The Painting Read Online Free PDF Page B

feels peacefulness wake and stretch inside, and the watery clay undulates in his hands. A beautifulbowl, he thinks, different from anything he’s ever made, a bowl that makes people stop and stare, commands them to halt and forget where they are going, what was important a moment ago. Look! Look again. It will be a resplendent bowl, better than anything he has ever made.
    The humming rings different today, not high-pitched, but lower, a bass tone. Who? he wonders. His fingers sink farther into the mound of clay, as if searching for the source. Then he gives a small cry. The tone, a tenor voice. His father. He rarely hears him when he works and now the clay feels too sticky. He tries to form a shape to the sound. The clay twists and contorts in his hands, like a slick animal trying to escape. The noise grows louder. The clay lashes to the right and leaps in between his fingers. And now he realizes the rumbling matches his own, the one he has been trying to ignore.
    He stops pumping. The wheel’s whir slows to a dullness, then stops. The angry clatter subsides, disappears. He sinks his feet into a bucket of clay to ease the growing pain.
    A warning, the men said. If his father had received such a threat, he would not be sitting in his shop selling green tea or hoeing his field. He would hold meetings with the townspeople, argue over the best way to counter the attack. Repercussions for such actions, his father would say. There must be consequences. The burning of the teahouse cannot go unanswered. Nor the request to close the temple.
    He looks at his wheel, the nascent shape. A mess of clay, he thinks. He punches his fist into the emerging bowl and sits, brooding. He will address it, he tells himself, but he can’t ignore the other voice—how long must he go on addressing?
    H AYASHI WATCHES THE BUILDER haul away the remains of the teahouse. The burned boards are gone, but the plot of land underneath is scarred, blackened by the fire. Swiping his sandal along the ground, he tries to cover up the stain. Soot rises up, and he smells the smoke and bitter ash.
    The gardener rolls up a wheelbarrow full of dirt.
    I’ll do it, says Hayashi, grabbing the shovel. He must do something.
    The gardener looks at him perplexed.
    Hayashi asks for two more wheelbarrows full of soil. The gardener pauses, shrugs, dumps the dirt, then returns to the compost. Hayashi almost stumbles over as he shovels the new soil onto the black spot. The other night, when he woke and saw the flames, he stood on the cold floor in bare feet. His legs locked, paralyzed by an irrational fear of the flames; they were searching for him. Silly, he says out loud now, and tries to shake off the memory, but the image is still there; they leaped into the air, wildly and erratically, hunting for him, grazing the night sky in search of his scarred flesh.
    Ayoshi comes out and stands beside him, holding work gloves. I thought I’d help, she says.
    He is sweating and his face is pale. She grabs a rake from the tool shed and smoothes out the dirt, concealing the black soot. And though he nods and looks appreciatively at her, it is not from a generous spirit that she’s helping; she knows if he works too long, his feet will throb, and she might be stuck the entire evening tending to him.
    How often did you and your family come here to the temple? she asks.
    Over in the far gardens, my father grew green tea, he says, certain he’s told her this before, but grateful to talk about anything but the teahouse. My entire family almost lived here during the growing season. This house was home to about thirty monks. My father was poor. In exchange for free green tea, the monks let him use their land.
    She carefully draws her rake, carving perfect lines into the dirt. If she presses too hard, there is the black from the fire. They work until there is an inch layer of new soil, the scar of the fire no longer a blight to the eye.
    That night, it rains and he sleeps deeply to the sound