The Painting by Nina Schuyler Page A

You’ve done everything you wanted. Accepted nothing else.
    I don’t have those kinds of desires.
    She laughs harshly. You were always so grandiose about yourself.
    From what I’ve heard, your husband is a fine fellow. We could become the best of friends. Then what will you do?
    Stop it.
    We might share stories about you. The way you click your tongue to the roof of your mouth when you are nervous. Does he know that about you?
    Stop.
    Or rock onto your toes when you’re excited.
    He starts to walk out of the room, but she grabs him by the elbow. You don’t know anything about me anymore. I had no choice.
    Of course. Of course. The matchmaker.
    She hesitates. Her eyes water and the loose strands of hair hang mournfully around her face.
    They hear her husband coming down the hallway. They turn together and watch him hobble toward them. Her body bristles, and she retracts within herself, as if she were a small animal burrowing down underneath her skin. Not until now, as Hayashi slowly makes his way to them, does she realize she’s dreaded this moment. How will they get along, and then she wonders, why does she care? She frantically searches for something to say, but her mind seizes, and she stands still, watching her husband. His walk, she thinks, is smoother, more fluid than usual. He seems in good spirits. But perhaps it’s only a momentary change and tomorrow he will be flat on his back again. She suddenly knows what it is: She’s ashamed Hayashi is her husband and Sato, with his brusque, rude manner, is her friend. They won’t get along.
    Sato cringes as he watches the man limp toward them. It looks as if every time he steps, something drives deep into his feet. Pitiful, he thinks, a tragic sight, feeling himself soften with sympathy for the injured man.
    Hayashi bows and apologizes for not greeting Sato when he first arrived. Sato exchanges the bow and, as he stands, extends his hand. Hayashi awkwardly takes it in his.
    An Eastern bow and a Western handshake, says Sato. The modern man’s greeting.
    Hayashi nods, smiling tentatively. When Sato glances toward Ayoshi, Hayashi studies Sato. He looks craggy and worn, thinks Hayashi. Some of his apprehension about this visitor dissipates. Still, there is the smart suit—he wears a silk scarf around his neck and Western trousers, his blouse is of the finest linen cloth with cuff sleeves, and his wool coat has a line of gold buttons down the front. And there is the full attention Ayoshi lavishes on him. He is her first visitor.
    Soon the government will issue an edict about that, says Sato.
    You’ve heard about the edicts? asks Hayashi.
    Sato bows again. It’s a great honor to meet you.
    And you, he says.
    There is an awkward moment. Ayoshi glances around. What are we doing standing in the hallway? she asks, laughing nervously. Sato has yet to see the gardens.
    We shall give him a tour, says Hayashi.
    They gather their coats and she leads them to the main gardens.
    Everything is well kept, says Sato, motioning to the yard, the house, the temple.
    Hayashi bows and says the grounds could use more tending. But any beauty you see has nothing to do with me. It’s the gardener’s skillful hand.
    She glances nervously at Sato, hoping he does not become insolent. The wry turn of the corners of his mouth has faded, replaced by something kinder and more grave.
    Do you need to sit? asks Sato.
    I’m fine, Hayashi says, abruptly, waving him off. They amble toward the cluster of bamboo.
    Sato hears the anger in Hayashi’s response. Something solid in this man, he thinks. A strong fiber underneath the pain. Perhaps their talk will venture beyond nonsense and trivia. And the government lets you keep the temple open for services? asks Sato.
    Of course, says Hayashi.
    Ayoshi stifles a scoff. What about the fire, she wants to blurt out. The burning of the teahouse? Hayashi hasn’t told her anything about it, but she figures it has something to do with the temple.
    It’s quite