The gloom shone as he glanced back at the car, filled with his entire life. Or at least everything he was able to pack quickly.
He shivered, clutching himself, while walking the short path. The front gate looked just as rickety as last time, its hinges bent, the steel rusted over and rusted over again. He thought of exposed wounds not healing and hoped the spirits were giving him a sign.
He stopped and looked over at the front yard. Then, just as now, he found beauty in the order. It was not brash, but restrained, deferential. The garden knew its place and would never draw attention to itself. But if you looked closely you'd find an infinite amount of detail to get lost in. Was this the way with all Japanese gardens? Or were you supposed to find something else in them?
Already he was at the little pavilion. Even under dark clouds, the red of its low wooden walls stood out. He followed a flapping noise until uncovering a crane: beautiful, poised, embroidered in fabric. But injured – a laceration across the wing, where the stitching had come loose. The cool breeze gave it a slight tug, drawing it away, before moving back like it was in flight and he remembered her. He remembered the way she sat, so still, with lowered head, her thin grey eyes constantly downcast. He remembered wondering what was going on in the mind behind those eyes, in the soul behind that mind. What sort of pain could you keep inside such a small chest?
Out here, on that day, both of them sitting against the red. This was the only time he saw a tear. A single drop of pain, flowing slowly down a pale cheek.
He stood, out here, on this day, watching the crane, covered in the drops of early morning dew. He wondered how many times, after that day, she rested against that crane and released one more piece of her pain, how many days she felt alone. A surge of regret affected him. Had he really come for forgiveness? Or something else?
Standing at the front door he was overcome by the smell of larch. The only other time he tasted that scent was behind this door, on that day, sitting, avoiding the person he was with. It all seemed so mundane, so grey; simple, sombre people encased in a mist. Then, through the gloom, he had noticed a strip of black fabric. Enclosed within was the shape of a girl. Not the body – there was no body left – just a figure, entangled in amongst the gathering, but set apart, like a ghost. She was most alone surrounded by all those people.
A suddenness had hit him and he wanted more than anything to hug her heart, to make it warm and safe and strong. But they had never met before and it felt wrong to have such convictions. Wasn't that for others to provide for; family, proper family, and friends, proper friends?
So he waited and watched, but did not stare. With her eyes averted he could have stared. But he stole his glances in waves, each peek offering a special newness.
The flutter of a bird's wings made him jump. Just as they did for her that day, before their eyes locked, where he had tried to let her read the kindness and empathy in his expression. She stared, that day, not breaking away, not letting him in on her feelings.
He knocked on the door. And waited.
It was that tenderness, that introspective nature in her which pulled at him. It was the kind of instant connection which made him doubt himself and his feelings. But the doubt didn't last long – how could it with that kind of gentleness? Was this as those of the past would write about? Was this real love? Not lust or admiration or friendship, but real, true love?
He remembered her large mouth barely moving. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and deliberate. She saved most of her energy for breathing. She was perfectly equanimous. It was the most beautiful vision he had ever encountered.
'Coming!' shrilled a loud noise from within.
He was brought back into the current world, the darker world; but a world with that spark of hope, of anticipation.
'Hey, sorry about that,' said a teenager at the door. 'Was just doing the dishes and – oh.' The teenager looked up for the first time. 'Sorry, I thought you were someone else,' she said.
He took a deep breath and controlled his expression, relaxing his facial muscles. Was he someone else? Was she someone else? He looked closer and recognised the small indent on her top lip.
'Are you looking for mum?' she said.
'Yes,' he said.
'She just went out. Be back soonish if you wanna wait.'
She shrugged, which contorted her face even more.
'Err, you alright?' she said.
The abrasiveness of her voice made him shiver. He pretended it was the cold air and shrank away.
She led him inside.
His mind was jumbled, confused, concerned. This wasn't right. And why did he lie?
He sat in the lounge room and looked through the arched doorway to the body in the kitchen. It was a body now, not just a shape, with wide hips and frizzled hair, with denim jeans too tight and a white top too loose. He peered with disdain at the outline of a dark coloured bra underneath.
'So how do you know mum?' she said, in between clanks and chinks of dishes.
He tried to speak but his mouth would not move.
'Hey?' she screamed, assuming she did not hear.
'I was here at the funeral,' he blurted out.
'The funeral?' she said, undulating incessantly.
This can't be right, he thought. But it can't be her sister - she was an only child. And it was only a few years ago.
'Oh,' she said, gaining understanding. 'Really? I don't remember you. How did you know dad?'
'It was more my...the person I was with, at the time, she was related to you. To your father.'
'We don't really see that side of the family much. Most of 'em are in Japan, I think.'
'Yes. I haven't seen you since that day.'
'Oh my god!' she screamed and came into lounge room.
Did she finally recognise him? At least that was something. At least the tug he had felt was truly two-sided. It wasn't in his mind, not this time. It was truth where before there had been none.
'What was I like? I bet I was embarrassing.'
He looked down.
'Mum doesn't talk about any of that stuff, like with dad and that,' she continued. 'I didn't talk much then, either, did I? God, I was so shy. And stupid. Jeez, I remember just not wanting to talk at all, like everyone should just know what I'm feeling and know when I was hot or cold or thirsty or tired. But not hungry – I never ate.'
And you were beautiful because of it all, he thought.
'Oh, and even nodding was so tiring!' she said while nodding vociferously, as if making up for lost time. It was ugly. The movements were erratic, fast, uncontrolled. It was like she was outside of herself.
He let out an involuntary noise, a grunt. He tried to think back to her face, to how it was, how tender and sweet and gentle, but the vision would not come. It was gone. Faded like the ghost it probably was.
He felt the presence of the garden, peering in at him through the large window. He turned toward it and closed his eyes. A moment of tranquillity filled his soul. When his eyes opened he spoke, softly: 'Your garden still looks nice.'
'We get someone in to do it. Some Filipino guy or whatever. Always pervin' on me, ha! Creep.'
'The crane is injured.'
'Huh?' she said, again screwing up her face.
'The crane in the pavilion. It was damaged. Perhaps by the recent winds?'
'Oh, that. Nah, mum didn't want that changed. That's how it was when he died.'
How had he forgotten the crane's state that day? If he miss-remembered that, perhaps the rest was a dream. He began drowning in doubt.
'She got all weird and has made the whole thing some...what's that word? Like when you make something to remind you of a dead person?'
'A shrine?' he ventured, monotonously.
'Yeah, I guess.'
He felt the coarse words hang, motionless, ingratiating themselves into him. And so he let the conversation end. Part of him wanted to say something more, to clear up any misunderstandings. But what could he say? It would sound sleazy and, to her, he'd be the same as the gardener, a creep. Worse, someone who could be discussed lightly with strangers.
A stranger. That's what he was. That's what she was, now, too. She'd become older but had now grown up. She'd somehow un-grown, become less than she was, less than the delicate petal he remembered.
A knock echoed through the house and she raced to the door. There was no point in forcing himself to endure any more misery so he took the diversion as an opportunity to escape. He did not want to engage with her mum, did not want to make up stories and lie about his reasons for being there. And if it was someone else at the door, a boy, a man...he wasn't sure what it all meant, what the feeling in his stomach meant. Whatever it was, whatever he was here for, he didn't have it, and never would.
Crouching, he pulled his hands away and sat back. A long, deep breath later the wind picked up and carried it out the pavilion. He flung himself into the garden and looked into the darkened sky. The crane flapped its wings and flew, up into heaven.
© 2011 Ben Safta
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License
