The First Leaf to Turn

The first maple leaf of the season fell on me at 5:47 in the morning, while I stood outside a ryokan in Higashiyama with my hair down and my suitcase behind me and my throat full of a grief I hadn't given a name yet.

It landed on the back of my hand — a small, precise leaf, still green at the stem but flushed rust-red along one edge, the way autumn arrives in Kyoto: not all at once, but the way a secret gets out. One leaf, and the whole city is already changing.

I looked at the leaf for a long time. Then I looked at the note my mother had left me, three weeks before the funeral, written in her cramped architect's hand on a scrap of drawing paper. She'd been the one who'd first brought me to Japan, twenty-two years ago, a student of mine before I'd ever thought of architecture as anything other than a career. She'd died in a hospital in Leeds with a bag of maple postcards clutched in her hand — she'd been saving them for me, one for each year of my life, and she'd stopped at forty-three. The last card she'd written a single line on, in the margin, in pencil: Go back to Kyoto. Find Jun. I'm sorry.

I had no idea what that meant when I read it in the hospital corridor. I still don't.

But here I was, at dawn, in a city that smelled of river water and woodsmoke and the green, cold breath of mountains beginning to shed their summer. And somewhere in that city — in a narrow street near the Kamo River that I could find, because my mother had drawn me a map of it once, on the back of a tea house menu, in ink that had gone soft with the years — was Jun.

The daughter of the man who made koto and shakuhachi for half of Gion. The woman I had loved for six years and left in a silence so complete that three years later I could still feel its edges against my ribs.

I had come back for my mother. I knew that much.

I wasn't sure I could come back for anything else.

The ryokan's lantern was still lit, though no one had passed it for an hour, and the morning mist was rolling down from the mountains above Higashiyama in slow grey curtains, swallowing the roofs of the old district one tile at a time. I put the leaf in my coat pocket, over my heart, and I walked toward the Kamo.

The first thing Kyoto does to you, every year, is make you quiet.

I found the tea house at dawn. It was open — some were always open at dawn in this city, for the monks who came to drink before the world woke — and the woman behind the counter, who could not have been older than thirty, nodded at me without a word and poured green tea into a bowl the colour of deep moss.

She watched me drink. Then she said, in careful, slow Japanese, that she had a message for me. A note, folded small, with no writing on it I could see.

"From her mother?" I asked, in the halting Japanese I'd let myself forget.

The woman's eyes did something complicated. "From my daughter," she said. "She left it yesterday evening. She said it would be for the woman who came from England. She said you would understand when you saw it, and if I did not give it to you, I was to be told."

My hands were shaking. I took the note.

I opened it at the window, where the light was coming up grey and gold over the river, and inside was a single thing: a small wooden flute, no longer than my thumb, carved from bamboo, with a knot in its surface like a closed eye.

Below it, in Japanese she'd clearly written by hand: You still have the other half. I have kept mine. — J

I didn't know what that meant. I knew it had to do with something we'd broken together, the last autumn we were in Kyoto, something so sharp it had cut us both and neither of us had named.

I put the flute in my pocket, beside the leaf, and I went to Kiyomizu-dera before the crowds, where the old wooden stage stands out over the valley on its pillars, and the mountain mist was still up, so that the whole city was only a rumour, and the temple bells were going in the cold air, one after another, each one finding the one before it and not letting go.

I sat on the steps and I cried the way you cry when you're trying not to cry — quietly, in small pieces, with my face pressed into my hands. A monk walked past with a broom and did not look at me, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for me in three years.

Jun came to meet me at the Kamo River at noon, under the bridge where the water ran fast and clear over pale stones, and the willows on the bank were going from green to something between green and gold.

She had not aged. That was the first thing I thought, and I hated it. She stood on the bank in a dark coat and her black hair was pinned up in a way that made her look older than her years, and she had her father's hands — long-fingered, quiet hands, made for strings and air.

We looked at each other for a long time.

"Hello, Nadia," she said, in English. She always used English when she was keeping something from me.

"Hello, Jun."

"You came."

"I came."

She was quiet. The river was not.

I crossed to her side of the bank and we stood close enough to talk and far enough not to touch, and I said, "My mother is dead."

Jun's face did not change. But her hands closed, slowly, into fists, at her sides, and I understood that she had known. I understood that she had known for weeks and had written the note about the funeral and had waited for me to come, and that I was not the first person to tell me, in the way that mattered.

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Did you know why she sent me here?"

She was quiet a moment. Then: "She told me, the night before. She told me everything. She'd been going to write to you, for years. She said she was too old and too ashamed. She said I was the one who had to say it, and I kept saying you had to say it first, and then the cancer, and then the hospital, and then there wasn't time." She swallowed. "She was in the last few days of her life, and she was still making me do it properly."

I laughed. It came out wet and broken. "She always did."

Jun looked at me, and her eyes were red, and she said, very quietly, "I want to tell you what I was going to tell her, about you, before she went. I want you to hear it from me. Not from her letters. Not from the note. From me."

"Okay," I said.

"Okay," she said back, and we started walking.

We walked the Philosopher's Path, along the canal, under the trees.

The maples here were the ones that turn first — the early ones, the ones that give the season away — and along the whole length of the path there were branches going red, one tree at a time, like a fire that had been lit at the far end and was moving toward us, slowly, patiently, without hurry. The canal ran beside us, black and slow, and the air smelled of wet stone and woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of things beginning to rot.

It was the first time in three years that I had spoken about him.

His name was Haruki. Jun had introduced me to him the first year we were in Kyoto — a colleague, a scholar of temple architecture, the kind of man who spoke in long careful sentences and always seemed to be holding something back. We'd had dinner with him. We'd had dinner with him again. And then, one night in the autumn of our second year, I'd gone to his apartment with the rain coming down hard off the mountains and we'd stayed the night, and it had been the first time I'd ever wanted to leave Kyoto, because I realised I was already in it — already married to it, in the way you can be married to a place — and I didn't want to be.

Jun found out from his wife. Not from me.

That was the wound, the one we'd never named. I'd been quiet about it, because I was ashamed, and she'd been quiet about it, because I hadn't given her permission to be angry, and for a year and a half after that we'd lived in the same apartment and spoken to each other in complete sentences about the washing and the money and the weather, and neither of us had mentioned the word afraid, which is the word that had been underneath everything, the word I hadn't said and she hadn't asked and we'd both known.

"I went to him," I said, as the trees went red around us. "The night I left. I went to his apartment, and I sat on the floor of his kitchen, and I told him I was sorry, and I told him I was going back to Leeds, and I told him I didn't know if I could come back to you. And he said — he said, 'Then don't.' And I said, 'I know.' And I meant it. I meant it, and I was leaving, and I couldn't — I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it to you. I couldn't do it to the life we'd made. So I stayed, and I stayed, and I stayed, and I stayed, and I never told you what I'd said to him, because if I told you what I'd said to him, I would have had to tell you what I was thinking about him, and I wasn't — I wasn't ready."

Jun stopped walking.

The canal went on around us.

"I wasn't ready," she said. "That's what you said, every time. For a year and a half. I was ready, Nadia. I was ready the day after the first dinner. I was ready the day after the second. I was ready the day you told me you were staying. I was ready and you were still not ready, and you kept saying you'd get there, and I kept believing you, because you always got there, in the end, and it never mattered when, it only mattered that you did."

I didn't argue. There was nothing to argue. She was right, and I had spent three years building a case against my own guilt and it was a good case, a strong case, a case that held up in any court that mattered, but she was right, and I had to let it be enough.

"I know," I said.

"You don't know."

"I do. I know. And I'm sorry. Not the other sorry. The real one. The one that costs something."

She was quiet for a long time. The trees went red. The canal went on.

"Your mother told me," she said, at last. "The night before she went. She told me everything. She said she knew. She said she'd known since the second year, and she'd come to me, and she'd said, 'Tell her,' and I said, 'She'll leave,' and she said, 'Then let her leave, and then she'll know what she's lost,' and I said, 'She won't leave, she's already here, she's just not here, she's somewhere else,' and she said, 'That's what I was going to do for twenty years, and I didn't do it, and I won't let you do it too.'"

I sat down on the stone wall beside the canal and I put my face in my hands and I shook, the whole way down, from my shoulders to my wrists, and Jun sat down next to me, close enough that her knee touched my knee, and she didn't touch my hand, and I was so grateful for that, because I didn't want to be touched yet, I wasn't ready, and she knew, and she didn't touch my hand, and her knee stayed on my knee, and I thought, that's enough, that's enough for now.

In the afternoon we went to Saihō-ji, the moss garden.

You have to book it. You have to be in the right mood. You have to be willing to walk barefoot over the gravel in the last hour of light, when the whole place is going soft and green and grey, and the moss is so thick on the stones that the garden looks like it's breathing, like the whole hillside is a single slow lung, filling and emptying, filling and emptying, with no hurry in it, no urgency, no need to be anything other than what it is.

We walked it slowly. Jun went first, because her feet are lighter than mine, and I followed, and the moss was cool under my toes, and the air smelled of it — that deep, green, wet smell, the smell of something that has been growing in the same place for a thousand years and has no intention of stopping.

On the way, we went past the bamboo grove at Arashiyama, where the stalks went up and up in their white-green ranks, and the wind went through them, and the whole grove rustled, like a long, slow breath, like the city was trying to say something it couldn't quite find the words for. Jun stopped, in the middle of the grove, and she put her hand on one of the stalks, and she held it there, and the wind went on, and the bamboo went on, and she said, without turning around, "Your mother used to come here, when she was afraid. She used to stand in the middle of it, and she used to put her hand on the stalks, and she used to say, 'This is what it feels like, to be held by something that isn't trying to be anything other than what it is.' And I think she was right. I think she was right, and I think that's what I've been missing, for three years. Not the holding. The being held by something that isn't trying to be anything other than what it is."

I stood behind her, in the bamboo, in the wind, and I listened to her say it, and I thought, that's what I'm going to try to be, for her. That's what I'm going to try to be, from now on. Something that isn't trying to be anything other than what it is. And if I can do that, and if she can let me, then maybe we'll be enough. Maybe we'll be enough, and maybe that's all it costs.

"Your mother," Jun said, without turning around. "Did she ever tell you why she loved this place?"

I walked behind her. The moss went on.

"She told me, once. She said it was the only place in the world where nothing had to be decided. She said in Leeds, and in London, and everywhere else, everything was a question, and every question had an answer, and every answer cost something, and you spent your whole life paying, and you didn't know what you were paying for, and you didn't know when you'd paid enough. And she said here, nothing was a question. The moss was not a question. The stones were not a question. The water was not a question. You could stand there and be nothing and be enough, and it was the only place in the world where she could afford to be nothing."

Jun stopped.

She turned around. She was looking at me with an expression I couldn't read, and the light was going, and the moss was going soft under the last of it, and she said, very quietly, "I've been trying to be enough, for three years, Nadia. For three years, I've been trying to be enough without you, and I haven't been able to do it. I've tried. I've really tried. And I can't. And I'm not angry about it anymore. I'm just — I'm tired of it. I'm tired of trying."

I stopped too.

We stood in the middle of the moss garden, in the last light, in the silence that the garden makes, the silence that has no edges, and I said, "I don't know how to be enough either. I don't know how to be enough in Leeds, or in Kyoto, or anywhere. I've been trying, and I'm tired, too. I'm so tired, Jun. I'm so tired of trying to be the person who can hold all the questions and not break, and I can't, I can't, I've never been able to, and I've been pretending I have, since I was nineteen."

She crossed the small distance between us and she put her hands on my face, her long-fingered, quiet hands, and she held them there, and she didn't say anything, and I let her, and I let her hold me like that, in the moss, in the last light, in the silence that had no edges, and I thought, this is what it costs, to be enough. It costs this. It costs her hands on my face, and it costs me letting them stay. And I can pay it. I can pay it. I've been saving for it, for three years, and I can pay it, and I will, and I will, and I will.

The sun went down over the moss, and the garden went green and dark, and we walked back to the gravel and the last hour of light, and we did not speak, because there was nothing left to say that the garden hadn't already said.

We went back to the ryokan in the evening.

The lanterns were out along the Kamo now, and the river was black, and the first cold of autumn was in the air, sharp and clean, the kind of cold that makes you want to be somewhere warm, somewhere close, somewhere the heat of another person's body is a fact you can feel against your own.

The room we'd booked — my room, the one I'd been in since dawn, the one with the tatami mats and the window that looked out over the garden — was small and quiet and smelled of cedar and the faint sweetness of the rice cakes they'd left on the low table. Jun stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the room, and then she came in, and she took off her coat, and she sat down on the tatami, and she said, "I'm going to tell you the rest of it. The part I haven't told you yet. The part I've been keeping."

I sat down across from her, on the tatami, and I waited.

"The night I found out about Haruki," she said. "The night his wife told me. I went to the river. I went to the same spot where you found me this morning, under the bridge, and I sat there for an hour, and I was going to leave you. I was going to leave you, Nadia. I was going to leave you, and I was going to go to Osaka, and I was going to start again, and I was going to tell myself it was because of him, when it was because of me, because I was afraid. I was afraid that if I stayed, I would have to be the person who stayed, and I didn't know how to do that. I didn't know how to be the person who stayed and didn't break. So I was going to leave, and then I thought of your mother, and I thought of what she would have said, and I thought, 'No. Let her leave, and then she'll know what she's lost.' And I didn't say it to her. I said it to myself, in the river, in the dark, and I stayed. And I've been staying ever since, and I don't know how to do it, and I don't know if I'm doing it right, but I'm staying."

I was crying. I didn't know when I'd started.

"You didn't have to stay," I said.

"I know."

"You didn't have to wait for me to come back."

"I know."

"I'm so sorry, Jun. I'm so sorry. I was afraid. I was so afraid of being the person who had to choose, and I didn't want to choose, and so I didn't, and it cost us three years, and it cost your mother her last letter, and I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

She crossed the room. She sat down in front of me, close, on the tatami, and she took my hands, and she held them, and she said, "You're here now. That's the only sorry that matters. You're here now."

I leaned forward. She leaned forward. We met in the middle of the room, in the small cedar-scented dark, and I kissed her, and it was the first kiss in three years, and it tasted of the green tea she'd had at the garden, and of the cold air from the window, and of the salt of my own tears, and of something so deep and so long-kept that it had no name, and she kissed me back, and her hands came up into my hair, and she held my face, and she held my face, and she held my face, and I thought, this is what it costs. This. And I can pay it. I've been saving for it, for three years. And I can pay it.

We undressed each other slowly, in the small cedar-scented dark, in the last of the evening, with the sound of the Kamo outside the window, black and moving, and the first cold of autumn pressing against the glass. Her skin was cool, and then it wasn't, and the tatami was rough under my knees, and the low table was warm with the rice cakes we hadn't touched, and her hands were on my back, moving slowly, the way her hands move over the strings of the koto, finding each note, letting each note finish before finding the next.

She took the pin from her hair and let it fall, and her hair came down around her shoulders, and she was so still, and so sure, and I watched her undo the buttons of my shirt with her long-fingered hands, one after another, without hurry, and I thought, this is how it feels, when you're ready. It feels like this. It feels like her hands, and her silence, and the sound of the river, and the small room, and nowhere else in the world.

I lay back on the tatami, and she lay down beside me, and the room was so small that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nowhere to be anything other than what I was, and she came over me, and she was slow, and she was so slow, and she looked down at me, and her eyes were red, and she said, "Nadia." Just my name. Just the name, the way she'd said it the first time, three years ago, in a tea house in Gion, when she'd looked at me and thought, I'm going to have to be the person who stays, and I don't know how to do that yet, but I'm going to do it, and I'm going to do it, and I'm going to do it.

I reached up and I put my hand on her face, and I held it there, and I said, "Stay."

"I'm staying," she said. "I'm staying, Nadia. I'm staying. I've been staying. I'm not going anywhere."

And I let her. I let her, and I let her, and I let her. Her body came over mine, warm and slow, and she held my face in both hands, and she pressed her lips to my throat, and then to my mouth, and then to my throat again, and the tatami creaked beneath us, and the window was fogging with the cold, and the river went on outside, black and moving, and she moved over me, slow and deep, and I felt her inside me, and I felt it the way you feel the first cold air of autumn on your skin — all at once, and completely, and with a clarity that makes everything else go quiet.

I put my hands on her hips and I held her there, and I held her there, and the sound I made was not a word, and it was not a sound, it was a letting go, a whole three years of holding, let go at once, in the small cedar-scented dark, with the Kamo moving outside the window and the first cold of the season pressing against the glass. She held me down, and she held me, and she held me, and she pressed her face into the crook of my neck, and I felt her breathing go fast, and then slow, and then fast again, and I thought, this is what it costs, to be enough. It costs this. It costs her, and it costs me, and it costs the three years, and it costs the silence, and it costs the not-saying, and I can pay it, I've been saving for it, for three years, and I can pay it, and I will, and I will, and I will.

She came against me, slow and long, and I came with her, and the sound I made was small, and broken, and real, and she held me through it, and she held me through it, and she held me through it, and her face was in the crook of my neck, and her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her hands were still on my hips, and the room was warm, and the river went on, and the cold pressed against the glass, and I thought, that's enough. That's enough for now. That's enough for this night. And maybe, if we're lucky, and if we're patient, and if we let it, it'll be enough for the rest of it, too.

We lay there, on the tatami, in the small cedar-scented dark, tangled, breathing, with the sound of the river under everything, and neither of us moved for a long time, and I thought, that's what it feels like, when you're ready. It feels like this. It feels like her hands, and her silence, and the sound of the river, and the small room, and nowhere else in the world.

In the morning, the mist was down, and the city was fully there, all of it, every roof and every tile and every street, and the first maple leaf had finally turned, all the way, from green to the deepest rust-red, and it was lying on the tatami beside the window, where I'd put it, where I'd left it, where I'd meant to keep it.

Jun was asleep beside me, on her side, with her face turned toward the window, and her hair was loose, and her hands were open, and she looked, in the grey morning light, like someone who had finally stopped trying to be enough, and found, to her own surprise, that she was.

I got up, and I made tea, the way they do it in the tea house down the street, the way my mother taught me, twenty-two years ago, in a kitchen in Kyoto, in the first year, when we were both young and nothing had happened yet, and when the future was a question, and every question had an answer, and every answer cost something, and I didn't know, then, what I was paying for.

I made the tea, and I brought it to the window, and I stood there, and I watched the city wake up, and I thought about my mother, and I thought about Jun, and I thought about the three years, and I thought, that's enough. That's enough for now. And if it's enough for now, and if we let it, and if we're patient, and if we stay, then maybe it'll be enough for the rest of it, too.

Outside, the city was waking up, and the first maple leaf of the season was falling, one at a time, from the trees along the Philosopher's Path, and the river was running, and the mist was rising, and the temple bells were going in the cold air, one after another, each one finding the one before it and not letting go.

I drank the tea. I finished it. I put the bowl on the low table, beside the rice cakes, beside the wooden flute, beside the leaf, and I went to Jun, and I lay down beside her, and I put my hand on her back, and I held it there, and I thought, I'm staying. I'm staying, Jun. I'm staying. I've been staying. I'm not going anywhere.

And she turned over, in her sleep, and she put her hand on my hand, and she held it there, and the morning came up, grey and gold, over the Kamo River, and the city was waking up, and we were staying.