the gardener

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Taro’s head jerks up when the door slides open. He has been dozing, his greying muzzle resting on his paws. He is lying in the scant shade offered by a pine tree; even though it is still early, it is already promising to be another hot and stifling day. Taro has become used to spending the hottest part of the day in the cool of an air-conditioned room, waiting for any tid-bits that the man might offer him.

The man steps out of the house. He taps the toes of his sandals on the ground to settle them comfortably. He stretches the kinks from his shoulders (he stands exactly where his father stood nearly forty years ago, if he only knew), checks the sky (it is cloudless), lights a cigarette, and ruffles Taro’s ears affectionately as the old dog comes shuffling up to him. ‘Looks like today’s going to be another hot day, eh, Taro?’ Taro grins and pants in agreement, and the man laughs.

The man collects Taro’s lead and stuffs a small plastic bag in the pocket of his shorts. He finds Taro already waiting at the front gate. They are both familiar with the routine; after all, it has been more than two years since the man was entrusted with Taro. ‘Let’s go to the river, eh, Taro?’ Taro gives a desultory wag of his tail, and the man and dog make their careful way down the narrow street of the village.

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They return to the house. Despite his hunger, Taro keeps the same slow pace even when the front gate is in sight. The heat has magnified since they set out on their walk, and the day is becoming heavy and oppressive. Both the man and the dog are grateful to have a drink of cold water, and rest for a moment in the shade.

Eventually, the man rises, and performs the morning’s chores. He washes some rice, puts it in the cooker, and sets the timer. He checks the refrigerator and scribbles down a shopping list; he ties up the bag of burnable rubbish. He gives Taro his breakfast, then drives his scooter to the convenience store (dropping the rubbish at the collection point on the way) where he buys a pack of cigarettes and two onigiri, returns home, and rests again.

His world has shrunk and narrowed. He remembers when he travelled the world, thinking nothing of ten hour flights; now a twenty minute train journey to the nearest city is not something he undertakes lightly. Once, he attended meetings where a dozen managers would pay careful attention to every word he said; now, the only meetings he attends are the occasional quiet gatherings of old friends and colleagues. There was a time when he would spend every night in a different hotel room, for two weeks at a time; now, the only place he feels comfortable is in the house his grandfather built.

The house has evolved over the years, growing around the original core that his grandfather built. Every fifteen years or so, the house would be enlarged or extended or improved or refurbished, first by the man’s grandfather, then by his father, and then by the man himself. The latest change had been finished just the year before: a shrine had been installed in the central tatami room. The shrine had been made of rare and expensive wood, and constructed by a family friend. The house should not need any major refurbishments for another fifteen years or so. ‘Maybe my son will see to it next time, eh, Taro?’

The man spends most of his time tending the garden, now. He plucks dead needles from the pine tree, and makes sure the branches are growing in the way he envisioned; he waters the rose bush which he is coaxing up a trellis; he pulls out a few weeds that have found their way into the flower pots. When he has finished, he admires the blossoms of the tree he had planted last year. It is known formally as 百日紅 – hyakujishikou – but its colloquial name is ザルスベリ – zarusuberi – ‘monkey-slip tree’ for the smooth trunk which not even a monkey can climb.

The tree is starting to blossom, small vividly pink flowers which sway in the gentlest of breezes. Many of the buds are still tightly furled; they will open in the weeks ahead, until the tree is shrouded in a pink cloud, a living counterpart to the stillness of the shrine inside the house.

Taro joins the man as he gazes at the tree, and perhaps they both hear the whisper of a familiar and much-loved voice in the soft rustling of the leaves.

Then the two return to the cool of the air-conditioned room, to drowse and dream through the hottest part of the day. They will emerge again in the cool of the evening, and walk to the river once again.