The Painting by Nina Schuyler Page B

beautiful, the human soul striving for transcendence, says Sato. I don’t have such a soul. Mine wallows in its own muck. But such a striving soul, it must be uplifting to be around. Is that why you choose to live here?
    Ayoshi glances down at her hands, folded tightly in front of her, and feels her face blush.
    Hayashi pauses, puzzled and slightly offended by such a direct question. He looks at Ayoshi and sees her bowed head, her reddened cheeks. She’s embarrassed. I should welcome this old friend of hers; he is perfectly harmless and it’s only because of his travels that he has different ways. If an old friendcame to visit me, I hope she would extend a welcome, no matter the nature of my visitor. He tells Sato this morning an old woman brought three jars of pickled vegetables as offerings for the Buddha. She probably cleaned out her cupboards, and now what will she eat? he says.
    I saw that kind of devotion in an English church, says Sato. Everyone got down on their knees, as if one big hand swooped down from the ceiling and pressed on their heads. What a thing to see.
    They near the rock garden, the small white pebbles and large gray rocks, islands floating in a white sea. They stand there, no one saying anything.
    Both of you know quite a lot about the West, says Ayoshi, hoping to ease the tension that she feels creeping into the elongated silences.
    What do you like about the West? asks Sato.
    Hayashi gazes at the rocks, and his mind skips back to the Dutchman. Sato’s mind, his probing questions, shorn of politeness and circularity, so bold, this friend of Ayoshi. His mind is of the same fabric as the Dutchman’s. Why study the myths? asked the Dutchman one day. Why bother? Hayashi was stunned. He said he should because the Dutchman told him to. The Dutchman scoffed and made him write an essay to answer the question; he can’t remember now what he wrote, but he recalls how exhilarating it felt, and also how barbaric.
    She watches Hayashi’s face. He’s trying to contain his pain, she thinks, that’s why he isn’t answering. Now he’s gritting his jaws together, as if pushing the pain into a box for her to deal with later. They stand at the edge of the rock garden. Ayoshi has the urge to scatter the pebbles with her shoes.
    Excuse me, says Hayashi. What did you ask?
    I wanted to ask, What do you get for providing prayer services? says Sato.
    So few people come anymore, says Hayashi. And really, all I do is open the main door.
    We receive a stipend, says Ayoshi. She tells Sato they get some money for upkeep. The grounds are historical landmarks. And Hayashi receives assistance in selling his work to the West.
    I didn’t know our new leaders were so generous, says Sato.
    No, says Hayashi, flicking a pine needle from his kimono. Not generous.
    Sato raises his eyebrows, tosses his head back, and laughs. Then it must be part of the national pride campaign. I read about it in the English newspaper. He stands up tall and imitates one of the officials in a low, commanding voice, To generate respect for Japan, we will assist you in selling your ceramics. It will be good for you. More important, it is best for Japan.
    Hayashi laughs and some of the stiffness in the air sloughs away.
    Sato looks admiringly around the gardens, toward the house, the temple. The grounds are quite lovely. It’s a good investment for the government. To preserve this. Quite old, I would think?
    Hayashi shifts his weight to his heels, away from the balls of his feet, which burn now. He tells Sato the temple was built in the tenth century, a hermitage for the women of the Heian court to come and pray. It’s very precious to the Buddhists.
    I didn’t know that, says Ayoshi.
    I told you when you first came here, says Hayashi, his voice a whisper.
    Lovely, says Sato.
    Hayashi smiles wistfully. If you read some of these women’s poetry, you discover it was also a secluded place for them to meet their lovers.
    Sato takes a step toward the stone