A Pale View of Hills

Chapter One

Niki, the name we finally gave my younger daughter, is not an abbreviation; it was a compromise I reached with her father. For paradoxically it was he who wanted to give her a Japanese name, and I — perhaps out of some selfish desire not to be reminded of the past — insisted on an English one. He finally agreed to Niki, thinking it had some vague echo of the East about it.

She came to see me earlier this year, in April, when the days were still cold and drizzly. Perhaps she had intended to stay longer, I do not know. But my country house and the quiet that surrounds it made her restless, and before long I could see she was anxious to return to her life in London. She listened impatiently to my classical records, flicked through numerous magazines. The telephone rang for her regularly, and she would stride across the carpet, her thin figure squeezed into her tight clothes, taking care to close the door behind her so I would not overhear her conversation. She left after five days.

She did not mention Keiko until the second day. It was a grey windy morning, and we had moved the armchairs nearer the windows to watch the rain falling on my garden.

“Did you expect me to be there?” she asked. “At the funeral, I mean.”

“No, I suppose not. I didn’t really think you’d come.”

“It did upset me, hearing about her. I almost came.”

“I never expected you to come.”

“People didn’t know what was wrong with me,” she said. “I didn’t tell anybody. I suppose I was embarrassed. They wouldn’t understand really, they wouldn’t understand how I felt about it. Sisters are supposed to be people you’re close to, aren’t they. You may not like them much, but you’re still close to them. That’s just not how it was though. I don’t even remember what she looked like now.”

“Yes, it’s quite a time since you saw her.”

“I just remember her as someone who used to make me miserable. That’s what I remember about her. But I was sad though, when I heard.”

Perhaps it was not just the quiet that drove my daughter back to London. For although we never dwelt long on the subject of Keiko’s death, it was never far away, hovering over us whenever we talked.

Keiko, unlike Niki, was pure Japanese, and more than one newspaper was quick to pick up on this fact. The English are fond of their idea that our race has an instinct for suicide, as if further explanations are unnecessary; for that was all they reported, that she was Japanese and that she had hung herself in her room.

That same evening I was standing at the windows, looking out into the darkness, when I heard Niki say behind me; “What are you thinking about now, Mother?” She was sitting across the settee, a paperback book on her knee.

“I was thinking about someone I knew once. A woman I knew once.”

“Someone you knew when you … before you came to England?”

“I knew her when I was living in Nagasaki, if that’s what you mean.” She continued to watch me, so I added: “A long time ago. Long before I met your father.”

She seemed satisfied and with some vague comment returned to her book. In many ways Niki is an affectionate child. She had not come simply to see how I had taken the news of Keiko’s death; she had come to me out of a sense of mission. For in recent years she has taken it upon herself to admire certain aspects of my past, and she had come prepared to tell me things were no different now, that I should have no regrets for those choices I once made. In short, to reassure me I was not responsible for Keiko’s death.

I have no great wish to dwell on Keiko now, it brings me little comfort. I only mention her here because those were the circumstances around Niki’s visit this April, and because it was during that visit I remembered Sachiko again after all this time. I never knew Sachiko well. In fact our friendship was no more than a matter of some several weeks one summer many years ago.

The worst days were over by then. American soldiers were as numerous as ever — for there was fighting in Korea — but in Nagasaki, after what had gone before, those were days of calm and relief. The world had a feeling of change about it.

My husband and I lived in an area to the east of the city, a short tram journey from the centre of town. A river ran near us, and I was once told that before the war a small village had grown up on the riverbank. But then the bomb had fallen and afterwards all that remained were charred ruins. Rebuilding had got under way and in time four concrete buildings had been erected, each containing forty or so separate apartments. Of the four, our block had been built last and it marked the point where the rebuilding programme had come to a halt; between us and the river lay an expanse of wasteground, several acres of dried mud and ditches. Many complained it was a health hazard, and indeed the drainage was appalling. All year round there were craters filled with stagnant water, and in the summer months the mosquitoes became intolerable. From time to time officials were to be seen pacing out measurements or scribbling down notes, but the months went by and nothing was done.

The occupants of the apartment blocks were much like ourselves — young married couples, the husbands having found good employment with expanding firms. Many of the apartments were owned by the firms, who rented them to employees at a generous rate. Each apartment was identical; the floors were tatami, the bathrooms and kitchens of a Western design. They were small and rather difficult to keep cool during the warmer months, but on the whole the feeling amongst the occupants seemed one of satisfaction. And yet I remember an unmistakable air of transience there, as if we were all of us waiting for the day we could move to something better.

One wooden cottage had survived both the devastation of the war and the government bulldozers. I could see it from our window, standing alone at the end of that expanse of wasteground, practically on the edge of the river. It was the kind of cottage often seen in the countryside, with a tiled roof sloping almost to the ground. Often, during my empty moments, I would stand at my window gazing at it.

To judge from the attention attracted by Sachiko’s arrival, I was not alone in gazing at that cottage. There was much talk about two men seen working there one day — as to whether or not they were government workers. Later there was talk that a woman and her little girl were living there, and I saw them myself on several occasions, making their way across the ditchy ground.

It was towards the beginning of summer — I was in my third or fourth month of pregnancy by then — when I first watched that large American car, white and battered, bumping its way over the wasteground towards the river. It was well into the evening, and the sun setting behind the cottage gleamed a moment against the metal.

Then one afternoon I heard two women talking at the tram stop, about the woman who had moved into the derelict house by the river. One was explaining to her companion how she had spoken to the woman that morning and had received a clear snub. Her companion agreed the newcomer seemed unfriendly — proud probably. She must be thirty at the youngest, they thought, for the child was at least ten. The first woman said the stranger had spoken with a Tokyo dialect and certainly was not from Nagasaki. They discussed for a while her “American friend”, then the woman spoke again of how unfriendly the stranger had been to her that morning.

Now I do not doubt that amongst those women I lived with then, there were those who had suffered, those with sad and terrible memories. But to watch them each day, busily involved with their husbands and their children, I found this hard to believe — that their lives had ever held the tragedies and nightmares of wartime. It was never my intention to appear unfriendly, but it was probably true that I made no special effort to seem otherwise. For at that point in my life, I was still wishing to be left alone.

It was with interest then that I listened to those women talking of Sachiko. I can recall quite vividly that afternoon at the tram stop. It was one of the first days of bright sunlight after the rainy season in June, and the soaked surfaces of brick and concrete were drying all around us. We were standing on a railway bridge and on one side of the tracks at the foot of the hill could be seen a cluster of roofs, as if houses had come tumbling down the slope. Beyond the houses, a little way off, were our apartment blocks standing like four concrete pillars. I felt a kind of sympathy for Sachiko then, and felt I understood something of that aloofness I had noticed about her when I had watched her from afar.

We were to become friends that summer and for a short time at least I was to be admitted into her confidence. I am not sure now how it was we first met. I remember one afternoon spotting her figure ahead of me on the path leading out of the housing precinct. I was hurrying, but Sachiko walked on with a steady stride. By that point we must have already known each other by name, for I remember calling to her as I got nearer.

Sachiko turned and waited for me to catch up. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I’m glad I found you,” I said, a little out of breath. “Your daughter, she was fighting just as I came out. Back there near the ditches.”

“She was fighting?”

“With two other children. One of them was a boy. It looked a nasty little fight.”

“I see.” Sachiko began to walk again. I fell in step beside her.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” I said, “but it did look quite a nasty fight. In fact, I think I saw a cut on your daughter’s cheek.”

“I see.”

“It was back there, on the edge of the wasteground.”

“And are they still fighting, do you think?” She continued to walk up the hill.

“Well, no. I saw your daughter running off.”

Sachiko looked at me and smiled. “Are you not used to seeing children fight?”

“Well, children do fight, I suppose. But I thought I ought to tell you. And you see, I don’t think she’s on her way to school. The other children carried on towards the school, but your daughter went back towards the river.”

Sachiko made no reply and continued to walk up the hill.

“As a matter of fact,” I continued, “I’d meant to mention this to you before. You see, I’ve seen your daughter on a number of occasions recently. I wonder, perhaps, if she hasn’t been playing truant a little.”

The path forked at the top of the hill. Sachiko stopped and we turned to each other.

“It’s very kind of you to be so concerned, Etsuko,” she said. “So very kind. I’m sure you’ll make a splendid mother.”

I had supposed previously — like the women at the tram stop — that Sachiko was a woman of thirty or so. But possibly her youthful figure had been deceiving, for she had the face of an older person. She was gazing at me with a slightly amused expression, and something in the way she did so caused me to laugh self-consciously.

“I do appreciate your coming to find me like this,” she went on. “But as you see, I’m rather busy just now. I have to go into Nagasaki.”

“I see. I just thought it best to come and tell you, that’s all.”

For a moment, she continued to look at me with her amused expression. Then she said: “How kind you are. Now please excuse me. I must get into town.” She bowed, then turned towards the path that led up towards the tram stop.

“It’s just that she had a cut on her face,” I said, raising my voice a little. “And the river’s quite dangerous in places. I thought it best to come and tell you.”

She turned and looked at me once more. “If you have nothing else to concern yourself with, Etsuko,” she said, “then perhaps you’d care to look after my daughter for the day. I’ll be back sometime in the afternoon. I’m sure you’ll get on very well with her.”

“I wouldn’t object, if that’s what you wish. I must say, your daughter seems quite young to be left on her own all day.”

“How kind you are,” Sachiko said age in. Then she smiled once more. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll make a splendid mother.”

After parting with Sachiko, I made my way down the hill and back through the housing precinct. I soon found myself back outside our apartment block, facing that expanse of wasteground. Seeing no sign of the little girl, I was about to go inside, but then caught sight of some movement along the riverbank. Mariko must previously have been crouching down, for now I could see her small figure quite clearly across the muddy ground. At first, I felt the urge to forget the whole matter and return to my housework. Eventually, however, I began making my way towards her, taking care to avoid the ditches.

As far as I remember, that was the first occasion I spoke to Mariko. Quite probably there was nothing so unusual about her behaviour that morning, for, after all, I was a stranger to the child and she had every right to regard me with suspicion. And if in fact I did experience a curious feeling of unease at the time, it was probably nothing more than a simple response to Mariko’s manner.

The river that morning was still quite high and flowing swiftly after the rainy season a few weeks earlier. The ground sloped down steeply before it reached the water’s edge, and the mud at the foot of the slope, where the little girl was standing, looked distinctly wetter. Mariko was dressed in a simple cotton dress which ended at her knees, and her short trimmed hair made her face look boyish. She looked up, not smiling, to where I stood at the top of the muddy slope.

“Hello,” I said, “I was just speaking with your mother. You must be Mariko-San.”

The little girl continued to stare up at me, saying nothing. What I had thought earlier to be a wound on her cheek, I now saw to be a smudge of mud.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?” I asked.

She remained silent for a moment. Then she said: “I don’t go to school.”

“But all children must go to school. Don’t you like to go?”

“I don’t go to school.”

“But hasn’t your mother sent you to a school here?”

Mariko did not reply. Instead, she took a step away from me.

“Careful,” I said. “You’ll fall into the water. It’s very slippery.”

She continued to stare up at me from the bottom of the slope. I could see her small shoes lying in the mud beside her. Her bare feet, like her shoes, were covered in mud.

“I was just speaking with your mother,” I said, smiling at her reassuringly. “She said it would be perfectly all right if you came and waited for her at my house. It’s just over there, that building there. You could come and try some cakes I made yesterday. Would you like that, Mariko-San? And you could tell me all about yourself.”

Mariko continued to watch me carefully. Then, without taking her eyes off me, she crouched down and picked up her shoes. At first, I took this as a sign that she was about to follow me. But then as she continued to stare up at me, I realized she was holding her shoes in readiness to run away.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, with a nervous laugh. “I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

As far as I remember, that was all that took place between us that morning. I had no wish to alarm the child further, and before long I turned and made my way back across the wasteground. The child’s response had, it is true, upset me somewhat; for in those days, such small things were capable of arousing in me every kind of misgiving about motherhood. I told myself the episode was insignificant, and that in any case, further opportunities to make friends with the little girl were bound to present themselves over the coming days. As it was, I did not speak to Mariko again until one afternoon a fortnight or so later.

I had never been inside the cottage prior to that afternoon, and I had been rather surprised when Sachiko had asked me in. In fact, I had sensed immediately that she had done so with something in mind, and as it turned out, I was not mistaken.

The cottage was tidy, but I remember a kind of stark shabbiness about the place; the wooden beams that crossed the ceiling looked old and insecure, and a faint odour of dampness lingered everywhere. At the front of the cottage, the main partitions had been left wide open to allow the sunlight in across the veranda. For all that, much of the place remained in shadow.

Mariko was lying in the corner furthest from the sunlight. I could see something moving beside her in the shade, and when I came closer, saw a large cat curled up on the tatami.

“Hello, Mariko-San,” I said. “Don’t you remember me?”

She stopped stroking the cat and looked up.

“We met the other day,” I went on. “Don’t you remember? You were by the river.”

The little girl showed no signs of recognition. She looked at me for a while, then began to stroke her cat again. Behind me, I could hear Sachiko preparing the tea on the open stove at the centre of the room. I was about to go over to her, when Mariko said suddenly: “She’s going to have kittens.”

“Oh really? How nice.”

“Do you want a kitten?”

“That’s very kind of you, Mariko-San. We’ll see. But I’m sure they’ll all find nice homes.”

“Why don’t you take a kitten?” the child said. “The other woman said she’d take one.”

“We’ll see, Mariko-San. Which other lady was this?”

“The other woman. The woman from across the river. She said she’d take one.”

“But I don’t think anyone lives over there, Mariko-San. It’s just trees and forest over there.”

“She said she’d take me to her house. She lives across the river. I didn’t go with her.”

I looked at the child for a second. Then a thought struck me and I laughed.

“But that was me, Mariko-San. Don’t you remember? I asked you to come to my house while your mother was away in the town.”

Mariko looked up at me again. “Not you,” she said. “The other woman. The woman from across the river. She was here last night. While Mother was away.”

“Last night? While your mother was away?”

“She said she’d take me to her house, but I didn’t go with her. Because it was dark. She said we could take the lantern with us” — she gestured towards a lantern hung on the wall — “but I didn’t go with her. Because it was dark.”

Behind me, Sachiko had got to her feet and was looking at her daughter. Mariko became silent, then turned away and began once more to stroke her cat.

“Let’s go out on the veranda,” Sachiko said to me. She was holding the tea things on a tray. “It’s cooler out there.”

We did as she suggested, leaving Mariko in her corner. From the veranda, the river itself was hidden from view, but I could see where the ground sloped down and the mud became wetter as it approached the water. Sachiko seated herself on a cushion and began to pour the tea.

“The place is alive with stray cats,” she said. “I’m not so optimistic about these kittens.”

“Yes, there are so many strays,” I said. “It’s such a shame. Did Mariko find her cat around here somewhere?”

“No, we brought that creature with us. I’d have preferred to leave it behind myself, but Mariko wouldn’t hear of it.”

“You brought it all the way from Tokyo?”

“Oh no. We’ve been living in Nagasaki for almost a year now. On the other side of the city.”

“Oh really? I didn’t realize that. You lived there with … with friends?”

Sachiko stopped pouring and looked at me, the teapot held in both hands. I saw in her gaze something of that amused expression with which she had observed me on that earlier occasion.

“I’m afraid you’re quite wrong, Etsuko,” she said, eventually. Then she began to pour the tea again. “We were staying at my uncle’s house.”

“I assure you, I was merely …”

“Yes, of course. So there’s no need to get embarrassed, is there?” She laughed and passed me my teacup. “I’m sorry, Etsuko, I don’t mean to tease you. As a matter of fact, I did have something to ask you. A little favour.” Sachiko began to pour tea into her own cup, and as she did so, a more serious air seemed to enter her manner. Then she put down the teapot and looked at me. “You see, Etsuko, certain arrangements I made have not gone as planned. As a result, I find myself in need of money. Not a great deal, you understand. Just a small amount.”

“I quite understand,” I said, lowering my voice. “It must be very difficult for you, with Mariko-San to think of.”

“Etsuko, may I ask a favour of you?”

I bowed. “I have some savings of my own,” I said, almost in a whisper. “I’d be pleased to be of some assistance.”

To my surprise, Sachiko laughed loudly. “You’re very kind,” she said. “But I didn’t in fact want you to lend me money. I had something else in mind. You mentioned something the other day. A friend of yours who ran a noodle shop.”

“Mrs Fujiwara, you mean?”

“You were saying she may want an assistant. A small job like that would be very useful to me.”

“Well,” I said, uncertainly, “I could enquire if you wish.”

“That would be very kind.” Sachiko looked at me for a moment. “But you look rather unsure about it, Etsuko.”

“Not at all. I’ll enquire when I next see her. But I was just wondering” — I lowered my voice again — “who would look after your daughter during the day?”

“Mariko? She could help at the noodle shop. She’s quite capable of being useful.”

“I’m sure she is. But you see, I’m not certain how Mrs Fujiwara would feel. After all, Mariko should in reality be at school during the day.”

“I assure you, Etsuko, Mariko won’t be the slightest problem. Besides, the schools are closing next week. And I’ll make sure she won’t get in the way. You can rest assured on that.”

I bowed again. “I’ll enquire when I next see her.”

“I’m very grateful to you.” Sachiko took a sip from her teacup. “In fact, perhaps I could ask you to see your friend within the next few days.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’re so kind.”

We fell silent for a moment. My attention had been caught earlier by Sachiko’s teapot; it appeared a fine piece of craftsmanship made from a pale china. The teacup I now held in my hand was of the same delicate material. As we sat drinking our tea, I was struck, not for the first time, by the odd contrast of the tea-set alongside the shabbiness of the cottage and the muddy ground beneath the veranda. When I looked up, I realized Sachiko had been watching me.

“I’m used to good crockery, Etsuko,” she said. “You see, I don’t always live like” — she waved a hand towards the cottage — “like this. Of course, I don’t mind a little discomfort. But about some things, I’m still rather discerning.”

I bowed, saying nothing. Sachiko, also, began to study her teacup. She continued to examine it, turning it carefully in her hands. Then suddenly she said: “I suppose it’s true to say I stole this tea-set. Still, I don’t suppose my uncle will miss it much.”

I looked at her, somewhat surprised. Sachiko put the teacup down in front of her and waved away some flies.

“You were living at your uncle’s house, you say?” I asked.

She nodded slowly. “A most beautiful house. With a pond in the garden. Very different from these present surroundings.”

For a moment, we both glanced towards the inside of the cottage. Mariko was lying in her corner, just as we had left her, her back turned towards us. She appeared to be talking quietly to her cat.

“I didn’t realize”, I said, when neither of us had spoken for some time, “that anyone lived across the river.”

Sachiko turned and glanced towards the trees on the far bank. “No, I haven’t seen anyone there.”

“But your babysitter. Mariko was saying she came from over there.”

“I have no babysitter, Etsuko. I know nobody here.”

“Mariko was telling me about some lady …”

“Please don’t pay any attention.”

“You mean she was just making it up?”

For a brief moment, Sachiko seemed to be considering something. Then she said: “Yes. She was just making it up.”

“Well, I suppose children often do things like that.”

Sachiko nodded. “When you become a mother, Etsuko,” she said, smiling, “you’ll need to get used to such things.”

We drifted on to other subjects then. Those were early days in our friendship and we talked mainly of little things. It was not until one morning some weeks later that I heard Mariko mention again a woman who had approached her.

Chapter Two

In those days, returning to the Nakagawa district still provoked in me mixed emotions of sadness and pleasure. It is a hilly area, and climbing again those steep narrow streets between the clusters of houses never failed to fill me with a deep sense of loss. Though not a place I visited on casual impulse, I was unable to stay away for long.

Calling on Mrs Fujiwara aroused in me much the same mixture of feelings; for she had been amongst my mother’s closest friends, a kindly woman with hair that was by then turning grey. Her noodle shop was situated in a busy sidestreet; it had a concrete forecourt under the cover of an extended roof and it was there her customers ate, at the wooden tables and benches. She did a lot of trade with office workers during their lunch breaks and again on their way home, but at other times of the day the clientele became sparse.

I was a little anxious that afternoon, for it was the first time I had called at the shop since Sachiko had started to work there. I felt concerned — on both their behalves — especially since I was not sure how genuinely Mrs Fujiwara had wanted an assistant. It was a hot day, and the little sidestreet was alive with people. I was glad to come into the shade.

Mrs Fujiwara was pleased to see me. She sat me down at a table, then went to fetch some tea. Customers were few that afternoon — perhaps there were none, I do not remember — and Sachiko was not to be seen. When Mrs Fujiwara came back, I asked her: “How is my friend getting along? Is she managing all right?”

“Your friend?” Mrs Fujiwara looked over her shoulder towards the doorway of the kitchen. “She was peeling prawns. I expect she’ll be out soon.” Then, as if on second thoughts, she got to her feet and walked a little way towards the doorway. “Sachiko-San,” she called. “Etsuko is here.” I heard a voice reply from within.

As she sat down again, Mrs Fujiwara reached over and touched my stomach. “It’s beginning to show now,” she said. “You must take good care from now on.”

“I don’t do a great deal anyway,” I said. “I lead a very easy life.”

“That’s good. I remember my first time, there was an earthquake, quite a large one. I was carrying Kazuo then. He came perfectly healthy though. Try not to worry too much, Etsuko.”

“I try not to.” I glanced towards the kitchen door. “Is my friend getting on well here?”

Mrs Fujiwara followed my gaze towards the kitchen. Then she turned to me again and said: “I expect so. You’re good friends, are you?”

“Yes. I haven’t found many friends where we live. I’m very glad to have met Sachiko.”

“Yes. That was fortunate.” She sat there looking at me for several seconds. “Etsuko, you’re looking rather tired today.”

“I suppose I am.” I laughed a little. “It’s only to be expected, I suppose.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs Fujiwara kept looking into my face. “But I meant you looked a little — miserable.”

“Miserable? I certainly don’t feel it. I’m just a little tired, but otherwise I’ve never been happier.”

“That’s good. You must keep your mind on happy things now. Your child. And the future.”

“Yes, I will. Thinking about the child cheers me up.”

“Good.” She nodded, still keeping her gaze on me. “Your attitude makes all the difference. A mother can take all the physical care she likes, she needs a positive attitude to bring up a child.”

“Well, I’m certainly looking forward to it,” I said, with a laugh. A noise made me look towards the kitchen again, but Sachiko was still not in sight.

“There’s a young woman I see every week,” Mrs Fujiwara went on. “She must be six or seven months pregnant now. I see her every time I go to visit the cemetery. I’ve never spoken to her, but she looks so sad, standing there with her husband. It’s a shame, a pregnant girl and her husband spending their Sundays thinking about the dead. I know they’re being respectful, but all the same, I think it’s a shame. They should be thinking about the future.”

“I suppose she finds it hard to forget.”

“I suppose so. I feel sorry for her. But they should be thinking ahead now. That’s no way to bring a child into the world, visiting the cemetery every week.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Cemeteries are no places for young people. Kazuo comes with me sometimes, but I never insist. It’s time he started looking ahead too.”

“How is Kazuo?” I asked. “Is his work coming on well?”

“His work’s fine. He’s expecting to be promoted next month. But he needs to give other things a little thought. He won’t be young for ever.”

Just then my eye was caught by a small figure standing out in the sunlight amidst the rush of passers-by.

“Why, isn’t that Mariko?” I said.

Mrs Fujiwara turned in her seat. “Mariko-San,” she called. “Where have you been?”

For a moment, Mariko remained standing out in the street. Then she stepped into the shade of the forecourt, came walking past us and sat down at an empty table nearby.

Mrs Fujiwara watched the little girl, then gave me an uneasy look. She seemed about to say something, but then got to her feet and went over to the little girl.

“Mariko-San, where have you been?” Mrs Fujiwara had lowered her voice, but I was still able to hear. “You’re not to keep running off like that. Your mother’s very angry with you.”

Mariko was studying her fingers. She did not look up at Mrs Fujiwara.

“And Mariko-San, please, you’re never to talk to customers like that. Don’t you know it’s very rude? Your mother’s very angry with you.”

Mariko went on studying her hands. Behind her, Sachiko appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Seeing Sachiko that morning, I recall I was struck afresh by the impression that she was indeed older than I had first supposed; with her long hair hidden away inside a handkerchief, the tired areas of skin around her eyes and mouth seemed somehow more pronounced.

“Here’s your mother now,” said Mrs Fujiwara. “I expect she’s very angry with you.”

The little girl had remained seated with her back to her mother. Sachiko threw a quick glance towards her, then turned to me with a smile.

“How do you do, Etsuko,” she said, with an elegant bow. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

At the other end of the forecourt, two women in office clothes were seating themselves at a table. Mrs Fujiwara gestured towards them, then turned to Mariko once more.

“Why don’t you go into the kitchen for a little while,” she said, in a low voice. “Your mother will show you what to do. It’s very easy. I’m sure a clever girl like you could manage.”

Mariko gave no sign of having heard. Mrs Fujiwara glanced up at Sachiko, and for a brief instant I thought they exchanged cold glances. Then Mrs Fujiwara turned and went off towards her customers. She appeared to know them, for as she walked across the forecourt, she gave them a familiar greeting.

Sachiko came and sat at the edge of my table. “It’s so hot inside that kitchen,” she said.

“How are you getting on here?” I asked her.

“How am I getting on? Well, Etsuko, it’s certainly an amusing sort of experience, working in a noodle shop. I must say, I never imagined I’d one day find myself scrubbing tables in a place like this. Still” — she laughed quickly — “it’s quite amusing.”

“I see. And Mariko, is she settling in?”

We both glanced over to Mariko’s table; the child was still looking down at her hands.

“Oh, Mariko’s fine,” said Sachiko. “Of course, she’s rather restless at times. But then you’d hardly expect otherwise under the circumstances. It’s regrettable, Etsuko, but you see, my daughter doesn’t seem to share my sense of humour. She doesn’t find it quite so amusing here.” Sachiko smiled and glanced towards Mariko again. Then she got to her feet and went over to her.

She asked quietly: “Is it true what Mrs Fujiwara told me?”

The little girl remained silent.

“She says you were being rude to customers again. Is that true?”

Mariko still gave no response.

“Is it true what she told me? Mariko, please answer when you’re spoken to.”

“The woman came round again,” said Mariko. “Last night. While you were gone.”

Sachiko looked at her daughter for a second or two. Then she said: “I think you should go inside now. Go on, I’ll show you what you have to do.”

“She came again last night. She said she’d take me to her house.”

“Go on, Mariko, go on into the kitchen and wait for me there.”

“She’s going to show me where she lives.”

“Mariko, go inside.”

Across the forecourt, Mrs Fujiwara and the two women were laughing loudly about something. Mariko continued to stare at her palms. Sachiko turned away and came back to my table.

“Excuse me a moment, Etsuko,” she said. “But I left something boiling. I’ll be back in just a moment.” Then lowering her voice, she added: “You can hardly expect her to get enthusiastic about a place like this, can you?” She smiled and went towards the kitchen. At the doorway, she turned once more to her daughter.

“Come on, Mariko, come inside.”

Mariko did not move. Sachiko shrugged, then disappeared inside the kitchen.

Around that same time, in early summer, Ogata-San came to visit us, his first visit since moving away from Nagasaki earlier that year. He was my husband’s father, and it seems rather odd I always thought of him as “Ogata-San”, even in those days when that was my own name. But then I had known him as “Ogata-San” for such a long time — since long before I had ever met Jiro — I had never got used to calling him “Father”.

There was little family resemblance between Ogata-San and my husband. When I recall Jiro today, I picture a small stocky man wearing a stern expression; my husband was always fastidious about his appearance, and even at home would frequently dress in shirt and tie. I see him now as I saw him so often, seated on the tatami in our living room, hunched forward over his breakfast or supper. I remember he had this same tendency to hunch forward — in a manner not unlike that of a boxer — whether standing or walking. By contrast, his father would always sit with his shoulders flung well back, and had a relaxed, generous manner about him. When he came to visit us that summer, Ogata-San was still in the best of health, displaying a well-built physique and the robust energy of a much younger man.

I remember the morning he first mentioned Shigeo Matsuda. He had been with us for a few days by then, apparently finding the small square room comfortable enough for an extended stay. It was a bright morning and the three of us were finishing breakfast before Jiro left for the office.

“This school reunion of yours,” he said to Jiro. “That’s tonight, is it?”

“No, tomorrow evening.”

“Will you be seeing Shigeo Matsuda?”

“Shigeo? No, I doubt it. He doesn’t usually attend these occasions. I’m sorry to be going off and leaving you, Father. I’d rather give the thing a miss, but that may cause offence.”

“Don’t worry. Etsuko-San will look after me well enough. And these occasions are important.”

“I’d take some days off work,” Jiro said, “but we’re so busy just now. As I say, this order came into the office the day you arrived. A real nuisance.”

“Not at all,” said his father. “I understand perfectly. It wasn’t so long ago I was rushed off my feet with work myself. I’m not so old, you know.”

“No, of course.”

We ate on in silence for several moments. Then Ogata-San said:

“So you don’t think you’ll be running into Shigeo Matsuda. But you still see him from time to time?”

“Not so often these days. We’ve gone such separate ways since we got older.”

“Yes, this is what happens. Pupils all go separate ways, and then they find it so difficult to keep in touch. That’s why these reunions are so important. One shouldn’t be so quick to forget old allegiances. And it’s good to take a glance back now and then, it helps keep things in perspective. Yes, I think you should certainly go along tomorrow.”

“Perhaps Father will still be with us on Sunday,” my husband said. “Then perhaps we could go out somewhere for the day.”

“Yes, we can do that. A splendid idea. But if you have work to do, it doesn’t matter in the least.”

“No, I think I can leave Sunday free. I’m sorry to be so busy at the moment.”

“Have you asked any of your old teachers along tomorrow?” Ogata-San asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“It’s a shame teachers aren’t asked more often to these occasions. I was asked along from time to time. And when I was younger, we always made a point of inviting our teachers. I think it’s only proper. It’s an opportunity for a teacher to see the fruits of his work, and for the pupils to express their gratitude to him. I think it’s only proper that teachers are present.”

“Yes, perhaps you have a point.”

“Men these days forget so easily to whom they owe their education.”

“Yes, you’re very right.”

My husband finished eating and laid down his chopsticks. I poured him some tea.

“An odd little thing happened the other day,” Ogata-San said. “In retrospect, I suppose it’s rather amusing. I was at the library in Nagasaki, and I came across this periodical — a teachers’ periodical. I’d never heard of it, it wasn’t in existence in my days. To read it, you’d think all the teachers in Japan were communists now.”

“Apparently communism is growing in the country,” my husband said.

“Your friend Shigeo Matsuda had written in it. Now imagine my surprise when I saw my name mentioned in his article. I didn’t think I was so noteworthy these days.”

“I’m sure Father is still remembered very well in Nagasaki,” I put in.

“It was quite extraordinary. He was talking about Dr Endo and myself, about our retirements. If I understood him correctly, he was implying that the profession was well rid of us. In fact, he went so far as to suggest we should have been dismissed at the end of the war. Quite extraordinary.”

“Are you sure it’s the same Shigeo Matsuda?” asked Jiro.

“The same one. From Kuriyama Highschool. Extraordinary. I remember when he used to come to our house, to play with you. Your mother used to spoil him. I asked the librarian if I could buy a copy, and she said she would order one for me. I’ll show it to you.”

“It seems very disloyal,” I said.

“I was so surprised,” Ogata-San said, turning to me. “And I was the one who introduced him to the headmaster at Kuriyama.”

Jiro drank up his tea and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s very regrettable. As I say, I haven’t seen Shigeo for some time. I’m sorry, Father, but you must excuse me now or I’ll be late.”

“Why certainly. Have a good day at work.”

Jiro stepped down to the entryway, where he started to put on his shoes. I said to Ogata-San: “Someone who reached your position, Father, must expect a little criticism. That’s only natural.”

“Of course,” he said, breaking out into a laugh. “No, don’t concern yourself about it, Etsuko. I hadn’t given it a second thought. I just happened to think of it because Jiro was going to his reunion. I wonder if Endo read the article.”

“I hope you have a good day, Father,” Jiro called from the entryway. “I’ll try to be back a little early if I can.”

“Nonsense, don’t make such a fuss. Your work is important.”

A little later that morning, Ogata-San emerged from his room dressed in his jacket and tie.

“Are you going out, Father?” I asked.

“I thought I’d just pay a visit to Dr Endo.”

“Dr Endo?”

“Yes, I thought I’d go and see how he was keeping these days.”

“But you’re not going before lunch, are you?”

“I thought I’d better go quite soon,” he said, looking at his watch. “Endo lives a little way outside Nagasaki now. I’ll need to get a train.”

“Well, let me pack you a lunch-box, it won’t take a minute.”

“Why, thank you, Etsuko. In that case I’ll wait a few minutes. In fact, I was hoping you’d offer to pack me lunch.”

“Then you should have asked,” I said, getting to my feet. “You won’t always get what you want just by hinting like that, Father.”

“But I knew you’d pick me up correctly, Etsuko. I have faith in you.”

I went through to the kitchen, put on some sandals and stepped down to the tiled floor. A few minutes later, the partition slid open and Ogata-San appeared at the doorway. He seated himself at the threshold to watch me working.

“What is that you’re cooking me there?”

“Nothing much. Just left-overs from last night. At such short notice, you don’t deserve any better.”

“And yet you’ll manage to turn it into something quite appetizing, I’m sure. What’s that you’re doing with the egg? That’s not a left-over too, is it?”

“I’m adding an omelette. You’re very fortunate, Father, I’m in such a generous mood.”

“An omelette. You must teach me how to do that. Is it difficult?”

“Extremely difficult. It would be hopeless you trying to learn at this stage.”

“But I’m very keen to learn. And what do you mean ‘at this stage’? I’m still young enough to learn many new things.”

“Are you really planning on becoming a cook, Father?”

“It’s nothing to laugh at. I’ve come to appreciate cooking over the years. It’s an art, I’m convinced of it, just as noble as painting or poetry. It’s not appreciated simply because the product disappears so quickly.”

“Persevere with painting, Father. You do it much better.”

“Painting.” He gave a sigh. “It doesn’t give me the satisfaction it once did. No, I think I should learn to cook omelettes as well as you do, Etsuko. You must show me before I go back to Fukuoka.”

“You wouldn’t think it such an art once you’d learnt how it was done. Perhaps women should keep these things secret.”

He laughed, as if to himself, then continued to watch me quietly.

“Which are you hoping for, Etsuko?” he asked, eventually. “A boy or a girl?”

“I really don’t mind. If it’s a boy we could name him after you.”

“Really? Is that a promise?”

“On second thoughts I don’t know. I was forgetting what Father’s first name was. Seiji — that’s an ugly sort of name.”

“But that’s only because you find me ugly, Etsuko. I remember one class of pupils decided I resembled a hippopotamus. But you shouldn’t be put off by such outer trappings.”

“That’s true. Well, we’ll have to see what Jiro thinks.”

“Yes.”

“But I’d like my son to be named after you, Father.”

“That would make me very happy.” He smiled and gave me a small bow. “But then I know how irritating it is when relatives insist on having children named after them. I remember the time my wife and I argued over what to call Jiro. I wanted to name him after an uncle of mine, but my wife disliked this practice of naming children after relatives. Of course, she had her way in the end. Keiko was a hard woman to budge.”

“Keiko is a nice name. Perhaps if it’s a girl we could call her Keiko.”

“You shouldn’t make such promises so rashly. You’ll make an old man very disappointed if you don’t keep to them.”

“I’m sorry, I was just thinking aloud.”

“And besides, Etsuko, I’m sure there are others you’d prefer to name your child after. Others you were closer to.”

“Perhaps. But if it’s a boy I’d like him to be named after you. You were like a father to me once.”

“Am I no longer like a father to you?”

“Yes, of course. But it’s different.”

“Jiro is a good husband to you, I hope.”

“Of course. I couldn’t be happier.”

“And the child will make you happy.”

“Yes. It couldn’t have happened at a better time. We’re quite settled here now, and Jiro’s work is going well. This is the ideal time for this to have happened.”

“So you’re happy?”

“Yes, I’m very happy.”

“Good. I’m happy for you both.”

“There, it’s all ready for you.” I handed him the lacquer lunch-box.

“Ah yes, the left-overs,” he said, receiving it with a dramatic bow. He lifted the lid a little. “It looks delightful though.”

When I eventually went back into the living room, Ogata-San was putting on his shoes in the entryway.

“Tell me, Etsuko,” he said, not looking up from his laces. “Have you met this Shigeo Matsuda?”

“Once or twice. He used to visit us after we were married.”

“But he and Jiro aren’t such close friends these days?”

“Hardly. We exchange greeting cards, but that’s all.”

“I’m going to suggest to Jiro he writes to his friend. Shigeo should apologize. Or else I’ll have to insist Jiro disassociates himself from that young man.”

“I see.”

“I thought of suggesting it to him earlier, when we were talking at breakfast. But then that kind of talk is best left till the evening.”

“You’re probably right.”

Ogata-San thanked me once more for the lunch-box before leaving.

As it turned out, he did not bring the matter up that night. They both seemed tired when they came in and spent most of the evening reading newspapers, speaking little. And only once did Ogata-San mention Dr Endo. That was at supper, and he said simply: “Endo seemed well. He misses his work though. After all, the man lived for it.”

In bed that night, before we fell asleep, I said to Jiro: “I hope Father’s quite content with the way we’re receiving him.”

“What else can he expect?” my husband said. “Why don’t you take him out somewhere if you’re so worried.”

“Will you be working on Saturday afternoon?”

“How can I afford not to? I’m behind schedule as it is. He happened to choose the most difficult of times to visit me. It’s just too bad.”

“But we could still go out on Sunday, couldn’t we?”

I have a feeling I did not receive a reply then, though I lay gazing up into the darkness waiting. Jiro was often tired after a day’s work and not in the mood for conversation.

In any case, it seems I was worrying unduly about Ogata-San, for his visit that summer turned out to be one of his lengthiest. I remember he was still with us that night Sachiko knocked on our apartment door.

She was wearing a dress I had never seen before, and there was a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her face had been carefully made up, but a thin strand of hair had come loose and was hanging over her cheek.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Etsuko,” she said, smiling. “I was wondering if by any chance Mariko was here.”

“Mariko? Why, no.”

“Well, never mind. You haven’t seen her at all?”

“I’m afraid not. You’ve lost her?”

“There’s no need to look like that,” she said, with a laugh. “It’s just that she wasn’t, in the cottage when I got back, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll find her very soon.”

We were talking at the entryway, and I became aware of Jiro and Ogata-San looking towards us. I introduced Sachiko, and they all bowed to each other.

“This is worrying,” Ogata-San said. “Perhaps we’d better phone the police straight away.”

“There’s no need for that,” said Sachiko. “I’m sure I’ll find her.”

“But perhaps it’s best to be safe and phone anyway.”

“No really” — a slight hint of irritation had entered Sachiko’s voice — “there’s no need. I’m sure I’ll find her.”

“I’ll help you look for her,” I said, starting to put on my jacket.

My husband looked at me disapprovingly. He seemed about to speak, but then stopped himself. In the end, he said: “It’s almost dark now.”

“Really, Etsuko, there’s no need to make such a fuss,” Sachiko was saying. “But if you don’t mind coming out for a minute, I’ll be most grateful.”

“Take care, Etsuko,” Ogata-San said. “And phone the police if you don’t find the child soon.”

We descended the flight of stairs. Outside it was still warm, and across the wasteground the sun had sunk very low, highlighting the muddy furrows.

“Have you looked around the housing precinct?” I asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Let’s look then.” I began to walk rapidly. “Does Mariko have friends she may be with?”

“I don’t think so. Really, Etsuko” — Sachiko laughed and put a hand on my arm — “there’s no need to be so alarmed. Nothing will have happened to her. In fact, Etsuko, I really came round because I wanted to tell you some news. You see, it’s all been settled at last. We’re leaving for America within the next few days.”

“America?” Perhaps because of Sachiko’s hand on my arm, perhaps out of sheer surprise, I stopped walking.

“Yes, America. You’ve no doubt heard of such a place.” She seemed pleased at my astonishment.

I began to walk again. Our precinct was an expanse of paved concrete, interrupted occasionally by thin young trees planted when the buildings had gone up. Above us, lights had come on in most of the windows.

“Aren’t you going to ask me anything more?” Sachiko said, catching up with me. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m going? And who I’m going with?”

“I’m very glad if this is what you wanted,” I said. “But perhaps we should find your daughter first.”

“Etsuko, you must understand, there’s nothing I’m ashamed of. There’s nothing I want to hide from anyone. Please ask me anything you want, I’m not ashamed.”

“I thought perhaps we should find your daughter first. We can talk later.”

“Very well, Etsuko,” she said, with a laugh. “Let’s find Mariko first.”

We searched the playing areas and walked around each of the apartment blocks. Soon we found ourselves back where we had started. Then I spotted two women talking by the main entrance to one of the apartment blocks.

“Perhaps those ladies over there could help us,” I said.

Sachiko did not move. She looked over towards the two women, then said: “I doubt it.”

“But they may have seen her. They may have seen your daughter.”

Sachiko continued to look at the women. Then she gave a short laugh and shrugged. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s give them something to gossip about. It’s no concern of mine.”

We walked over to them and Sachiko politely and calmly made her enquiries. The women exchanged concerned looks, but neither had seen the little girl. Sachiko assured them there was no cause for alarm, and we took our leave.

“I’m sure that made their day,” she said to me. “Now they’ll have something to talk about.”

“I’m sure they had no malicious thoughts whatsoever. They both seemed genuinely concerned.”

“You’re so kind, Etsuko, but there’s really no need to convince me of such things. You see, it’s never been any concern to me what people like that thought, and I care even less now.”

We stopped walking. I threw a glance around me, and up at the apartment windows. “Where else could she be?” I said.

“You see, Etsuko, there’s nothing I’m ashamed of. There’s nothing I want to hide from you. Or from those women, for that matter.”

“Do you think we should search by the river?”

“The river? Oh, I’ve looked along there.”

“What about the other side? Perhaps she’s over on the other side.”

“I doubt it, Etsuko. In fact, if I know my daughter, she’ll be back at the cottage at this very moment. Probably rather pleased with herself to have caused this fuss.”

“Well, let’s go and see.”

When we came back to the edge of the wasteground, the sun was disappearing behind the river, silhouetting the willow trees along the bank.

“There’s no need for you to come with me,” Sachiko said. “I’ll find her in good time.”

“It’s all right. I’ll come with you.”

“Very well then. Come with me.”

We began walking towards the cottage. I was wearing sandals and found it hard going on the uneven earth.

“How long were you out?” I asked. Sachiko was a pace or two ahead of me; she did not reply at first, and I thought possibly she had not heard me. “How long were you out?” I repeated.

“Oh, not long.”

“How long? Half an hour? Longer?”

“About three or four hours, I suppose.”

“I see.”

We continued our way across the muddy ground, doing our best to avoid any puddles. As we approached the cottage, I said: “Perhaps we should look over on the other side, just in case.”

“The woods? My daughter wouldn’t be over there. Let’s go and look in the cottage. There’s no need to look so worried, Etsuko.” She laughed again, but I thought her voice wobbled a little as she did so.

The cottage, having no electricity, was in darkness. I waited in the entryway while Sachiko stepped up to the tatami. She called her daughter’s name and slid back the partitions to the two smaller rooms that adjoined the main one. I stood listening to her moving around in the darkness, then she came back to the entryway.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “We’d better look on the other bank.”

Along the river the air was full of insects. We walked in silence, towards the small wooden bridge further downstream. Beyond it, on the opposite bank, were the woods Sachiko had mentioned earlier.

We were crossing the bridge, when Sachiko turned to me and said rapidly: “We went to a bar in the end. We were going to go to the cinema, to a film with Gary Cooper, but there was a long queue. The town was very crowded and a lot of people were drunk. We went to a bar in the end and they gave us a little room to ourselves.”

“I see.”

“I suppose you don’t go to bars, do you, Etsuko?”

“No, I don’t.”

That was the first time I had crossed to the far side of the river. The ground felt soft, almost marshy under my feet. Perhaps it is just my fancy that I felt a cold touch of unease there on that bank, a feeling not unlike premonition, which caused me to walk with renewed urgency towards the darkness of the trees before us.

Sachiko stopped me, grasping my arm. Following her gaze, I could see a short way along the bank something like a bundle lying on the grass, close to the river’s edge. It was just discernible in the gloom, a few shades darker than the ground around it. My first impulse was to run towards it, but then I realized Sachiko was standing quite still, gazing towards the object.

“What is it?” I said, rather stupidly.

“It’s Mariko,” she said, quietly. And when she turned to me there was a strange look in her eyes.

Chapter Three

It is possible that my memory of these events will have grown hazy with time, that things did not happen in quite the way they come back to me today. But I remember with some distinctness that eerie spell which seemed to bind the two of us as we stood there in the coming darkness looking towards that shape further down the bank. Then the spell broke and we both began to run. As we came nearer, I saw Mariko lying curled on her side, knees hunched, her back towards us. Sachiko reached the spot a little ahead of me, I being slowed by my pregnancy, and she was standing over the child when I joined her. Mariko’s eyes were open and at first I thought she was dead. But then I saw them move and they stared up at us with a peculiar blankness.

Sachiko dropped on to one knee and lifted the child’s head. Mariko continued to stare.

“Mariko-San, are you all right?” I said, a little out of breath.

She did not reply. Sachiko too was silent, examining her daughter, turning her in her arms as if she were a fragile, but senseless doll. I noticed the blood on Sachiko’s sleeve, then saw it was coming from Mariko.

“We’d better call someone,” I said.

“It’s not serious,” Sachiko said. “It’s just a graze. See, it’s just a small cut.”

Mariko had been lying in a puddle and one side of her short dress was soaked in dark water. The blood was coming from a wound on the inside of her thigh.

“What happened?” Sachiko said to her daughter. “What happened to you?”

Mariko went on looking at her mother.

“She’s probably shocked,” I said. “Perhaps it’s best not to question her immediately.”

Sachiko brought Mariko to her feet.

“We were very worried about you, Mariko-San,” I said. The little girl gave me a suspicious look, then turned away and started to walk. She walked quite steadily; the wound on her leg did not seem to trouble her unduly.

We walked back over the bridge and along the river. The two of them walked in front of me, not talking. It was completely dark by the time we reached the cottage.

Sachiko took Mariko into the bathroom. I lit the stove in the centre of the main room to make some tea. Aside from the stove, an old hanging lantern Sachiko had lit provided the only source of light, and large areas of the room remained in shadow. In one corner several tiny black kittens aroused by our arrival started to move restlessly. Their claws, catching in the tatami, made a scuttling noise.

When they appeared again, both mother and daughter had changed into kimonos. They went through to one of the small adjoining rooms and I continued to wait for some time. The sound of Sachiko’s voice came through the screen.

Finally, Sachiko came out alone. “It’s still very hot,” she remarked. She crossed the room and slid apart the partitions which opened out on to the veranda.

“How is she?” I asked.

“She’s all right. The cut’s nothing.” Sachiko sat down in the breeze, next to the partitions.

“Shall we report the matter to the police?”

“The police? But what is there to report? Mariko says she was climbing a tree and fell. That’s how she got her cut.”

“So she wasn’t with anyone tonight?”

“No. Who could she have been with?”

“And what about this woman?” I said.

“What woman?”

“This woman Mariko talks about. Are you still certain she’s imaginary?”

Sachiko sighed. “She’s not entirely imaginary, I suppose,” she said. “She’s just someone Mariko saw once. Once, when she was much younger.”

“But do you think she could have been here tonight, this woman?”

Sachiko gave a laugh. “No, Etsuko, that’s quite impossible. In any case, that woman’s dead. Believe me, Etsuko, all this about a woman, it’s just a little game Mariko likes to play when she means to be difficult. I’ve grown quite used to these little games of hers.”

“But why should she tell stories like that?”

“Why?” Sachiko shrugged. “It’s just what children like to do. Once you become a mother, Etsuko, you’ll need to get used to such things.”

“You’re sure she was with no one tonight?”

“Quite sure. I know my own daughter well enough.”

We fell silent for a moment. Mosquitoes were humming in the air around us. Sachiko gave a yawn, covering her mouth with a hand.

“So you see, Etsuko,” she said, “I’ll be leaving Japan very shortly. You don’t seem very impressed.”

“Of course I am. And I’m very pleased, if this is what you wished. But won’t there be … various difficulties?”

“Difficulties?”

“I mean, moving to a different country, with a different language and foreign ways.”

“I understand your concern, Etsuko. But really, I don’t think there’s much for me to worry about. You see, I’ve heard so much about America, it won’t be like an entirely foreign country. And as for the language, I already speak it to a certain extent. Frank-San and I, we always talk in English. Once I’ve been in America for a little while, I should speak it like an American woman. I really don’t see there’s any cause for me to be worrying. I know I’ll manage.”

I gave a small bow, but said nothing. Two of the kittens began making their way towards where Sachiko was sitting. She watched them for a moment, then gave a laugh. “Of course,” she said, “I sometimes have moments when I wonder how everything will turn out. But really” — she smiled at me — “I know I’ll manage.”

“Actually,” I said, “it was Mariko I had in mind. What will become of her?”

“Mariko? Oh, she’ll be fine. You know how children are. They find it so much easier to settle into new surroundings, don’t they?”

“But it would still be an enormous change for her. Is she ready for such a thing?”

Sachiko sighed impatiently. “Really, Etsuko, did you think I hadn’t considered all this? Did you suppose I would decide to leave the country without having first given the most careful consideration to my daughter’s welfare?”

“Naturally,” I said, “you’d give it the most careful consideration.”

“My daughter’s welfare is of the utmost importance to me, Etsuko. I wouldn’t make any decision that jeopardized her future. I’ve given the whole matter much consideration, and I’ve discussed it with Frank. I assure you, Mariko will be fine. There’ll be no problems.”

“But her education, what will become of that?”

Sachiko laughed again. “Etsuko, I’m not about to leave for the jungle. There are such things as schools in America. And you must understand, my daughter is a very bright child. Her father was an accomplished man, and on my side too, there were relatives of the highest rank. You mustn’t suppose, Etsuko, simply because you’ve seen her in these … in these present surroundings, that she’s some peasant’s child.”

“Of course not. I didn’t for one moment …”

“She’s a very bright child. You haven’t seen her as she really is, Etsuko. In surroundings like this, you can only expect a child to prove a little awkward at times. But if you’d seen her while we were at my uncle’s house, you’d have seen her true qualities then. If an adult addressed her, she’d answer back very clearly and intelligently, there’d be none of this giggling and shying away like most other children. And there were certainly none of these little games of hers. She went to school, and made friends with the best kinds of children. And we had a private tutor for her, and he praised her very highly. It was astonishing how quickly she began to catch up.”

“To catch up?”

“Well” — Sachiko gave a shrug — “it’s unfortunate that Mariko’s education’s had to be interrupted from time to time. What with one thing and another, and our moving around so much. But these are difficult times we’ve come through, Etsuko. If it wasn’t for the war, if my husband was still alive, then Mariko would have had the kind of upbringing appropriate to a family of our position.”

“Yes,” I said. “Indeed.”

Perhaps Sachiko had caught something in my tone; she looked up and stared at me, and when she spoke again, her voice had become more tense.

“I didn’t need to leave Tokyo, Etsuko,” she said. “But I did, for Mariko’s sake. I came all this way to stay at my uncle’s house, because I thought it would be best for my daughter. I didn’t have to do that, I didn’t need to leave Tokyo at all.”

I gave a bow. Sachiko looked at me for a moment, then turned and gazed out through the open partitions, out into the darkness.

“But you’ve left your uncle now,” I said. “And now you’re about to leave Japan.”

Sachiko glared at me angrily. “Why do you speak to me like this, Etsuko? Why is it you can’t wish me well? Is it simply that you’re envious?”

“But I do wish you well. And I assure you I …”

“Mariko will be fine in America, why won’t you believe that? It’s a better place for a child to grow up. And she’ll have far more opportunities there, life’s much better for a woman in America.”

“I assure you I’m happy for you. As for myself, I couldn’t be happier with things as they are. Jiro’s work is going so well, and now the child arriving just when we wanted it …”

“She could become a business girl, a film actress even. America’s like that, Etsuko, so many things are possible. Frank says I could become a business woman too. Such things are possible out there.”

“I’m sure they are. It’s just that personally, I’m very happy with my life where I am.”

Sachiko gazed at the two small kittens, clawing at the tatami beside her. For several moments we were silent.

“I must be getting back,” I said, eventually. “They’ll be getting worried about me.” I rose to my feet, but Sachiko did not take her eyes off the kittens. “When is it you leave?” I asked.

“Within the next few days. Frank will come and get us in his car. We should be on a ship by the end of the week.”

“I take it then you won’t be helping Mrs Fujiwara much longer.”

Sachiko looked up at me with a short incredulous laugh. “Etsuko, I’m about to go to America. There’s no need for me to work any more in a noodle shop.”

“I see.”

“In fact, Etsuko, perhaps you’d care to tell Mrs Fujiwara what’s happened to me. I don’t expect to be seeing her again.”

“Won’t you tell her yourself?”

She sighed impatiently. “Etsuko, can’t you appreciate how loathsome it’s been for someone such as myself to work each day in a noodle shop? But I didn’t complain and I did what was required of me. But now it’s over, I’ve no great wish to see that place again.” A kitten had been clawing at the sleeve of Sachiko’s kimono. She gave it a sharp slap with the back of her hand and the little creature went scurrying back across the tatami. “So please give my regards to Mrs Fujiwara,” she said. “And my best wishes for her trade.”

“I’ll do that. Now please excuse me, I must go.”

This time, Sachiko got to her feet and accompanied me to the entryway.

“I’ll come and say goodbye before we leave,” she said, as I was putting on my sandals.

At first it had seemed a perfectly innocent dream; I had merely dreamt of something I had seen the previous day — the little girl we had watched playing in the park. And then the dream came back the following night. Indeed, over the past few months, it has returned to me several times.

Niki and I had watched the girl playing on the swings the afternoon we had walked into the village. It was the third day of Niki’s visit and the rain had eased to a drizzle. I had not been out of the house for several days and enjoyed the feel of the air as we stepped into the winding lane outside.

Niki tended to walk rather fast, her narrow leather boots creaking with each stride. Although I found it no trouble keeping up with her, I would have preferred a more leisurely pace. Niki, one supposes, has yet to learn the pleasures of walking for its own sake. Neither does she seem sensitive to the feel of the countryside despite having grown up here. I said as much to her as we walked, and she retorted that this was not the real countryside, just a residential version to cater for the wealthy people who lived here. I dare say she is right; I have never ventured north to the agricultural areas of England where, Niki insists, I will find the real countryside. Nevertheless, there is a calm and quietness about these lanes I have come to appreciate over the years.

When we arrived at the village I took Niki to the tea shop where I sometimes go. The village is small, just a few hotels and shops; the tea shop is on a street corner, upstairs above a bakery. That afternoon, Niki and I sat at a table next to the windows, and it was from there we watched the little girl playing in the park below. As we watched, she climbed on to a swing and called out towards two women sitting together on a bench nearby. She was a cheerful little girl, dressed in a green mackintosh and small Wellington boots.

“Perhaps you’ll get married and have children soon,” I said. “I miss little children.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like less,” said Niki.

“Well, I suppose you’re still rather young.”

“It’s nothing to do with how young or old I am. I just don’t feel like having a lot of kids screaming around me.”

“Don’t worry, Niki,” I said, with a laugh. “I wasn’t insisting you became a mother just yet. I had this passing fancy just now to be a grandmother, that’s all. I thought perhaps you’d oblige, but it can wait.”

The little girl, standing on the seat of the swing, was pulling hard on the chains, but somehow she could not make the swing go higher. She smiled anyway and called out again to the women.

“A friend of mine’s just had a baby,” Niki said. “She’s really pleased. I can’t think why. Horrible screaming thing she’s produced.”

“Well, at least she’s happy. How old is your friend?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen? She’s even younger than you are. Is she married?”

“No. What difference does that make?”

“But surely she can’t be happy about it.”

“Why not? Just because she isn’t married?”

“There’s that. And the fact that she’s only nineteen. I can’t believe she was happy about it.”

“What difference does it make whether she’s married? She wanted it, she planned it and everything.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“But, Mother, I know her, she’s a friend of mine. I know she wanted it.”

The women on the bench got to their feet. One of them called to the little girl. She came off the swing and went running towards the women.

“And what about the father?” I asked.

“He was happy about it too. I remember when they first found out. We all went out to celebrate.”

“But people always pretend to be delighted. It’s like that film we saw on the television last night.”

“What film?”

“I expect you weren’t watching it. You were reading your magazine.”

“Oh that. It looked awful.”

“It certainly was. But that’s what I mean. I’m sure nobody ever receives the news of a baby like these people do in these films.”

“Honestly, Mother, I don’t know how you can sit and watch rubbish like that. You hardly used to watch television at all. I remember you used to keep telling me off because I watched it so much.”

I laughed. “You see how our roles are reversing, Niki. I’m sure you’re very good for me. You must stop me wasting my time away like that.”

As we made our way back from the tea shop, the sky had clouded over ominously and the drizzle had become heavier. We had walked a little way past the small railway station when a voice called from behind us: “Mrs Sheringham! Mrs Sheringham!”

I turned and saw a small woman in an overcoat hurrying up the road.

“I thought it was you,” she said, catching up with us. “And how have you been keeping?” She gave me a cheerful smile.

“Hello, Mrs Waters,” I said. “How nice to see you again.”

“Seems to have turned all miserable again, hasn’t it? Why, hello, Keiko” — she touched Niki’s sleeve — “I didn’t realize it was you.”

“No,” I said hurriedly, “this is Niki.”

“Niki, of course. Good gracious, you’ve completely grown up, dear. That’s why I got you muddled. You’ve completely grown up.”

“Hello, Mrs Waters,” Niki said, recovering.

Mrs Waters lives not far from me. These days I see her only very occasionally, but several years ago she had given piano lessons to both my daughters. She had taught Keiko for a number of years, and then Niki for a year or so when she was still a child. It had not taken me long to see Mrs Waters was a very limited pianist and her attitude to music in general had often irritated me; for instance, she would refer to works by Chopin and Tchaikovsky alike as “charming melodies”. But she was such an affectionate woman I never had the heart to replace her.

“And what are you doing with yourself these days, dear?” she asked Niki.

“Me? Oh, I live in London.”

“Oh yes? And what are you doing there? Studying?”

“I’m not doing anything really. I just live there.”

“Oh, I see. But you’re happy there, are you? That’s the main thing, isn’t it.”

“Yes, I’m happy enough.”

“Well, that’s the main thing, isn’t it. And what about Keiko?” Mrs Waters turned to me. “How is Keiko getting on now?”

“Keiko? Oh, she went to live in Manchester.”

“Oh yes? That’s a nice city on the whole. That’s what I’ve heard anyway. And does she like it up there?”

“I haven’t heard from her recently.”

“Oh well. No news is good news, I expect. And does Keiko still play the piano?”

“I expect she does. I haven’t heard from her recently.”

My lack of enthusiasm seemed finally to penetrate, and she dropped the subject with an awkward laugh. Such persistence on her part has characterized our encounters over the years since Keiko’s leaving home. Neither my evident reluctance to discuss Keiko nor the fact that until that afternoon I had been unable to tell her so much as my daughter’s whereabouts had succeeded in making any lasting impression upon her. In all probability, Mrs Waters will continue to ask cheerfully after my daughter whenever we happen to meet.

By the time we got home, the rain was falling steadily.

“I suppose I embarrassed you, didn’t I?” Niki said to me. We were sitting once again in our armchairs, looking out into the garden.

“Why do you suppose that?” I said.

“I should have told her I was thinking of going to university or something like that.”

“I don’t mind in the least what you say about yourself. I’m not ashamed of you.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“But I did think you were rather off-hand with her. You never did like that woman much, did you?”

“Mrs Waters? Well, I used to hate those lessons she gave me. They were sheer boredom. I used to just go off in a dream, then now and again there’d be this little voice telling me to put my finger here or here or here. Was that your idea, getting me to have lessons?”

“It was mainly mine. You see, I had great plans for you once.”

Niki laughed. “I’m sorry to be such a failure. But it’s your own fault. I haven’t got any musical sense at all. There’s this girl in our house who plays the guitar, and she was trying to show me some chords, but I couldn’t be bothered to even learn those. I think Mrs Waters put me off music for life.”

“You may come back to it some time and you’ll appreciate having had lessons.”

“But I’ve forgotten everything I ever learnt.”

“I doubt if you would have forgotten everything. Nothing you learn at that age is totally lost.”

“A waste of time, anyway,” Niki muttered. She sat looking out of the windows for some time. Then she turned to me and said: “I suppose it must be quite difficult to tell people. About Keiko, I mean.”

“It seemed easiest to say what I did,” I replied. “She rather took me by surprise.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Niki went on looking out of the window with an empty expression. “Keiko didn’t come to Dad’s funeral, did she?” she said, eventually.

“You know perfectly well she didn’t so why ask?”

“I was just saying, that’s all.”

“You mean you didn’t come to her funeral because she didn’t come to your father’s? Don’t be so childish, Niki.”

“I’m not being childish. I’m just saying that’s the way it was. She was never a part of our lives — not mine or Dad’s anyway. I never expected her to be at Dad’s funeral.”

I did not reply and we sat silently in our armchairs. Then Niki said:

“It was odd just now, with Mrs Waters. It was almost like you enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed what?”

“Pretending Keiko was alive.”

“I don’t enjoy deceiving people.” Perhaps I snapped a little, for Niki looked startled.

“No, I suppose not,” she said, lamely.

It rained throughout that night, and the next day — the fourth day of Niki’s stay — it was still raining steadily.

“Do you mind if I change rooms tonight?” Niki said. “I could use the spare bedroom.” We were in the kitchen, washing the dishes after breakfast.

“The spare bedroom?” I laughed a little. “They’re all spare bedrooms now. No, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t sleep in the spare room. Have you taken a dislike to your old room?”

“I feel a bit odd sleeping there.”

“How unkind, Niki. I hoped you’d still feel it was your room.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, hurriedly. “It’s not that I don’t like it.” She fell silent, wiping some knives with a tea-towel. Finally she said: “It’s that other room. Her room. It gives me an odd feeling, that room being right opposite.”

I stopped what I was doing and looked at her sternly.

“Well, I can’t help it, Mother. I just feel strange thinking about that room being right opposite.”

“Take the spare room by all means,” I said, coldly. “But you’ll need to make up the bed in there.”

Although I had made a show of being upset by Niki’s request to change rooms, I had no wish to make it difficult for her to do so. For I too had experienced a disturbing feeling about that room opposite. In many ways, that room is the most pleasant in the house, with a splendid view across the orchard. But it had been Keiko’s fanatically guarded domain for so long, a strange spell seemed to linger there even now, six years after she had left it — a spell that had grown all the stronger now that Keiko was dead.

For the two or three years before she finally left us, Keiko had retreated into that bedroom, shutting us out of her life. She rarely came out, although I would sometimes hear her moving around the house after we had all gone to bed. I surmised that she spent her time reading magazines and listening to her radio. She had no friends, and the rest of us were forbidden entry into her room. At mealtimes I would leave her plate in the kitchen and she would come down to get it, then shut herself in again. The room, I realized, was in a terrible condition. An odour of stale perfume and dirty linen came from within, and on the occasions I had glimpsed inside, I had seen countless glossy magazines lying on the floor amidst heaps of clothes. I had to coax her to put out her laundry, and in this at least we reached an understanding: every few weeks I would find a bag of washing outside her door, which I would wash and return. In the end, the rest of us grew used to her ways, and when by some impulse Keiko ventured down into our living room, we would all feel a great tension. Invariably, these excursions would end with her fighting, with Niki or with my husband, and then she would be back in her room.

I never saw Keiko’s room in Manchester, the room in which she died. It may seem morbid of a mother to have such thoughts, but on hearing of her suicide, the first thought that ran through my mind — before I registered even the shock — was to wonder how long she had been there like that before they had found her. She had lived amidst her own family without being seen for days on end; little hope she would be discovered quickly in a strange city where no one knew her. Later, the coroner said she had been there “for several days”. It was the landlady who had opened the door, thinking Keiko had left without paying the rent.

I have found myself continually bringing to mind that picture — of my daughter hanging in her room for days on end. The horror of that image has never diminished, but it has long ceased to be a morbid matter; as with a wound on one’s own body, it is possible to develop an intimacy with the most disturbing of things.

“I’ll probably be warmer in the spare room anyhow,” Niki said.

“If you’re cold at night, Niki, you can simply turn up the heating.”

“I suppose so.” She gave a sigh. “I haven’t slept very well lately. I think I’m getting bad dreams, but I can never remember them properly once I wake up.”

“I had a dream last night,” I said.

“I think it might be to do with the quiet. I’m not used to it being so quiet at night.”

“I dreamt about that little girl. The one we were watching yesterday. The little girl in the park.”

“I can sleep right through traffic, but I’ve forgotten what it’s likesleeping in the quiet.” Niki shrugged and dropped some cutlery into the drawer. “Perhaps I’ll sleep better in the spare room.”

The fact that I mentioned my dream to Niki, that first time I had it, indicates perhaps that I had doubts even then as to its innocence. I must have suspected from the start — without fully knowing why — that the dream had to do not so much with the little girl we had watched, but with my having remembered Sachiko two days previously.

Chapter Four

I was in the kitchen one afternoon preparing the supper before my husband came home from work, when I heard a strange sound coming from the living room. I stopped what I was doing and listened. It came again — the sound of a violin being played very badly. The noises continued for a few minutes then stopped.

When eventually I went into the living room, I found Ogata-San bowed over a chess-board. The late afternoon sun was streaming in and despite the electric fans a humidity had set in all around the apartment. I opened the windows a little wider.

“Didn’t you finish your game last night?” I asked, coming over to him.

“No, Jiro claimed he was too tired. A ploy on his part, I suspect. You see, I have him in a nice corner here.”

“I see.”

“He’s relying on the fact that my memory’s so foggy these days. So I’m just going over my strategy again.”

“How resourceful of you, Father. But I doubt if Jiro’s mind works quite so cunningly.”

“Perhaps not. I dare say you know him better than I do these days.” Ogata-San continued to study the board for several moments, then looked up and laughed. “This must seem amusing to you. Jiro sweating away in his office and here I am preparing a game of chess for when he comes home. I feel like a small child waiting for his father.”

“Well, I’d much rather you occupied yourself with chess. Your musical recital earlier was hideous.”

“How disrespectful. And I thought you’d be moved, Etsuko.”

The violin was on the floor nearby, put back in its case. Ogata-San watched me as I began opening the case.

“I noticed it up there on the shelf,” he said. “I took the liberty of bringing it down. Don’t look so concerned, Etsuko. I was very gentle with it.”

“I can’t be sure. As you say, Father’s like a child these days.” I held up the violin and examined it. “Except small children can’t reach up to high shelves.”

I tucked the instrument under my chin. Ogata-San continued to watch me.

“Play something for me,” he said. “I’m sure you can do better than me.”

“I’m sure I can.” Once more I held the violin out at arm’s length. “But it’s been such a long time.”

“You mean you haven’t been practising? Now that’s a pity, Etsuko. You used to be so devoted to the instrument.”

“I suppose I was once. But I hardly touch it now.”

“A great shame, Etsuko. And you were so devoted. I remember when you used to play in the dead of night and wake up the house.”

“Wake up the house? When did I do that?”

“Yes, I remember. When you first came to stay with us.” Ogata-San gave a laugh. “Don’t look so worried, Etsuko. We all forgave you. Now let me see, who was the composer you used to admire so much? Was it Mendelssohn?”

“Is that true? I woke up the house?”

“Don’t look so worried, Etsuko. It was years ago. Play me something by Mendelssohn.”

“But why didn’t you stop me?”

“It was only for the first few nights. And besides, we didn’t mind in the least.”

I plucked the strings lightly. The violin was out of tune.

“I must have been such a burden to you in those days,” I said, quietly.

“Nonsense.”

“But the rest of the family. They must have thought I was a mad girl.”

“They couldn’t have thought too badly of you. After all, it ended up with you marrying Jiro. Now come on, Etsuko, enough of this. Play me something.”

“What was I like in those days, Father? Was I like a mad person?”

“You were very shocked, which was only to be expected. We were all shocked, those of us who were left. Now, Etsuko, let’s forget these things. I’m sorry I ever brought up the matter.”

I brought the instrument up to my chin once more.

“Ah,” he said, “Mendelssohn.”

I remained like that for several seconds, the violin under my chin. Then I brought it down to my lap and sighed. “I hardly play it now,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Etsuko.” Ogata-San’s voice had become solemn. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have touched it.”

I looked up at him and smiled. “So,” I said, “the little child is feeling guilty now.”

“It’s just that I saw it up there and I remembered it from those days.”

“I’ll play it for you another time. After I’ve practised a little.”

He gave me a small bow, and the smile returned to his eyes.

“I’ll remember you promised, Etsuko. And perhaps you could teach me a little.”

“I can’t teach you everything, Father. You said you wanted to learn to cook.”

“Ah yes. That too.”

“I’ll play for you the next time you come to stay with us.”

“I’ll remember you promised,” he said.

After supper that evening, Jiro and his father settled down to their game of chess. I cleared up the supper things and then sat down with some sewing. At one point during their game, Ogata-San said:

“I’ve just noticed something. If you don’t mind, I’d like to make that move again.”

“Certainly,” said Jiro.

“But then it’s rather unfair on you. Especially since I seem to have the better of you at the moment.”

“No, not at all. Please take the move again.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

They played on in silence.

“Jiro,” Ogata-San said after several minutes, “I was just wondering. Have you written that letter yet? To Shigeo Matsuda?”

I looked up from my sewing. Jiro appeared absorbed in the game and did not reply until he had moved his piece. “Shigeo? Well, not yet. I’ve been meaning to. But I’ve been so busy just recently.”

“Of course. I quite understand. I just happened to think of it, that’s all.”

“I don’t seem to have had much time just recently.”

“Of course. There’s no hurry. I don’t mean to keep pestering you like this. It’s just that it might be more appropriate if he heard from you fairly soon. It’s a few weeks now since his article appeared.”

“Yes, certainly. You’re quite right.”

They returned to their game. For some moments neither of them spoke. Then Ogata-San said:

“How do you suppose he’ll react?”

“Shigeo? I don’t know. As I say, I don’t know him very well these days.”

“He’s joined the Communist Party, you say?”

“I’m not certain. He certainly expressed such sympathies when I last saw him.”

“A great pity. But then there are so many things in Japan today to sway a young man.”

“Yes, no doubt.”

“So many young men these days get carried away with ideas and theories. But perhaps he’ll back down and apologize. There’s nothing like a timely reminder of one’s personal obligations. You know, I suspect Shigeo never even stopped to consider what he was doing. I think he wrote that article with a pen in one hand and his books about communism in the other. He may well back down in the end.”

“Quite possibly. I’ve just had so much work recently.”

“Of course, of course. Your work must take precedence. Please don’t worry about it. Now, was it my move?”

They continued their game, speaking little. Once I heard Ogata-San say: “You’re moving just as I anticipated. You’ll need to be very clever to escape from that corner.”

They had been playing for sometime when there was a knock at the door. Jiro looked up and threw me a glance. I put down my sewing and got to my feet.

When I opened the door, I found two men grinning and bowing at me. It was quite late by then and I thought at first they had come to the wrong apartment. But then I recognized them as two of Jiro’s colleagues and asked them in. They stood in the entryway giggling to themselves. One was a tubby little man whose face looked quite flushed. His companion was thinner, with a pale complexion like that of a European; but it seemed he too had been drinking, for pink blotches had appeared on each of his cheeks. They were both wearing ties, loosened untidily, and were holding jackets over their arms.

Jiro seemed pleased to see them and called to them to sit down. But they remained in the entryway, giggling.

“Ah, Ogata,” the pale-faced man said to Jiro, “perhaps we’ve caught you at a bad time.”

“Not at all. What are you doing in these parts anyway?”

“We’ve been to see Murasaki’s brother. In fact, we haven’t been home yet.”

“We came to disturb you because we’re afraid to go home,” the tubby man put in. “We didn’t tell our wives we’d be late.”

“What rabble you are, the pair of you,” said Jiro. “Why don’t you take off your shoes and come up here?”

“We’ve caught you at a bad time,” the pale-faced man said again. “I can see you’ve got a visitor.” He grinned and bowed towards Ogata-San.

“This is my father, but how can I introduce you if you don’t come in?”

The visitors finally took off their shoes and seated themselves. Jiro introduced them to his father and they began once more to bow and giggle.

“You gentlemen are from Jiro’s firm?” Ogata-San asked.

“Yes, indeed,” the tubby man replied. “A great honour it is too, even if he does give us a tough time. We call your son ‘Pharaoh’ in the office because he urges the rest of us to work like slaves while he does nothing himself.”

“What nonsense,” said my husband.

“It’s true. He orders us around like we’re his dogsbodies. Then he sits down and reads the newspaper.”

Ogata-San seemed a little confused, but seeing the others laugh he joined in.

“And what’s this here?” The pale-faced man indicated the chess-board. “You see, I knew we’d interrupted something.”

“We were just playing chess to pass the time,” said Jiro.

“Go on playing then. Don’t let rabble like us interrupt.”

“Don’t be silly. How could I concentrate with idiots like you around.” Jiro pushed away the chess-board. One or two of the pieces fell over and he stood them up again without looking at the squares. “So. You’ve been to see Murasaki’s brother. Etsuko, get some tea for the gentlemen.” My husband had said this despite the fact that I was already on my way to the kitchen. But then the tubby man started to wave his hand frantically.

“Madam, madam, sit down. Please. We’ll be going in just a moment. Please be seated.”

“It’s no trouble,” I said, smiling.

“No, madam, I implore you” — he had started to shout quite loudly — “We’re just rabble, like your husband says. Please don’t make a fuss, please sit down.”

I was about to obey him, but then I saw Jiro give me an angry look.

“At least have some tea with us,” I said. “It’s no trouble at all.”

“Now you’ve sat down, you may as well stay a while,” my husband said to the visitors. “Anyway, I want to know about Murasaki’s brother. Is he as mad as they say he is?”

“He’s a character all right,” the tubby man said, with a laugh. “We certainly weren’t disappointed. And did anyone tell you about his wife?”

I bowed and made my way into the kitchen unnoticed. I prepared the tea and put on to a plate some cakes I had been making earlier that day. I could hear laughter coming from the living room, my husband’s voice amongst them. One of the visitors was calling him “Pharaoh” again in a loud voice. When I returned to the living room, Jiro and his visitors seemed in high spirits. The tubby man was relating an anecdote, about some cabinet minister’s encounter with General MacArthur. I put the cakes near them, poured out their tea, then sat down beside Ogata-San. Jiro’s friends made several more jokes concerning politicians and then the pale-faced man pretended to be offended because his companion had spoken disparagingly of some personage he admired. He kept a straight face while the others teased him.

“By the way, Hanada,” my husband said to him. “I heard an interesting story the other day at the office. I was told during the last elections, you threatened to beat your wife with a golf club because she wouldn’t vote the way you wanted.”

“Where did you pick up this rubbish?”

“I got it from reliable sources.”

“That’s right,” the tubby man said. “And your wife was going to call the police to report political intimidation.”

“What rubbish. Besides, I don’t have golf clubs any more. I sold them all last year.”

“You still have that seven-iron,” said the tubby man. “I saw it in your apartment last week. Maybe you used that.”

“But you can’t deny it, can you, Hanada?” said Jiro.

“It’s nonsense about the golf club.”

“But it’s true you couldn’t get her to obey you.”

The pale-faced man shrugged. “Well, it’s her personal right to vote any way she pleases.”

“Then why did you threaten her?” his friend asked.

“I was trying to make her see sense, of course. My wife votes for Yoshida just because he looks like her uncle. That’s typical of women. They don’t understand politics. They think they can choose the country’s leaders the same way they choose dresses.”

“So you gave her a seven-iron,” said Jiro.

“Is that really true?” Ogata-San asked. He had not spoken since I had come back in with the tea. The other three stopped laughing and the pale-faced man looked at Ogata-San with a surprised expression.

“Well, no.” He became suddenly formal and gave a small bow. “I didn’t actually hit her.”

“No, no,” said Ogata-San. “I meant your wife and yourself — you voted for separate parties?”

“Well, yes.” He shrugged, then giggled awkwardly. “What could I do?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Ogata-San gave a low bow, and the pale-faced man returned it. As if the bowing were a signal, the three younger men started once more to laugh and talk amongst themselves. They moved off politics and began discussing various members of their firm. When I was pouring more tea, I noticed that the cakes, despite my having put out a generous amount, had almost all disappeared. I finished refilling their teacups, then sat down again beside Ogata-San.

The visitors stayed for an hour or so. Jiro saw them to the door then sat down again with a sigh. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I’ll need to turn in soon.”

Ogata-San was examining the chess board. “I think the pieces got jogged a little,” he said. “I’m sure the horse was on this square, not that one.”

“Quite probably.”

“I’ll put it here then. Are we agreed on this?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right. We’ll have to finish the game another time, Father. I’ll need to retire very shortly.”

“How about playing just the next few moves. We may well finish it off.”

“Really, I’d rather not. I’m feeling very tired now.”

“Of course.”

I packed away the sewing I had been doing earlier in the evening and sat waiting for the others to retire. Jiro, however, picked up a newspaper and started to read the back page. Then he took the last remaining cake from the plate and began to eat nonchalantly. After several moments, Ogata-San said:

“Perhaps we ought to just finish it off now. It’ll only take a few more moves.”

“Father, I really am too tired now. I have work to go to in the morning.”

“Yes, of course.”

Jiro went back to his newspapers. He continued to eat the cake and I watched several crumbs drop on to the tatami. Ogata-San continued to gaze at the chess-board for some time.

“Quite extraordinary”, he said, eventually, “what your friend was saying.”

“Oh? What was that?” Jiro did not look up from his newspaper.

“About him and his wife voting for different parties. A few years ago that would have been unthinkable.”

“No doubt.”

“Quite extraordinary the things that happen now. But that’s what’s meant by democracy, I suppose.” Ogata-San gave a sigh. “These things we’ve learnt so eagerly from the Americans, they aren’t always to the good.”

“No, indeed they’re not.”

“Look what happens. Husband and wife voting for different parties. It’s a sad state of affairs when a wife can’t be relied on in such matters any more.”

Jiro continued to read his newspaper. “Yes, it’s regrettable,” he said.

“A wife these days feels no sense of loyalty towards the household. She just does what she pleases, votes for a different party if the whim takes her. That’s so typical of the way things have gone in Japan. All in the name of democracy people abandon obligations.”

Jiro looked up at his father for a brief moment, then turned his eyes back to his paper. “No doubt you’re very right,” he said. “But surely the Americans didn’t bring all bad.”

“The Americans, they never understood the way things were in Japan. Not for one moment have they understood. Their ways may be fine for Americans, but in Japan things are different, very different.” Ogata-San sighed again. “Discipline, loyalty, such things held Japan together once. That may sound fanciful, but it’s true. People were bound by a sense of duty. Towards one’s family, towards superiors, towards the country. But now instead there’s all this talk of democracy. You hear it whenever people want to be selfish, whenever they want to forget obligations.”

“Yes, no doubt you’re right.” Jiro yawned and scratched the side of his face.

“Take what happened in my profession, for instance. Here was a system we’d nurtured and cherished for years. The Americans came and stripped it, tore it down without a thought. They decided our schools would be like American schools, the children should learn what American children learn. And the Japanese welcomed it all. Welcomed it with a lot of talk about democracy” — he shook his head — “Many fine things were destroyed in our schools.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s very true.” Jiro glanced up once more. “But surely there were some faults in the old system, in schools as much as anywhere.”

“Jiro, what is this? Something you read somewhere?”

“It’s just my opinion.”

“Did you read that in your newspaper? I devoted my life to the teaching of the young. And then I watched the Americans tear it all down. Quite extraordinary what goes on in schools now, the way children are taught to behave. Extraordinary. And so much just isn’t taught any more. Do you know, children leave school today knowing nothing about the history of their own country?”

“That may be a pity, admittedly. But then I remember some odd things from my schooldays. I remember being taught all about how Japan was created by the gods, for instance. How we as a nation were divine and supreme. We had to memorize the text book word for word. Some things aren’t such a loss, perhaps.”

“But Jiro, things aren’t as simple as that. You clearly don’t understand how such things worked. Things aren’t nearly as simple as you presume. We devoted ourselves to ensuring that proper qualities were handed down, that children grew up with the correct attitude to their country, to their fellows. There was a spirit in Japan once, it bound us all together. Just imagine what it must be like being a young boy today. He’s taught no values at school — except perhaps that he should selfishly demand whatever he wants out of life. He goes home and finds his parents fighting because his mother refuses to vote for his father’s party. What a state of affairs.”

“Yes, I see your point. Now, Father, I’m sorry but I must go to bed.”

“We did our best, men like Endo and I, we did our best to nurture what was good in the country. A lot of good has been destroyed.”

“It’s most regrettable.” My husband got to his feet. “Excuse me, Father, but I must sleep. I have another busy day tomorrow.”

Ogata-San looked up at his son, a somewhat surprised expression on his face. “Why, of course. How inconsiderate of me to have kept you so late.” He gave a small bow.

“Not at all. I’m sorry we can’t talk longer, but I really ought to get some sleep now.”

“Why, of course.”

Jiro wished his father a good night’s sleep and left the room. For a few seconds, Ogata-San gazed at the door through which Jiro had disappeared as if he expected his son to return at any moment. Then he turned to me with a troubled look.

“I didn’t realize how late it was,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep Jiro up.”

Chapter Five

“Gone? And had he left you no message at his hotel?”

Sachiko laughed. “You look so astonished, Etsuko,” she said. “No, he’d left nothing. He’d gone yesterday morning, that’s all they knew. To tell you the truth, I half expected this.”

I realized I was still holding the tray. I laid it down carefully then seated myself on a cushion opposite Sachiko. There was a pleasant breeze blowing through the apartment that morning.

“But how terrible for you,” I said. “And you were waiting with everything packed and ready.”

“This is nothing new to me, Etsuko. Back in Tokyo — that’s where I first met him, you see — back in Tokyo, it was just the same thing. Oh no, this is nothing new to me. I’ve learnt to expect such things.”

“And you say you’re going back into town tonight? On your own?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Etsuko. After Tokyo, Nagasaki seems a tame little town. If he’s still in Nagasaki, I’ll find him tonight. He may change his hotel, but he won’t have changed his habits.”

“But this is all so distressing. If you wish, I’d be glad to come and sit with Mariko until you get back.”

“Why, how kind of you. Mariko’s quite capable of being left on her own, but if you’re prepared to spend a couple of hours with her tonight, that would be most kind. But I’m sure this whole thing will sort itself out, Etsuko. You see, when you’ve come through some of the things I have, you learn not to let small set-backs like this worry you.”

“But what if he’s … I mean, what if he’s left Nagasaki altogether?”

“Oh, he hasn’t gone far, Etsuko. Besides, if he really meant to leave me, he would have left a note of some kind, wouldn’t he? You see, he hasn’t gone far. He knows I’ll come and find him.”

Sachiko looked at me and smiled. I found myself at a loss for any reply.

“Besides, Etsuko,” she went on, “he did come all the way down here. He came down all this way to Nagasaki to find me at my uncle’s house, all that way from Tokyo. Now why would he have done that if he didn’t mean everything he’s promised? You see, Etsuko, what he wants most is to take me to America. That’s what he wants. Nothing’s changed really, this is just a slight delay.” She gave a quick laugh. “Sometimes, you see, he’s like a little child.”

“But what do you think your friend means by going off like this? I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand, Etsuko, it hardly matters. What he really wants is to take me to America and lead a steady respectable life there. That’s what he really wants. Otherwise why would he have come all that way and found me at my uncle’s house? You see, Etsuko, this isn’t anything to be so worried about.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t.”

Sachiko seemed about to speak again, but then appeared to stop herself. She stared down at the tea things on the tray. “Well then, Etsuko,” she said, with a smile, “let’s pour the tea.”

She watched in silence as I poured. Once when I glanced quickly towards her, she smiled as if to encourage me. I finished pouring the tea and for a moment or two we sat there quietly.

“Incidentally, Etsuko,” Sachiko said, “I take it you’ve spoken to Mrs Fujiwara and explained my position to her.”

“Yes. I saw her the day before yesterday.”

“I suppose she’d been wondering what had become of me.”

“I explained to her that you’d been called away to America. She was perfectly understanding about it.”

“You see, Etsuko,” said Sachiko, “I find myself in a difficult situation now.”

“Yes, I can appreciate that.”

“As regards finances, as well as everything else.”

“Yes, I see,” I said, with a small bow. “If you wish, I could certainly talk to Mrs Fujiwara. I’m sure under the circumstances she’d be happy to …”

“No, no, Etsuko” — Sachiko gave a laugh — “I’ve no desire to return to her little noodle shop. I fully expect to be leaving for America in the near future. It’s merely a case of things being delayed a little, that’s all. But in the meantime, you see, I’ll need a little money. And I was just remembering, Etsuko, how you once offered to assist me in that respect.”

She was looking at me with a kindly smile. I looked back at her for a few moments. Then I bowed and said:

“I have some savings of my own. Not a great deal, but I’d be glad to do what I can.”

Sachiko bowed gracefully, then lifted her teacup. “I won’t embarrass you”, she said, “by naming any particular sum. That, of course, is entirely up to you. I’ll gratefully accept whatever you feel is appropriate. Of course, the loan will be returned in due course, you can rest assured of that, Etsuko.”

“Naturally,” I said, quietly. “I had no doubts on that.”

Sachiko continued to regard me with her kindly smile. I excused myself and left the room.

In the bedroom, the sun was streaming in, revealing all the dust in the air. I knelt beside a set of small drawers at the foot of our cupboard. From the lowest drawer I removed various items — photograph albums, greeting cards, a folder of water-colours my mother had painted — laying them carefully on the floor beside me. At the bottom of the drawer was the black lacquer gift-box. Lifting the lid, I found the several letters I had preserved — unknown to my husband — together with two or three small photographs. From beneath these, I took out the envelope containing my money. I carefully put back everything as it had been and closed the drawer. Before leaving the room, I opened the wardrobe, chose a silk scarf of a suitably discreet pattern, and wrapped it around the envelope.

When I returned to the living room, Sachiko was refilling her teacup. She did not look up at me, and when I laid the folded scarf on the floor beside her, she carried on pouring the tea without glancing at it. She gave me a nod as I sat down, then began to sip from her cup. Only once, as she was lowering her teacup, did she cast a quick sideways glance at the bundle beside her cushion.

“There’s something you don’t seem to understand, Etsuko,” she said. “You see, I’m not ashamed or embarrassed about anything I’ve done. You can feel free to ask whatever you like.”

“Yes, of course.”

“For instance, Etsuko, why is it you never ask me anything about ‘my friend’, as you insist on calling him? There really isn’t anything to get embarrassed about. Why, Etsuko, you’re beginning to blush already.”

“I assure you I’m not getting embarrassed. In fact …”

“But you are, Etsuko, I can see you are.” Sachiko gave a laugh and clapped her hands together. “But why can’t you understand I’ve nothing to hide, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of? Why are you blushing like this? Just because I mentioned Frank?”

“But I’m not embarrassed. And I assure you I’ve never assumed anything …”

“Why do you never ask me about him, Etsuko? There must be all sorts of questions you’d like to ask. So why don’t you ask them? After all, everybody else in the neighbourhood seems interested enough, you must be too, Etsuko. So please feel free, ask me anything you like.”

“But really, I …”

“Come on, Etsuko, I insist. Ask me about him. I do want you to. Ask me about him, Etsuko.”

“Very well then.”

“Well? Go on, Etsuko, ask.”

“Very well. What does he look like, your friend?”

“What does he look like?” Sachiko laughed again. “Is that all you wish to know? Well, he’s tall like most of these foreigners, and his hair’s going a little thin. He’s not old, you understand. Foreigners go bald more easily, did you know that, Etsuko? Now ask me something else about him. There must be other things you want to know.”

“Well, quite honestly …”

“Come on, Etsuko, ask. I want you to ask.”

“But really, there’s nothing I wish to …”

“But there must be, why won’t you ask? Ask me about him, Etsuko, ask me.”

“Well, in fact,” I said, “I did wonder about one thing.”

Sachiko seemed to suddenly freeze. She had been holding her hands together in front of her, but now she lowered them and placed them back on her lap.

“I did wonder”, I said, “if he spoke Japanese at all.”

For a moment, Sachiko said nothing. Then she smiled and her manner seemed to relax. She lifted her teacup again and took several sips. Then when she spoke again, her voice sounded almost dreamy.

“Foreigners have so much trouble with our language,” she said. She paused and smiled to herself. “Frank’s Japanese is quite terrible, so we converse in English. Do you know English at all, Etsuko? Not at all? You see, my father used to speak good English. He had connections in Europe and he always used to encourage me to study the language. But then of course, when I married, I stopped learning. My husband forbade it. He took away all my English books. But I didn’t forget it. When I met foreigners in Tokyo, it came back to me.”

We sat in silence for a little while. Then Sachiko gave a tired sigh.

“I suppose I’d better get back fairly soon,” she said. She reached down and picked up the folded scarf. Then without inspecting it, she dropped it into her handbag.

“You won’t have a little more tea?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Just a little more perhaps.”

I refilled the cups. Sachiko watched me, then said: “If it’s inconvenient — about tonight, I mean — it wouldn’t matter at all. Mariko should be capable of being left on her own by now.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m sure my husband won’t object.”

“You’re very kind, Etsuko,” Sachiko said, in a flat tone. Then she said: “I should warn you, perhaps. My daughter has been in a somewhat difficult mood these past few days.”

“That’s all right,” I said, smiling. “I’ll need to get used to children in every kind of mood.”

Sachiko went on drinking her tea slowly. She seemed in no hurry to be returning. Then she put down her teacup and for some moments sat examining the back of her hands.

“I know it was a terrible thing that happened here in Nagasaki,” she said, finally. “But it was bad in Tokyo too. Week after week it went on, it was very bad. Towards the end we were all living in tunnels and derelict buildings and there was nothing but rubble. Everyone who lived in Tokyo saw unpleasant things. And Mariko did too.” She continued to gaze at the back of her hands.

“Yes,” I said. “It must have been a very difficult time.”

“This woman. This woman you’ve heard Mariko talk about. That was something Mariko saw in Tokyo. She saw other things in Tokyo, some terrible things, but she’s always remembered that woman.” She turned over her hands and looked at the palms looking from one to the other as if to compare them.

“And this woman,” I said. “She was killed in an air-raid?”

“She killed herself. They said she cut her throat. I never knew her. You see Mariko went running off one morning. I can’t remember why, perhaps she was upset about something. Anyway she went running off out into the streets, so I went chasing after her. It was very early, there was nobody about. Mariko ran down an alleyway, and I followed after her. There was a canal at the end and the woman was kneeling there, up to her elbows in water. A young woman, very thin. I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw her. You see, Etsuko, she turned round and smiled at Mariko. I knew something was wrong and Mariko must have done too because she stopped running. At first I thought the woman was blind, she had that kind of look, her eyes didn’t seem to actually see anything. Well, she brought her arms out of the canal and showed us what she’d been holding under the water. It was a baby. I took hold of Mariko then and we came out of the alley.”

I remained silent, waiting for her to continue. Sachiko helped herself to more tea from the pot.

“As I say,” she said, “I heard the woman killed herself. That was a few days afterwards.”

“How old was Mariko then?”

“Five, almost six. She saw other things in Tokyo. But she always remembers that woman.”

“She saw everything? She saw the baby?”

“Yes. Actually, for a long time I thought she hadn’t understood what she’d seen. She didn’t talk about it afterwards. She didn’t even seem particularly upset at the time. She didn’t start talking about it until a month or so later. We were sleeping in this old building then. I woke up in the night and saw Mariko sitting up, staring at the doorway. There wasn’t a door, it was just this doorway, and Mariko was sitting up looking at it. I was quite alarmed. You see, there was nothing to stop anyone walking into the building. I asked Mariko what was wrong and she said a woman had been standing there watching us. I asked what sort of woman and Mariko said it was the one we’d seen that morning. Watching us from the doorway. I got up and looked around but there wasn’t anyone there. It’s quite possible, of course, that some woman was standing there. There was nothing to stop anyone stepping inside.”

“I see. And Mariko mistook her for the woman you’d seen.”

“I expect that’s what happened. In any case, that’s when it started, Mariko’s obsession with that woman. I thought she’d grown out of it, but just recently it’s started again. If she starts to talk about it tonight, please don’t pay her any attention.”

“Yes, I see.”

“You know how it is with children,” said Sachiko. “They play at make-believe and they get confused where their fantasies begin and end.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s nothing unusual really.”

“You see, Etsuko, things were very difficult when Mariko was born.”

“Yes, they must have been,” I said. “I’m very fortunate, I know.”

“Things were very difficult. Perhaps it was foolish to have married when I did. After all, everyone could see a war was coming. But then again, Etsuko, no one knew what a war was really like, not in those days. I married into a highly respected family. I never thought a war could change things so much.”

Sachiko put down her teacup and passed a hand through her hair. Then she smiled quickly. “As regards tonight, Etsuko,” she said, “my daughter is quite capable of amusing herself. So please don’t bother too much with her.”

Mrs Fujiwara’s face often grew weary when she talked about her son.

“He’s becoming an old man,” she was saying. “Soon he’ll have only the old maids to choose from.”

We were sitting in the forecourt of her noodle shop. Several tables were occupied by office-workers having their lunch.

“Poor Kazuo-San,” I said, with a laugh. “But I can understand how he feels. It was so sad about Miss Michiko. And they were engaged for a long time, weren’t they?”

“Three years. I never saw the point in these long engagements. Yes, Michiko was a nice girl. I’m sure she’d be the first to agree with me about Kazuo mourning her like this. She would have wanted him to continue with his life.”

“It must be difficult for him though. To have built up plans for so long only for things to end like that.”

“But that’s all in the past now,” said Mrs Fujiwara. “We’ve all had to put things behind us. You too, Etsuko, I remember you were very heartbroken once. But you managed to carry on.”

“Yes, but I was fortunate. Ogata-San was very kind to me in those days. I don’t know what would have become of me otherwise.”

“Yes, he was very kind to you. And of course, that’s how you met your husband. But you deserved to be fortunate.”

“I really don’t know where I’d be today if Ogata-San hadn’t taken me in. But I can understand how difficult it must be — for your son, I mean. Even me I still think about Nakamura-San sometimes. I can’t help it. Sometimes I wake up and forget. I think I’m still back here, here in Nakagawa …”

“Now, Etsuko, that’s no way to talk.” Mrs Fujiwara looked at me for some moments, then gave a sigh. “But it happens to me too. Like you say, in the mornings, just as you wake, it can catch you unawares. I often wake up thinking I’ll have to hurry and get breakfast ready for them all.”

We fell silent for a moment. Then Mrs Fujiwara laughed a little.

“You’re very bad, Etsuko,” she said. “See, you’ve got me talking like this now.”

“It’s very foolish of me,” I said. “In any case, Nakamura-San and I, there was never anything between us. I mean, nothing had been decided.”

Mrs Fujiwara went on looking at me, nodding to some private train of thought. Then across the forecourt a customer stood up, ready to leave.

I watched Mrs Fujiwara go over to him, a neat young man in shirt-sleeves. They bowed to each other and began chatting cheerfully. The man made some remark as he buttoned his briefcase and Mrs Fujiwara laughed heartily. They exchanged bows once more, then he disappeared into the afternoon rush. I was grateful for the opportunity to compose my emotions. When Mrs Fujiwara came back, I said:

“I’d better be leaving you soon. You’re very busy just now.”

“You just stay there and relax. You’ve only just sat down. I’ll get you some lunch.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Now, Etsuko, if you don’t eat here, you won’t eat lunch for another hour. You know how important it is for you to eat regularly at this stage.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Mrs Fujiwara looked at me closely for a moment. Then she said: “You’ve everything to look forward to now, Etsuko. What are you so unhappy about?”

“Unhappy? But I’m not unhappy in the least.”

She continued to look at me, and I laughed nervously.

“Once the child comes,” she said, “you’ll be delighted, believe me. And you’ll make a splendid mother, Etsuko.”

“I hope so.”

“Of course you will.”

“Yes.” I looked up and smiled.

Mrs Fujiwara nodded, then rose to her feet once more.

The inside of Sachiko’s cottage had grown increasingly dark — there was only one lantern in the room — and at first I thought Mariko was staring at a black mark on the wall. She reached out a finger and the shape moved a little. Only then did I realize it was a spider.

“Mariko, leave that alone. That’s not nice.”

She put both hands behind her back, but went on staring at the spider.

“We used to have a cat once,” she said. “Before we came here. She used to catch spiders.”

“I see. No, leave it alone, Mariko.”

“But it’s not poisonous.”

“No, but leave it alone, it’s dirty.”

“The cat we used to have, she could eat spiders. What would happen if I ate a spider?”

“I don’t know, Mariko.”

“Would I be sick?”

“I don’t know.” I went back to the sewing I had brought with me. Mariko continued to watch the spider. Eventually she said: “I know why you came here tonight.”

“I came because it’s not nice for little girls to be on their own.”

“It’s because of the woman. It’s because the woman might come again.”

“Why don’t you show me some more drawings? The ones you showed me just now were lovely.”

Mariko did not reply. She moved over to the window and looked out into the darkness.

“Your mother won’t be long now,” I said. “Why don’t you show me some more drawings.”

Mariko continued to look into the darkness. Eventually, she returned to the corner where she had been sitting before the spider had attracted her attention.

“How did you spend your day today, Mariko?” I asked. “Did you do any drawing?”

“I played with Atsu and Mee-Chan.”

“That’s nice. And where do they live? Are they from the apartments?”

“That’s Atsu” — she pointed to one of the small black kittens beside her — “and that’s Mee-Chan.”

I laughed. “Oh, I see. They’re lovely little kittens, aren’t they? But don’t you ever play with other children? The children from the apartments?”

“I play with Atsu and Mee-Chan.”

“But you should try and make friends with the other children. I’m sure they’re all very nice.”

“They stole Suji-Chan. He was my favourite kitten.”

“They stole him? Oh dear, I wonder why they did that.”

Mariko began stroking a kitten. “I’ve lost Suji-Chan now.”

“Perhaps he’ll turn up soon. I’m sure the children were just playing.”

“They killed him. I’ve lost Suji-Chan now.”

“Oh. I wonder why they did a thing like that.”

“I threw stones at them. Because they said things.”

“Well, you shouldn’t throw stones, Mariko.”

“They said things. About Mother. I threw stones at them and they took Suji-Chan and wouldn’t give him back.”

“Well, you’ve still got your other kittens.”

Mariko moved across the room towards the window again. She was just tall enough to lean her elbows on the ledge. For a few minutes she looked into the darkness, her face close to the pane.

“I want to go out now,” she said, suddenly.

“Go out? But it’s far too late, it’s dark outside. And your mother will be back any time now.”

“But I want to go out.”

“Stay here now, Mariko.”

She continued to look outside. I tried to see what was visible to her; from where I sat I could see only darkness.

“Perhaps you should be kinder to the other children. Then you could make friends with them.”

“I know why Mother asked you to come here.”

“You can’t expect to make friends if you throw stones.”

“It’s because of the woman. It’s because Mother knows about the woman.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Mariko-San. Tell me more about your kittens. Will you draw more pictures of them when they get bigger?”

“It’s because the woman might come again. That’s why Mother asked you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Mother’s seen the woman. She saw her the other night.”

I stopped sewing for a second and looked up at Mariko. She had turned away from the window and was gazing at me with a strangely expressionless look.

“Where did your mother see this — this person?”

“Out there. She saw her out there. That’s why she asked you.”

Mariko came away from the window and returned to her kittens. The older cat had appeared and the kittens had curled up to their mother. Mariko lay down beside them and started to whisper. Her whispering had a vaguely disturbing quality.

“Your mother should be home soon,” I said. “I wonder what she can be doing.”

Mariko continued whispering.

“She was telling me all about Frank-San,” I said. “He sounds a very nice man.”

The whispering noises stopped. We stared at each other for a second.

“He’s a bad man,” Mariko said.

“Now that’s not a nice thing to say, Mariko-San. Your mother told me all about him and he sounds very nice. And I’m sure he’s very kind to you, isn’t he?”

She got to her feet and went to the wall. The spider was still there.

“Yes, I’m sure he’s a nice man. He’s kind to you, isn’t he, Mariko-San?”

Mariko reached forward. The spider moved quite slowly along the wall.

“Mariko, leave that alone.”

“The cat we had in Tokyo, she used to catch spiders. We were going to bring her with us.”

I could see the spider more clearly in its new position. It had thick short legs, each leg casting a shadow on the yellow wall.

“She was a good cat,” Mariko continued. “She was going to come with us to Nagasaki.”

“And did you bring her?”

“She disappeared. The day before we were leaving. Mother promised we could bring her, but she disappeared.”

“I see.”

She moved suddenly and caught one of the spider’s legs. The remaining legs crawled frantically around her hand as she brought it away from the wall.

“Mariko, let that go. That’s dirty.”

Mariko turned over her hand and the spider crawled into her palm. She closed her other hand over it so that it was imprisoned.

“Mariko, put that down.”

“It’s not poisonous,” she said, coming closer to me.

“No, but it’s dirty. Put it back in the corner.”

“It’s not poisonous though.”

She stood in front of me, the spider inside her cupped hands. Through a gap in her fingers, I could see a leg moving slowly and rhythmically.

“Put it back in the corner, Mariko.”

“What would happen if I ate it? It’s not poisonous.”

“You’d be very sick. Now, Mariko, put it back in the corner.”

Mariko brought the spider closer to her face and parted her lips.

“Don’t be silly, Mariko. That’s very dirty.”

Her mouth opened wider, and then her hands parted and the spider landed in front of my lap. I started back. The spider sped along the tatami into the shadows behind me. It took me a moment to recover, and by then Mariko had left the cottage.

Chapter Six

I cannot be sure now how long I spent searching for her that night. Quite possibly it was for a considerable time, for I was advanced in my pregnancy by then and careful to avoid hurried movements. Besides, once having come outside, I was finding it strangely peaceful to walk beside the river. Along one section of the bank, the grass had grown very tall. I must have been wearing sandals that night for I can remember distinctly the feel of the grass on my feet. As I walked, there were insects making noises all around me.

Then eventually I became aware of a separate sound, a rustling noise as if a snake were sliding in the grass behind me. I stopped to listen, then realized what had caused it; an old piece of rope had tangled itself around my ankle and I had been dragging it through the grass. I carefully released it from around my foot. When I held it up to the moonlight it felt damp and muddy between my fingers.

“Hello, Mariko,” I said, for she was sitting in the grass a short way in front of me, her knees hunched up to her chin. A willow tree — one of several that grew on the bank — hung over the spot where she sat. I took a few steps towards her until I could make out her face more clearly.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Nothing. It just tangled on to my foot when I was walking.”

“What is it though?”

“Nothing, just a piece of old rope. Why are you out here?”

“Do you want to take a kitten?”

“A kitten?”

“Mother says we can’t keep the kittens. Do you want one?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But we have to find homes for them soon. Or else Mother says we’ll have to drown them.”

“That would be a pity.”

“You could have Atsu.”

“We’ll have to see.”

“Why have you got that?”

“I told you, it’s nothing. It just caught on to my foot.” I took a step closer. “Why are you doing that, Mariko?”

“Doing what?”

“You were making a strange face just now.”

“I wasn’t making a strange face. Why have you got the rope?”

“You were making a strange face. It was a very strange face.”

“Why have you got the rope?”

I watched her for a moment. Signs of fear were appearing on her face.

“Don’t you want a kitten then?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think so. What’s the matter with you?”

Mariko got to her feet. I came forward until I reached the willow tree. I noticed the cottage a short distance away, the shape of its roof darker than the sky. I could hear Mariko’s footsteps running off into the darkness.

When I reached the door of the cottage, I could hear Sachiko’s voice from within, talking angrily. They both turned to me as I came in. Sachiko was standing in the middle of the room, her daughter before her. In the light cast by the lantern, her carefully prepared face had a masklike quality.

“I fear Mariko’s been giving you trouble,” she said to me.

“Well, she ran outside …”

“Say sorry to Etsuko-San.” She gripped Mariko’s arm roughly.

“I want to go outside again.”

“You won’t move. Now apologize.”

“I want to go outside.”

With her free hand, Sachiko slapped the child sharply on the back of her thigh. “Now, apologize to Etsuko-San.”

Small tears were appearing in Mariko’s eyes. She looked at me briefly, then turned back to her mother. “Why do you always go away?”

Sachiko raised her hand again warningly.

“Why do you always go away with Frank-San?”

“Are you going to say you’re sorry?”

“Frank-San pisses like a pig. He’s a pig in a sewer.”

Sachiko stared at her child, her hand still poised in the air.

“He drinks his own piss.”

“Silence.”

“He drinks his own piss and he shits in his bed.”

Sachiko continued to glare, but remained quite still.

“He drinks his own piss.” Mariko pulled her arm free and walked across the room with an air of nonchalance. At the entryway she turned and stared back at her mother. “He pisses like a pig,” she repeated, then went out into the darkness.

Sachiko stared at the entryway for some moments, apparently oblivious of my presence.

“Shouldn’t someone go after her?” I said, after a while.

Sachiko looked at me and seemed to relax a little. “No,” she said, sitting down. “Leave her.”

“But it’s very late.”

“Leave her. She can come back when she pleases.”

A kettle had been steaming on the open stove for some time. Sachiko took it off the flame and began making tea. I watched her for several moments, then asked quietly:

“Did you find your friend?”

“Yes, Etsuko,” she said. “I found him.” She continued with her tea-making, not looking up at me. Then she said: “It was very kind of you to have come here tonight. I do apologize about Mariko.”

I continued to watch her. Eventually, I said: “What are your plans now?”

“My plans?” Sachiko finished filling the teapot, then poured the remaining water on to the flame. “Etsuko, I’ve told you many times, what is of the utmost importance to me is my daughter’s welfare. That must come before everything else. I’m a mother, after all. I’m not some young saloon girl with no regard for decency. I’m a mother, and my daughter’s interests come first.”

“Of course.”

“I intend to write to my uncle. I’ll inform him of my whereabouts and I’ll tell him as much as he has a right to know about my present circumstances. Then if he wishes, I’ll discuss with him the possibilities of our returning to his house.” Sachiko picked up the teapot in both hands and began to shake it gently. “As a matter of fact, Etsuko, I’m rather glad things have turned out like this. Imagine how unsettling it would have been for my daughter, finding herself in a land full of foreigners, a land full of Ame-kos. And suddenly having an Ame-ko for a father, imagine how confusing that would be for her. Do you understand what I’m saying, Etsuko? She’s had enough disturbance in her life already, she deserves to be somewhere settled. It’s just as well things have turned out this way.”

I murmured something in assent.

“Children, Etsuko,” she went on, “mean responsibility. You’ll discover that yourself soon enough. And that’s what he’s really scared of, anyone can see that. He’s scared of Mariko. Well, that’s not acceptable to me, Etsuko. My daughter comes first. It’s just as well things have turned out this way.” She went on rocking the teapot in her hands.

“This must be very distressing for you,” I said, eventually.

“Distressing?” — Sachiko laughed — “Etsuko, do you imagine little things like this distress me? When I was your age, perhaps. But not any more. I’ve gone through too much over the last few years. In any case, I was expecting this to happen. Oh yes, I’m not surprised at all. I expected this. The last time, in Tokyo, it was much the same. He disappeared and spent all our money, drank it all in three days. A lot of it was my money too. Do you know, Etsuko, I actually worked as a maid in a hotel? Yes, as a maid. But I didn’t complain, and we almost had enough, a few more weeks and we could have got a ship to America. But then he drank it all. All those weeks I spent scrubbing floors on my knees and he drank it all up in three days. And now there he is again, in a bar with his worthless saloon girl. How can I place my daughter’s future in the hands of a man like that? I’m a mother, and my daughter comes first.”

We fell silent again. Sachiko put the teapot down in front of her and stared at it.

“I hope your uncle will prove understanding,” I said.

She gave a shrug. “As far as my uncle’s concerned, Etsuko, I’ll discuss the matter with him. I’m willing to do so for Mariko’s sake. If he proves unhelpful, then I’ll just find some alternative course. In any case, I’ve no intention of accompanying some foreign drunkard to America. I’m quite happy he’s found some saloon girl to drink with him, I’m sure they deserve one another. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m going to do what’s best for Mariko, and that’s my decision.”

For some time, Sachiko continued to stare at the teapot. Then she sighed and got to her feet. She went over to the window and peered out into the darkness.

“Should we go and look for her now?” I said.

“No,” Sachiko said, still looking out. “She’ll be back soon. Let her stay out if that’s what she wants.”

I feel only regret now for those attitudes I displayed towards Keiko. In this country, after all, it is not unexpected that a young woman of that age should wish to leave home. All I succeeded in doing, it would seem, was to ensure that when she finally left — now almost six years ago — she did so severing all her ties with me. But then I never imagined she could so quickly vanish beyond my reach; all I saw was that my daughter, unhappy as she was at home, would find the world outside too much for her. It was for her own protection I opposed her so vehemently.

That morning — the fifth day of Niki’s visit — I awoke during the early hours. What occurred to me first was that I could no longer hear the rain as on previous nights and mornings. Then I remembered what had awoken me.

I lay under the covers looking in turn at those objects visible in the pale light. After several minutes, I felt somewhat calmer and closed my eyes again. I did not sleep, however. I thought of the landlady — Keiko’s landlady — and how she had finally opened the door of that room in Manchester.

I opened my eyes and once more looked at the objects in the room. Finally I rose and put on my dressing gown. I made my way to the bathroom, taking care not to arouse Niki, asleep in the spare room next to mine. When I came out of the bathroom, I remained standing on the landing for some time. Beyond the staircase, at the far end of the hallway, I could see the door of Keiko’s room. The door, as usual, was shut. I went on staring at it, then moved a few steps forward. Eventually, I found myself standing before it. Once, as I stood there, I thought I heard a small sound, some movement from within. I listened for a while but the sound did not come again. I reached forward and opened the door.

Keiko’s room looked stark in the greyish light; a bed covered with a single sheet, her white dressing table, and on the floor, several cardboard boxes containing those of her belongings she had not taken with her to Manchester. I stepped further into the room. The curtains had been left open and I could see the orchard below. The sky looked pale and white; it did not appear to be raining. Beneath the window, down on the grass, two birds were pecking at some fallen apples. I started to feel the cold then and returned to my room.

“A friend of mine’s writing a poem about you,” said Niki. We were eating breakfast in the kitchen.

“About me? Why on earth is she doing that?”

“I was telling her about you and she decided she’d write a poem. She’s a brilliant poet.”

“A poem about me? How absurd. What is there to write about? She doesn’t even know me.”

“I just said, Mother. I told her about you. It’s amazing how well she understands people. She’s been through quite a bit herself, you see.”

“I see. And how old is this friend of yours?”

“Mother, you’re always so obsessed about how old people are. It doesn’t matter how old someone is, it’s what they’ve experienced that counts. People can get to be a hundred and not experience a thing.”

“I suppose so.” I gave a laugh and glanced towards the windows. Outside, it had started to drizzle.

“I was telling her about you,” Niki said. “About you and Dad and how you left Japan. She was really impressed. She appreciates what it must have been like, how it wasn’t quite as easy as it sounds.”

For a moment, I went on gazing at the windows. Then I said quickly: “I’m sure your friend will write a marvellous poem.” I took an apple from the fruit basket and Niki watched as I began to peel it with my knife.

“So many women”, she said, “get stuck with kids and lousy husbands and they’re just miserable. But they can’t pluck up the courage to do a thing about it. They’ll just go on like that for the rest of their lives.”

“I see. So you’re saying they should desert their children, are you, Niki?”

“You know what I mean. It’s pathetic when people just waste away their lives.”

I did not speak, although my daughter paused as if expecting me to do so.

“It couldn’t have been easy, what you did, Mother. You ought to be proud of what you did with your life.”

I continued to peel the apple. When I had finished, I dried my fingers on the napkin.

“My friends all think so too,” said Niki. “The ones I’ve told anyway.”

“I’m very flattered. Please thank your marvellous friends.”

“I was just saying, that’s all.”

“Well, you’ve made your point quite clearly now.”

Perhaps I was unnecessarily curt with her that morning, but then it was presumptious of Niki to suppose I would need reassuring on such matters. Besides, she has little idea of what actually occurred during those last days in Nagasaki. One supposes she has built up some sort of picture from what her father has told her. Such a picture, inevitably, would have its inaccuracies. For, in truth, despite all the impressive articles he wrote about Japan, my husband never understood the ways of our culture, even less a man like Jiro. I do not claim to recall Jiro with affection, but then he was never the oafish man my husband considered him to be. Jiro worked hard to do his part for the family and he expected me to do mine; in his own terms, he was a dutiful husband. And indeed, for the seven years he knew his daughter, he was a good father to her. Whatever else I convinced myself of during those final days, I never pretended Keiko would not miss him.

But such things are long in the past now and I have no wish to ponder them yet again. My motives for leaving Japan were justifiable, and I know I always kept Keiko’s interests very much at heart. There is nothing to be gained in going over such matters again.

I had been pruning the pot plants along the window ledge for some time when I realized how quiet Niki had become. When I turned to her, she was standing in front of the fireplace, looking past me out into the garden. I turned back to the window, trying to follow her gaze; despite the mist on the pane, the garden was still clearly discernible. Niki, it seemed, was gazing over to a spot near the hedge, where the rain and wind had put into disarray the canes which supported the young tomato plants.

“I think the tomatoes are ruined for this year,” I said. “I’ve really rather neglected them.”

I was still looking at the canes when I heard the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and when I turned again, Niki was continuing with her search. She had decided after breakfast to read through all her father’s newspaper articles, and had spent much of the morning going through all the drawers and bookshelves in the house.

For some minutes, I continued working on my pot plants; there were a large number of them, cluttering the window ledge. Behind me, I could hear Niki going through the drawers. Then she became quiet again, and when I turned to her, she was once more gazing past me, out into the garden.

“I think I’ll go and do the goldfish now,” she said.

“The goldfish?”

Without replying, Niki left the room, and a moment later I saw her go striding across the lawn. I wiped away a little mist from the pane and watched her. Niki walked to the far end of the garden, to the fish-pond amidst the rockery. She poured in the feed, and for several seconds remained standing there, gazing into the pond. I could see her figure in profile; she looked very thin, and despite her fashionable clothes there was still something unmistakably child-like about her. I watched the wind disturb her hair and wondered why she had gone outside without a jacket.

On her way back, she stopped beside the tomato plants and in spite of the heavy drizzle stood contemplating them for some time. Then she took a few steps closer and with much care began straightening the canes. She stood up several that had fallen completely, then, crouching down so her knees almost touched the wet grass, adjusted the net I had laid above the soil to protect the plants from marauding birds.

“Thank you, Niki,” I said to her when she came in. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

She muttered something and sat down on the settee. I noticed she had become quite embarrassed.

“I really have been rather neglectful about those tomatoes this year,” I went on. “Still, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I never know what to do with so many tomatoes these days. Last year, I gave most of them to the Morrisons.”

“Oh God,” said Niki, “the Morrisons. And how are the dear old Morrisons?”

“Niki, the Morrisons are perfectly kind people. I’ve never understood why you need to be so disparaging. You and Cathy used to be the best of friends once.”

“Oh yes, Cathy. And how’s she these days? Still living at home, I suppose?”

“Well, yes. She works in a bank now.”

“Typical enough.”

“That seems to me a perfectly sensible thing to be doing at her age. And Marilyn’s married now, did you know?”

“Oh yes? And who did she marry?”

“I don’t remember what her husband does. I met him once. He seemed very pleasant.”

“I expect he’s a vicar or something like that.”

“Now, Niki, I really don’t see why you have to adopt this tone. The Morrisons have always been extremely kind to us.”

Niki sighed impatiently. “It’s just the way they do things,” she said. “It makes me sick. Like the way they’ve brought up their kids.”

“But you’ve hardly seen the Morrisons in years.”

“I saw them often enough when I used to know Cathy. People like that are so hopeless. I suppose I ought to feel sorry for Cathy.”

“You’re blaming her because she hasn’t gone to live in London like you have? I must say, Niki, that doesn’t sound like the broadmindedness you and your friends seem so proud of.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. You don’t understand what I’m talking about anyway.” She glanced towards me, then heaved another sigh. “It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, looking the other way.

I continued to stare at her for a moment. Eventually, I turned back to the window ledge and for some minutes worked on in silence.

“You know, Niki,” I said, after some time, “I’m very pleased you have good friends you enjoy being with. After all, you must lead your own life now. That’s only to be expected.”

My daughter gave no reply. When I glanced at her, she was reading one of the newspapers she had found in the drawer.

“I’d be interested to meet your friends,” I said. “You’re always welcome to bring any of them here.”

Niki flicked her head to prevent her hair falling across her vision, and continued to read. A look of concentration had appeared on her face.

I went back to my plants, for I could read these signals well enough. There is a certain subtle and yet quiet emphatic manner Niki adopts whenever I display curiosity concerning her life in London; it is her way of telling me I will regret it if I persist. Consequently, my picture of her present life is built largely upon speculation. In her letters, however — and Niki is very good about remembering to write — she mentions certain things she would never touch upon in conversation. That is how I have learnt, for instance, that her boyfriend’s name is David and that he is studying politics at one of the London colleges. And yet, during conversation, if I were even to enquire after his health, I know that barrier would come firmly down.

This rather aggressive regard for privacy reminds me very much of her sister. For in truth, my two daughters had much in common, much more than my husband would ever admit. As far as he was concerned, they were complete opposites; furthermore, it became his view that Keiko was a difficult person by nature and there was little we could do for her. In fact, although he never claimed it outright, he would imply that Keiko had inherited her personality from her father. I did little to contradict this, for it was the easy explanation, that Jiro was to blame, not us. Of course, my husband never knew Keiko in her early years; if he had, he may well have recognized how similar the two girls were during their respective early stages. Both had fierce tempers, both were possessive; if they became upset, they would not like other children forget their anger quickly, but would remain moody for most of the day. And yet, one has become a happy, confident young woman — I have every hope for Niki’s future — while the other, after becoming increasingly miserable, took her own life. I do not find it as easy as my husband did to put the blame on Nature, or else on Jiro. However, such things are in the past now, and there is little to be gained in going over them here.

“By the way, Mother,” said Niki. “That was you this morning, wasn’t it?”

“This morning?”

“I heard these sounds this morning. Really early, about four o’clock.”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you. Yes, that was me.” I began to laugh. “Why, who else did you imagine it was?” I continued to laugh, and for a moment could not stop. Niki stared at me, her newspaper still held open before her. “Well, I’m sorry I woke you, Niki,” I said, finally controlling my laughter.

“It’s all right, I was awake anyway. I can’t seem to sleep properly these days.”

“And after all that fuss you made about the rooms. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

“Maybe I will.” Niki went back to her newspaper.

I laid down the clippers I had been using and turned to her. “You know, it’s strange. I had that dream again this morning.”

“What dream?”

“I was telling you about it yesterday, but I don’t suppose you were listening. I dreamt about that little girl again.”

“What little girl?”

“The one we saw playing on the swing the other day. When we were in the village having coffee.”

Niki shrugged. “Oh, that one,” she said, not looking up.

“Well, actually, it isn’t that little girl at all. That’s what I realized this morning. It seemed to be that little girl, but it wasn’t.”

Niki looked at me again. Then she said: “I suppose you mean it was her. Keiko.”

“Keiko?” I laughed a little. “What a strange idea. Why should it be Keiko? No, it was nothing to do with Keiko.”

Niki continued to look at me uncertainly.

“It was just a little girl I knew once,” I said to her. “A long time ago.”

“Which little girl?”

“No one you know. I knew her a long time ago.”

Niki gave another shrug. “I can’t even get to sleep in the first place. I think I only slept about four hours last night.”

“That’s rather disturbing, Niki. Especially at your age. Perhaps you should see a doctor. You can always go and see Dr Ferguson.”

Niki made another of her impatient gestures and went back to her father’s newspaper article. I watched her for a moment.

“In fact, I realized something else this morning,” I said. “Something else about the dream.”

My daughter did not seem to hear.

“You see,” I said, “the little girl isn’t on a swing at all. It seemed like that at first. But it’s not a swing she’s on.”

Niki murmured something and carried on reading.