The Painting Read Online Free PDF Page A

speaking to her; the image before her is painting itself.
    H AYASHI TAKES HIS PLACE at the long stretch of polished oak table. Five other men dressed in Western clothes are already seated. Hayashi waits, sitting through the tedious agenda, staring out the window at the colorless sky. Right before the meeting adjourns, he rises from his straight-backed chair, and with his heart hammering in his ears, tells them his teahouse was burned down in the middle of last night.
    The man at the end of the table clears his throat. He has a broad chest and blunt lips that seem persistently to pout. As the country changes, there is bound to be more violence, he says, diplomatically, tapping his long nails on the tabletop. Change frightens some people. Most people. They lash out to keep things the same.
    We have to deal with the ignorant segments of the population who refuse to Westernize, says another.
    A servant comes in and pours everyone a cup of English tea. One of the men pulls out a pack of cigarettes and passes it around the table.
    There is also your father’s legacy, says another, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. The man’s face is dispassionate, except for the glint of self-importance that he betrays by the upward tilt of his narrow chin. Your father believed so strongly in ending feudalism, such an early supporter of restoring the emperor to power. But not everyone agreed with him. He puffs on his cigarette and blows gray smoke. Such as the samurai. Perhaps a samurai has unleashed his anger at you; it’s your legacy, if you will.
    The men nod in agreement.
    Then there is you, says the official at the head of the table, who is clearly in charge.
    Excuse me, sir, says Hayashi.
    Perhaps someone felt the need to warn you.
    About what?
    The room is still, only the sound of cigarette ash dropping on the hardwood floor. Who can say for sure? It could be your successful trade with theWest that makes someone jealous or angry. He pauses and sighs. Or it could be the new government no longer views Buddhism as the official religion. We were quite generous when we let you keep the temple standing. As you know several of us wanted it to be torn down. But you convinced us that it is a historical building that should remain. We never dreamed you’d hold services there.
    Hayashi begins to protest that he only opens the door, he doesn’t lead them in prayer.
    The official in charge holds up his hand, halting his interruption. That townspeople still come to pray—despite the new decree that the official religion of this country is Shintoism, which is pure Japanese. You certainly know of this decree.
    Hayashi looks around the room. The men are staring at him. They already know the answer, thinks Hayashi. Why must there be more humiliation?
    These are dangerous times, continues the head official. We must keep a united front or the enemies will smell weakness, like a predator hunting his prey. We must work together or we will fail. You must think again about keeping the temple open for services. The man shakes his head. Perhaps this is what the fire was about—to make you think again. The person who set the fire wants to make sure you know he is watching your decision.
    S HE TAKES OUT HER notebook and writes, It did happen. There was a man with round eyes like the full moon. With the strength of the sun. Hair on his face and chest. He was here once. So was I. We had one shadow .
    F ROM THE STUDIO WINDOW , Ayoshi sees Hayashi hobble to the front door and step inside. She walks to the house and hears him shut the bedroom door. For a moment, she stands in the hallway, listening. Water is running. He is preparing for bed, she thinks. I’ll paint the entire night, all morning, if need be.
    She returns to the studio, takes out a new sheet of paper, and sets it on her large oak desk. Tenderly, she picks up a brush and puts the tip in her mouth, coats it with her saliva, and finds the perfect point.
    The blue. What was it? Her lover adored blue.
    Blue,