The Memory Painter: A Novel Read online

  Linz considered the idea. In an ideal world she would have invited Bryan, if they could just have one normal meeting together. Instead, their encounters had been surreal, and the last one had been flat-out unbelievable. He had left her sprawled in the sand garden and then he hadn’t even called her later to apologize. The more she thought about it, the more she began to seethe. If he did call, she would let it go to voice mail. She didn’t want to talk to him.

  Maggie was waiting for an answer and growing more excited by the second. “Oh my God, you met someone.”

  Linz sighed. What could she say? Technically, yes. But she and Bryan defied normal.

  Maggie gushed, “You totally met someone. Say no more.” Turning to leave, she noticed all the books. “Wow, you know Greek?”

  Linz nodded, glowering at the incriminating evidence. “A little,” she admitted and shoved the books into her bottom desk drawer. She forced Bryan from her thoughts and got back to work.

  * * *

  When Linz arrived home ten hours later, all thought of work fled her mind. A wrapped canvas was propped against the door with a little card taped to the top: A gift to a fellow dreamer. Call me.

  Linz unwrapped the painting in disbelief and brought her hands to her face with a gasp. It was too much. Reaching out to touch the canvas, not caring that she was still in the hall, she sank to the floor and began to cry.

  It was the painting of Origenes and Juliana. Bryan had given it to her.

  * * *

  The last box was marked “wedding,” and a photo album rested on top. Underneath were stacks of Super 8 film and an old projector. Without hesitation, Bryan sat on the storage room floor and took the photo album out.

  The first picture reached out and stole his heart. Michael was holding Diana in his arms as her wedding dress trailed to the ground, forming a pond of frilly lace. Bryan smiled, remembering how she had worn her mother’s gown because they couldn’t afford a new one. It was originally three sizes too big, and the seamstress who had altered it had messed up twice before producing something wearable. Next to the beaming couple, Doc, Conrad, and Finn stood in seventies tuxedos alongside Diana’s bridesmaids. Everyone made funny faces at the camera.

  Bryan stared at the portrait, captivated by the joy it contained, and the question played in his mind like a broken record.

  What went wrong?

  FIFTEEN

  EDO, JAPAN

  APRIL 21, 1701

  Lord Asano, Daimyo of the Province of Ako, woke with a start, knowing he must have been dreaming. He had been standing on top of a mountain, with clouds swirling around his feet. In the mist a woman was seated on top of a boulder, still as stone.

  At first Asano had thought the woman was a statue of a strange goddess, but when he moved closer, he saw her breathing. She was the most exotic creature he had ever seen, and she reminded him of a portrait that a Dutch trader had once shown him from his travels to a place called Egypt. Her long black hair had been plated into braids that cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes were decoratively lined in black kohl and emerald powder. Gold and precious jewels adorned her body, holding an intricately knotted robe in place that shimmered like a blue Akoya pearl.

  Asano had hesitated to speak. The luminous stranger appeared to be in deep meditation, but then she had opened her eyes and said, “Yes, I see you too.”

  Then Asano had awoken.

  This was not the first night during Lord Asano’s stay in Edo that had brought poor sleep and strange dreams. He hated the city and his obligation to attend the Shogun’s court. Today would be his last for the year, and then he and his wife could return home to their castle at Ako. He just needed to make it through the ceremony.

  The thought brought on a surge of anxiety. Under normal circumstances, Asano would only observe the pomp at court, but his name had been drawn to be the Shogun’s official representative at the reception for the Emperors’ envoys. The Emperor’s ministers rarely visited, so it was crucial that everything be perfect.

  Asano had tried to excuse himself from the assigned duty, implying that he was a simple country lord who knew nothing of the ways of court. The truth was that he was a private man who could not shoulder the mental burden of having to perform duties in such a severely formal ceremony. He was also currently unwell and suffering from a cold, his third in as many months. But the court had denied his request and placed him under the tutelage of Lord Kira, the Shogun’s Master of Ceremonies—and a man Asano despised. To Asano, the bribe-taking bureaucrat embodied everything wrong with the decadence that was drowning Edo.

  Lord Kira expected Asano to pay him for his guidance, which Asano had no intention of doing. Even though Asano was only a young lord of thirty-five, he still adhered to the old ways and lived by a samurai’s code of honor. He knew Kira was already well paid by the court, and he would not give in. The animosity between the two men had reached a boiling point, and as the hour of the reception drew near, Asano grew more nervous about his decision. Kira had the power to make him look like a fool.

  The morning light crept into the room, scattering Asano’s thoughts. He might as well get up and begin the painstaking process of putting on his ceremonial robes. It would make the day’s end seem closer.

  Once dressed, he took his palanquin to the castle. He sat enclosed within the ornate litter’s small box, which was hanging from a long pole that was carried by four men—two in the front and two in the back. A man walked in front of them, proudly holding a banner with the clan’s kamon. The crest on the flag was the only way anyone could discern which lord was inside.

  Asano could barely tolerate the suffocating space with all the jostling. His head was throbbing and his stomach felt hollow. Maneuvering through the market was always an annoyance—to both the lord and the people of Edo. Whenever a lord’s entourage went past, everyone on the street—merchants, farmers, and beggars alike—had to stop, drop to their knees, and bow. They were not even allowed to lift their eyes to watch the procession.

  Even with his passage cleared, it still took all morning to reach the Shogun’s castle. When he arrived at the inner sanctuary, Asano exited the palanquin with relief and made his way to the Hall of the Thousand Mats. He greeted the other lords who had arrived early. They were all forced participants. Everyone but Asano had paid Kira to enlist his help in getting through today’s spectacle, and they all gave him calculated looks, wondering how the young, handsome lord would fare.

  Lord Kira entered in all his glory, adorned in ceremonial robes that outshined them all. He smiled at the lords, showing blackened teeth.

  Ohaguro, staining one’s teeth, was a fashion originally reserved for married women with children, or geisha, but had become quite popular with some noblemen and those in upper society. The effect was obtained by melting metal in a vinegar base and then adding Chinese sumac powder. The tannins in the powder would turn the foul-smelling brown liquid into a black viscous lacquer. One had to paint the teeth every few days to maintain the effect, and Asano found it repulsive—another symbol of the vanity and corruption eating away at the court. He stared at Kira and thought it made the old man look like a lizard with a diseased mouth. He made no effort to hide his disgust and turned away, making sure Kira noted the snub.

  Asano went to stand by the door, where a servant entered and approached him. “Forgive me, Lord, but my master asked me to inquire about the starting time of the ceremony?”

  Before Asano could answer, Kira interjected in a voice loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Don’t ask that one, his ignorance is even greater than yours.”

  A hush fell over the hall. Asano could not believe his ears. To add further insult, Kira moved toward him and whispered. “You see, young lord, I can make your life quite miserable. But I am still willing to help an Ako-inbred country monkey like yourself.”

  At Kira’s words, unbounded rage overcame Asano and he drew his sword.

  Everyone gasped in shock. Such an act inside the Shogun’s ca
stle equaled treason and was punishable by death, and Asano’s rational mind screamed at him to stop—to kill this man would destroy his clan and his name. Kira wanted nothing more than to witness his ruin. By drawing his sword, Asano had granted his wish.

  Reason deserted him. He raised the sword high into the air and with a shaking arm brought it down on Kira’s head. Shogun Tsunayoshi entered the hall just as the blade struck. The sword glanced off of Kira’s forehead, drawing blood, and Kira fell to the ground. A great commotion erupted as attendants rushed to help the victim. Everyone could see that the cut was not deep—that Asano hadn’t had the strength to kill him. Kira would live.

  Asano blindly raised his sword to strike again, but the other lords and their assistants rushed him and they held him back as they screamed for help from the guards outside.

  Shogun Tsunayoshi backed away in horror. Asano’s sword was wrenched away from him, and now that it was gone, his sanity returned. His head was pounding; he couldn’t think. He could only stand there frozen, held back by the arms of his fellow lords. What had just happened?

  The Shogun’s Rojyu, his second-in-command, roared. “You disrespect the Shogun’s house! His laws!”

  Asano dropped to his knees and bowed low in deep remorse.

  No one spoke. Seventeen years ago, the Shogun’s prime minister had been struck down in this very room. Rumors of the Shogun’s involvement had surrounded the assassination, so he took Asano’s actions as a personal offense.

  Asano remained kneeling, his forehead touching the floor. “I beg forgiveness. There is no excuse for what I have done.”

  The Shogun did not acknowledge his plea and stormed toward the door. The Rojyu followed as he bellowed, “The ceremony is ruined. Send everyone home!”

  Stripped of his swords, Asano remained on his knees with a rigid back for hours, waiting for his captors to decide what to do. He tried to make sense of his absolute loss of control. Did he hate one man so much that he would throw away his life? He found no answer, only anguish.

  A troupe of guards arrived to secrete him away from the castle to Lord Tamura’s mansion, where Asano would await his sentence. Once there, he was allowed to write his wife a letter. He described the day’s occurrence and could only hope that she would pass his message on to his head kerai and chief retainer, Oishi Kuranosuke Yoshio, whom he trusted more than his own brother. The fate of his house now rested in Oishi’s hands, and Asano prayed that his kerai would somehow help to repair the damage he had inflicted.

  Just as he finished the letter, the Shogun’s officer arrived to deliver the sentence. The Shogun’s decision had come more rapidly than usual. His envoy read it aloud: “By the command of Shogun Tsunayoshi, Lord Asano is to commit seppuku on this day.”

  Asano was stunned. He had prepared himself for the possibility of a death sentence, but for it to come so quickly was inconceivable for a lord of his standing. He would have no time to put his house in order.

  “The Lady Asano is to suffer permanent exile, and all the property belonging to the Asano clan will be put under the Shogun’s protection.”

  Every word was a venomous sting. All three hundred samurai under the House of Asano and their families would be stripped of their homes, their livelihood. Asano forced himself to focus on what the envoy was saying. The worst had been saved for last.

  “… The Asano name and its lineage will be struck from the Book of Records.”

  On hearing those words, Asano felt the odd bodily sensation of drifting—the anchor to his world had just been cut away. His clan’s entire history was to be forgotten. Only in one way had the Shogun demonstrated mercy: by granting Asano the privilege to die with honor by seppuku.

  Seppuku was the ultimate test and sacrifice a samurai could make, and it gave Asano the chance to atone for his actions. Like many others, he believed that if his karma had brought him to the brink of death, it was better to die by his own hand, so that it would not follow him into the next life.

  * * *

  The Shogun’s men led Asano into the garden, where several layers of white cotton cloth had been laid. A small stand holding a dagger had been placed in its center. His Second, his Kaishakunin, stood at stoic attention behind him with a sword, prepared to sever his head at the end.

  Lord Asano had now changed into a ceremonial white kimono. He took the proper stance and sat on his heels. As part of the ritual suicide, he picked up the sake cup from the wooden table and drank it in four sips. Then he wrote his death poem on a sheet of washi, paper made from mulberry leaves. He did not know what to write but somehow, his brush moved across the page.

  Wind makes the flower fall

  I too am falling

  Not knowing what to do

  With the Remaining Spring

  It would be remembered as a poor death poem, he thought, and he felt ashamed. He slipped off his outer garment and tucked the sleeves under his knees. He grasped the cold dagger in his hands and thought about his dream of the strange Egyptian woman upon the mountain. Had she known this day would be his last?

  As he prepared to end his life, Asano remembered the rest of what she had said to him.

  “Between the beginning and the end, this life is but one moment.”

  Asano grabbed onto her words as the blade pierced his skin. He did not feel the Second’s sword on his neck.

  He was already gone.

  SIXTEEN

  DAY 20—FEBRUARY 25, 1982

  The memories come without warning. This is the second time this week I have suffered a recall. Today, I was working in my office when my sight began to blur and the dream took me. I have stopped the medication, but that hasn’t slowed the visions. It is as if Renovo has opened Pandora’s box.

  I have shared what I have recalled with the team, but only to a certain point, and have taken to locking myself in this office, searching for some kind of answer. My mind keeps going back to the Egyptian woman in Asano’s dream. I have seen her appear in the dreams of other lives I have recalled as well, and I cannot help but feel she is a key to understanding all of this. Who is she? A goddess? An ancient priestess? A traveler from another time and place with a message for a dying man?

  None of this makes sense and I am afraid to voice these thoughts. I have limited my interactions with the team to the tests Finn is conducting. I have even sworn to keep Diana away until I can sort out what is happening.

  I am now fluent in over ten languages and have knowledge of historical events and written texts that cannot be found in books. It is a persuasive argument for reincarnation to be sure, but the scientist in me is still not convinced these are memories of past lives. Even so, it is hard to deny these recollections feel like my own.

  Now I have relived the life of a Japanese lord from the seventeenth century. I first heard about Lord Asano years ago when I took an Asian Studies course as an elective my freshman year of college. My professor, Mr. Yamamoto, loved to entertain us with stories from his homeland. The account of Lord Asano’s death and the bloodshed that followed became one of the greatest sagas of Japan.

  His tale gripped me, but I told myself I was no more enthralled than any other student. Strange to think I might have been the one who caused the story.

  Diana played an instrumental part too. Just as she did in Pushkin’s life. I am certain she was my wife, Natalia. Natalia who had raged about how she wanted to be a man in order to avenge her husband’s death. When I look into Diana’s eyes, I cannot help but feel that she did come back as a man in the next life. And what a war she waged.

  I don’t know what will happen when Diana remembers her life in Japan, but I pray she never will. The whole team has taken Renovo now. God help us.

  * * *

  Bryan put the journal down. He couldn’t bring himself to read anymore.

  He was sitting on his living room floor. Michael and Diana’s boxes littered the space. Earlier at the restaurant, after going through the wedding album, he had hurried home to open the rest of the
boxes. He had found Michael’s journal almost immediately and had been reading for hours.

  Bryan had remembered Lord Asano Naganori’s life ten years ago and had spent months afterward painting it—he had even attempted to paint Asano’s dream. He went to the storage closet and pulled out the life-size portrait of the Egyptian woman. Her face was uplifted to the sky, her feline eyes half open. She was shrouded in the mountain’s mist—Bryan had been unable to get her features right and had used the mist to his advantage. But she was still exquisite, and the portrait gave him goose bumps every time he saw it. No one had ever seen this painting.

  He wondered if he should show it to Linz the next time he saw her, knowing he would see her soon, even though they hadn’t spoken since the night of the library. He had wanted to give her space to come to terms with all that she had discovered. And he was also hoping she would forgive him for his quick departure. At some point he would have to explain his problem. He could just imagine it: You see, I have this habit of reliving lifetimes when I’m with you. That conversation would be a winner. With a sigh, he put the Egyptian woman back in the closet. Maybe Linz shouldn’t see this yet.

  * * *

  Linz sat on the couch and stared at the painting for a long time. The image loomed larger than life, its violence captured in incredible detail. She felt a powerful urge to destroy the canvas, but she knew she could never live with herself if she did. For a moment she had thought about returning it to Bryan, but she didn’t want anyone else to look at it either. Finding a temporary solution, she got up and put it in her closet and then sat on the floor with her head in her hands, feeling emotionally drained.

  She had broken down when she saw the painting outside her door, and it had taken her hours to calm down. She hadn’t cried like that in years. Seeing the painting had brought back all the memories she had tried so hard to suppress. As a child she had remembered so much more about Juliana than her death—vague feelings and experiences she couldn’t explain that she had never talked to anyone about. Growing up, forgetting the vivid terror of Juliana’s death had seemed most important; all the other memories were gentle and nonthreatening in comparison, like a soft image out of focus. But now that she was older, maybe it was time to revisit them. Because when Linz opened her heart and let go of her fear, her sense of self became eclipsed by the feeling that this Juliana was a part of her. Perhaps it was the same for Bryan.