Sputnik Sweetheart

3

The day after the wedding, a Monday, was rainy. The rain began to fall just after midnight and continued without a stop till dawn. A soft, gentle rain that darkly dampened the spring earth and quietly stirred up the nameless creatures living in it.

The thought of meeting Miu again thrilled Sumire, and she found it hard to concentrate. She felt as though she were standing alone on the summit of a hill, the wind swirling around her. She settled down at her desk as usual, lit a cigarette, and switched on her word processor, but stare as she might at the screen, not a single sentence came to her. For Sumire that was next to impossible. She gave up, turned off the word processor, lay down in her tiny little room, and, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, gave herself up to some aimless musings.

If just the thought of seeing Miu has me this worked up, she thought, imagine how painful it would be if we’d said goodbye at the party and never saw each other again. Am I just yearning to be like her—a beautiful, refined older woman? No, she decided, that can’t be it. When I’m beside her, I always want to touch her. That’s a bit different from a yearning.

Sumire sighed, gazed up at the ceiling for a while, and lit her cigarette. It’s pretty strange if you think about it, she thought. Here I am in love for the first time in my life, aged 22. And the other person just happens to be a woman.

The restaurant Miu had made a reservation at was a ten-minute walk from the Omote Sando subway station. The kind of restaurant that’s hard for first-timers to find; certainly not a place where you just casually drop in for a meal. Even the restaurant’s name was hard to remember unless you heard it a couple of times. At the entrance Sumire told them Miu’s name and was escorted to a small, private dining room on the first floor. Miu was already there, sipping an iced Perrier water, deep in conversation with the waiter about the menu. Over a navy-blue polo shirt Miu had on a cotton sweater of the same colour, and she wore a thin, plain silver hairpin. Her trousers were white slim-fit jeans. On a corner of the table rested a pair of bright blue sunglasses, and on the chair next to her was a squash racquet and a Missoni sports bag. It looked like she was on her way home after a couple of afternoon games of squash. Her cheeks were still flushed a faint pink. Sumire imagined her in the shower at the gym, scrubbing her body with an exotic smelling bar of soap.

As Sumire entered the room, dressed in her usual herringbone jacket and khaki trousers, her hair all messy like some orphan, Miu looked up from the menu and gave her a dazzling smile. “You told me the other day that you can eat anything, right? I hope you don’t mind if I go ahead and order for us.”

Of course not, Sumire replied.

Miu ordered the same thing for both of them. The main course was a light grilled fish with a touch of green sauce with mushrooms. The slices of fish were cooked to perfection, browned in an almost artistic way that you knew was just right. Pumpkin gnocchi and a delicate endive salad rounded off the meal. For dessert they had the crème brûlée, which only Sumire ate. Miu didn’t touch it. Finally, they had espresso. Sumire observed that Miu took great care over what she ate. Her neck was as slender as the stalk of some plant, her body without an ounce of detectable fat. She didn’t seem to have to diet. Even so, it would appear she was super-strict about food. Like some Spartan holed up in a mountain fortress.

As they ate they chatted about nothing in particular. Miu wanted to know more about Sumire’s background, and she obliged, answering the questions as honestly as she could. She told Miu about her father, her mother, the schools she had attended (all of which she loathed), the prizes she had won in a composition contest—a bicycle and a set of encyclopedias—how she came to quit college, the way she spent her days now. Not a particularly thrilling life. Even so, Miu listened, enthralled, as if listening to the enchanting customs of a far-off land.

Sumire wanted to know so much more about Miu, but Miu hesitated to talk about herself. “That’s not important,” she deferred with a bright smile. “I’d rather hear more about you.”

By the time they finished eating, Sumire still hadn’t learned much. About the only thing she found out was this: that Miu’s father had donated a lot of money to the small town in the north part of Korea where he had been born, and had built several public buildings for the townspeople—to which they’d responded by erecting a bronze statue of him in the town square.

“It’s a small town deep in the mountains,” Miu explained.

“The winter’s awful, and just looking at the place makes you shiver. The mountains are craggy and reddish, full of bent trees. Once, when I was little, my father took me there. When they unveiled the statue. All these relatives came up, crying and hugging me. I couldn’t understand a word they said. I remember being frightened. For me it was a town in a foreign country I’d never set eyes on before.”

“What kind of statue was it?” asked Sumire. She’d never known anyone who’d had a statue erected.

“Just a normal statue. The kind you’d find anywhere. But it’s weird to have your own father become a statue. Imagine if they erected a statue of your father in the square in front of Chigasaki Station. You’d feel pretty weird about it, right? My father was actually fairly short, but the statue made him look like some towering figure. I was only five at the time, but I was struck by the way things you see aren’t always true to life.”

If they made a statue of my father, Sumire mused, it’d be the statue that would draw the short straw. Since in real life her father was a little too good-looking.

“I’d like to pick up where we left off yesterday,” Miu began, when they were on their second cup of espresso. “So, do you think you might want to work for me?”

Sumire was dying for a cigarette, but there weren’t any ashtrays. She made do with a sip of chilled Perrier. She answered honestly. “Well, what kind of work would it be, exactly? Like I said yesterday, except for some simple physical-labour-type jobs, I’ve never once had what you’d call a proper job. Plus I don’t have a thing to wear that would be appropriate. The clothes I had on at the reception I borrowed.”

Miu nodded, her expression unchanged. She must have anticipated this sort of response.

“I think I understand pretty much what sort of person you are,” she said, “and the work I have in mind shouldn’t give you any trouble. I’m sure you can handle whatever comes up. What really matters is whether or not you’d like to work with me. Just approach it that way, as a simple yes or no.”

Sumire chose her words carefully. “I’m really happy to hear you say that, but right now what’s most important for me is writing novels. I mean, that’s why I left college.”

Miu looked across the table straight at Sumire. Sumire sensed that quiet look on her skin and felt her face grow warm.

“Do you mind if I say exactly what’s on my mind?” Miu asked.

“Of course not. Go right ahead.”

“It might make you feel bad.”

To show she could handle it, Sumire pursed her lips and looked into Miu’s eyes.

“At this stage in your life I don’t think you’re going to write anything worthwhile, no matter how much time you put into your novels,” said Miu, calmly but firmly. “You’ve got the talent. I’m sure someday you’ll be an extraordinary writer. I’m not just saying this, I truly believe it. You have that natural ability within you. But now’s not the time. The strength you need to open that door isn’t quite there. Haven’t you ever felt that way?”

“Time and experience,” said Sumire, summing it up.

Miu smiled. “At any rate, come and work for me. That’s the best choice for you. And when you feel the time is right, don’t hesitate to chuck it all in and write novels to your heart’s content. You just need more time than the average person in order to reach that stage. So even if you get to 28 without any breaks coming your way, and your parents cut off your funds and you’re left without a penny, well—so what? Maybe you’ll go a little hungry, but that might be a good experience for a writer.”

Sumire opened her mouth, about to reply, but nothing emerged. She merely nodded.

Miu stretched out her right hand towards the middle of the table. “Let me see your hand,” she said.

Sumire reached out her right hand and Miu grasped it, as if enveloping it. Her palm was warm and smooth. “It’s not something you should worry about so much. Don’t look so glum. We’ll get along fine.”

Sumire gulped, but somehow managed to relax. With Miu gazing right at her like that, she felt as though she were steadily shrinking. Like a block of ice left out in the sun, she might very well disappear.

“Starting next week I’d like you to come to my office three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. You can start at 10 a.m., and you can leave at four. That way you’ll miss the rush hour. I can’t pay you much, but the work is easy, and you can read when there’s nothing to do. One condition is that you take private lessons in Italian twice a week. You already know Spanish, so it shouldn’t be too hard. And I’d like you to practise English conversation and driving whenever you have the time. Do you think you can do that?”

“I think so,” Sumire replied. Her voice sounded like it was somebody else’s coming from another room. No matter what I’m asked to do, no matter what I’m ordered to do, all I can do is say yes, she realized. Miu gazed steadily at Sumire, still holding her hand. Sumire could make out clearly her own figure reflected deep inside Miu’s dark eyes. It looked to her like her own soul being sucked into the other side of a mirror. Sumire loved that vision, and at the same time it frightened her.

Miu smiled, charming lines appearing at the corners of her eyes. “Let’s go to my place. There’s something I want to show you.”