Free The Painting by Nina Schuyler

there are times when the throbbing extends to his toes, which are no longer there, or courses up the trunk of his body, sending fire flames into his brain.
    He slowly removes the top cardboard. There is the painting, only from this view and in this light, it looks different somehow. He sets the candle on the cot and lowers himself so he is only an inch away. At first he thinks it’s the flickering candlelight, but as he leans forward, he sees the colors pulsate; they are tugging at him, swaying in front of him, the bright green of the hilltop, the purple plums in the tree, the blue of his dress, and the woman, dressed in dark red. His heart swells and softens. It is too much, he thinks, too much. He slams down the cardboard cover and slides it under his bed.

JAPAN
    H OW LONG HAS IT been since he’s seen her? he thinks, his chopsticks poised midair, as if caught in two opposing winds.
    He hears the man working at the sushi counter say her name again, then describe her, her flash of brown eyes, her graceful walk, as if floating on warm air. He just arrived from Hong Kong, where he purchased ten cases of brandy. By the time the bottles were packed into crates, he sold them for three times the price to a rich man in London. His next trip, as soon as he’s taken care of business here, is to Shanghai to buy bolts of silk for a man in Italy who makes fine women’s dresses. But if it is Ayoshi, how long has it been since he’s seen her? As he rises from the table, the cook behind the counter stops talking and turns toward him, as do several patrons.
    Where does she live? he asks.
    The cook’s eyes widen in alarm.
    In his haste, he forgot the decorum of politeness, something he’s always despised about his native people.
    Excuse me, he says, bowing low. So sorry to interrupt you. The woman. Her name is Ayoshi. Please, I have not seen her in so long.
    The cook, an old man with deeply carved lines on his face and milky eyes, looks at him skeptically.
    At least he remembered to remove his heavy-soled Western shoes before entering, he thinks, or the cook might have thrown him out. The cook glances at his suit and the newspaper tucked under his arm. An English newspaper. The old man’s expression is blank, but his eyes are darting, as if weighing his choices.
    After a long wait, the cook reluctantly gives him directions. He bows, lower than he should to a cook, and as he turns for the front door, he almost knocks over an elderly man.
    The woman, says the elderly man, his voice smoky. She ran away once. Maybe more than once, I don’t know. Someone found her wandering the streets, half dressed. That was right after she moved here. The coldest days of winter and she might have frozen to death. She looked wild, covered with mud, twigs stuck in her hair, muttering to herself. My wife was the one who wrapped her in heavy blankets, put her in a cart, and took her home.
    This house? asks the man, anxious to be on his way.
    The elderly man shakes his head dolefully. Her husband is a splendid potter, but no one knows much about him. We’ve heard there are many days he can barely walk. He lowers his voice. It’s his feet. You should see them. Sometimes, he must lie in bed all day.
    Thank you.
    My wife went up there. She had a bad feeling about that house. So empty, so barren; she left as soon as she could. Something isn’t right.
    He thanks the old man again, grabs his bag, his newspaper, pays his bill, and heads outside.
    A YOSHI RISES, STRETCHES, AND looks out the small window of the studio. The wind swoons over the leaves. There is the cold lick of autumn air. Winter is nearly here. Out by the big, ugly gates—why did Hayashi put up those horrid gates—there’s an old man, his chin tucked deep into the collar of a heavy dark coat. Perhaps bringing his midday offerings, she thinks. He leans his shoulder into the gate to shut it. Not much strength left in his body.Her mind flits to the gates. What good did they do? The teahouse burned