IT WAS A few months later, after the bustle of the funeral
was over, and Makiko and her mother were going through
Grandfather’s paintings, which were stacked many rows thick
in his small studio. So many faces. A smiling girl in a scarf,
from Mongolia. A weather-beaten Afghani man in a turban,
his eyes shrewd and penetrating. What had Grandfather said
to these people to get them to confide in him with their eyes?
Would Makiko know the secret someday? She looked at her
hands and wondered if she had inherited Grandfather’s magic.
Behind several rows of paintings, leaning in a corner, was
a small canvas. Makiko lifted it gently and blew the dust from
the paint as best she could.
She stared at the painting, her eyes wide. It showed a seated
man in a brilliant yellow costume with a vest of the lightest
lavender. His bearded face was gentle and meditative as he bent
over a guitarlike instrument. On his head he wore a fez of deep
yellow....
With trembling hands Makiko turned the canvas to look at
the back and read: Man Playing the Rabab. Eiji Tsujita. 1956.
Makiko’s fingers went limp, and she almost dropped the
painting. Her thoughts raced as she slowly traced the date, her
finger wobbling unsteadily. Yes, it was 1956.
She was touching magic.
She thought, Grandfather sent that man to me! Here I was
trying to bring him to hear the music, and all the time... the
music was playing for me.
Mother came up to stand behind Makiko. The two of
them looked at the painting for a long time.
“That painting was an old favorite,” Mother murmured.
Makiko knew she could never explain what she had seen
and heard, but somehow she felt her mother understood.
Outside, the city buzzed with activity as always. But
Makiko’s ears were ringing with the music of the rabab, joyous
and alive.
MEDITATIVE MEANS
THOUGHTFUL.