Love Via A Japanese Vine
by Diana Duckworth
Over the phone Mikku’s voice sounded young. ‘You have bed? Come station?’
I expected to find a slip of womanhood, not a Crone waving crimson nails. She said, ‘Oh. You old.’
I stuck out my chest, brooded on her bluntness as I drove to my remote, ramshackle abode. The house leans inland like a drunken fool on the ragged East coast that is lashed by Antarctic storms.
I kick off my gumboots. She surveyed the living room. ‘Messy. You many worker, come?’
On the wall a faded world map is a mass of pinheads. Green denotes Israel, Holland orange, USA blue and Germany pink.
‘Put your colour up,’ I said turning away. ‘I’ll make a pot of cheer.’
Her red pin covered half the South Island. Mikku haltingly read the house creed: ‘Work if you feel the urge. What is urge?’
‘I don’t force anyone to do something they don’t want.’
‘Like…what?’
Boiling water swirled into the pot. Earl Grey floated. ‘Don’t cook if you don’t want.’
‘Me cook clean obey husband.’ She wrinkled her cute nose. ‘You dry reed. You skin burn toffee. You dye hair? I do.’
Mikku loved indoors. She chucked all my tools in the shed and I couldn’t find a thing. She loved the oven, gas burner, chrome toaster, the magic-wand and new bread-maker. Miso soup came thick or thin. When a mushroom ring popped up overnight I squelched soggy ground to her command, ‘I fix omelette. Go pick.’
But the day I caught her using a hair drier to blow spilled powder from the cupboard corners, I said, ‘Mikku, you have to stop wasting electricity.’
‘Problem?’
‘The problem is the cost to this outpost is prohibitive.’
She painted her nails, pouted at the window where the view of the surf makes any visitor speechless when they first enter the room. She stained frilly paper doilies a spicy yellow. I hammered driftwood and made shelves for plum preserve, quince jam and pickles. Stringy bunches of herbs dangled from the rafters by turquoise wool. That summer she answered the phone. ‘Sorry. No come. No bed.’
One rainy Friday, genuflecting shyly, petite in a sexy kimono patterned with sprays of pale pink cherry blossom she served honey ice cream. ‘You bees…you eggs…you good man.’ I sat by the fire on a milking stool, read the paper. I craved for one sign that she was interested in me. She dusted a covey of photos on the brick mantle and turned one to face the wall. ‘Where you wife?’
‘She died of cancer.’
‘Me sorry.’
‘It’s funny,’ I said. ‘Cancer was her star sign and she was crabby too.’
‘What funny ‘bout star sign? Him Sumo. Taurus the bull. Angry, all time.’
I needed to talk. Explain how our opinions had differed. ‘We married late. I was wounded and Amelia nursed me. Then I nursed her. Her ashes are under my bed in a ceramic urn. I’ll put them under a remembrance tree, some day. It’s one of those things I’ve never got around too.’
Mikku nodded. She made our ritual green tea, said, ‘Me glad you name WOOFER book.’ She offered dainty, red lacquered cups on a tiny oval tray.
I scribbled harvest dates over a blackboard. I’ve planted coffee beans, turmeric and ginger rhizomes. There’s even black rice sprouting in a bathtub.
‘I clean board,’ she volunteered.
I wagged my finger. Mocked, ‘Never touch, or else.’
Mikku fiddled with shiny, black and white paper. Her butterfly hands created the exact replica of a panda seated on an exquisite milking stool.
‘That’s beautiful Mikku. I keep?’
She snatched the origami shape and tottered outside.
Next morning I took Mikku on a picnic. Clouds spun gauzy sails and wove stunning hues that matched her lacy dress. I felt grand. The sea was diamond sparkly. I offered to teach her to swim. She backed through scratchy Marram grass.
‘The rock pool is safe. It’s warm, salty brine.’
She plucked seaweed. Arranged wet fronds over a quartz rock.
‘Come on?’
Her toes dug sandy grains.
‘Many a quarrel ends in a pleasant bath,’ I joked. ‘Amelia’s therapy was a soak in this pool.’
Mikku looked hard at me. ‘I go house.’
I followed her imprints along the beach. Found her holding a dried seahorse.
‘Lucky find,’ I said. ‘The seahorse is a father protector of his young. I have no children. Do you?’
Mikku stared out to sea. ‘I go now. I go Japan.’
I waited for her letter. Watched the jade coloured Pacific met a flaxen sky in watery illusion.
A package arrived. Mikku wrote on flimsy mulberry tissue, tree name, and, it sweet. In the photo the fruit looked like a cross between a grey feather and fluffy passion fruit sprouting angel wings. I planted the weird black seed. Since then, the rampant vine has strangled the fence and choked the chicken coup. It’s a tunnel of emerald leaves multiplying knotty veins and hell-bent on swallowing my cottage.
Yesterday, I beach combed the high tide-line. Found an omen. How stupid can a bloke be? It’s so plain, like the nose on my one-eyed face. I raced home and ripped the glossy outer page from last year’s Listener and enclose the seahorse with green electrical tape. Now she will have a matching pair. On the back of a recycled envelope printed, Mikku you are my black pearl. It will remind Mikku of her homage, ‘When visa come…I come.’
Overnight the clay hillside has slumped. Frost has ruined the corn, Soya beans, fennel and beetroot. Now the air is ghostly warm and calm, like before snow. I hurry to do what I must before the weather closes in.
I don my silk kimono hand-embroidered by Mikku. Tie the red sash twice around the fire-breathing dragons and slide the gem-encrusted dagger hip high. In the shed, under a pile of sacks I find a spade. With no time to lose I fight my way through the vine’s dark foliage. Dig a large hole and unearth the knobbly roots that remind me of arthritic toes. I will place the urn here. I feel a deep sense of satisfaction and slash the vine. My sword glints in a wintry sunbeam and hooks a lone succulent fruit. Clouds are grey blankets tucking-in a frenzied ocean. The southerly flings foam skywards. It’s freezing already. I need to be indoors before the sleet hits.
I stoke the fire. Flames flick and lick like painted fingernails. I make a pot of green tea and set twin red cups on Mikku’s lacquered tray. I bow low towards her photo. Check the mirror. Nod. It’s important to behave in a brave, honourable way. I kneel and reach under the bed. Bring the urn to daylight. My knees jut into the threadbare rug. I puff away dust. Unscrew the protection. A scrunching sound, like a rare musical instrument fills the bedroom. I recall a similar tune as chopsticks click and Samurai swords flash and gaudy kites fly towards the ceiling as if seeking a way to freedom. They portray - rations - survival skills - hope.
My chest hurts and there’s a lump in my throat. I lift the lid. My eyes play a trick. I look around the room. All is the same. I peer in again. Lying on the bottom is a tiny something. My fingers scrabble, pinch paper. In my palm lies a tiny panda seated on an exquisite milking stool.
All at once the snowstorm slams the house. Rattles windows, disturbs roofing iron. The wind whips at the door and sneaks under and its icy breath chills my bones. It promises to be a wild night.
I cradle and gawk at Mikku’s precise origami art. Then something happened. I’m utterly still and quiet when like lightning, the panda symbolism strikes, ‘You bees…you eggs…you good man.’
I bite the Japanese fruit. Sweetness takes my heart away to another land. Seriously, what is a bloke supposed to do now?
I expected to find a slip of womanhood, not a Crone waving crimson nails. She said, ‘Oh. You old.’
I stuck out my chest, brooded on her bluntness as I drove to my remote, ramshackle abode. The house leans inland like a drunken fool on the ragged East coast that is lashed by Antarctic storms.
I kick off my gumboots. She surveyed the living room. ‘Messy. You many worker, come?’
On the wall a faded world map is a mass of pinheads. Green denotes Israel, Holland orange, USA blue and Germany pink.
‘Put your colour up,’ I said turning away. ‘I’ll make a pot of cheer.’
Her red pin covered half the South Island. Mikku haltingly read the house creed: ‘Work if you feel the urge. What is urge?’
‘I don’t force anyone to do something they don’t want.’
‘Like…what?’
Boiling water swirled into the pot. Earl Grey floated. ‘Don’t cook if you don’t want.’
‘Me cook clean obey husband.’ She wrinkled her cute nose. ‘You dry reed. You skin burn toffee. You dye hair? I do.’
Mikku loved indoors. She chucked all my tools in the shed and I couldn’t find a thing. She loved the oven, gas burner, chrome toaster, the magic-wand and new bread-maker. Miso soup came thick or thin. When a mushroom ring popped up overnight I squelched soggy ground to her command, ‘I fix omelette. Go pick.’
But the day I caught her using a hair drier to blow spilled powder from the cupboard corners, I said, ‘Mikku, you have to stop wasting electricity.’
‘Problem?’
‘The problem is the cost to this outpost is prohibitive.’
She painted her nails, pouted at the window where the view of the surf makes any visitor speechless when they first enter the room. She stained frilly paper doilies a spicy yellow. I hammered driftwood and made shelves for plum preserve, quince jam and pickles. Stringy bunches of herbs dangled from the rafters by turquoise wool. That summer she answered the phone. ‘Sorry. No come. No bed.’
One rainy Friday, genuflecting shyly, petite in a sexy kimono patterned with sprays of pale pink cherry blossom she served honey ice cream. ‘You bees…you eggs…you good man.’ I sat by the fire on a milking stool, read the paper. I craved for one sign that she was interested in me. She dusted a covey of photos on the brick mantle and turned one to face the wall. ‘Where you wife?’
‘She died of cancer.’
‘Me sorry.’
‘It’s funny,’ I said. ‘Cancer was her star sign and she was crabby too.’
‘What funny ‘bout star sign? Him Sumo. Taurus the bull. Angry, all time.’
I needed to talk. Explain how our opinions had differed. ‘We married late. I was wounded and Amelia nursed me. Then I nursed her. Her ashes are under my bed in a ceramic urn. I’ll put them under a remembrance tree, some day. It’s one of those things I’ve never got around too.’
Mikku nodded. She made our ritual green tea, said, ‘Me glad you name WOOFER book.’ She offered dainty, red lacquered cups on a tiny oval tray.
I scribbled harvest dates over a blackboard. I’ve planted coffee beans, turmeric and ginger rhizomes. There’s even black rice sprouting in a bathtub.
‘I clean board,’ she volunteered.
I wagged my finger. Mocked, ‘Never touch, or else.’
Mikku fiddled with shiny, black and white paper. Her butterfly hands created the exact replica of a panda seated on an exquisite milking stool.
‘That’s beautiful Mikku. I keep?’
She snatched the origami shape and tottered outside.
Next morning I took Mikku on a picnic. Clouds spun gauzy sails and wove stunning hues that matched her lacy dress. I felt grand. The sea was diamond sparkly. I offered to teach her to swim. She backed through scratchy Marram grass.
‘The rock pool is safe. It’s warm, salty brine.’
She plucked seaweed. Arranged wet fronds over a quartz rock.
‘Come on?’
Her toes dug sandy grains.
‘Many a quarrel ends in a pleasant bath,’ I joked. ‘Amelia’s therapy was a soak in this pool.’
Mikku looked hard at me. ‘I go house.’
I followed her imprints along the beach. Found her holding a dried seahorse.
‘Lucky find,’ I said. ‘The seahorse is a father protector of his young. I have no children. Do you?’
Mikku stared out to sea. ‘I go now. I go Japan.’
I waited for her letter. Watched the jade coloured Pacific met a flaxen sky in watery illusion.
A package arrived. Mikku wrote on flimsy mulberry tissue, tree name, and, it sweet. In the photo the fruit looked like a cross between a grey feather and fluffy passion fruit sprouting angel wings. I planted the weird black seed. Since then, the rampant vine has strangled the fence and choked the chicken coup. It’s a tunnel of emerald leaves multiplying knotty veins and hell-bent on swallowing my cottage.
Yesterday, I beach combed the high tide-line. Found an omen. How stupid can a bloke be? It’s so plain, like the nose on my one-eyed face. I raced home and ripped the glossy outer page from last year’s Listener and enclose the seahorse with green electrical tape. Now she will have a matching pair. On the back of a recycled envelope printed, Mikku you are my black pearl. It will remind Mikku of her homage, ‘When visa come…I come.’
Overnight the clay hillside has slumped. Frost has ruined the corn, Soya beans, fennel and beetroot. Now the air is ghostly warm and calm, like before snow. I hurry to do what I must before the weather closes in.
I don my silk kimono hand-embroidered by Mikku. Tie the red sash twice around the fire-breathing dragons and slide the gem-encrusted dagger hip high. In the shed, under a pile of sacks I find a spade. With no time to lose I fight my way through the vine’s dark foliage. Dig a large hole and unearth the knobbly roots that remind me of arthritic toes. I will place the urn here. I feel a deep sense of satisfaction and slash the vine. My sword glints in a wintry sunbeam and hooks a lone succulent fruit. Clouds are grey blankets tucking-in a frenzied ocean. The southerly flings foam skywards. It’s freezing already. I need to be indoors before the sleet hits.
I stoke the fire. Flames flick and lick like painted fingernails. I make a pot of green tea and set twin red cups on Mikku’s lacquered tray. I bow low towards her photo. Check the mirror. Nod. It’s important to behave in a brave, honourable way. I kneel and reach under the bed. Bring the urn to daylight. My knees jut into the threadbare rug. I puff away dust. Unscrew the protection. A scrunching sound, like a rare musical instrument fills the bedroom. I recall a similar tune as chopsticks click and Samurai swords flash and gaudy kites fly towards the ceiling as if seeking a way to freedom. They portray - rations - survival skills - hope.
My chest hurts and there’s a lump in my throat. I lift the lid. My eyes play a trick. I look around the room. All is the same. I peer in again. Lying on the bottom is a tiny something. My fingers scrabble, pinch paper. In my palm lies a tiny panda seated on an exquisite milking stool.
All at once the snowstorm slams the house. Rattles windows, disturbs roofing iron. The wind whips at the door and sneaks under and its icy breath chills my bones. It promises to be a wild night.
I cradle and gawk at Mikku’s precise origami art. Then something happened. I’m utterly still and quiet when like lightning, the panda symbolism strikes, ‘You bees…you eggs…you good man.’
I bite the Japanese fruit. Sweetness takes my heart away to another land. Seriously, what is a bloke supposed to do now?
Copyright and licensing notice
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
(CC BY-NC-ND 4.0)
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Diana Duckworth.
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Diana Duckworth.
This page revised 30th September 2017