White Envelope in the Lower Right Drawer
Yui, recently bereaved wife of Koji, wore her hair draped over her body like a black dress. The fingers of her left hand absently toyed with the hem, feeling the texture of each strand. Her hair ran down the sides of her face, adhering to the gentle swell of her breasts before collecting in a dark pool on her lap. She sat atop a cream-colored bath towel, heels to buttocks and knees pressed against the floor. In a slender hand, she held a white-bristled cherry-wood hairbrush.
A tiny saucer rested on the adjacent tatami mat. Initially of white porcelain, it had been decorated with a copper-red underglaze. A tall white candle was carefully positioned in the center of the saucer; and a yellow bud, balanced on a thin wick, gave a subdued performance. The light from the candle flickered, then, again. A barely discernible furrowing of her brow signaled Yui’s return to the now. Her hand returned to the monotonous motion of brushing her hair. Cast upon the thick paper of the shoji, her shadow kept the strokes long and even. The only sound in the room was the hushed whisper of the brush.
Your hair smells like the winter, it smells like chrysanthemums. Silence.
Yui put down the brush, and rose unsteadily to her feet. Bending over slightly at the waist, she massaged the back of her left knee with the palm of her hand. Hair fell across her eyes obscuring her vision. Yui reached behind her head and drew her hair over to the left shoulder. Her pupils dilated as her shadow looked back at her. She walked slowly towards the shoji. Fingers touched the wooden-lattice work, traced the hard edges. Right-left. Up and down.
Up her fingers traced. A splinter slowly pushed its way into the pad of her forefinger. Her hand sprung away in revulsion. She looked closely at her finger, and blinked. It was unblemished. Hugging herself tightly, she could feel little bumps on the back of her upper arms. She rubbed furiously at them, convincing herself that they were there because the room was cold. She turned quickly to get a juban out of the upper-right cabinet. After pulling her arms and head through the soft, white slip, she took some effort to straighten it out. A little shrug, a gentle tug at the right sleeve. The cotton felt coarse. She took a deep breath before turning back. A few quick steps and a few minor adjustments to her hair, and she almost violently pushed the shoji aside. She stepped out of the room, then, apologetically slid close the screen behind her. The soft patter of bare feet against wooden floor faded into the distance.
On a tatami mat rested the delicate porcelain saucer. Initially of white porcelain, it had been decorated with an underglaze of copper-red. It had been sent overseas, a gift from her husband. It had arrived carefully packaged in a wooden box, padded with crumpled Chinese newspapers. The saucer had been wrapped twice, first with a white military-issue towel, second with rough brown paper. The string that had been used to tie it now rested in the lower right drawer of the cabinet. Next to the piece of tightly coiled string was a stack of letters. Most were addressed “Hidaka Yui, my wife.” The ones closer to the top were addressed “Hidaka Yui, beloved.” The most recent letter arrived today, written with a graceless hand “To Hidaka Yui. Wife of Hidaka Koji.” An imperial seal decorated the face of plain white envelope. White, the color of death. A white candle was carefully positioned in the center of the saucer; and a yellow bud, balanced on a thin wick, flickered.