Chapter 8
Learning

The sound of the tiles clacking into place on the composing stick produced a hypnotic rhythm that held Michio in a trance while the capable hands of Yukiko whisked them into place with a practiced sureness that utterly surpassed any competence he had ever been able to muster. Her industry was unparalleled, and he was shocked by how much she knew already about the field of printing. It was hard to tell at times who was the teacher and who the apprentice. Still, he was bound under the terms of his agreement with Mr. Muratani to keep monitoring her progress until a two-month period had passed, simply to ensure that she would be able to deal with any problem that might arise.

The printing shop was located in a relatively plain low-set building that was paneled with rice paper as his own house was, though it lacked something of the comfort and well-designed furnishings that he possessed. Nevertheless, Michio had spent many hours here when he was younger, being instructed in the same things he proposed to “teach” Yukiko at a considerably slower pace, as much through his general habit of procrastination as his lack of interest in the proceedings. It was not that he meant to disparage his father’s work; his mind was simply not organized in this way, although he was reasonably literate and enjoyed writing from even a young age. The tedium of typesetting treatises regarding the latest theories surrounding engineering and financial trends was an overwhelming influence in his decision to avoid the business as much as possible; he disliked the fact that he was merely responsible for the transmission of ideas rather than their generation, and could not easily abide by the fact that he could not find the self-expression he desired in this task.

Yukiko stopped in her work and looked up at Michio expectantly. He realized that she had finished an entire page while he had been thinking about his pitiful past experiences in training to become a printmaker.

“That’s superb, Yukiko. It’s perfectly ready for inking.”

“Thank you. I shall do it right away.”

Seeing as though there was very little for him to do, Michio’s thoughts drifted like the paper boats along the river during the Obon festival, each one bearing a candle to honor things past and guide the souls of the dead along the gentle current of the river. He thought of his childhood imaginings at such gatherings; the smell of pine, and the thought of how life would be as an author, and wondered if he would had been disappointed by the way things had turned out. This diluvial pondering streamed out of the glaciers in his mind, the rush of waters provoked by the coming of spring. Suddenly he realized that he had feared the thought of marriage to Yukiko not because she was not beautiful, but because her heart was as ensconced as his own within the shroud of caution. He could not feel anything towards such a one, for the open complement to his closed self would be needed to form any kind of connection. How long he need search for such a relationship, he did not know, but at least there was no pressure in the current circumstance, for truly nothing could come of it.

“I believe that’s the last page of this piece. Shall I place them together for binding?” she asked.

“Go ahead.”

As the papers rustled during their assortment and rearrangement, Michio was almost convinced that he heard a low susurration forming the words “Travel on.” His wanderlust had indeed always been a part of his persona, but thanks to the responsibilities of the business he had never indulged this impulse for more than a short time. Perhaps what he needed was a long trip in order to rid himself of these yearnings. He had a vision of sea travel, and the blue-haired girl had said as much; perhaps it was somewhat suspect, but he could not deny the appeal of such a possibility.

Yukiko peered at him with curiosity; his expression once again reflected the glance toward a far-off horizon which corresponded with nothing that lay in her experience. She halted in her efficient work and took a moment to examine his features. It was as though she saw him for the first time; clever, perhaps, but absent-minded, seeing something in that middle distance which brought him almost to the point of displeasure breaking out in his features. He appeared to have a great deal of practice in restricting his expression to reveal as little as possible of the subjects upon which he was speculating. There remained no question of his being gone from the moment in a way that could not be penetrated except from within, and he did not seem in any mood to cease the trance that he had entered.

From Michio’s view, it seemed as though the world beyond the rice paper paneling had assumed once again that hallucinatory quality that had so alarmed him before. He hesitated to go outside, strongly suspecting that he need only ignore this seeming symptom of malfunction and he would not suffer any further illusions of this kind. Yet the light started to pulse, producing irritating patterns on the retina that promised to give him a headache if he did not shut them out. Rubbing his eyes with his hands, he looked again at Yukiko, trying to discern if she had experienced anything or it was merely within his own mind. She regarded him evenly, her hand still on the as yet unbound book. Motion ceased on the part of both people in the room, and only Michio felt that he was still aware of what was going on. The image he saw faded into a subtle monochrome, as if from a silver nitrate photograph, and he began to feel that he should be alarmed by the rigidity of his arms and legs, but his emotional state did not change.

“This is an opportunity for you to discover more about her,” said a soft-spoken interlocutor from some out-of-sight sentry post.

“What do you mean?” Michio asked.

“Go to her mind, and see what is laid there before you.”

The man willed his vision to extend into the thoughts of the young woman, and still without any motion, he began to witness a non-linear slideshow of all that passed through her head. He saw at first the standard scenes of childhood memories: her mother dressing up in a silk kimono, demurely showing her the way to tie the sash in the mirror. Her face had not yet assumed the same shrewd aspect it now did, but it had intelligence enough in it and was as endearing as one would imagine. There was now the thought of her visit to the countryside; praying at a Buddhist shrine for travelers with more fervor than he would have imagined possible for any resident of this relatively cosmopolitan town. She had such firmly held belief in Buddhism that he was unable to understand the depth of her commitment to these ideals, even when he was looking directly at the procession of her thoughts.

The images moved on to her imagination of how it would be to have total control over the shop, or perhaps it was a vision of the future; she envisioned the profits she would bring in, and a sense of gratitude to Michio mixed with a pity that he could not understand. What reason would she have to pity him, if she had indeed kept up her end of the bargain? He let this pass, however, for the timestream continued slipping about and he had no choice but to follow it if he wanted to continue his privileged view of her thoughts.

There was now a great length of time dedicated to study and education, far greater even than his own had been. Private tutors had come to teach her the latest theories of physics and mathematics, uncommon subjects for a woman, even one such as this. Why had so much emphasis been placed on her training in these topics, particularly since so few positions were open to female scientists? He noted that her father had been influential in this. Michio was certainly sympathetic to the plight of women who were kept back from realizing their potential, but he did not suspect that Mr. Muratani, a man of the older generation, had devised this plan so long ago in her reckoning, in order to see her accomplish more than he envisioned for himself. A suspicion, belonging originally to Yukiko but suddenly shared by Michio, was that he had desired a son and thus had seen to it that his only child, a girl, would have the same advantages proffered to any male heir. For indeed, he appeared to be setting her up in a situation wherein she might be able to retain the family name and amass her fortune independently from any husband who could lay claim to all that she had gained. Yet then again, it seemed that this suspicion had proven unfounded; her father even denied that he had desired any male heir, and said with utmost sincerity how happy he had been to bear a daughter that would be able to challenge the old ways.

The source for this desire, he realized, had come from Mrs. Muratani, seemingly the most restrained of any bride one could imagine. Mr. Muratani, before he married her, had come to know and love her in a way that was obscure to any outside of their private partnership. The woman had written a body of poems that were incredibly moving, that her unreasoning father had threatened again and again to burn if she did not find a husband. She was fortunate enough to have found Takahashi before he had succeeded doing this, but she had never been able to succeed in publishing under her own name. This was the true surprise to Michio; one of the poets which he had favored, believing that the works were from a classical Chinese poet and merely translated, were actually written by this woman under the disguise of a nom de plume! He could not believe how easily he had been convinced by the ruse, but he was astounded and delighted that someone seemingly so restrained had produced such works of lyricism and powerful beauty. So it was that he understood Yukiko’s hidden intensity; she was like her mother in her outward concealment, and her protective covering came from her mother’s secretive attitude as well. Her hidden aspect was not that of the dragon her mother hid, but rather a sage concerned with the practical as much as the sublime, though her appearance was carefully woven to reveal none of this.

It was truly a lesson that surpassed any he could have imagined. This sort of direct perception communicated so much in a way that words could not. Besides which, Yukiko herself would never have revealed the depth of any of these feelings, for they were so intimately wrapped about her core of identity that to inquire about them would have been like intruding into the garden of a wealthy noble in the night. He did feel guilty that he should be privileged to have this total experience of her thought and personal philosophy, and resolved at once to try and let her have the same advantage, since the knowledge he had gained must at the least equal that which she would acquire by that very method. He asked his unseen benefactor to grant her the perception he had been given.

“You realize that she would have ordinarily been allowed to see your thoughts throughout this time as well. Yet this cannot be, for it is already too late.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If you go outside, you will know.”

Michio, as though his limbs were not his own, and had grown heavy and stiff with disuse, attempted to move. He noted that Yukiko remained frozen with a look of perplexity on her face, as he stepped beyond her and slid the panel across.

The plain which he surveyed bore no resemblance to the scenery of the town which he had expected. A sandy desert swept around him in all directions, deprived of color; as he watched, the more distant sands grew progressively more translucent, until it seemed that they had deliquesced completely and revealed a thin layer of water or glass that oscillated frantically in the erratic light of the altered sun. As Michio watched, the tiniest beginning of a crack appeared on the horizon, and the disturbance spread toward him until he stood atop a widening chasm. Scrambling for purchase, he was unable to cling to either side and went tumbling into the ominous red effulgence that emerged from far below, until the only color he could see was flame. E-mail: vokuro@adelphia.net