Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(48)

20


Kyoto used to be a city of shopkeepers, Shirasu tells me. The bamboo farm we stand in the middle of has been in his family for five generations. It has supplied bamboo to the imperial family for just as long.

Shirasu is wrinkled and slight, his body like one of the strips of paper fortunes fluttering outside of the temple we visited earlier. My nostrils still burn from the incense. We traveled here by car, an hour on dirt roads blanketed by old-growth forest, mist rolling in at our heels. It’s almost prehistoric. When we stepped from the car, I expected a saber-toothed tiger to dart from the underbrush. Shirasu greeted us instead. Still, it’s as if we’ve stepped back in time. His home is simple with a thatched roof. He insists it’s all he needs. We’ve traveled deep into his twenty thousand square meters of bamboo grove. He chats up a storm in broken English.

“My father thought about selling farm years ago. We traveled to Tokyo to make deal with big company.” The name, he’s forgotten. His back is bent with age. “That day, first bombs dropped on city.” He mimics an explosion with his hands. “Everything gone. I hide under desk survive. My father not so lucky.” He goes on to explain how his father died of a head injury. How little fires sprouted up everywhere, melting doorknobs and bottles. How he played in the ashes with other children while waiting for transportation back to Kyoto. His mother brought him back to the farm. They never spoke of selling it again. Until he was old enough, she tended the bamboo and sold it. His father’s name is inscribed at Yokoamicho Park in Tokyo. I promise to visit someday to pay my respects.

In the past two weeks, I’ve memorized the most common kanji characters, covered every square cultural inch of Kyoto—teahouses, Kabuki plays, umbrella-making—and attended evening etiquette lessons with Mariko. Please note how I fold my hands in front of myself, how my steps are half the length they used to be, how I smile without showing too many teeth, how I laugh behind my hand and how, instead of pointing, I gesture with an open palm. To top it all off, I’ve been practicing Japanese with Mariko and Mr. Fuchigami. I can roughly communicate now. I’m not all the way there, but I’m definitely much further down the road. Things have changed fast. I have changed. The sour feelings toward my father have eased, too. I am woman enough to admit when I am wrong. Kyoto has been good. I am thankful.

“Some bamboo grow ninety feet in two months!” Shirasu exclaims. I peer up at the imposing stalks. They’re thick and planted far apart. How easy it would be to slip through the gaps and get lost. Sunlight glints through, thick and warm like honey. Wind rustles. I am reminded of Shintoism. How gods dwell in hills and trees. I feel that presence here. “Patience is key.” Shirasu stops. At his feet is a crack. “Bamboo take time to grow, to spread root. Three year before it surfaces. But after that…” He makes the same motion as he did when speaking about the air raids.

He kneels. “Best bamboo underground.” He removes a small pick from his pocket. His hands are gnarled knots. He works the soil until he upends a lily-white bulb. With his thumbnail, he demonstrates its ripeness. “Tender,” he says. “Like apple.” He hands it off to his son. The boy is a farmhand now, absorbing his father’s words like gospel. Someday, he’ll take over. The son places the bulb in a basket.

Shirasu bows and invites me to enjoy the property. “Dōzo,” he says. Do as you please.

I return with a nod. “Dōmo arigatō gozaimasu.”

He hopes we’ll visit again soon. Perhaps in June, to see the emerald-colored frogs that stick to the stalks and attend Gion Matsuri, a festival where women dress in summer kimono and the shops are decorated with art. There are floats in the evening and music spills onto the streets.

I leave Mariko and Mr. Fuchigami behind and travel deeper into the forest. Here, the bamboo is taller, still spread out, but the leaves are broad and eclipse the sun. Shirasu keeps his plants cut at six feet, but for some reason, in this section they’ve grown wild. The footsteps behind me are Akio’s. He’s my shadow. Stopping, I trail my hands over a stalk, trying to feel the god within.

I catch Akio in my peripheral vision. His face is drawn tight, lips white with strain. Little beads of sweat dot his forehead. “Are you all right?” Could he be sick? It’s hard to imagine the imperial guard falling ill with a pesky virus.

“Fine.” He’s stiff.

“If you say so.” I keep wandering. The bamboo grows taller still. Leaves sway and dip, skirting our shoulders. Mist clings to my ankles. It’s like the earth is exhaling.

“Forest is getting a bit thick, don’t you think?” Akio’s voice sounds choked.

I study him, realizing what it is—he’s claustrophobic. Strong winds sweep through. A leaf tickles the back of Akio’s neck. Fear flashes in his eyes. Thwack. Holy shit. Akio has grabbed the offending stalk and broken it in two. Damn, he’s strong. He’s also having a bit of a mantrum, still hacking away at the bamboo.

“Whoa.” I step to him. “Easy. The bad piece of bamboo is gone.” I touch his shoulder. He stills. “That’s it. The sun’s getting real low, buddy.”

He glares at me over his shoulder, then his gaze drops to my hand. I jerk it away as if I’ve been burned. There’s still a spark between us.

The bamboo falls from his hands. “Did you just quote The Avengers to me?”