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lips. I waited a few
moments, then turned to leave. I already knew from the month I’d been here, Matsu had little more to say. It was always the same, conversations would simply end as they began. Matsu felt most comfortable when he spoke about his garden, and was most abrupt speaking of himself.
    I was barely out of the kitchen when I heard Matsu’s voice rise above the music. “We’ll go again at the end of the week.”
    “Thank you,” I said, happily.
    I was grateful that Matsu understood. Sachi was definitely someone I wanted to know better. From the moment I met her, she had instilled a sense of richness and mystery in Tarumi. Her once-beautiful face had even appeared in my dreams, the sadness half-hidden under her black scarf. I wondered how long she’d been living alone in the mountains. Had Matsu always loved her? Did Sachi love him? These questions occupied my mind, and made her all the more enticing.
     
     
    This morning I decided to paint the view of the garden from my grandfather’s study. When I first arrived in Tarumi, I wondered how Matsu could spend so much time in the garden. But the more time I spend here, the easier it is to see there’s something very seductive about what Matsu has created. Once, when I asked him to name a few blossoms for me, the words “Kerria, Lespedeza, Crepe Myrtle” seemed to flow from his lips in one quick breath.
    The garden is a world filled with secrets. Slowly, I see more each day. The black pines twist and turn to form graceful shapes, while the moss is a carpet of green that invites you to sit by the pond. Even the stone lanterns, which dimly light the way at night, allow you to see only so much. Matsu’s garden whispers at you, never shouts; it leads you down a path hoping for more, as if everything is seen, yet hidden. There’s a quiet beauty here I only hope I can capture on canvas.
    After breakfast, Matsu went to work in the back garden behind the house, so I carried my paints, a canvas my father had sent, and a makeshift easel into the study. I carefully pushed my grandfather’s desk aside, then slid open the shoji doors that faced the front garden. The bright white light filtered in through the trees, leaving a sway of ghost shadows on the walls. I felt a burst of energy
in my body as I ran across the hall to the main room and slid open its doors, so that the entire front of the house opened up to the garden. I breathed in the sweet air without coughing, filled with an urgency to paint. It was the first time in so long that I had felt any real energy return to me. From one full tube of oil paint and then another, I squeezed out large daubs of blue and yellow onto a wooden tray that served as my palette. The sharp, tinny smell filled my head. I looked outside to the quiet beauty, won dering how it would fill the blank canvas. My brush had just touched the white surface when I heard Matsu’s quick, shuffling footsteps come from the back of the garden. He stopped abruptly when he’d seen what I had done.
    “What are you doing?” Matsu asked accusingly.
    In my excitement, I hadn’t thought to ask his permission before opening up the rooms. “I wanted to paint the garden. I hope it’s all right—” I answered.
    Matsu stood silent for a moment. His mouth remained slightly open, as if surprised to see the two rooms in such a different light.
    “Do as you wish,” Matsu finally said, disappearing around the side of the house.
    After Matsu left, I began to paint. I didn’t want to lose the light which had already begun to change. I painted with a vengeance, and might not have stopped at all if Matsu hadn’t returned with a covered tray of lunch. I wanted to apologize for not asking him earlier if I could use the study to paint, but I was so involved I just kept working. He set the tray down on my grandfather’s desk without saying a word. The next thing I knew he was gone.
    When I finally lay down my brush, I stepped back to see that the garden was