‘They’re not all bad,’ Kaitarō said as Jinsei pulled open the curtain that separated the shop from the stairs to his apartment.
‘Good night, son.’
‘Good night, sir.’
Kaitarō made his way to the darkroom at the back of the store, checking the warning light out of habit to see if anyone was developing. Inside, he breathed in the familiar alkaline scent of the chemicals and removed his camera from his rucksack, ejecting a single roll of film. Then he flicked on the red safety light and beneath the ruby glow began to organise the equipment around him, turning on the tap in the corner for the water baths.
When the chemicals had been measured and set out, Kaitarō switched off the lights and began to unspool the film in his hands, winding it tightly onto the spiral reel, his fingers fluid and skillful. This was the part that he loved, the intimate, tactile nature of photography. Kaitarō’s eyes swiftly grew accustomed to the dark, the deep, rich blackness of it. He loved its silence. He could easily have outsourced this side of his work, but there were times when he liked to do it himself, when he needed to. There was something about bringing an image into focus and burning it onto a page that linked the man he was before, to who he was now in Tokyo.
With a metallic snip of the scissors he cut the film from the cassette and placed the loaded reel into the portable development tank, soaking it first in water to swell the gelatin. Turning on the red light once more he added the developing agent, agitating the tank from side to side in his hands and counting out the seconds, soothed by the familiar timings and rhythm, before tapping it sharply on the table in front of him to dispel any air bubbles. For a few moments he let the film sit, the tiny images within converting to latent silver. Then he drained the tank and added the stop bath, flooding the room with the scent of vinegar. Finally, he applied the fixer and began to agitate the film once more, thinking of all the photographs he had taken that day and how they would look once developed, when invisible silver halide finally transformed into pure black and white.
Once the film was rinsed and dry, Kaitarō selected a clip of five shots and stretched the images over an enlarger. He could see her now, Rina.
The photos were not evidence of any kind – they would not prove anything in court – but already Kaitarō had extracted his loupe from his pocket and was looking closely at the negatives. He knew which one he would print even through the shocking reverse of dark and light.
As he looked at her, picturing her face as it would soon appear, Kaitarō wondered if the lens had truly captured what he had seen as he watched her in the market: Rina in a dark dress pausing before a fruit stall; Rina suddenly smiling and tossing an apple into the air; Rina looking about her and listening, as though at any moment she might turn towards him.
Kaitarō selected the last shot and placed it in the enlarger, turning the dial until he had the size he wanted and the image was in focus. Then he placed the photographic paper on the baseboard and flicked on the white projector light for eight seconds.
Under the red glow of the safety light once more, Kaitarō lowered the slip of paper into a development bath. There was no image yet, but slowly, slowly, it emerged, darkening from the centre into sharp reality. He could see the curve of her cheek, a wisp of her hair as it blew in the wind. He lifted the paper out and transferred it to the stop solution and fixer, washing it next in a pure bath to ensure that the clear black and white of the image would not fade or yellow with time. Then he stood, swirling the picture beneath the water, looking at Rina through the ripples and waves.
Night Market
Rina browsed beneath the heat of the lamps. It was warm for spring and muggy. The stench of stagnant water from the pavement rose into the air along with the bittersweet scents of chargrilled squid and corn on the cob. She paused beside a toy stall selling multicoloured trolls with their bright puffs of hair and bought two, a purple one and a green one, for Sumiko’s collection. Yoshi had taken Sumi out for dinner so that Rina could have a break, but once she was alone she hadn’t known what to do with herself, so she’d come here, to the market. It appeared in Ebisu each year when the cherry blossoms began to flower, selling fast food and toys but also fruits and vegetables. That day there was a stall with special produce flown in from Gifu. Rina stopped in front of the display of nashi pears, their golden skins shining bright beneath the lamps. They were enormous and beautifully wrapped, each one placed in its own pouch of webbed Styrofoam. She was reaching into her purse, counting out the notes, when he approached her.
‘Excuse me. Do you know where I could find a good cheesecake?’
‘Cheesecake?’ Rina looked up. He was tall. Taller than the usual salaryman and slender, and there were crinkles around his eyes, perhaps from laughter. Rina smiled a little, fumbling with her purse.
‘I’m addicted,’ he replied.
Rina gestured to a stall behind her. ‘There are some over there,’ she said.
‘Are they any good?’
Rina considered this. ‘I’m not sure.’ She was aware that she was frowning as though this were a grave matter. ‘The slices don’t look right. I think the cream is too light.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Hmm,’ Rina nodded, biting back a smile.
‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ he asked, smiling with her.
‘I’m married.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘You do?’
‘Your wedding ring.’
‘Oh.’ Startled, Rina felt a flush of embarrassment creeping into her face. It must be clear that no one has approached her this way in quite some time.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I am happily married.’ When he didn’t turn away she added, ‘And I have a daughter.’
‘Well,’ he reached into his pocket for his card, ‘if you change your mind and ever want a coffee or a slice of cheesecake.’
She took it from him, nodding politely, but as her eyes glanced over his name, she felt the corners of her mouth curve up. ‘Son of the sea,’ she murmured.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your name,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Isn’t that what it means?’ She shook her head, embarrassed again; he must think her quite strange. ‘Sorry, I—’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s what it means.’ His eyes were warm and intent on her face as he considered her. ‘Not many people notice.’
‘Does it say a lot about you?’ Rina asked, emboldened in spite of herself. ‘What do you do, Kaitarō Nakamura?’ she asked.
‘Have coffee with me and I’ll tell you.’ He smiled again. ‘Go safely home.’
Rina watched him walk away through the crowds. He moved with grace, stepping around people. A cool breeze blew through the market. Rina looked at the cherry trees surrounding the square, their blossoms opening, turning from pale pink to white. There were blue plastic mats beneath the trees set out by avid blossom viewers. All around her, people were smiling, enjoying the picnics and celebrations of spring. Rina could feel the joy, the expectation in the air; she watched him turn towards the fast-food stalls and made her decision.
He was walking fast, perhaps a little embarrassed by her rejection. He had seemed nice, Rina thought, genuine and not at all pushy. She watched him pause by an onigiri stand and buy a rice snack from the vendor. He walked on as he ate, careful of the people around him, courteous. He wove through the women choosing vegetables, their arms laden with brightly coloured plastic bags, and around the teenagers eating deep-fried curry buns or chocolate bananas covered in sprinkles. He was stepping around a group of hawkers, nearing the edge of the market, when she quickened her pace.
‘Wait!’ she called. To her surprise, Kaitarō stopped and turned, almost as though he had been expecting her to come after him. But when his eyes met hers, she could see that he was shocked.
Rina felt her courage waver. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I do have time f
or a quick coffee, if you’d like?’ She smiled and stood in the wake of his silence. ‘I’m Rina,’ she said. ‘Rina Satō.’
She watched for a moment as the surprised expression on his face turned into something like distaste. He stepped away from her. ‘I think you should go home, Mrs Satō. Your first instincts were right.’
Rina frowned as he turned and swiftly walked away. She waited until he had reached the edge of the market and crossed the street, but he did not look back.
Sumiko
Evidence
My mother died at the end of my first year of school. It was March, on the last day of term before spring break. During my parents’ divorce, I had gone to live with Grandpa in Meguro. Mama came too initially, but after a time she left to find us a new apartment of our own. She was getting it ready for me, she said, and soon I could move in. We were only meant to be apart for a little while. She was very busy in those last weeks, I know, but she still made sure to see me every day. As I walked home from school with the other kids, beribboned badges on our hats signifying our routes so locals could help us if we got lost, I would think of her. I imagined her opening our gate with one hand and holding a plastic bag of steamed pork buns or some other treat for me in the other. Once at home, I looked out the window for her, staring down the driveway to the small white gate at its end, every day, until the day she died.
I scarcely remember the weeks that followed; they are hollow with a pain I have never known how to express. I know that I left Tokyo, that Hannae took me away to see some of her family in the south, but I do not recall much of it, as though after the loss of my mother my brain shut down and was unable to take in anything else. I know that Grandpa handled everything, that he didn’t want me exposed to the full horror of her death, but in a way this only made it more surreal and incomprehensible. For years I would ask him to tell me again how she died, why she had not come to meet me in Meguro as she had promised, and he would always say the same thing: a car accident on a busy road. When I was older, I asked him to show me the spot where it happened and he took me to Shinagawa. I had been told that my mother was the driver at fault, and as I stood staring at the curved stretch of motorway, I asked if anyone else had been hurt in the accident, but he said no, only her.
When Hannae and I returned to Tokyo, Grandpa thought it best that I go back to school as quickly as possible. In those weeks, he came to collect me himself. When he could not come he sent Hannae and she held my hand all the way home. I was not to go with anyone else, Grandpa told me, not even a friend. I was therefore surprised when my father walked into the classroom one day. I had not seen him since the divorce, and even before then, his mercurial presence in my life had always been rather sporadic. Like so many salarymen he worked long hours, he was rarely at home, and my school was certainly not his domain; it was yet another place where he was defined by his absence, by the groups my mother socialised with before and after their separation. Before it, she had chatted with the married mothers at school functions, and after it, she joined the single mothers who talked of having to be both ‘Mum and Dad’, who lifted their kids onto their own shoulders at Disneyland because there was no man to do it for them. I had only ever known Mama to lift me in any case.
My father took a while to locate me. His eyes scanned the circular tables and the children seated in the small blue chairs and he frowned when he could not find me, for I was not sitting at a table; I was standing in a corner of the room, alone.
That morning we had been given a test. It would evaluate how our minds worked, they told us. This exercise replaced our usual calligraphy lesson, and I had felt surprisingly energised and curious. We took our places at the tables, and I squirmed and fidgeted trying to get comfortable. I put my knees on the chair and knelt, leaning over my sheet of paper. I looked with interest at the other children, at the tests that would map out each of our minds, but I gasped as the teacher hauled me off my seat, lifting me by the hand. She accused me of cheating.
At the mid-morning break I was allowed to tidy the school with the others. We worked in pairs to sweep the halls and empty the bins before collecting our cups of juice from the canteen. Still people stared at me, and after the break I was told to stand in the corner once more. From that day on, rumours spread around the school that I was becoming a difficult child. It was my first experience of being judged.
I watched my father speak with the teacher and wondered if she had been the one to call him. I wondered if Grandpa knew how bad I had been. I had seen other parents of naughty children bowing repeatedly in such a manner, and I grimaced. My father glanced at where I was standing in the corner of the room and snapped his fingers at me, gesturing to my bag and coat. He did not speak as he led me outside to his car.
‘I wasn’t cheating,’ I whispered.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t cheat,’ I said more forcefully.
My father sighed and turned the car keys in the ignition. ‘Try to behave yourself, Sumiko.’
I was quiet as we drove through the city and into a residential area of low condominiuMs We stopped outside a large building with cream walls and brown glass windows. It reminded me of the place they took us for juku, the cram school I now attended so that I would get into the right secondary school. All the children I knew came to juku – we called it ‘Future Club’ – and every day we gathered together in the sports hall for the afternoon chant. We stood in rows, hundreds of us, red and white bandanas tied tight around our heads, shouting the same statement into the air: ‘I will get into Myonichi Gakuen!’ This gakuen was everyone’s goal, the best secondary school in Tokyo; the name means ‘School of Tomorrow’. And so inside a cavernous hall, throughout the year, we shouted every afternoon as though force of will is all it takes. What I learned is that people rely on reiterative ideas and statements; they ask the same questions and repeat the same thoughts, as though comfort might be found there.
My father entered the building and I followed closely behind him. A model of Peepo, the mascot for the Metropolitan Police force, stood on the main desk. Peepo is a tubby orange fairy from a family of orange fairies. He has large ears so he can listen to the populace, big eyes to see around every corner, and an antenna to sense the mood of the city. This one was stuffed and covered in felt. I was reaching up to touch him when the officer bowed to my father and opened a panel door in the main desk to let us through.
The room we were taken to contained a greyscale map of Tokyo that spanned one wall. Before he left, my father took me by the shoulders. ‘Just tell the truth, Sumiko.’ He looked at me closely, his hands gripping me hard through the cotton of my blouse. ‘The truth,’ he said.
Alone, I studied the map above my head, following the sprawl of the city as it spread over the bay, the skein of streets stretching out like a tracery of my mother’s palm. I wondered where she was on that map, where her body might be. When Grandpa first told me she was dead, I had refused to believe him. When I was not permitted to see her, this suspicion only grew, and it blossomed when Hannae and I went away and my mother’s funeral took place without me.
I started as the door to the room opened and I was joined by a woman in a white silk blouse and black skirt. She carried an oversized jacket stuffed with shoulder pads. Chunky gold earrings hung from her ears, and as she moved I smelled a sweet, cloying perfume that intensified and stuck in my throat.
The woman put her arm around me and smiled; she spoke in a high chivvying voice. She drew me towards a low table and placed a file in front of me. It was made of brown card and it contained pictures of my parents. She began to ask me about my mother. I moved away from her and sat cross-legged on the floor, but she joined me, awkward in her high heels. Had I met anyone new at my home? I shook my head. She began to ask me about my grandfather. Was he a good grandpa? Did I like living with him?
When I remained silent, she began to flick through the photographs. She showed me an apar
tment I did not know and a small bedroom, partially decorated and painted pink with a border of silver stars on the two finished walls. There was a single bed and a white bookshelf, empty except for a copy of Where the Wild Things Are; my mother used to read it to me when I was small, but I had not heard it for some time.
The woman showed me a photograph of a man I did not recognise and one of a man I did – he was a friend of my mother’s. She leaned towards me and the scent of her perfume struck up a throbbing pain in my head. I said nothing. I hated her.
After a time, the woman fetched some paper and crayons from a cupboard in the corner of the room and placed them before me, watching as I began to draw the things my mother had taught me: circles for faces, petals for orchids, the things her own mother had taught her. The woman knelt once more, looking at my drawings, but when I began to sketch the plants in our greenhouse in Shimoda, her impatience returned. She started to lay out the photographs again, one by one, asking me if I had seen the pink bedroom. In the end, she pulled out a final photograph of the man I recognised. He was standing next to my mother with an arm around her shoulders. She pointed at him, jabbing at his face with her manicured nail. ‘Do you know this man, Sumiko? Do you?’
I looked at the photograph, at the two of them smiling together with dabs of pink paint on their faces. I stared at the picture and wondered if my mother could truly be dead. It was hard to believe that she would leave me; indeed, I have always felt her with me, throughout my life. Always there, just out of reach. Grandpa took me to our family tomb and said that Mama was resting inside, but I could not imagine my vibrant mother in a ceramic jar, reduced to ash. The woman kept on asking, stabbing at the photo with her finger. Eventually, I pulled it into my mouth and bit her, feeling the crunch of flesh between my teeth.
I was left alone after that. They didn’t even move me to another room. A young woman came in with a glass of water and I asked if I could see my father, but she only smiled at me and left. As the afternoon drew on, I curled myself into a ball on the floor and thought of my mother. I remembered her voice and the very last time I had heard it. She had called me at the house in Meguro. She was speaking quickly over the phone, rushed and breathless, but still my mother.
What's Left of Me is Yours Page 4