That night I could not sleep, partly because the living room was very stuffy, partly because for a week I'd had a fever that made me anxious, but mainly because I could not put out of my mind the Japanese girl sobbing in the kitchen as she'd told the tale of her days, pressing her cheek against my chest while her pure transparent tears splashed down onto my hands. 1 believe her husband was in the bathroom. So, as I said, I could not sleep (and the next morning the sister-in-law told me that she had not slept, either — although for different reasons, according to the stars). At three in the morning, overrun suddenly by such grief and loneliness that I was compelled to bite my lip, I sat up. I considered going in to the sister-in-law, just to hold somebody, anybody, but that would have been awfully selfish. So I took the doll in my arms. I felt better at once. Finally I slept.
In the morning the sister-in-law passed by on her way to the bathroom. — You know, you can have that doll if you want, she said. I'd be happy to give it to you.
Remembering how the Japanese girl's voice had been hoarse from so much crying, I thanked the sister-in-law but said I thought that keeping this doll would make me unhappy. After all, the doll had not been meant for me. If it had come from a person I never met, it could not do me any harm (for in astrology and voodoo we believe that auras have less power the less one knows about them). And I remembered that once the Japanese girl had said to me: No, if we must separate, I doan' want to see him again. Because I must forget him quickly, to find my new happiest. — And I knew that if the Japanese girl left her life, then she would leave her sister-in-law, too, and me, and everyone, forever. If I had a doll of hers, then that doll might pull her back a litde, keeping me a ghost in her heart that could not die. That would not be kind. So I sat up in bed and put the doll gently on the floor, knowing that I would never hug it again.
Years before, there'd been an October's day when we'd met at Anza Lake, which exuded a fog as livid gray as mercury, and the dog's wet fur stood up in clumps like tufts of reddish grass as she panted and snorted after thrown sticks, swimming narrow-nosed in the lake, waddling out and shaking herself, happy and alert in the clammy breeze. My wife stood plump-kneed, commanding, happily absorbed on shore, crying: Get the stick! Get the stick! Swim, swim, swim—good girl!
The Japanese girl and her husband came up the path. She called our names smilingly and hurried ahead to meet us. As I've said, she possessed one of those sweetly extravagant natures which long to make others happy, pouring themselves into work, gratefully returning every kindness a hundredfold. He'd found her when he was teaching English in Japan. Although I was happily married myself (I forget now if my wife was born on a Wednesday or a Sunday), I envied him his discovery. I too, as the Burmese astrologer well knew, have had many of my most joyous hours in being of service — or trying to; for many times one does harm meaning to do good. She at least I had helped, or so I believed. The first time I met her, she could speak only a little English. Her husband's Japanese was better that year than at any other period of his life, because they had just come from Tokyo, so he probably should have interpreted for her. But he was tired and had been doing that for months, and, as it happened, a friend of a friend had just given me a quarter-pound of marijuana — a princely gift, which (prince that I was) I mainly passed on to others. So the husband was in the kitchen, madly smoking the delicious herb, and I was left to entertain the wife, who was afraid of drugs. Now, it may seem that this situation demonstrates the sexual motive behind much of my supposed altruism — for why wasn't I content to have made him happy? But it was not like that. I had nothing against him smoking up all my marijuana. It was meant to be given away. But there was something so defenseless and good about her — a homesickness, a brave cheeriness to prevent others from being embarrassed by her own terrified incapacity. I had the sense that others had not perhaps been kind to her — oh, nothing cruel, but there were so many new Americans who could not speak English; maybe the longstanding Americans grew a little tired. I would not be one of them. I chatted with her, enunciating slowly, using simple words and pleasant ideas; and I could see that she was grateful; every moment I felt warmer toward her; and her husband smoked on.
A week or so later I bought her a dictionary and some English primers. Again she was grateful. The husband smiled a little distantly. I could see that she was ashamed that he did not thank me too; she cast him a look of shy reproach, which made me feel awkward; and I wondered if I had overstepped.
But we continued to be great friends, all of us. She prepared a four-course Japanese dinner for my wife and me (did I mention that they were very poor?). She was very intelligent and hardworking; her English continually improved. I was always happy to see her. Whenever we met, she came running into my arms, while my wife and her husband stood looking on.
So on this fall day as I stood inhaling the smell of eucalyptus and watching her come hurrying toward me along the edge of the white-wrinkled brownish creek, I found my arms flying open of their own accord. I watched her tiny feet flash through fallen moon-crescents ofleaves. — Hi, Jenny! she cried, waving gaily. My wife replied, unsmiling. The Japanese girl threw herself into my embrace and kissed me on the mouth. There was nothing wanton or teasing about her; she was only affectionate.
I want to say hi and thank you for inviting us to see you today, she cried, it is very glad to see you! Jenny, we couldn't see you the last time so we are very happy to see you today.
Her husband had now approached, and he went toward my wife tentatively, unsure whether he ought to kiss her or merely take her hand. I forget what he did. He never stayed much in my mind. For this I am entirely to blame, I admit. He had many good points. He worked hard (it was not his fault that he could never hold a job); he loved his wife very much, and told me once that he could never be unfaithful to her. As he said this he gazed at me a little challengingly.
I remember that afternoon of long chives and forgotten blackberries. The air was as still as a breath. I remember how the four of us went walking alongside the brown guts of that creek that twisted and wound into a brownish-silver mirror. It was better than silver jewelry. Perhaps it could be reproduced by melding ten parts silver with three parts copper, not just any copper… I remember seeing the Japanese girl reflected in it, and my heart soared.
Her husband and I talked, too. He'd brought a bottle of mescal which we passed back and forth. I admired his physical strength. I respected the manual labor that he did (her job with a Japanese company brought in more money, but how could that be his fault?). We crossed the tree-bridge, he and I, climbed hills as thickly grasshaired as bear fur, and after a long time we found ourselves in a place of myriad orange thistleflowers on tall iron-colored stalks, flowers like the "choke" of an artichoke, cupped by artichoke-like leaves. My instant thought was to pick two, one for my wife and one for his. Then I saw how he regarded me, and we turned away together, descending to our wives, following a path among gray groping stalks of dead grasses as skinny as an insect's leg.
A year or two later, my wife and I had to leave San Francisco. I remember how the Japanese girl sobbed in my arms, refusing to let her husband pull her away, while I stood holding her, rocking her, kissing and being kissed by that beautiful face, trying to calm her while my wife looked on.