Sophie and the Rising Sun (8 page)
Read Sophie and the Rising Sun Online
Authors: Augusta Trobaugh
Tags: #Romance, #Literary, #General, #Historical, #Fiction
Saturday seemed interminable, for Mr. Oto could find no peace at all in the day. He could think only of Sunday morning and perhaps being with her once again at the river. And so the day before this would possibly happen dragged on, seemingly without end.
Miss Anne said:
Late Saturday afternoon, my sink got stopped up, so I went down to get Mr. Oto to come and fix it for me. I knocked on the door, and when he opened it—why, I can’t quite describe the look that was on his face. Like maybe he’d been expecting someone. But who?
“Could you come help me get my sink unstopped?” I asked, still wondering.
“Oh, yes!” Why, he seemed excited to be unstopping my sink! But I couldn’t have said why. And that wasn’t the only unusual thing about that day, sure enough.
I remember it so well. He looked absolutely happy to have something to do. And while he clanked around under the sink and muttered to himself softly—but not in English—I began wondering if he were lonely.
Strange that I’d never wondered about that before, but I hadn’t. And now that I think back on it, I guess what happened in the garden the week before started me to thinking, too. When he acted so strange, I mean, like he’d seen something out of the ordinary.
What if he were becoming ill? Who could I call? Did he have any family? And where were they?
So while he finished up under the sink, I decided to invite him to have a cup of tea with me. Then I could ask some questions—very politely, of course. And find out what I might need to know. I put a clean cloth on the kitchen table and set out two cups. I’d certainly never invited a gardener—much less someone who wasn’t white—to sit at my own table with me before, but for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why not.
“All fixed.” Mr. Oto backed out of the cabinet under the sink, returned the wrench to the toolbox on the floor, and stood up—just as the kettle began to whistle.
“Would you like to have a cup of tea with me?” I tried to sound casual about it, but I realized right away that I’d put both of us in a pretty uncomfortable situation. Because what would happen if he declined my invitation? That would make things awkward between us, sure enough, so I guessed all those unwritten rules about how you’re supposed to act around people who work for you had some advantages after all.
“Excuse me?” He seemed so surprised that he even put his finger on his chest as if to ask, “Me?”
I nodded, but much to my alarm, he bowed deeply and then fairly bolted right out of the kitchen.
What on earth?
I went to the window and watched him scurry across the yard toward the back wall and beyond it to the cottage.
Goodness! Who would have thought that he would run away like that?
But in only a few minutes, he came running back, with his face fresh-scrubbed to a glow and his hair wet and combed, and wearing a clean—albeit unironed—white shirt. Well, Mr. Oto may very well have been my gardener, but I know a gentleman when I see one, and it was sure enough a gentleman who came to have tea with me that day.
He sat down in the chair just as gently as if he thought it would shatter at any minute and waited silently while I poured the tea and passed a cup to him. That was quite something to see—his thick fingers grasping that fragile cup. And I was very careful when I brought up the subject that had prompted me to ask Mr. Oto to tea.
“Well, tell me, Mr. Oto,” I began, trying to keep my voice light and friendly. “Do you have family anywhere?”
But I saw a flush creeping up under his brown skin, in spite of my care, and so I hastily added, “It’s just that I wonder if... you’re very lonely.”
Somehow, the added words soothed both of us.
“I have family,” he said, letting his eyes meet mine, but only briefly. “But very far away.”
“In China?”
He looked down at his lap and smiled. “No, Miss Anne. Not that far away. I have family in California. I was born there.”
“But you’ve never gone to visit your people, not in two long years,” I stated. “Why?” I knew that I was really beginning to pry into his business, but I needed to know.
He waited before he answered, and when he spoke, his eyes remained on the cup in his hands. “Please,” he breathed. “I am very happy here.”
And somehow, I could tell by the way he said it that he wasn’t willing to say anything more about that.
“Well then, I won’t mention it again,” I said. “I was just worried about you the other day, and I thought maybe I should have a name or an address of someone to contact
if you should become ill.”
“I am no longer a young man, Miss Anne,” he said. “But I am in good health, and I am very happy here with things just the way they are. What I thought I saw the other day was perhaps just something I remembered from an old story my father once told to me.”
“I’d like to hear it,” I ventured, and he glanced at me, perhaps to see if I was sincere or merely being polite. Convinced of my sincerity, he began the story, and right away, I could sense the magical quality of it.
“On a faraway island called Hokkaido, there are great cranes that are found nowhere else in all the world,” he began, warming to his story right away so that he spoke with more animation than I had ever seen before. “The story is about a lonely woodcutter who rescued a great crane that was hurt. And he nursed it back to health.”
Here, he paused and looked at me again, and he had the strangest smile on him, as if it didn’t quite know how to fit into his face.
“And the crane turned into a lovely bride for the woodcutter, through magic.” His words were almost breathless. And then he added, “It’s only an old story.”
“It’s lovely,” I said, quite truthfully.
“Well, I thought I saw a great crane in your garden that day.”
“One that turned into a young woman?” I asked cautiously.
“No.” Again, he smiled, and his cheeks quivered, as if they were surprised by it. “Just a great crane.”
“It was a blue heron perhaps?” I offered. “Or a whooping crane, of course? That sometimes happens.”
“Perhaps,” he said, once again wearing that very strange but lovely smile. Then he pushed back his chair, stood up, and bowed deeply to me. “And now, I thank you for the delicious tea.”
Well, after that, I’ll have to admit that I thought of us as friends a little. Because I’d invited him to take tea at my own table. And because he had told me that lovely story from his own childhood.
So the next morning—which was Sunday—I awakened early, thinking most distinctly that I really should give Mr. Oto more say-so about how the garden would be planted. Goodness knows, he never said anything right out, but I could tell he had other ideas about it.
In particular, when I told him how I wanted the new dogwood trees planted, he asked me, “In a row?” And I could hear the disappointment in his voice. But I was stubborn, as usual. So maybe I should listen to his ideas, at least. For after all, he was a gentleman of impeccable taste.
While I was lying there, thinking, I heard him walk past my window on the gravel driveway—on his way to the river to paint, as he always did on Sunday mornings.
Yes—a gentleman of impeccable taste!
When Mr. Oto arrived at the riverbank, Sophie was already there, painting and with the early sunlight in her hair and a breeze off the river lifting a loose tendril of hair at her temples.
Once, in a book Miss Anne had brought to him from the library, he had seen pictures of many great paintings, and now, watching her, he wished deeply that he knew how to paint such magnificent pictures. For surely, only such a painting could do justice to her.
While he stood there, she hesitated in her painting and then once again turned to look directly at him. Her round, pink face, the deep green eyes, the careless way the white, open-collared blouse lay upon her shoulders—all these things worked together so that his face tingled, as if he had been briefly burned by a flash of sunlight.
And once again, in the church, the singing began: “
Love lifted me! Love lifted me! When nothing else could help, Love lif-ted meee!”
“Good morning,” she said. And there was more in those same words than had been in them on the weekday mornings.
“Good morning,” he answered, and moved forward as if the painting he would do were the only thing that mattered. And once again, he worked on the painting of Sophie as the magical Crane-Wife in the old fable.
After a few silent hours, Sophie gathered her paints and said, “I have to leave now. I hope you will come again next Sunday.”
Mr. Oto stood and bowed deeply, all the time placing himself between Sophie and his painting of her.
“I will come,” he answered simply.
Walking back home that day,
Sophie carried his presence with her, somehow. So that she could almost feel him walking along beside her, saying nothing. But still, his clean-earth smell was in her nostrils and the sound of his quiet breathing, in her ears.
How strange!
she thought.
The next Sunday,
they met again and painted silently for hours, after which Sophie leaned back a little and turned her head ever-so-slightly toward Mr. Oto. It was a gesture—a new gesture—one that both of them would be able to accept as a signal for the end of painting and the beginning of speaking. For Sophie had decided that she no longer had to be the least bit concerned that he would intrude upon her reveries by talking too much, and once that concern was put to rest—strangely enough, it left a quiet space inside of her that she was ready to fill with his voice.
On that particular Sunday, however, Mr. Oto was deeply engrossed in creating the iris of the great crane, an eye that must be dark but that should not be so distinct as to belie the dreamy, almost illusionary quality of the crane. Black, he finally decided, was too abrupt. And gray would not convey the depth of the eye of such a symbol of love and happiness. Finally, he touched together with the brush a bit of the red and some of the blue, and the resulting deep purple of the crane’s eye was so perfectly the effect he wanted that he almost gasped.
“You must be very pleased with your painting,” Sophie offered, and Mr. Oto jumped a little, as if he had forgotten for a moment that she was there. And he could hardly tear his eyes away from the soft, deeply passionate gaze of the crane.
“I am pleased, yes,” he finally answered.
“May I see?” Sophie asked innocently.
“Oh, no!” The abject horror in his response surprised her “I mean...” He seemed to be as surprised as Sophie at the intensity of his words, and he glanced at her with deep apology in his eyes. Hastily, he blew upon the great, purple-hued eye to dry it thoroughly before he closed the art tablet.
“Please,” he began again. “It’s not worthy.”
“But I’m sure it’s very good,” Sophie said, somehow touched by his obvious embarrassment.
“Please, no.” Mr. Oto repeated those words and then no more. But his dark eyes were fully upon Sophie, unblinking and with something in them—a burning sincerity, or something. So that she pressed the matter no further. But she didn’t feel offended—not in the least. She, who valued privacy, also respected the same value in him.
Once again, when she arose to leave, he stood up also and bowed low before her, a gesture that both embarrassed and pleased her.
“I’m sorry about not sharing my painting with you,” he said.
“It’s perfectly all right,” she assured him. “After all, it’s your painting, to do with as you please. And I’m sure it’s quite lovely.’’