• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

It was from my mother that I had learned the guiding role nature plays in how we map out the geography of self. She was the granddaughter of a landscape gardener who worked on the grounds of a castle in Scotland. For a time, her world was one of towering trees and rose gardens, of heathered hills that stretched to the horizon, of clear water that revealed the salmon, gleaming like silver arrows just beneath the surface.

Later, my mother’s interest in the natural world was encouraged by both her parents. From her stern father she learned the botanical names and the science of nature; from her sturdy mother the pleasures of planting and digging in the earth, of being a part of nature’s cycle of life and death. But my mother’s gift for observation—the mark of a true naturalist—was her own.

A day in the country, I decided, was definitely in order. There was no doubt in my mind that, surrounded by nature’s immutable realities, I would find what I needed: a perspective on where I fit into the world.

I had just settled into my seat on the train when Naohiro appeared in the aisle next to me. He tilted his head in a slight bow. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, in almost accentless English. Still, his voice confirmed what I had guessed at the train station: he was Japanese.

“Please do,” I said, looking up from the map I was studying. He sat down. Immediately I was aware of a scent about him that seemed familiar. It was crisp; he smelled like pine needles. Quickly it came to me, the reason why it seemed so familiar. It reminded me of Hiroshi, my son’s Japanese friend, who had stayed with us during a Christmas holiday. It was the same scent that filled the guest bathroom after Hiroshi had shaved and showered.

But I was aware of something more about Naohiro than his scent. His presence made me feel self-conscious: of my appearance, of the way I was sitting, of my movements and gestures. I was not unfamiliar with such symptoms: it was the behavior of a woman reacting to a man who attracts her.

As the train left the station, Naohiro reached into a small briefcase and pulled out a book. It was the same guidebook to Giverny that I had bought in Paris. I started to say something but stopped, remembering the conversations with my son about the reticence of the Japanese. In his four years as a teacher and translator in Japan, my son had grown to admire the Japanese. And I had grown to respect his careful insights into that culture. So I said nothing.

I turned my attention to the view, one that included the Seine winding its way alongside the train. This part of the river bore little resemblance to the glamorous Seine that bisected Paris. Sweet and unsophisticated, this Seine meandered like a country cousin across the pastoral landscape. Through the window I saw young boys fishing from its banks, their dogs dozing beside them in the sun.

Naohiro’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Is this your first time to Giverny?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” I said, trying to conceal my surprise that he had initiated a conversation. “What about you?”

“No, I have been before. But this time I go especially to see the Japanese prints.”

I had read about Monet’s collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Japanese prints, and of their influence on his work. “Are you an artist?” I asked, forgetting my resolve to not ask him personal questions.

He smiled. “No, I am a businessman.”

“Do you live in Paris?”

“No, but I come to France two or three times a year.”

He seemed not to mind my questions. Still, he asked me nothing about what I did or why I was in France.

As he spoke, I studied his face. It was a handsome face, slightly weathered and somewhat impassive. Except for his eyes. They were the eyes of a man who possessed wit and intelligence and, I thought, a certain sadness. I was drawn to what I saw, or imagined I saw, there.

In the hour or so it took to reach Giverny, Naohiro and I talked mostly about Paris. About our favorite streets—his was the rue de Nevers, a street I did not know, and mine the rue du Bac; about the squares we