Sputnik Sweetheart

7

The first thing I heard was a man’s deep voice in heavily accented English, spouting my name and then shouting, “I’ve reached the right person, yes?” I’d been fast asleep. My mind was a blank, a rice paddy in the middle of a rainstorm, and I couldn’t work out what was going on. The bed sheets still retained a faint memory of the afternoon’s lovemaking, and reality was one step out of line, a cardigan with the buttons done up wrong. The man spoke my name again. “I’ve reached the right person, yes?”

“Yes, you have,” I replied. It didn’t sound like my name, but there it was. For a while there was a crackle of static, as if two different air masses had collided. Must be Sumire making an overseas call from Greece, I imagined. I held the receiver away from my ear a bit, waiting for her voice to come on. But the voice I heard next wasn’t Sumire’s, but Miu’s.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about me from Sumire?”

“Yes, I have,” I answered.

Her voice on the phone line was distorted by some far-off, inorganic substance, but I could still sense the tension in it. Something rigid and hard flowed through the phone like clouds of dry ice and into my room, throwing me wide awake. I sat bolt upright in bed and adjusted my grip on the receiver.

“I have to talk quickly,” said Miu breathlessly. “I’m calling from a Greek island, and it’s next to impossible to get through to Tokyo—even when you do they cut you off. I tried so many times, and finally got through. So I’m going to skip formalities and get right to the point, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” I said.

”Can you come here?”

“By here, you mean Greece?”

“Yes. As soon as you possibly can.”

I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Did something happen to Sumire?”

A pause as Miu took in a breath. “I still don’t know. But I think she would want you to come here. I’m certain of it.”

“You think she would?”

“I can’t go into it over the phone. There’s no telling when we’ll be cut off, and besides, it’s a delicate sort of problem, and I’d much rather talk to you face to face. I’ll pay the return fare. Just come. The sooner the better. Just buy a ticket. First class, whatever you like.”

The new term at school began in ten days. I’d have to be back before then, but if I wanted to, a round trip to Greece wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. I was scheduled to go to school twice during the break to take care of some business, but I should be able to have somebody cover for me.

“I’m pretty sure I can come,” I said. “Yes, I think I can. But where exactly is it I’m supposed to go?”

She told me the name of the island. I wrote down what she said on the inside cover of a book next to my bed. It sounded vaguely familiar.

“You take a plane from Athens to Rhodes, then take a ferry. There are two ferries a day to the island, one in the morning and one in the evening. I’ll go down to the harbour whenever the ferries arrive. Will you come?”

“I think I’ll make it somehow. It’s just that I—” I started to say, and the line went dead. Suddenly, violently, like someone taking an axe to a rope. And again that awful static. Thinking we might be connected again, I sat there for a minute, phone against my ear, waiting, but all I heard was that grating noise. I hung up the phone and got out of bed. In the kitchen I had a glass of cold barley tea and leaned back against the fridge, trying to gather my thoughts.

Was I really going to get on a plane and fly all the way to Greece?

The answer was yes. I had no other choice.

I pulled a large world atlas down from my bookshelf to locate the island Miu had told me about. It was near Rhodes, she’d said, but it was no easy task to find it among the myriad islands that dotted the Aegean. Finally, though, I was able to spot, in tiny print, the name of the place I was looking for. A small island near the Turkish border. So small you couldn’t really tell its shape.

I pulled my passport out of a drawer and checked it was still valid. Next I gathered all the cash I had in the house and stuffed it in my wallet. It didn’t amount to much, but I could withdraw more from the bank in the morning. I had some money in a savings account and had barely touched my summer bonus. That and my credit card and I should be able to come up with enough for a return ticket to Greece. I packed some clothes in a vinyl gym bag and tossed in a toilet kit. And two Joseph Conrad novels I’d been meaning to re-read. I hesitated about packing my swimming trunks, but ended up taking them. Maybe I’d get there and whatever problem there was would be solved, everybody healthy and happy, the sun hanging peacefully in the sky, and I’d enjoy a leisurely swim or two before I had to come home—which of course would be the best outcome for everyone involved.

Those things taken care of, I turned out the light, sunk my head back on the pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. It was just past three, and I could still catch a few winks before morning. But I couldn’t sleep. Memories of that harsh static thrummed in my blood. Deep inside my head I could hear that man’s voice, barking out my name. I switched on the light, got out of bed again, went to the kitchen, brewed some iced tea, and drank it. Then I replayed the entire conversation I’d had with Miu, every word in order. Her words were vague, abstract, full of ambiguities. But there were two facts in what she told me. I wrote them both down on a memo pad.

1. Something has happened to Sumire. But Miu doesn’t know what it is.

2. I have to get there as soon as possible. Sumire, too, Miu thinks, wants me to do that.

I stared at the memo pad. And I underlined two phrases.

1. Something has happened to Sumire. But Miu doesn’t know what it is.

2. I have to get there as soon as possible. Sumire, too, Miu thinks, wants me to do that.

I couldn’t imagine what had happened to Sumire on that small Greek island. But I was sure it had to be something bad. The question was, how bad? Until morning there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I sat in my chair, feet up on the table, reading a book and waiting for the first light to show. It seemed to take forever.

At first light I boarded the Chuo Line to Shinjuku, hopped aboard the Narita Express, and arrived at the airport. At nine I made the rounds of airline ticket counters, only to learn that there weren’t any direct flights between Narita and Athens. After a bit of trial and error I booked a business-class seat on the KLM flight to Amsterdam. I’d be able to change there onto a flight to Athens. Then at Athens I’d take an Olympic Airways domestic flight to Rhodes. The KLM people made all the arrangements. As long as no problems arose, I should be able to make the two connections okay. It was the fastest way to get there. I had an open ticket for the return flight, and I could come back any time in the next three months. I paid by credit card. Any bags to check in? they asked me. No, I replied. I had time before my flight, so I ate breakfast at the airport restaurant. I withdrew some cash from an ATM and bought dollar traveller’s cheques. Next I bought a guidebook to Greece in the bookshop. The name of the island Miu told me wasn’t in the little book, but I did need to get some information about the country—the currency, the climate, the basics. Other than the history of ancient Greece and classical drama, there wasn’t much I knew about the place. About as much as I knew of the geography of Jupiter or the inner workings of a Ferrari’s cooling system. Not once in my life had I considered the possibility of going to Greece. At least not until 2 a.m. on that particular day.

Just before noon I phoned one of my fellow teachers. Something unfortunate happened to a relative of mine, I told her, I’ll be away from Tokyo for about a week, so I wonder if you’d take care of things at school until I get back. No problem, she replied. We’d helped each other out like this a number of times, it was no big deal. “Where are you going?” she asked me. “Shikoku,” I answered. I just couldn’t very well tell her I was heading off to Greece.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Anyway, make sure you get back in time for the start of the new term. And pick up a souvenir for me if you can, okay?”

“Of course,” I said. I’d work that one out later.

I went to the business-class lounge, lay back in a sofa, and dozed for a bit, an unsettled sleep. The world had lost all sense of reality. Colours were unnatural, details crude. The background was papier mache, the stars made out of aluminium foil. You could see the glue and the heads of the nails holding it all together. Airport announcements flitted in and out of my consciousness. “All passengers on Air France flight 275, bound for Paris.” In the midst of this illogical dream—or uncertain wakefulness—I thought about Sumire. Like some documentary of ages past, fragments sprang to mind of the times and places we’d shared. In the bustle of the airport, passengers dashing here and there, the world I shared with Sumire seemed shabby, helpless, uncertain. Neither of us knew anything that really mattered, nor did we have the ability to rectify that. There was nothing solid we could depend on. We were almost boundless zeros, just pitiful little beings swept from one kind of oblivion to another.

I woke in an unpleasant sweat, my shirt plastered to my chest. My body was listless, my legs swollen. I felt as if I’d swallowed an overcast sky. I must have looked pale. One of the lounge staff asked me, worriedly, if I was okay. “I’m all right,”

I replied, “the heat’s just getting to me.” Would you like something cold to drink? she asked. I thought for a moment and asked for a beer. She brought me a chilled facecloth, a Heineken, and a bag of salted peanuts. After wiping my sweaty face and drinking half the beer, I felt better. And I could sleep a little.

The flight left Narita just about on time, taking the polar route to Amsterdam. I wanted to sleep some more, so I had a couple of whiskys and when I woke up, had a little dinner. I didn’t have much of an appetite and skipped breakfast. I wanted to keep my mind a blank, so when I was awake I concentrated on reading Conrad.

In Amsterdam I changed planes, arrived in Athens, went to the domestic flight terminal, and, with barely a moment to spare, boarded the 727 bound for Rhodes. The plane was packed with an animated bunch of young people from every imaginable country. They were all tanned, dressed in T-shirts or tank tops and cut-off jeans. Most of the young men were growing beards (or maybe had forgotten to shave) and had dishevelled hair pulled back in ponytails. Dressed in beige slacks, a white short-sleeve polo shirt and dark-blue cotton jacket, I looked out of place. I’d even forgotten to bring any sunglasses. But who could blame me? Not too many hours before I had been in my apartment in Kunitachi, worrying about what I should do with my rubbish.

At Rhodes airport I asked at the information desk where I could catch the ferry to the island. It was at a harbour nearby. If I hurried, I might be able to make the evening ferry. “Isn’t it sold out sometimes?” I asked, just to be sure. The pointy-nosed woman of indeterminate age at the information counter frowned and waved her hand dismissively. “They can always make room for one more,” she replied. “It’s not an elevator.”

I hailed a taxi and headed to the harbour. “I’m in a hurry,” I told the driver, but he didn’t seem to catch my meaning. The cab didn’t have any air-conditioning, and a hot, dusty wind blew in the open window. All the while the taxi driver, in rough, sweaty English, ran on and on with some gloomy diatribe about the Euro. I made polite noises to show I was following, but I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I squinted at the bright Rhodes scenery passing by outside. The sky was cloudless, not a hint of rain. The sun baked the stone walls of the houses. A layer of dust covered the gnarled trees beside the road, and people sat in the shade of the trees or under open tents and gazed, almost silently, at the world. I began to wonder if I was in the right place. The gaudy signs in Greek letters, however, advertising cigarettes and ouzo and overflowing the road from the airport into town, told me that—sure enough—this was Greece.

The evening ferry was still in the port. It was bigger than I’d imagined. In the stern was a space for transporting cars, and two medium-sized lorries full of food and sundries and an old Peugeot sedan were already aboard, waiting for the ship to pull out of the port. I bought a ticket and got on, and I’d barely taken a seat on a deckchair when the line to the dock was untied and the engines roared into life. I sighed and looked up at the sky. All I could do now was wait for the ship to take me where I was going.

I removed my sweaty, dusty cotton jacket, folded it and stuffed it in my bag. It was 5 p.m., but the sun was still in the middle of the sky, the sunlight overpowering. The breeze blowing from the bow under the canvas awning wafted over me, and ever so slowly I began to feel calmer. The gloomy emotions that had swept through me in the lounge at Narita airport had disappeared. Though there was still a bitter aftertaste.

There were only a few tourists on board, so I guessed that the island I was heading for was not such a popular holiday spot. The vast majority of passengers were locals, mainly old people who’d taken care of business on Rhodes and were heading home. Their purchases lay carefully at their feet, like fragile animals. The old people’s faces were all deeply etched with wrinkles and deadpan, as if the overpowering sun and a lifetime of hard work had robbed them of all expression. There were also a few young soldiers on board. And two hippie travellers, heavy-looking backpacks in hand, sitting on the deck. Both with skinny legs and grim faces.

There was a teenage Greek girl, too, in a long skirt. She was lovely, with deep, dark eyes. Her long hair blew in the breeze as she chatted to her girlfriend. A gentle smile played around the corners of her mouth, as if something wonderful was about to occur. Her gold earrings glinted brightly in the sun. The young soldiers leaned against the deck railing, smoking, looking cool, throwing a quick glance in the girl’s direction from time to time.

I sipped a lemon soda I’d bought at the ferry’s canteen and gazed at the deep blue sea and the tiny islands floating by. Most were not so much islands as crags in the sea, completely deserted. White seabirds rested on the tip of the rocks, scanning the ocean for fish. They ignored our ship. Waves broke at the foot of the cliffs, creating a dazzling white border. Occasionally I spotted an inhabited island. Tough-looking trees grew all over it, and white-walled houses dotted the slopes. Brightly coloured boats bobbed in the inlet, their tall masts inscribing arcs as they rolled with the waves.

A wrinkled old man sitting next to me offered me a cigarette. Thank you, I smiled, waving my hand, but I don’t smoke. He proffered a stick of spearmint gum instead. I took it gratefully, and continued to gaze out to sea as I chewed.

It was after seven when the ferry reached the island. The blazing sun had passed its zenith, but the sky was as light as before, the summer light actually increasing in brilliance. As if on some huge nameplate, the name of the island was written in gigantic letters on the white walls of a building in the harbour. The ferry sidled up to the wharf, and one by one the passengers walked down the gangplank, luggage in hand. An open-air café faced the harbour, and people who’d come to meet the ship waited there until they recognized the people they were looking for.

As soon as I debarked I looked around for Miu. But there was no one around who might be her. Several owners of inns came up, asking me if I was looking for a place to stay for the night.

“No, I’m not,” I said each time, shaking my head. Even so, each one handed me a card before leaving.

The people who’d left the ship with me scattered in all directions. Shoppers trudged home, travellers went off to hotels and inns. As soon as the people who’d come to greet their returning friends spotted them, they hugged each other tightly or shook hands, and off they’d go. The two lorries and the Peugeot, too, were unloaded and roared off into the distance. Even the cats and dogs that had assembled out of curiosity were gone before long. The only ones left were a group of sunburned old folks with time on their hands. And me, gym bag in hand, thoroughly out of place.

I took a seat at the café and ordered an iced tea, wondering what I should do next. There wasn’t much I could do. Night was fast approaching, and I knew nothing about the island and the layout of the land. If nobody came after a while, I’d get a room somewhere and the next morning come back to the harbour, hopefully to meet with Miu. According to Sumiré, Miu was a methodical woman, so I couldn’t believe she’d stand me up. If she couldn’t make it to the harbour, there must be some very good explanation. Maybe she didn’t think I’d get here so quickly.

I was starving. A feeling of such extreme hunger I felt sure you could see through me. All the fresh sea air must have made my body realize it hadn’t had any nourishment since morning. I didn’t want to miss Miu, though, so I decided to wait some more in the cafe. Every so often a local would pass by and give me a curious glance.

At the kiosk next to the cafe I bought a small English pamphlet about the history and geography of the island. I leafed through it as I sipped the incredibly tasteless iced tea.

The island’s population ranged from 3,000 to 6,000, depending on the season. The population went up in the summer with the number of tourists, down in winter when people went elsewhere in search of work. The island had no industry to speak of, and agriculture was pretty limited—olives and a couple of varieties of fruit. And there was fishing and spongediving. Which is why, since the beginning of the twentieth century, most of the islanders had emigrated to America. The majority moved to Florida, where they could put their fishing and sponging skills to good use. There was even a town in Florida with the same name as the island.

On top of the hills was a military radar installation. Near the civilian harbour was a second, smaller harbour where military patrol ships docked. With the Turkish border nearby, the Greeks wanted to prevent illegal border crossings and smuggling, which is why there were soldiers in the town. Whenever there was a dispute with Turkey—in fact small-scale skirmishes often broke out—traffic in and out of the harbour picked up.

More than 2,000 years ago, when Greek civilization was at its peak, this island, situated along the main route to Asia, flourished as a trading centre. Back then the hills were still covered with green trees, put to good use by the thriving shipbuilding industry. When Greek civilization declined, though, and all the trees had been cut down (an abundant greenery never to return again), the island quickly slid downhill economically. Finally, the Turks came in. Their rule was draconian, according to the pamphlet. If something wasn’t to their liking, they’d lop off people’s ears and noses as easily as pruning trees. At the end of the nineteenth century, after countless bloody battles, the island finally won its independence from Turkey, and the blue-and-white Greek flag fluttered over the harbour. Next came Hitler. The Germans built a radar and weather station on top of the hills to monitor the nearby sea, since the hills provided the best possible view. An English bombing force from Malta bombed the station. It bombed the harbour as well as the hilltop, sinking a number of innocent fishing boats and killing some hapless fishermen. More Greeks died in the attack than did Germans, and some old-timers still bore a grudge over the incident.

Like most Greek islands there was little flat space here, it was mostly steep, unforgiving hills, with only one town along the shore, just south of the harbour. Far from the town was a beautiful, quiet beach, but to get to it you had to climb over a steep hill. The easily accessible places didn’t have such nice beaches, which might be one reason the number of tourists remained static. There were some Greek Orthodox monasteries up in the hills, but the monks led strictly observant lives, and casual visitors weren’t allowed. As far as I could tell from reading the pamphlet, this was a pretty typical Greek island. For some reason, though, Englishmen found the island particularly charming (the British are a bit eccentric) and, in their zeal for the place, built a colony of summer cottages on a rise near the harbour. In the late 1960s several British writers lived there and wrote their novels while gazing at the blue sea and the white clouds. Several of their works became critically acclaimed, resulting in the island garnering a reputation among the British literati as a romantic spot. As far as this notable aspect of their island’s culture was concerned, though, the local Greek inhabitants couldn’t have cared less.

I read all this to take my mind off how hungry I was. I closed the pamphlet and looked around me again. The old people in the café gazed unceasingly at the sea, as if they were contestants in a staring contest. It was already eight o’clock, and my hunger was turning into something close to physical pain. The smell of roast meat and grilled fish drifted over from somewhere and, like a good-natured torturer, seized me by the guts. I couldn’t endure it any more and stood up. Just as I picked up my bag and was about to start searching for a restaurant, a woman silently appeared before me.

The sun, finally sinking into the sea, shone directly on the woman, her knee-length white skirt rippling slightly as she strode down the stone steps. She wore small tennis shoes, and her legs were girlish. She had on a sleeveless light-green blouse, a narrow-brimmed hat and carried a small cloth shoulder bag. The way she walked was so natural, so ordinary, she blended into the scenery, and at first I took her for a local. But she was heading straight for me, and as she approached I could make out her Asian features. Half reflexively I sat down, then stood up again. The woman removed her sunglasses and spoke my name.

“Sorry I’m so late,” she said. “I had to go to the police station, and all the paperwork took a long time. And I never imagined you’d be here today. Tomorrow at noon at the earliest, I thought.”

“I managed to make all my connections,” I said. The police station?

Miu looked straight at me and smiled faintly. “If it’s all right with you, why don’t we go somewhere to eat and talk. I’ve only had breakfast today. How about you? Are you hungry?”

You’d better believe it, I replied.

She led me to a taverna on a side street near the harbour. There was a charcoal grill set up near the entrance and all kinds of fresh seafood cooking away on the iron grill. Do you like fish?

Asked Miu, and I said I did. She spoke to the waiter, ordering in broken Greek. First he brought a carafe of white wine, bread, and olives. Without any toasts or further ado, we poured ourselves some wine and started drinking. I ate some of the coarse bread and a few olives to ease my hunger pangs. Miu was beautiful. My first impression was of that clear and simple fact. No, maybe it wasn’t that clear or that simple. Maybe I was under some terrible mistaken impression. Maybe for some reason I’d been swallowed up in some other person’s unalterable dream. Thinking about it now, I can’t rule out that possibility. All I can say for sure is that at that moment I saw her as an extremely lovely woman.

She wore several rings on her slim fingers. One was a simple gold wedding band. While I tried hurriedly to arrange my first impressions of her in some kind of order, she gazed at me with gentle eyes, taking an occasional sip of wine.

“I feel like I’ve met you before,” she said. “Perhaps because I hear about you all the time.”

“Sumire’s told me a lot about you, too,” I said.

Miu beamed. When she smiled, and then only, charming small lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. “I guess we can forgo introductions, then.”

I nodded.

What I liked most about Miu was that she didn’t try to hide her age. According to Sumire, she must be 38 or 39. And indeed she looked that age. With her slim, tight figure, a little make-up and she’d easily pass for late twenties. But she didn’t make the effort. Miu let age naturally rise to the surface, accepted it for what it was, and made her peace with it.

Miu popped an olive into her mouth, grasped the pit with her fingers and, like a poet getting the punctuation just right, gracefully discarded it in an ashtray.

“I’m sorry to call you up like that in the middle of the night,” she said. “I wish I could have explained things better then, but I was too upset and didn’t know where to begin. I’m still not totally calm, but my initial confusion has settled a bit.”

“What in the world happened?” I asked.

Miu brought her hands together on the table, separated them, brought them together again. “Sumire has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Like smoke,” Miu said. She took a sip of wine.

She continued. “It’s a long story, so I think I’d better start at the beginning and tell it in the right order. Otherwise some of the nuances might not come through. The story itself is quite subtle. But let’s eat first. It’s not like each second counts right now, and it’s hard to think straight if you’re hungry. Also, it’s a bit too noisy to talk here.”

The restaurant was filled with Greeks gesturing and talking boisterously. So that we didn’t have to shout at each other, Miu and I leaned forward across the table, our heads close together as we talked. Presently the waiter brought over a heaping plate of Greek salad and a large grilled whitefish. Miu sprinkled some salt on the fish, squeezed out half a lemon, and dripped some olive oil onto her portion. I did the same. We concentrated on eating for a while. As she said, first things first. We needed to assuage our hunger.

How long could I stay here? she asked. “The new term begins in a week,” I replied, “so I have to be back by then. Otherwise things will be a bit sticky.” Miu gave a matter-of-fact nod. She pursed her lips and seemed to be working out something. She didn’t say anything predictable, like “Don’t worry, you’ll be back by then,” or “I wonder if things’ll be all settled by then.” She came to her own private conclusion, which she tucked away in a drawer, and silently went back to her meal.

After dinner, as we were having coffee, she broached the subject of the air fare. Would you mind taking the amount in dollar traveller’s cheques? she asked. Or else I could have the money transferred to your account in yen after you return to Tokyo. Which do you prefer? I’m not strapped for funds, I answered, I can pay it myself. But Miu insisted on paying. I’m the one who asked you to come, she said.

I shook my head. “It’s not like I’m being polite or anything. A little bit later on, and I probably would have come here of my own accord. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Miu gave it some thought and nodded. “I am very grateful to you. For coming here. I can’t tell you how much.”

When we left the restaurant, the sky was a brilliant splash of colours. The kind of air that felt like if you breathed it in, your lungs would be dyed the same shade of blue. Tiny stars began to twinkle. Barely able to wait for the long summer day to be over, the locals were out for an after-dinner stroll around the harbour. Families, couples, groups of friends. The gentle scent of the tide at the end of the day enveloped the streets. Miu and I walked through the town. The right side of the street was lined with shops, small hotels, and restaurants with tables set up on the pavement. Cosy yellow lights shone at small, wooden-shuttered windows, and Greek music filtered down from a radio. On the left side the sea spread out, dark waves placidly breaking on the wharves.

“In a while the road goes uphill,” Miu said. “We can either take some steep stairs or a gentle slope. The stairs are faster. Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t,” I answered.

Narrow stone stairs paralleled the slope of the hill. They were long and steep, but Miu’s trainer-clad feet showed no signs of tiring, and she never slackened her pace. The hem of her skirt just in front of me swished pleasantly from side to side, her tanned, shapely calves shone in the light of the almost full moon. I got winded first and had to stop to take some deep breaths. As we made our way up, the lights of the harbour became smaller and further away. All the activities of the people who’d been right beside me were absorbed into that anonymous line of lights. It was an impressive sight, something I wanted to cut out with scissors and pin to the wall of my memory.

The place where Miu and Sumire were staying was a small cottage with a veranda facing the sea. White walls and a redtiled roof, the door painted a deep green. A riot of red bougainvilleas overgrew the low stone wall that surrounded the house. She opened the unlocked door and invited me in. The cottage was pleasantly cool. There was a living room and a medium-sized dining room and kitchen. The walls were white stucco, with a couple of abstract paintings. In the living room there was a sofa and bookshelf, and a compact stereo. Two bedrooms and a small but clean-looking tiled bathroom. None of the furniture was very appealing, just cosy and lived in.

Miu took off her hat and laid her bag down on the kitchen worktop. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked. “Or would you like a shower first?”

“Think I’ll take a shower first,” I said.

I washed my hair and shaved. Blow-dried my hair and changed into a fresh T-shirt and shorts. Made me feel halfway back to normal. Below the mirror in the bathroom there were two toothbrushes, one blue, the other red. I wondered which was Sumire’s.

I went back into the living room and found Miu in an easy chair, brandy glass in hand. She invited me to join her, but what I really wanted was a cold beer. I got an Amstel beer from the fridge and poured it into a tall glass. Sunk deep in her chair, Miu was quiet for a long time. It didn’t look like she was trying to find the right words she wanted to say, rather that she was immersed in some personal memory, one without beginning and without end.

“How long have you been here?” I ventured.

“Today is the eighth day,” Miu said after thinking about it.

“And Sumire disappeared from here?”

“That’s right. Like I said before, just like smoke.”

“When did this happen?”

“At night, four days ago,” she said, looking around the room as if seeking a clue. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Sumire told me in her letters about going to Paris from Milan,” I said. “Then about taking the train to Burgundy. You stayed at your friend’s large estate house in a Burgundy village.”

“Well, then, I’ll pick up the story from there,” she said.