy. I was miserable. Did he believe me? Did he see me? Did it matter?
I was within my rights, I maintained. If he was wooing Amu, wasn't it my business? Didn't I not agree to keep his mother informed? And if it came down to it, would I?
I peeked over the top of the book. August 30's entry was seared on the back of my eyelids.
"The bath's ready," I said to the quiet room. "I put more wood in before I got out, so it should be hot."
"Oh," he said. I hated his voice. I hated his inflections. What could I glean from it? No surprise, no love, no hate, no pity.
"Thank you."
I watched her slender back vanish through to the bath, offended. Had Nadeshiko been rejected by Amu? I couldn't think of anyone else who held Nadeshiko's affections that I could see. I fell back onto my bed, head spinning. A hazy series of amorphous ideas lapped and receded.
Me, jealous and insufferable. Nagihiko, rejected in August, at the exact same time he was in Tokyo for his marriage meeting. Some other girl who lived in Tokyo must have. Utau was in Chiyoda, Amu in Shibuya. He had seen Amu without telling me, and she had turned him down. Why? How? How could I have been so wrong, wrong, wrong?
I jerked awake, drenched in sweat. The plaster of the ceiling gazed remorselessly down at me, blinding white in the morning sun. Nadeshiko's bed was empty, as usual. And, just like last spring, the building was quiet.
I staggered to my feet, groggy. Through some miracle, I found my uniform crumpled on the floor, and a clean pair of tights in my suitcase. I found the music room before class started, feeling truly disoriented indeed.
"There you are," Amu whispered, patting the seat next to her. Yaya and Utau looked up. Nadeshiko did not. "I didn't see you at breakfast."
I stayed where I was. How could you reject Nadeshiko? I thought wildly, staring back at her. How could you turn down the perfect woman, who would ask nothing of you but to be understood?
I felt sick.
"I feel sick," I murmured, and I did. My head was still spinning. I felt a faint sense of unease, as though I shouldn't be here. I had lost.
Sanjo focused her eagle-eye gaze on me, stern.
"Mashiro!" she barked. "What are you swaying on the spot for? Get in koto formation, please."
Obediently, I staggered forward, glancing longingly at the back of Nadeshiko's head. If only she would look at me! Why punish me for Amu's actions?
"I feel sick," I repeated. The walls and floor vanished, and I felt my brain fall through space, going pleasantly blank.
I fainted.
