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They'd told her the heat of the blast had been 40 times greater than that of the sun. They'd said that nothing would grow again in Hiroshima for at least another 75 years. And then, whatever little managed to grow and survive, well...that was anyone’s guess.
But only two weeks later, word had spread that a canna plant had been discovered, hopeful green sprouts growing within the dust and rubble of Hojo Suzu’s decimated former home. Hardly anyone could believe it. But Suzu had, and had smiled. That was when she’d first told herself, “Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to draw again...someday.”
When they had heard the canna plant had actually bloomed with red flowers, Suzu had allowed herself to think, “Yes, one day, I will draw again.”
She hadn’t dared to say so aloud to anyone, not even her husband, Shusaku. To say so aloud would have been too much like a promise; Suzu knew better than to take those kinds of chances.
Yet Suzu hadn’t needed to say a word. Shusaku had known, anyway. He’d been able tell from the corners of her eyes, from the shape of her mouth, from the pace of her breathing, in the shifting of that delicate beauty mark, as she had smiled—that little mole below her left cheek—that he so loved to kiss; it had been in how, finally, she’d again stared dreamily up at the sky, not watching where she was going; it had been in how it had seemed to no longer matter so much if anyone teased her about it; it had been in the faraway look she’d had whenever she’d faced the sea. In those moments, he’d grown sure that, once again, she was seeing things in just that way that no one else he knew ever did. It was what he adored most about her.
Whatever Suzu could see, Shusaku wanted to see it, too. He knew she saw things in the waters, and in the clouds in the sky; that there were mysterious figures she'd discovered hiding in the worn, dark knots and woodgrain of the ceilings of their home, magical images that she silently traced in the air with her finger after she'd assumed he'd fallen asleep. Perhaps she’d be able to show him...someday.
Whatever Suzu could see, Shusaku also knew, was fleeting. He was sure that whatever form it took, it must be birdlike: too fleet and ephemeral to touch, too wily and devious, to catch, like dandelion seeds floating off on the wind, or like the hungry, white and brown calico stray cat that sometimes followed them around, or like the smiles on people’s faces. But thankfully—much like the birds had—those smiles were returning, more and more, as time went on.
Suzu’s smile always made Shusaku think of those little, round, brown sparrows with the black and white cheeks, that hopped around, pecking at the ground, searching for sustenance and shelter. Shusaku had once even entertained the idea of affectionately calling his wife, “suzume”, for 'sparrow', but wasn’t sure that Suzu would be too pleased about it, and so he kept the idea to himself.
He knew she’d found out about Rin. Yet he could never bring himself to acknowledge his relationship with her aloud. It would somehow make it far more real than it needed to be, if he did. He convinced himself that any attempt to creep closer with his clumsy words to the truth of this part of his past would only result in his stumbling, his words poorly timed and far too heavy, snapping the twig that would send Suzu’s rare and dreamy smile—like the sparrows—scattering and flitting away.
Shusaku couldn’t blame Suzu for that. People take refuge wherever they believe it can be found, including in the beds of courtesans like Rin’s. It was why those brothels existed. They were only trying to hide. Every single one of them.
But if Suzu’s smile ever disappeared for good, and if he was somehow the cause of it, Shusaku would never forgive himself. And so, what good could it possibly do to speak of it now? Maybe he could...someday. But not yet.
Rin was gone. So much of that other life was like a dream, interwoven with a series of recurring nightmares that, when you finally wake up from it, all you can think is how glad you are it’s over.
They had all done things they'd regretted; it couldn’t be helped. Now, they had only to forge on, to persevere, like always. Suzu was the dreamer and he was the doer; that was the way it was meant to be. The future would be a clean slate; a brand new start. Shusaku vowed to do everything in his power to protect this.
Occasionally, Shusaku would bring home a pencil, or a couple of sheets of paper—whatever he could dredge up—whenever he could. These gifts had embarrassed Suzu, but she had meekly accepted them anyway, never questioning where her husband had got them from, or the prudence of their extravagance. When she had first expressed surprise at receiving them, he’d replied that apparently, in some Western cultures, they considered paper an anniversary gift, and then he’d joked that he was only making up for lost time.
Suzu still couldn’t bring herself to use the drawing implements Shusaku had given her. They seemed such luxuries, especially when so many of the local schools were making do with so few supplies. To use the paper and pencils for anything but the most practical of reasons seemed wrong. And so, Suzu passed them on to the little girl that the Hojo family had taken in.
On their visits to the seaside together, while the little girl played on the beach, Suzu contented herself instead with drawing in the wet sand with a thin stick, much like she used to do as a child, practicing her left-handed “penmanship”.
At first, it was awkward, clumsy, and uncomfortable. Her grip was weak and using too much force would send the stick shooting off uncontrollably while too little effort would cause it to get stuck in the sand.
Suzu kept practicing, forcing herself not to get too distracted by the fresh, salty sea breeze, or the number of Allied ships in the bay. One eye was always upon the little girl, who invented her own games, running back and forth along the shoreline, shuffling forward to chase the receding waves, then leaping back to avoid soaking her toes in the cold water. If the girl ventured too far away for Suzu's liking, Suzu would call her, and the girl would scamper back to comment on the drawings, instinctively grasping at what remained of her adoptive mother's amputated right arm.
As strength and dexterity grew in Suzu’s remaining hand, the drawings she produced became less distorted. She wished she had an endless pencil with which to practice, one that never needed sharpening or replacing, and she wondered if—one day—someone would invent something to write and draw with so that the lead would never diminish, nor the ink run dry. Maybe it could be used with a never-ending canvas, so that an artist could practice as much as they liked, without ever feeling guilty, as she did, of being wasteful.
She and Shusaku encouraged their little girl's desire to draw. In her eagerness to imitate Suzu in almost everything, to the Hojos, the girl seemed to grow more and more like their dearly-departed Harumi, each day. They’d encouraged the girl's artistic tendencies until one day—to Suzu’s utter dismay—she’d peered over the girl’s shoulder to find her drawing what appeared to be a river on fire, next to which dozens upon dozens of people were stacked, crowded atop each other under a bridge. Suzu’s eyes had grown wide in silent mortification, and she had given Shusaku a stiff nudge in his side with her elbow. From that point on, they urged the girl to conserve her pencils and paper for school, encouraging her to draw upon the beach instead, like Suzu did; for the sand-etchings were only passing, temporary images. Inevitably, the waves would wash them away, clearing the sand effortlessly, making it smooth and new once again.
Setsubun no Hi, the last day of winter, came in early February. For the traditional celebration, ushering in the beginning of spring, Suzu had set aside a single sheet of paper for herself. Upon it, their little girl helped Suzu draw the face of an ogre so that, like many fathers, Shusaku could play the role of “oni” for his family. He donned the tissue-thin paper mask, smirking to himself at how the face of the oni Suzu had drawn bore a striking resemblance to an ogre he’d once had the unexpected, good fortune of being kidnapped by, when he was a boy.
The paper mask buckled against his face as he breathed, the eye-holes aligned barely enough to see through. Suzu and the girl pelted him with soybeans, shouting gaily, “Out with the demons, in with good fortune!”
Amidst the clatter of dried beans upon the floor, Shusaku made a great show of fleeing out the front door. His wife and daughter giggled as they chased their “frightened oni” outside. Their peals of laughter grew louder as he flailed about, awkwardly hopping sideways on one foot to duck under the hanging garland of holly strung across the doorway, hitting his head on the heads of the sardines that dangled at the ends of the sprigs, homemade fortifications against any other ambitious ogres.
Shusaku sneaked back into the house through the back door, hastening to his wife’s side in alarm when he saw her hunched low. Her pregnant belly was now too large for her to bend over without difficulty, but with some contortion she was reaching into the narrow space beneath a table.
“What are you doing?!” Shusaku exclaimed in stern disapproval.
“One of the beans,” Suzu explained, awkwardly flailing in the gap between the furniture. “It rolled under the...”
Shusaku laughed. “Here,” he offered, taking up the small box of soybeans she’d already collected. “You should just leave it. There’s plenty more where it came from.”
“I know,” she stubbornly replied. “I just can’t bear the thought of any going to waste.”
Shusaku pushed the paper mask off his face, lifting it up onto his forehead so that he could better see into the shadowed space against the wall. He crouched down to reach under the wooden table. Still on his knees, he looked up at his wife, declaring, “Your lost treasure,” as he presented to her the single, wayward soybean and a crooked grin, “Ma-me,” or ‘bean’, he called her.
“You are a very helpful ogre,” Suzu observed, taking the bean from him, the taste of caramel in her mouth, as it always was when he looked at her in the way he was doing. “Oh!” she exclaimed, as Shusaku reached suddenly around her hips, pulling her impulsively into his embrace. “A strange ogre,” Suzu added, gently stroking his hair, “but still very helpful.”
She felt his shoulders shake, and heard his muffled laughter against her side as he murmured, “Did you know that the Americans have a word for ‘mother’ that sounds a lot like ‘bean’?”
“No, but now I definitely know that you’re a strange ogre.”
Shusaku looked up at her, his cheek nuzzled against her warmth. “And you’re my lucky bean, you know that?”
“Just so long as you don’t count me out, and devour me with grilled sardines,” Suzu replied with a laugh.
“Don’t you remember?” He pulled the paper mask back down over his face, growling playfully through it. “Never underestimate ogres.”
It was futile, of course. Inevitably, he’d be defeated by her smile.