from the display cabinet inside the house. Inside the lacquered frame of the charcoal pit were the remains of a fire: a few blackened pieces of charcoal on a bed of white ashes. Among the remains was a singed business card with Japanese characters. Picking it carefully out of the ashes, she turned it over. The other side read: “Hiroshi Tanaka, president and chief executive officer of Yoshino Electronics, Inc.”
It was a re-staging of Okichi’s death, right down to the business card. Charlotte remembered the scene from Soiled Dove: carefully laying the fire on rocky headlands, then burning her few possessions and her personal papers, including Harris- san ’s business card. Setting out the sake cup, the comb, and the mirror. And finally, plunging off the edge of the cliff. In the final scene her things are discovered by a village official. “What does it mean?” asks a baffled onlooker. “The comb is the symbol of leave-taking, the mirror is the symbol of the soul,” the official replies. “These symbols mean Okichi has left us forever.” Pan to the waves lapping against the rocks at the foot of the cliff. “What does it mean?” Charlotte asked herself, just as the baffled onlooker had asked in the movie. Why had Okichi- mago burned Tanaka’s business card? Had she taken her life because she was ashamed at having humiliated the man who was her patron? If so, why hadn’t she stayed with him in the first place? And why make such a production of her suicide? She remembered what Okichi- mago had said about capitalizing shamelessly on the Okichi legend. Was she taking advantage of the legend even in death? Leaving the brazier, Charlotte went back out to the gallery to retrieve her shoes. Then she headed toward the house, Miako trotting along purposefully beside her, his agitation allayed now that his mission was completed. As she walked along the gravel path, she imagined the sensation the Japanese scandal sheets would make of Okichi- mago ’s suicide. In Japan, there was a long history of appreciation for suicide as an art form. It was said that the Japanese were as obsessed with suicide as Americans were with murder. She thought of the novelist who had committed ritual disembowelment after an impassioned appeal for the revival of Japan’s ancient heroic spirit. According to the ritual, a second was supposed to have stepped in and chopped off his head with a sword, but the second had botched it, and a third had finally had to finish the job. It was forty minutes or more before he finally died. At least Okichi- mago had had style enough to succeed. For that matter, her death had style enough to land her a permanent place in the annals of Japanese suicide.
As Charlotte approached the rear of the house, Paul emerged from the front parlor. He was wearing a cotton kimono and holding a mug of coffee. He awaited her on the long wisteriashaded veranda with a look of bewilderment.
“What is it?” he asked as she drew near, seeing from her manner that something was wrong.
“It’s Okichi- mago ,” Charlotte replied. “She’s dead. I found her body lying down on the rocks below the temple a few minutes ago. It looks as if she jumped from the gallery.”
The blood drained from his face. “Are you sure it’s her?” he asked. “Maybe it was one of the others.” His brown eyes searched her face, not wanting to see the truth.
“I’m sure,” she replied softly. “She still had the camellias in her hair. Her ankles were broken in the fall. I’m very sorry,” she added.
His hand shaking, he set his coffee mug down on a table, and then seemed to lurch from one piece of furniture to another, like a drunk hanging onto the wall of a building. Finally he headed over to a hydrangea bush at the end of the veranda and quietly threw up.
Charlotte took a seat and waited. His vomiting was probably as much hangover as it was shock.
After a few minutes, he returned and slumped into an old-fashioned wrought-iron garden
It was a re-staging of Okichi’s death, right down to the business card. Charlotte remembered the scene from Soiled Dove: carefully laying the fire on rocky headlands, then burning her few possessions and her personal papers, including Harris- san ’s business card. Setting out the sake cup, the comb, and the mirror. And finally, plunging off the edge of the cliff. In the final scene her things are discovered by a village official. “What does it mean?” asks a baffled onlooker. “The comb is the symbol of leave-taking, the mirror is the symbol of the soul,” the official replies. “These symbols mean Okichi has left us forever.” Pan to the waves lapping against the rocks at the foot of the cliff. “What does it mean?” Charlotte asked herself, just as the baffled onlooker had asked in the movie. Why had Okichi- mago burned Tanaka’s business card? Had she taken her life because she was ashamed at having humiliated the man who was her patron? If so, why hadn’t she stayed with him in the first place? And why make such a production of her suicide? She remembered what Okichi- mago had said about capitalizing shamelessly on the Okichi legend. Was she taking advantage of the legend even in death? Leaving the brazier, Charlotte went back out to the gallery to retrieve her shoes. Then she headed toward the house, Miako trotting along purposefully beside her, his agitation allayed now that his mission was completed. As she walked along the gravel path, she imagined the sensation the Japanese scandal sheets would make of Okichi- mago ’s suicide. In Japan, there was a long history of appreciation for suicide as an art form. It was said that the Japanese were as obsessed with suicide as Americans were with murder. She thought of the novelist who had committed ritual disembowelment after an impassioned appeal for the revival of Japan’s ancient heroic spirit. According to the ritual, a second was supposed to have stepped in and chopped off his head with a sword, but the second had botched it, and a third had finally had to finish the job. It was forty minutes or more before he finally died. At least Okichi- mago had had style enough to succeed. For that matter, her death had style enough to land her a permanent place in the annals of Japanese suicide.
As Charlotte approached the rear of the house, Paul emerged from the front parlor. He was wearing a cotton kimono and holding a mug of coffee. He awaited her on the long wisteriashaded veranda with a look of bewilderment.
“What is it?” he asked as she drew near, seeing from her manner that something was wrong.
“It’s Okichi- mago ,” Charlotte replied. “She’s dead. I found her body lying down on the rocks below the temple a few minutes ago. It looks as if she jumped from the gallery.”
The blood drained from his face. “Are you sure it’s her?” he asked. “Maybe it was one of the others.” His brown eyes searched her face, not wanting to see the truth.
“I’m sure,” she replied softly. “She still had the camellias in her hair. Her ankles were broken in the fall. I’m very sorry,” she added.
His hand shaking, he set his coffee mug down on a table, and then seemed to lurch from one piece of furniture to another, like a drunk hanging onto the wall of a building. Finally he headed over to a hydrangea bush at the end of the veranda and quietly threw up.
Charlotte took a seat and waited. His vomiting was probably as much hangover as it was shock.
After a few minutes, he returned and slumped into an old-fashioned wrought-iron garden
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