The Japanese Lover(76)
Over the years that followed they were obliged to keep their love in a separate compartment from the rest of their lives, and they lived it to the full without allowing it to affect Nathaniel and -Delphine. When they were together, nothing else existed, and when they said good-bye at the hotel where they had just sated their love it was implicit they would not stay in contact until their next assignation, except by letter. Alma treasured those letters, although Ichimei always maintained the reserve typical of his people, in direct contrast to his delicate demonstrations of love and his flights of passion when they were together. He was deeply embarrassed by any kind of sentimentality; his way of showing his feelings was to prepare a picnic for her in beautiful lacquer boxes, to send her the gardenias whose fragrance she so loved (although she would never use it as a perfume), to perform a tea ceremony, or to dedicate poems and drawings to her. In private he sometimes called her “my little one,” an expression he never put in writing. Alma had no need to explain anything to her husband, as they led independent lives, and she never asked Ichimei how he managed to keep Delphine in the dark when they lived and worked so closely together. She knew he loved his wife, that he was a good father and family man, that he held a special position within the Japanese community, where he was considered a master and was called on to give advice to anyone who went astray, to reconcile enemies and serve as a fair arbitrator in disputes. The man who was capable of burning desire, erotic invention; of laughter, jokes, and games between the sheets; of urgency, appetite, and joy; of whispered confidences in the interludes between embraces; of interminable kisses and delirious intimacies, was someone who existed for her alone.
The letters began after the chance encounter among the orchids, and intensified when Nathaniel fell ill. For a period that to them seemed endless, this correspondence replaced their clandestine meetings. Alma’s letters were stark and anguished, those of a woman deeply affected by separation. Ichimei’s were like cool, clear water, but their shared passion pulsed between the lines. To Alma, the letters revealed Ichimei’s exquisite inner workings, his emotions, dreams, longings, and ideals; she could know and love and desire him even more through his missives than during their amorous skirmishes. They became so vital to her that, when widowhood brought her freedom and they could talk on the telephone, see each other more frequently, and even travel together, they continued to write to each other. Ichimei strictly complied with their agreement to destroy her letters, but Alma kept his to reread as often as possible.
July 18, 1984
I know how much you are suffering and it hurts me not to be able to help. Even as I write I know you are anxious, trying to cope with your husband’s illness. You can’t control it, Alma, you can only bravely keep him company.
Our separation is so painful. We have grown used to our sacred Thursdays, the private dinners, walks in the park, brief weekend escapes. Why does the world seem so colorless? Sounds reach me muffled as if from afar, food tastes of soap. So many months without seeing each other! I bought your cologne to smell your scent. I console myself by writing poetry, which I’ll give you one day, since it is yours.
And you accuse me of not being romantic!
My years of spiritual practice have been of little use if I have been unable to free myself from desire. I wait for your letters and your voice on the telephone, I imagine you running to get here . . . Sometimes love hurts.
Ichi
Nathaniel and Alma lived in the two bedrooms that had once belonged to Lillian and Isaac, with the interconnecting door that had been propped open so long it could no longer be closed. They went back to sharing their insomnia, as in the days of being newlyweds, huddled up close together on a sofa or bed, with her reading, the book in one hand and stroking Nathaniel with the other, while he rested, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his chest rattling. On one of those long nights they caught each other crying silently, trying to avoid disturbing one another. First Alma felt her husband’s wet cheeks, and he immediately noticed her tears, which were such a rare sight that he sat up to check they were real. He couldn’t remember having seen her cry before, even at the bitterest moments.
“You’re dying, aren’t you?” she murmured.
“Yes, Alma, but don’t cry for me.”
“I’m not crying for you, but for me. And for us, for everything I’ve never told you, the omissions and lies, the betrayals and the time I robbed you of.”
“For God’s sake, what are you talking about? There’s no betrayal of me in your love for Ichimei, Alma. There are always some necessary lies and omissions, just as there are truths it’s better to keep quiet about.”
“You know about Ichimei? Since when?” said a startled Alma.
“I’ve always known. Hearts are big enough to contain love for more than one person.”
“Tell me about you, Nat. I’ve never pried into your secrets—and I assume there are lots of them—so as not to have to reveal my own to you.”
“We’ve loved each other so much, Alma! One should always marry one’s best friend. I know you like no one else. What you haven’t told me I can guess; but you don’t know me. You have the right to know who I really am.”
And then he told her about Lenny Beal. All the rest of that sleepless night they told each other everything with the urgency of knowing how little time together was left for them.