The Image and the Truth

When I look back on that week, it feels endless now.

And yet at the time, it passed like a single, long breath.

For our second meeting, we chose a small shelter above the fields, where tools were stored during the day and no one lingered after nightfall.

The wind moved softly through the rows of tea bushes, and from the houses farther below, only a few scattered lights were visible.

We sat close together and looked down.

He told me about his childhood, about the discipline of his family home, and about growing up in Fukuoka.

I listened and thought how strange it was that a man whose name carried such weight in newspapers and reports seemed almost inconspicuous here, in the dark.

When we finally parted, it was late.

And neither of us felt that everything had been said.

Our third meeting, however, was different.

Perhaps because we had already grown accustomed to one another.

Or because, for a brief while, we forgot that it would soon be over.

It was early evening, still light enough that our faces were not hidden by shadow.

We met by the old irrigation canal above the upper terraces, where the water collected before being guided into the fields.

The stone edge we sat on had been smoothed by years of use, and aside from the quiet murmur of water, nothing could be heard.

After a while, Shuichi cleared his throat.

“May I tell you something?” he asked, almost cautiously.

I nodded.

For a moment, he looked down at his hands, as though weighing whether he truly wanted to say it.

“There was a time,” he said quietly, “when I thought you might be someone I wished to marry.”

My breath caught.

“Long before we ever met,” he added.

“W-what do you mean?”

Now it was his turn to smile, faintly embarrassed.

“I was at the officers’ academy in Nagasaki,” he said. “About three years ago.”

“In Nagasaki?”

He nodded.

“That’s where I saw you. In a shop near the academy.”

He hesitated. “On a tea package.”

I blinked.

“On a tea package?”

“It lay among dozens of others,” he said. “And yet...”

He stopped himself, shook his head.

“It was absurd.”

“What was?”

“That I blushed,” he said dryly. “Because of it.”

I laughed softly.

“You’re serious?”

“A fellow cadet stood beside me,” he continued. “He looked at me, then at the package, then back at me, and asked whether I had suddenly developed a taste for tea.”

“And?”

“I said nothing,” he admitted. “I bought it and left.”

“Just because of my face?” I teased.

He looked at me now, his expression serious, his eyes warm.

“Yes,” he said. “Because of your gaze. You looked as though you saw more than everyone else.”

He paused.

“And now that I truly know you… I know I wasn’t mistaken.”

Heat rose to my face, and I turned away.

“You do know,” I said carefully, “that many people recognize that image, right?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Just as many recognize my name.”

He hesitated.

“But who I really am…” He looked straight at me. “…you are the only one who has seen that.”

Silence settled between us.

Two faces known to many, yet not the people behind them.

“Being famous,” I said slowly, “without ever leaving my home, always felt strange to me.”

I looked up at the sky, already beginning to darken.

“I never fully understood why my father decided to make me the face of our tea.”

Shuichi was quiet for a moment.

“I think I understand him,” he said at last. “In times like these, people cling to images. To things that promise constancy.”

He looked at me. “To many, you were not just a face, but a promise.”

I lowered my gaze.

“And besides…” he said after a pause, “you are… strikingly beautiful.”

I looked up.

“I suppose that made it easier,” he said, almost dryly.

For a heartbeat, I stared at him.

Then I laughed out loud.

Shuichi frowned.

“That wasn’t meant as a joke,” he murmured, almost offended. “I was serious.”

I shook my head, still smiling, and shifted a little closer to him.

“I know.”

He looked at me, questioning.

“It’s just that,” I said quietly, “when I first saw you on the propaganda posters in Taihoku, those stern eyes, that rigid gaze, I never imagined I would hear words like that from this man.”

His expression softened as he looked at me.

“And perhaps,” I added, “that is why I laughed. Because it made me happy.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Those posters show very little truth.”

I placed my hand over his, squeezing it gently, holding on to the only truth about him that mattered to me.

For a while, we sat like that, side by side, without looking at one another, as the sky above the hills grew darker.

᯽᯽᯽

The cupboard rattled as Yi-yun disappeared inside it, the tall piece of furniture looming over the small cellar room.

Tin boxes, old kitchen tools and other long-unused items flew out at regular intervals.

“Grandma!” Yi-yun’s muffled voice echoed. “Are you sure it’s in here?”

Shu-fen sat on a stool at the other end of the room, leaning on her walking stick.

“Quite sure. It has to be in there somewhere.”

The rummaging continued until a triumphant gasp followed.

“I found something!”

When she crawled back out, she held an object close to her face, wiped away the dust, and examined it in the pale light of the single bulb above them.

Then her eyes widened.

“That’s you?!” she exclaimed.

Shu-fen nodded slowly.

“When I was fourteen,” she said. “I still remember when the painter came to our house.”

She paused as Yi-yun hurried over with the yellowed tea package, and together they examined it.

“They woke me before dawn,” Shu-fen continued. “Did my hair, put makeup on me, dressed me in an expensive gown.”

Her fingers brushed gently over the packaging, as though she herself could hardly believe that this girl had once been her.

“I remember how hard it was for me to sit still for so long. My father kept reminding me not to move, while in the background he discussed prints, stone lithographs, and circulation numbers.”

Yi-yun looked from the picture to her grandmother.

“It doesn’t really look like you.”

The honesty drew a soft laugh from Shu-fen.

“That’s because,” she said, “my father didn’t had me painted.”

Yi-yun frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“He had an idea painted instead,” Shu-fen replied. “A daughter who would remain fourteen forever. Obedient. Calm. Untouched by doubt.”

Yi-yun thought for a moment.

“So Grandpa fell in love with the picture first… and then with you?”

Shu-fen studied the tea package for another moment, then looked at her granddaughter.

“I don’t believe he fell in love with the girl on the package...,” she said at last, “...but with what she promised.”

Yi-yun was quiet.

“Perhaps,” Shu-fen added softly, “it reminded him that there was something in the world that wasn’t war. Something he wished he might one day belong to.”

She handed the package carefully back to her granddaughter.

“And sometimes,” she added, “that alone is enough to set someone on the right path.”

Yi-yun nodded thoughtfully, then smiled.

“So it was actually pretty good advertising!” she said.

Shu-fen laughed softly.

“Exactly.”