The Butterfly's Shadow on Decadent Blooms

With honor he dies…

May. Yesterday, the plum tree blossomed. I saw it passing by her house. I waved, as usual, but she didn't respond. She was sitting with her back to me again, looking into the depths of the garden. Surrounded by trees where flowers had unfurled. White, pink, lilac. I left, leaving her alone. All the way, I imagined a face I had never seen.

Still, someday I will gather the courage and do it. I will call out to her so she turns around. Or I will open the gate and approach. I will say some trifle. Let her look at me. Nothing more is needed.

The last week has been rainy. They began when I first saw her. Fine, drizzling, sad rains. Gray specks tapping at my soul. Perhaps the first thing I would ask her is—does your umbrella save you from the rain? Orange, with green spots, a bamboo cane, and white tassels on the sides. They used to wear such things, long ago, to protect themselves from the sun. But now there is no sun. Only drizzle and an incomprehensible longing all around.

This longing gives me no peace. All day I listened to the opera and indulged in reflections. Under the bel canto and oriental folklore, I thought about innocence and purity, about naive sacrifice and fidelity. Melancholy swirled around the room like a swarm of invisible butterflies. Does such a thing exist now? In our mad time, when you don't know what tomorrow will bring. To escape reality, we return to the past. We find peace in stories dusted with time. Written by someone's hand, guided by soul and heart. Where has it all gone, why is it not here, in our world full of ruins and suffering, distorted smiles and fleeting love? Perhaps I am getting old. I exist in two times. In an old tale a hundred years old. In a wet courtyard with a blossoming plum tree.

Such thoughts appeared to me yesterday. I walked around the room, guided by the invisible conductor's baton. Vague images accompanied me, misty arabesques ran along the walls. I tried to look closely, but I couldn't make out anything for sure. In the dense haze, the outlines of a city were guessed at. Vague figures floated along the streets. And it seems there were many flowers. They appeared everywhere: crimson spots in the windows of houses, and pinkish, trembling clusters on the trees. A warm wind tore off tiny petals and drove them along the streets. Sakura, I thought for some reason. And it stayed with me.

I went to sleep under the impression of the day's vision. A warm lump wandered in my chest. There was a feeling that I had left something dear. That I was living on loan, in someone else's time. I so wanted to return there…

In my sleep, I saw that city, in all its details. I saw its inhabitants, my shadow on the road sand, blossoming cherries, two-story wooden minka with raised eaves. Canvas signs with hieroglyphs on them. Flowers in the open windows: camellias, hydrangeas, wisteria. I don't know how I knew their names. They floated in my head, like other things. I realized I lived in this city. I looked at the calm blue sea to the horizon. I inhaled the soft air of the surroundings, with a hint of smoke, the smell of fish, and something else that touched my heart. As if I were returning home from a long journey. The sounds of a shamisen accompanied me, drawn-out, trembling, and settled at the dusty thresholds of dwellings. People passing by bowed respectfully, greeting a lost soul.

Where was I going? Why? I don't know, my legs led me on their own. A premonition of something significant and inevitable urged me on.

After walking several busy streets, I realized I was in the hanamachi district. The narrow alley I was walking along was immersed in greenery and flowers. In the depths of the courtyards, the roofs of okiya shone brightly, pale stone paths led to them. Red lanterns with yellow eyes swayed at the staircases. Cicadas chirped. The sun caressed the leaves of azaleas and maples. Enchanted by the magic of this place, I slowed my pace, slowly wandered along the road, glancing at the shoji that were open in places. These houses beckoned me, they exuded mystery and something unsaid, like the whisper of a loved one in the languor of a sultry day.

Not reaching the torii beyond which the temple was visible, I stopped at one of the courtyards. Before me was a high staircase of hewn stone. Looking up, I ascended it with trepidation. I didn't understand why I was doing this. But I knew that at the top I would see what I had started this journey through time for. A butterfly flew out of the shadows of the trees, fluttering near my cheek. Cherry blossoms fell slowly, swirling onto the gray steps.

And then I saw a spacious courtyard covered with grass, with well-tended flowerbeds. Two houses stood there. One large, in the depths, by a maple grove. The second smaller; entwined with bright flowers, it was in the middle of the courtyard. A teahouse. A plaque with inscriptions hung on the wall. Leaning against a tree and not daring to approach closer, I looked at the veranda. My chest tightened.

In the shade of the awning, on a wicker chair, sat a girl. She wore a red kimono with a colorful pattern. I saw her straight back and dark hair, styled in a ware-shinobu and tied with an ornate ribbon. Completely alone. She sat motionless, looking towards the grove. It seemed she was waiting for someone.

A sad melody of strings flowed from the teahouse. Someone was singing there; the lingering trail of incense touched me. I can't say if I called her by name or spoke it to myself. The girl shuddered and began to turn around; something happened in the surrounding world. I felt it rather than saw it. The living picture of the day was replaced by a rough canvas with smeared paints. Viscous, thick, seizing time. The outline of the girl tried to appear in profile but couldn't quite manage it in the frozen motion. I saw a blue flower in her hair, a white comb. I saw the fruitless effort with which she couldn't cope. I lunged forward, but couldn't take a step. Bound by an invisible force, we were like two butterflies caught in a trap. Pinned down, becoming part of someone's collection. My heart yearned for her, rising to a crescendo. Despair seized my soul, I wept, feeling tears on my cheeks through my sleep.

I was one second away from perfection. From an idyll in which I could have found peace. I was deceiving myself, imagining what could appear at any moment in a magical dream. But the reverie shattered against reality. Despondency visited me. It reminded me that there is something that eyes will never see. That the soul will not touch; perhaps because then it would simply disappear, remaining in a quiet garden, by the veranda with the yellow mimosa. Next to the one waiting for the lieutenant. With the maiko frozen in a half-turn.

All the rest of the night, towards morning, I tossed and turned, trying to imagine what had never been. And even now, in the twilight of the dawning day, I still lie, lie without opening my eyes. I stubbornly try to see something already washed away by the night darkness, and I can't. I just can't…

I think a little more, and I will go mad. I get up; I make coffee. Outside the window, the same rainy veil as in recent days. And again, I fall into reflection. In unison with the rain, on the gray notes of sadness.

My soul is a string on which someone plays, I think. A collector, carefully pinning specimens into his box. But pierced by a pin, I am still alive. Distracting myself from the heartache, I gather what remains beyond the horizon of time. Crumbs, small details, smooth movements, sounds. I change reality, inscribing it into the misty everyday life of this world. At least no one will take this away from me—the squat house under the ranch-style roof, sprawling close to the ground, the wet garden drooping in a floral shroud, and her, pensive, surely chilled, lonely, waiting for who knows what. Perhaps she is asleep. Otherwise, how to explain this presence, pitiful, patient, painfully absurd. She is stuck in her dream, in the honeyed molasses of a strange, incomprehensible illusion. An orange umbrella with green spots, a red kimono with a floral pattern. A wide obi belt, tied in a tateya musubi, the knot of a standing arrow. I diligently impose these symbols on the sad canvas of my day. I am an invisible character in her oblivion, whom she does not know. We are like tangled rays from different eras, frozen in timelessness. We are those who love without answer and die young.

I don't smell the aroma of coffee; a tart bitterness wanders within me. Outside the window, the rain intensifies. It knocks dully on the glass, on the roof. I hear only its sounds. They absorb everything that remains in me. Or perhaps there is nothing left. And me too. It's just a gloomy shadow, sitting despondently on the roadside of life. With a clouded gaze, it slowly sorts through what it has: colored pebbles, dear to its heart. Words frozen in some time where it was happy.

Enough, however. This wandering cannot continue forever. Today a point must be made. I must approach her. Ask a question. It is important to see her face. Then the conversation will begin. If she is in the garden in such rain, then she is like me. We will find a common language.

I throw on a jacket and go outside. The gray morning doubles in the raindrops, murky puddles, in the vague outlines of houses. It's still too early, the neighborhood is deserted. I walk, listening to the sobs of my footsteps, anticipating the inevitability of the meeting. A feeling experienced at night creeps into my soul. Joy, excitement, mystery—everything is mixed up there. I try to remember the words that need to be said. And I can't. Everything else seems absurd and foolish to me. Maybe it's better to be silent? Just approach, touch her shoulder. And when she turns around, look into her eyes. After all, do those who are connected by one thread need words?

Her estate appears suddenly. The same house in the depths of the garden, and a smaller one in the middle. It looks like a gazebo woven from vines. And a riot of blossoms in the glittering strings of rain—all shades of pink, lilac, white. I approach closer, my step grows heavy, a lump forms in my throat.

She sits in the same place as all these days. Under the halo of an old umbrella, enveloped in the flowing water. The same clothes as before. Her hair is styled the same way, shaded by a strip of white comb. She sits with her back to me, looking at the falling plum blossoms. I peer at her figure. Am I imagining things? A break has appeared in her posture. Barely noticeable, betraying a person who is tired of languishing. Who suffers from longing but endures because there is no other way out. Someone's spell holds her, and all that remains is to wait submissively, her hands resting on her knees. With a hope that is slowly fading.

I slip my hand between the bars of the iron gate. I pull the latch; it groans with a rusty screech. It seems it hasn't been opened for a long time, I think, covering the distance that separates us. My legs go numb, and it feels like I'm floating through the air. Below, on the uneven path, puddles ripple. They are undisturbed by my steps. The rain pierces my body, breaking against the dark stones. The persistent fragrance of flowers and something else, painfully familiar, permeates the courtyard. A cool scent of antiquity, diluted by the sweet, fragile waft of passing seconds.

And now I stand beside her. I can reach out and disturb her oblivion. Or say a few words, I don't know what kind. But I hesitate. Something is wrong. She is too still, too stiff; not even a breath can be felt from the one sitting on the bamboo chair. Sensing something bad, I take a step and lean right towards her. Face to her face. My breath catches.

Nothing disturbs the plaster mask. A detached, very calm expression on her face. The white makeup has been washed from her cheeks by the rain. Dark cracks form a network on them. Dead lips that will say nothing. Slightly curved. A hint of a coming smile or tears. And bottomless eyes, faceless, empty, looking into the abyss. Into a cold time covered in ashes. Water drips down them through the leaky umbrella. And it seems that something there, in the depths, dimly flickers. A smoldering ember, ready to go out any moment.

And only now do I remember everything. The past. And all the words I wanted to say.

Poor thing, I think, you never did wait for your lieutenant. For long days you sat, looking into nowhere, held captive by a deceptive, false love. At first, you counted them, and then, when there were too many, you lost count. The colors of life gradually left you, erased by tears. Your strength went into fruitless reflections. And when he returned, for a moment it seemed that everything was not in vain, that hope had saved you. But he was already a different person, not the one he had been before. And he was not alone, but with a young wife he had found in a distant land. What was left for you to do, alone and defenseless? Can one live in dishonor, dragging out the miserable days of one's shame? You didn't wait for me again. And I—for the umpteenth time—was late. You went to where no one returns, and you will not hear pleas for forgiveness. My words will not touch you. Your eyes will not see a smile. My hands will not be able to embrace…

Still unable to accept what I have seen, I continue to stand, bent in a half-bow. A call is heard from the street. Someone is calling me. Casting one last glance at the plaster cast, I go out through the gate.

A local man asks what I am doing in this garden. Caught off guard, ashamed, I tell him everything as it is. There is incomprehension in the man's eyes, and I see that he looks at me like a complete idiot.

— No one has lived in this house for a long time. They say it belonged to a retired military man, from America. I didn't catch him, you see… — he gestures with his hands. — Now the house is for sale. But no one wants to buy it. It's strange. Not of this world. Like you, it seems…

— I know, — I blurt out for some reason, but then I stop short.

He shifts from foot to foot, not knowing what else to say. Then he looks at me and says sternly:

— Don't go into the garden anymore! It's not allowed, Mr. Dreamer. All the best.

I watch him slowly dissolve into the thick veil of rain. My clothes are soaked through, my body shivers. But I continue to stand, not daring to move.

Mr. Dreamer… There is emptiness in his soul. And he doesn't care what they call him. I already know what will happen next. Because it's not the first time. It has happened before, in other cities and at other times. In the rain and under a clear sky. Mr. Dreamer will come home, dragging his feet. Without undressing, he will slump into the creaking armchair. His fingers will smooth the aiguillette on his chest. He will unbuckle his saber; with a dull thud, it will fall to the floor. He will place his hat on his lap, look out the window. He will see wet tree branches and a gray sky. The shadow of a memory will fall on his face, bitterness will twist his lips. From hundreds of fragments scattered in his memory, he will sculpt her. His love, which he lost irrevocably. Whose eyes he cannot look into. Whom he cannot ask for forgiveness.

And again, the old minka, the ranch, the chalet will appear. Maples, sequoias, and firs. His fragmented consciousness will return the shadows of people, once familiar and unknown. Wandering through the pale meadows of asphodels. Drowning in seas of honeysuckle and lycoris. And somewhere there, in the colorful flurry of hues, she will definitely be. A girl without a face. Looking away from him, standing behind her. He will call her name, again and again, until his soul is hoarse. Despairing, he will imagine her eyes—slanted, dark, with a thick veil of lashes. He will add black threads of eyebrows, scarlet lips on the white oval of her face. He will place a blue flower in her hair. And for a long time, until twilight, he will look at what he has created. He will hold it within himself as much as possible. Until the night extinguishes all colors.

And only then, when everything begins to spread out, dissolving into the darkness, when he himself begins to disappear, remaining only a shadow fading into oblivion, when the murmur of dripping water fills all the emptiness around, and nothing more remains—already from afar, barely audibly, his voice will rustle:

— Goodbye, my Cho-Cho-San. Goodbye forever…