Read Online The Samurai's Garden: A Novel by Gail Tsukiyama - Free Book Online

beach village. Yet, even when we came to Tarumi as children, we seldom left the house and beach. It was always Ching or the other servants who walked the mile back and forth to buy food and whatever else was needed. I never thought of it as much more than a few scattered buildings, but now the prospect of seeing the village seemed like a good way to spend the afternoon.
    Tarumi was not far from the train station, lying in the opposite direction of our beach house. When Matsu and I approached the small station and worn tracks, a train had just pulled in. People had begun to disembark as we walked toward town. I felt their stares follow me. I knew it was not only because I was a Chinese face in their village, but I also realized there were very few young men in Tarumi. Most of the women were dressed in dark, padded kimonos, but a few younger girls had on Western dresses and coats. I was mesmerized being around so many people again; the subtle sweet and sour odors of perfume and sweat, the high and
low of different voices. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was back in Kobe.
    Tarumi looked tired and faded in the gray light. The buildings which lined each side of the dirt road were built of dingy brown wood. The village consisted of a store, post office, and teahouse. Their large, bold characters were carefully painted on signs above each building. Farther down the road were smaller houses where the townspeople lived. Bits and pieces of their lives could be seen in the bicycles and toys leaning against the mismatched bamboo fences. Dogs roamed freely down the road, as the bobbing figures of women and children walked back to their houses. I couldn’t help but wonder which house belonged to Keiko and Mika.
    “Come this way,” Matsu said.
    I followed him across the road to the teahouse. At the door we were greeted by a thin man with a white towel draped over his shoulder. His eyes were dark and sharp, and I watched as he lifted his right hand against the dull light from the street.
    “Matsu, konnichiwa! I wondered when you would stop by,” he bowed.
    “Did you think I would forget, Kenzo?” Matsu answered.
    “No, not you Matsu,” he said, with an almost childlike enthusiasm.
    Matsu turned, grabbed my shoulder firmly and pulled me forward. “This is Stephen- san ,” he said. “And this is Kenzo- san , he makes the best rice crackers in all of Japan. He’s also the man who gets me bacon and whatever else I need.”
    Kenzo and I bowed to each other.
    “Come, come sit down,” Kenzo said, leading us to a table at the back of the large room.
    When my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, I noticed that besides us, there was a lone old man sitting in the far corner. The neat rows of tables were separated by simple wood panels, while sturdy wooden beams ran across the ceiling. The room felt comfortable and inviting.
    “The usual for you, Matsu?” Kenzo asked.
    Matsu laughed. “I didn’t walk all this way just to visit with you!”
    Kenzo turned around and disappeared behind a doorway covered
by two long panels of blue fabric. On each panel was printed a large white character, which when read together meant, “Great Harmony.”
    “Is he an old friend of yours?” I asked.
    “One of my oldest,” Matsu replied, his hand moving across his rough cheek. “Kenzo and I grew up together. This teahouse belonged to his family.” He smiled, as if the memory pleased him. “I remember the morning we first met. Kenzo came to your oj-san’s house while I was working with my father in the garden. Unlike me, Kenzo had always been very popular. He was the last one I had ever expected to see. I remember being covered in dirt. I barely said a word. Kenzo stood so straight, dressed in clean, starched clothes. Even as a boy, he was very proud and self-assured,” Matsu said.
    “What did he want?”
    “He came to ask me if I had time to work on his father’s garden. I was so surprised, I only mumbled that I would stop by