Read Online The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tan Twan Eng
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arms stretching in opposite directions until he reached a point where he seemed to be floating just above the floorboards. He stood there with his tautened bow, an expression of complete peace spreading across his face.
Time had stopped: there was no beginning, there was no end.
He released the arrow. The bowstring sliced a sharp sound from the air. The man remained unmoving, one arm still extended, keeping the centre of the bow where he gripped it level with his eyes. He looked at the target for a moment longer before lowering the bow. The arrow had struck well away from the centre.
I took the three low steps up to the platform, the gleaming cypress floorboards creaking beneath my feet. ‘Mr Nakamura?’ I said. ‘Nakamura Aritomo? We were supposed to meet later today– ’
‘Take off your shoes!’ he said. ‘You bring the problems of the world inside.’
Glancing behind, I saw sand and shreds of grass smeared across the floorboards. I stepped down from the range. The man returned the bow to its stand, his white socks leaving no mark on the floor. I waited as he put on his sandals.
‘Go around to the front of the house,’ he said. ‘Ah Cheong will take you to the sitting room.’
* * *
A Chinese manservant led me through the house, sliding open the doors that partitioned off each room and then closing them behind us. I had the impression of moving through a series of boxes, each one opening up to reveal another box, and then another. The servant left me in a sitting room. The doors were opened to the verandah where a low square table was positioned.
On the lawn below the verandah, string tied to four bamboo splints marked out a rectangle; the top layer of grass had been peeled away, exposing the moist, dark soil beneath.
Beyond the rectangle, the ground sloped gently away to the edge of a depression, wide and empty as a saltpan. Mounds of earth and gravel were piled up at its side.
The drizzle had stopped, but water continued to drip from the eaves, drops of congealed light falling to earth. The servant came out with a tray bearing two small celadon cups, a teapot and a small teakettle, its spout steaming weakly. The archer joined me a few minutes later. He had changed into a pair of beige coloured trousers and a white shirt, matched with a grey linen jacket. He sat in the traditional manner on one of the mats, his legs folded, the weight of his body pressing down on his heels. He indicated that I should sit on the other side of the table. I looked at him for a second and then followed his example, putting the roll of documents next to my knee.
‘I am Nakamura Aritomo,’ he said, placing an envelope on the table. I recognised my handwriting on the front, addressed to him. I told him my name and he said, ‘Write it out in Chinese,’ his fingers scribbling over the table.
‘I went to a convent school, Mr Nakamura. I was taught Latin, but not Chinese. I only picked up a little of it after the war.’
‘What does Yun Ling mean?’
‘Cloud Forest.’
He considered it for a moment. ‘A beautiful name. In Japanese you would be called –’
‘I know what I’d be called.’
For a few seconds he stared at me. Then he emptied the teapot into a bowl and threw the still steaming tea over the verandah. I thought it odd, but said nothing. He re-filled the teapot with hot water from the kettle. ‘I thought we had agreed to meet at nine thirty?’
‘If it’s inconvenient for you now, I’ll come back later.’
He shook his head. ‘How old are you? Thirty-three, thirty-four?’
‘I’m twenty-eight.’ I was aware that I had been aged beyond my years by the deprivations in the camp; I thought I had come to accept it but the sudden jab of shame surprised me. ‘You’re making a pond?’ I said, looking to the shallow pit at bottom of the slope.
‘I am merely changing its shape, making it bigger.’ Lifting the teapot, he filled the cups with a translucent green liquid and slid one towards me as
Time had stopped: there was no beginning, there was no end.
He released the arrow. The bowstring sliced a sharp sound from the air. The man remained unmoving, one arm still extended, keeping the centre of the bow where he gripped it level with his eyes. He looked at the target for a moment longer before lowering the bow. The arrow had struck well away from the centre.
I took the three low steps up to the platform, the gleaming cypress floorboards creaking beneath my feet. ‘Mr Nakamura?’ I said. ‘Nakamura Aritomo? We were supposed to meet later today– ’
‘Take off your shoes!’ he said. ‘You bring the problems of the world inside.’
Glancing behind, I saw sand and shreds of grass smeared across the floorboards. I stepped down from the range. The man returned the bow to its stand, his white socks leaving no mark on the floor. I waited as he put on his sandals.
‘Go around to the front of the house,’ he said. ‘Ah Cheong will take you to the sitting room.’
* * *
A Chinese manservant led me through the house, sliding open the doors that partitioned off each room and then closing them behind us. I had the impression of moving through a series of boxes, each one opening up to reveal another box, and then another. The servant left me in a sitting room. The doors were opened to the verandah where a low square table was positioned.
On the lawn below the verandah, string tied to four bamboo splints marked out a rectangle; the top layer of grass had been peeled away, exposing the moist, dark soil beneath.
Beyond the rectangle, the ground sloped gently away to the edge of a depression, wide and empty as a saltpan. Mounds of earth and gravel were piled up at its side.
The drizzle had stopped, but water continued to drip from the eaves, drops of congealed light falling to earth. The servant came out with a tray bearing two small celadon cups, a teapot and a small teakettle, its spout steaming weakly. The archer joined me a few minutes later. He had changed into a pair of beige coloured trousers and a white shirt, matched with a grey linen jacket. He sat in the traditional manner on one of the mats, his legs folded, the weight of his body pressing down on his heels. He indicated that I should sit on the other side of the table. I looked at him for a second and then followed his example, putting the roll of documents next to my knee.
‘I am Nakamura Aritomo,’ he said, placing an envelope on the table. I recognised my handwriting on the front, addressed to him. I told him my name and he said, ‘Write it out in Chinese,’ his fingers scribbling over the table.
‘I went to a convent school, Mr Nakamura. I was taught Latin, but not Chinese. I only picked up a little of it after the war.’
‘What does Yun Ling mean?’
‘Cloud Forest.’
He considered it for a moment. ‘A beautiful name. In Japanese you would be called –’
‘I know what I’d be called.’
For a few seconds he stared at me. Then he emptied the teapot into a bowl and threw the still steaming tea over the verandah. I thought it odd, but said nothing. He re-filled the teapot with hot water from the kettle. ‘I thought we had agreed to meet at nine thirty?’
‘If it’s inconvenient for you now, I’ll come back later.’
He shook his head. ‘How old are you? Thirty-three, thirty-four?’
‘I’m twenty-eight.’ I was aware that I had been aged beyond my years by the deprivations in the camp; I thought I had come to accept it but the sudden jab of shame surprised me. ‘You’re making a pond?’ I said, looking to the shallow pit at bottom of the slope.
‘I am merely changing its shape, making it bigger.’ Lifting the teapot, he filled the cups with a translucent green liquid and slid one towards me as
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