The Scent of Sake (12 page)

If truth be told, Rie did not appreciate ikebana as much as her mother or Sunao. Somehow she preferred to see plants and flowers in a more natural setting, as in the garden at home. She knew that even there, in her favorite private place, the gardener always pruned in a prescribed way. Nothing grew wild unless one went into some out-of-the-way rural area, something Rie seldom had an opportunity to do.

She turned her attention to an exhibit of her favorite flowers, wisteria, and stopped to admire the arrangements, some in flat obsidian containers, others in white or celadon vases of inge-nious shapes, of subtle, impeccable taste. She noted most were in the prescribed three-part placement of flowers and greenery. She tried to remember a few of the most striking designs, thinking perhaps she might try her hand at them. Such fine art was not something that usually occupied her time in the workday of the busy brewery, but she knew it would please her mother. As she paused, a voice at her elbow interrupted her reverie.

“Omura-san, we meet again amid flowers.”

Her heart raced. There in front of her was Saburo Kato. More handsome than ever.

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“Yes, what a pleasant surprise,” Rie managed to say, bowing and smiling. She felt her heartbeat accelerate.

“Shall we look at the prize winners?” Saburo asked.

Rie smiled and nodded, temporarily speechless at her good fortune. She could barely take her eyes off him.

As they walked, Saburo slowed so that they were walking abreast rather than with Rie three paces behind.

“I heard about the inappropriate remarks made by Yamaguchi at your wedding,” he said, glancing at Rie. “My father said it was too arrogant, and coming from the president of the Brewers Association. I hope your father was not upset by the insult to your house.”

He understood. Here was a man who understood her
and
her family. She paused. “Thank you, Kato-sama, for your understanding, but I fear my father was annoyed and a bit depressed.” She looked directly into Kato’s eyes, the man she had always found so attractive. She felt their connection in her inner being, a connection she had never felt with anyone else. And to her surprise she felt no awkwardness in talking with him. Rie felt her spirit soaring, dancing in the air.

His glance rested on Rie’s face. “Well, I doubt that he will be reelected. Shall we work together to see that he is not? Of course I am not the heir, but my father and brothers listen to me. I know that you are heir . . . your husband . . .”

She longed to touch him, to feel the protection of his embrace for just a moment.

“Ah, Kato-sama, that would be wonderful. I must be returning home now, but I feel we shall meet again.” She knew they would. And that she must not linger today. She bowed.

“Yes, it will be my hope, Omura-san. I look forward to it.” He smiled and bowed in return, his eyes lingering longer than what was necessary and sending a warm tingle racing through her. What it took to leave his company, to tear herself away from him.

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Sake 69

With one last look at Saburo, Rie hurried out to the ricksha. It was more than she could have hoped, not only meeting him but knowing he cared for her and her house, that they had a common antagonist, and especially that he wanted to see her again. He felt what she did, she was certain. She smiled and hummed all the way to the Omura entrance.

Rie arrived home in a mood of elation. She nearly ran up the slippery stairs to change into her work kimono before joining her mother for lunch. “It was such a special exhibit, Mother,” she remarked as she sat at the table where her mother was looking at her food. Rie was hungry and did not notice immediately that her mother was not eating. Rie put down her chopsticks.

“What’s the matter, Mother? Don’t you feel well?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a stomach upset, I imagine. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure, Mother?”

Her mother nodded, so Rie excused herself and left for the storeroom, her favorite workplace, and not off-limits to her. She was eager to be alone with her memories of Saburo, of his plan.
Their
plan.

Late in the afternoon she went to her mother’s room to see

how she was doing. Hana was lying on her futon, her eyes closed. Rie saw that the hibachi coals had gone out. She touched her mother’s hands.

“Mother, how are you feeling?” she asked softly.

“Oh, Rie. . .” Hana opened her eyes and struggled to speak. “I am not well.” She closed her eyes again.

“Has anyone sent for the herbalist?”

Hana shook her head. Rie relit the hibachi and reached to touch her mother’s forehead. A shot of alarm raced through her. Her mother was burning up.

“I see you are in pain, Mother,” she said, hiding the panic from her voice. “I’m going to send someone now.”

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“Oh . . .” Her mother only frowned.

Rie rushed to the kitchen and asked O-Natsu’s assistant to go for the herbalist.

“Run! Right now! You know where he lives? Bring him back with you as soon as possible,” she ordered.

Rie ran to the inner office and opened the shoji abruptly, without announcing herself.

Her father, Jihei, and a customer looked up, startled. She stood in the doorway.

“It’s Mother. She’s having abdominal pain. I’ve sent for the herbalist.”

“Oh, I’ll come.” Her father frowned and rose to follow Rie along the earthen corridor to the step leading to the family rooms.

“I’m afraid it’s serious, Father.”
Please let me be wrong. Let her be all right.

Her father gasped. “Good that you called for the herbalist, Rie. Let’s see what he has to say.”

They entered Hana’s room. The light creeping in through the shoji dimly lit Hana’s pallid face. O-Natsu had propped up Hana’s head and was holding a bowl of rice gruel to her mouth. Hana shook her head, and O-Natsu set the bowl on a tray.

“She won’t eat,” O-Natsu said, anxiously. She bowed herself out.

Rie and her father sat on either side of Hana’s futon and watched her face intently.

The old wizened herbalist arrived with a brown pouch filled with potions and powders tied to his obi. He knelt beside Hana’s futon and felt her pulse and pressure points on her arms and legs.

“Hmm,”
he murmured.

He took from his pouch two powders and measured them into folded papers, which he handed to Rie.

“She must take these with hot water three times each day, beginning now. Send for me tomorrow if she isn’t better.”

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Sake 71

Rie’s father followed the herbalist to the door, questioning him as he left.

Rie took the powders and held one packet to her mother’s mouth, a cup of tea in the other hand. She raised her mother’s head.

“Please open your mouth, Mother. You must take this.”
Do not leave me! You must not go. Please.

Her mother took a small sip.

“One more, Mother. Here.” Rie held the second packet of powder to her mother’s mouth.
Please work. Please!

Hana groaned and shook her head. Her eyes moved slowly

toward Rie and then to her husband, who had reentered the room and sat near his wife.

“I know,” she said feebly, “my time has come.” She struggled to continue. “I have had a good life. I am ready.”

Kinzaemon dropped his head to his chest, hands clenched in his lap.

“No, Mother, please!” Rie pleaded. She continued to hold the powder to her mother’s mouth, but Hana simply closed her eyes.

Rie glanced at her father from time to time as they both sat in consternation at Hana’s side. In the evening Rie looked at her father. “Go to bed, Father, and have something to eat. I’ll stay here with her.”

Her father shook his head. “I want to be with her now.”

Hours passed. During the night Rie glanced at her father and saw that he was dozing where he sat, head resting on his chest. Jihei came in and sat for a while, then left. O-Natsu crept in with tea to see if Rie or Kinzaemon wished to be relieved. Rie whispered no.

Alone with her late-night thoughts, tears ran down Rie’s cheeks. No one could replace her mother. Rie’s father was fond of her, relied on her for the future of the house, she knew. But her

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mother understood her as only a woman can. She had a tender-hearted way with a woman’s problems. Rie sobbed softly as she gazed at her mother’s white hands crossed over her chest, hands that had so often held fine needlework with invisible stitches, hands that had nurtured Rie ever since her earliest memories. Now the hands lay so still. Rie watched the futon rise and fall almost imperceptibly with her mother’s breathing and felt her own breaths match her mother’s, as if to lend her mother her own life force.

At the first faint light of dawn filtering in through the shoji, Rie started at a sound from her mother’s futon. She reached toward the futon. Her mother moved as if to sit up but fell back, her eyes and mouth open. Rie touched her hands and felt her pulse.
No. No. No!

“Father!” Rie reached a hand to her sleeping father’s arm. “I think Mother’s gone.” She sobbed, a hand over her mouth.

The cremation was a most painful experience for Rie, reminding her once again of Toichi, of her failing the house, failing to produce an heir. When would she ever get it right, she wondered, as she sat with her father, shuddering and sobbing as she picked each bone from the ashes with chopsticks? She looked at the cluster of bones, all that remained of her mother. There was the skull that had underlain the delicate features and patrician nose. Rie glanced at her father’s devastated face and squirmed as she decided to save him this most painful part of the final devotion. She picked up the skull and separated it from the ashes. When she finished she closed her eyes and imagined her mother’s patrician face bent over the needlework she was so fond of. Imagined her sitting in her room in front of her carved paulownia dressing table. For several moments Rie held the vision before opening her eyes to attend to the rest of her difficult task.

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Sake 73

The funeral ceremony was a sad, solemn affair, the large room lined with black-clad mourners and priests intoning their dron-ing mantras. Saburo was there too, his heart reaching out to her even across a crowded room. She had heard that he had lost his mother at an early age and had never fully recovered from the loss. She sneaked a glance at him and bowed quickly as his glance locked with hers.

Only once before had Rie experienced such complete and utter grief: the day her brother had fallen into the well. The day she hadn’t taken her responsibility seriously. Now, once again, she had failed in her duty. Her mother had not lived to see the grandchild of her blood. It was too late. Watching her father’s drawn face, Rie tried to conceal her own desolation. Numbness overtook her, a closing off of all aspects of her normal daily life. For several days she had energy only to sit with her father or in the garden, silent to the world around her.

Though she had never seen her parents demonstrate their affection for each other, she knew it was there, a deep, abiding bond. Her father grew increasingly dispirited in the days and weeks to follow. Added to her own bereavement, Rie felt the heavy weight of an even greater responsibility. Soon it would be up to her and Jihei to maintain the business and tradition of the house. She knew this meant the weight lay squarely on her shoulders, since Jihei had demonstrated so little ability. What kind of support could she count on?