Kaitarō smiled. ‘Not everything good comes from a house near the sea with three square rooms and a corridor kitchen.’
She shrugged and bit into a sweet.
‘What is she like, your city girl?’ she asked.
‘She’s thoughtful,’ Kaitarō said. ‘Strong. A photographer. She has a daughter.’
‘Is she beautiful?’
‘Yes, she’s beautiful.’
Megumi nodded and played with her hair, stretching out the strands between her fingers.
‘When does she arrive?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘How long will you stay?’
‘I only want to show her a few things.’
‘Do you want to have dinner with Tsuji and me?’
‘No, thank you, I—’
‘I’m glad,’ she said with a quiet smile.
‘You’d like her, Megu, really you would.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Perhaps we could have tea instead?’ Kaitarō suggested.
‘I’ll meet her sometime; it’s a small place, our home.’ She grinned at him then, knowing how he felt about it.
‘I am pleased for you and Tsuji,’ he said. ‘Where are you living now?’
‘We have a cottage by the pier. I love it,’ she admitted, and she smiled at him freely this time.
‘It’s not the one you used to point out to me?’
‘It is actually.’ She was laughing. ‘Tsuji built a porch around it.’ She smiled again as she spoke of her husband, her lipstick all gone. ‘In the summer evenings, we have tea out there.’
‘It sounds idyllic.’
‘It is. For me, it is,’ she said.
‘Shall I call for the bill?’
‘No, no, they’ll put it on my tab.’
‘But Megu—’
‘I insist. You are my guest.’
They gathered up their coats and left the shop.
‘I meant to ask, do you have children?’ Kaitarō asked, grinning at her and buttoning up his coat as they walked along the beach road.
‘No.’ Megumi stopped on the path. ‘We can’t have children.’
Kaitarō paused, awkward in the silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, trying to recapture the ease they’d just had with each other. ‘But you are happy, Megu?’
‘I am,’ she said. The kindness he had seen when she’d looked in at him through the window was there again in her gaze, rueful, but there. She squeezed his hand. ‘I want you to be happy too, Kai.’
‘You know, I just might be,’ he said, smiling at her.
‘Good!’ Her answer was bright, like when they were kids. ‘I’ll see you,’ she said, and she walked away from him then, down the coastal road around the curve of the bay, her green umbrella swinging like a benediction. There was no way, he thought, that he could thank her.
Last Love
Sapporo as they approached it from the air was not as she expected it to be. When the plane had begun its descent, flying low over Hokkaido, Rina had looked down eager to see the land of black bears, vast ice plains and winter breweries. But the island’s capital was just another city; it sprawled, grey and crowded, tapering into fingers of suburbs to the north and southwest. Unlike the view from Haneda, however, where the vastness of Tokyo stretched to the horizon, Sapporo petered out, giving way to flat plains and pine forests bristling green in the mist.
In the baggage claim, she scanned the people in the hall, looking for him. As she waited, she tightened the rainbow wool scarf around her neck and pulled it down into her coat, breathing in the scent of her daughter. Sumi had been standing by the door in Meguro just before Rina left for the airport. Yoshi nodded farewell, but he did not reach for her. Sumi, however, had tugged her down for a cuddle and given her the scarf. ‘To keep you warm,’ she had whispered, as Rina knelt before her. Then she’d pressed a small Care Bear into Rina’s hand. ‘He’ll enjoy a trip,’ she said, and Rina had laughed, holding her daughter tight. ‘I’ll be back in a few days, okay? This is important.’ Sumiko nodded as Yoshi moved to stand beside her and took her hand. ‘You’ll miss your flight,’ he said.
Now as she waited beside her bags, her family seemed far away. The minutes lengthened as she stood by herself. Then, at last, she saw him. He was walking towards her, a satchel slung over his shoulder. So strange, she thought, that she had not sensed him this time, nor seen him out of the corner of her eye, but he was walking straight towards her – openly now – and when they met in the centre of the concourse, the light in his eyes was something to see. ‘Rina,’ he said, looking at her, smiling before his lips touched hers, taking his time, savouring the fact that they could now kiss in public. Rina’s hands came up to brush through his hair, and at the feel of him, the warmth of him against her, she smiled.
They drove north along the coast road, the ice of the sea breeze kept at bay by the sporadic gusts emanating from the car’s heater. They drove for about two hours, past the river of Rumoi and the port there, finally stopping amid a small cluster of houses around a bay. Rina unbuckled her seat belt and turned to look around. There was a local store behind them and farther down the road, a café. Finally, she turned to Kaitarō to see him watching the small bungalow to their right. A grey trickle of smoke crept from its one chimney.
‘She’s in,’ he said, turning the key in the ignition and waiting for the sound of the engine to fade.
For a moment, Rina put her hand on his arm. ‘Can you believe we’re here, Kai? Did you think we’d make it?’
‘I hoped,’ he said with a quiet smile. ‘You scared me for a while there.’
‘Good!’ Rina said, picking up her handbag and getting out of the car. She grinned as she came to join him.
‘I’m nervous,’ she said, glancing at the house. The blinds were drawn and nothing of the interior could be seen.
‘Don’t be.’ Kaitarō tucked her hand into his arm and drew her to him. ‘We’re together.’
His mother was silent as she let them in. She bowed low to Rina and took her coat, offering her some guest slippers. Rina bowed too, peering covertly at the house. It was small as he’d said, and very dark because of the drawn blinds. Mrs Nakamura walked over to the windows and pulled on the strings, letting in the light. The wintry glow of the afternoon highlighted her hair, wisps of it emerging from her bun, and the neck of the housecoat she wore over her trousers. She had been asleep when they rang the bell, Rina thought, as she followed her into Kaitarō’s room, past the kitchen where the window still facing the sea was now clear of all pots and plants.
Rina stood in front of that window later. There was a bowl of cold water before her and she was rinsing the rice that had settled at the bottom, swirling the grains until the water grew cloudy with starch. Mrs Nakamura stood beside her and said little as they worked, though she glanced occasionally at Rina out of the corner of her eye, monitoring her progress. Rina smiled. She hoped her technique would win approval; it felt good to be standing in Kaitarō’s home with his mother, making rice for their family.
They would clearly have a feast that evening, for the array of autumn produce on the kitchen counter was beautiful to behold. Rina said so, gesturing at the fat matsutake mushrooms, a pumpkin, and a fillet of salmon so fresh and wild that its flesh was a deep red. She was rewarded with a small nod and handed a delicate green kabosu so she could scratch the skin of the citrus and smell its zest. There would be grilled matsutake seasoned with the kabosu, she was told, salmon nabe, glazed pumpkin, and sticky rice. Rina smiled so widely that her excitement thawed Kaitarō’s mother a little more, and she invited Rina to call her by her first name, Shinobu.
They ate together that night beside the heater in the central room at a low table with blankets on their laps. Gradually, Shinobu began to speak a little more about herself, and Rina took great pleasure in the smiles she directed at he
r son. Kaitarō relaxed too, the tension easing from the set of his shoulders, now that they were all together in his home. Rina said little in the beginning, but then she began to join in the storeys, talking of Sumiko and Tokyo. Eventually, Kaitarō began to tell his mother about the life they planned together, and in this he spoke for them both.
When they were having tea, Rina went to her suitcase to fetch the present she had brought with her. Sitting down on the floor with them and wrapping the blanket once more around her legs, she lifted the box and presented it formally. ‘It is not new,’ she said, ‘but I brought it from home.’ Rina watched, anxious and excited as the wrapping was set aside to reveal an antique miso bowl. ‘It belonged to my mother,’ Rina said, watching as Shinobu smiled.
Very slowly the older woman lifted the blanket around her knees and rose to her feet. ‘I have something for you too,’ she said. ‘Well, for both of you.’ She went into her bedroom and returned with a key; it had a little plastic label hanging from its ring. ‘This belonged to Kaitarō’s uncle,’ she said, joining them again. ‘He left it to me when he died. It’s the key to the shed he used as his darkroom.’ She smiled slightly. ‘It meant a lot to Kai when he lived here. Perhaps he will show it to you.’ Kaitarō reached out and took the key, holding it in the hollow of his palm. Then he turned to his mother and squeezed her hand.
‘When did your father die?’ Rina asked as they walked along the sea road the next day.
‘A couple of years ago.’
‘And how is she?’ Rina hesitated. ‘Without him?’
‘She told me he mellowed towards the end.’ Kaitarō walked quickly, drawing her along the bay towards the café and dock where the fishermen were already sorting out the day’s catch. ‘I can’t believe he was the first to go,’ he murmured. ‘I always thought—’
‘I can imagine,’ Rina said. ‘Is it true?’ she asked. ‘That he mellowed?’
‘She said that to comfort me.’
Rina paused on the path; she wanted to ask more, but they had reached the sea and Kaitarō was already calling out to the younger men by the boats. Some of the older ones turned too and nodded at Kaitarō as he approached them and began to haggle over the catch.
‘What are you doing?’ Rina asked when he returned to her, his hands full of plastic bags wet with fish.
‘Cooking you lunch,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
They stopped to pick up some yuzu, kindling, and other bits at the local shop. Rina hung back in the aisles, taking in the familiar rows of ingredients; the shop even had conbini bentos in the large fridge to the side. Every now and then she caught someone looking at her, but she just smiled and turned away. Eventually, she went outside to wait, looking down the road, past the fishermen and their boats to the wide flat expanse of the shore stretching down to the sea. In that moment aerated bales, like grounded clouds, chased each other across the beach – foam from the deep seas whipped up with plankton and sand.
‘We’re going over there,’ Kaitarō said, pointing towards the wet plains and the crashing surf.
‘It will be freezing!’
‘It will be worth it, I promise.’
Rina frowned at him as they stepped out onto the street, feeling the grit of the salt someone had spread on the walkway. The path was certainly slippery in parts, and the frigid wind blew straight off the sea and into her face. ‘I want to get back to Sumiko in one piece!’ she squealed.
‘You will,’ Kaitarō said, taking her hand with a smile. ‘Come on, wild Hokkaido girl.’
Rina grimaced as they left the road and began to walk out across the sands.
‘There’s a cove not far ahead.’
In the end he was right; the rocks sheltered them from the cold, and among them was the entrance to a cave where the winds could not reach them. Inside was an old metal grill set against the wall, wrapped in a tarp.
‘It’s communal,’ Kaitarō said as he joined her at the mouth of the cave.
Rina watched as Kaitarō unwrapped the grill and cleared the old fire pit, digging out the ashes. He built the fire up slowly using the tarp as a shield, arranging the wood shavings and twigs he had bought at the shop. Eventually, he placed the grill beside the flames. Then he took a board and knife out of his backpack and set out the bags of produce, shrimp, and a whole fish with a speckled olive skin whose name Rina did not know.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Kaitarō said, picking up the knife and seafood and walking down to the sea. A little anxious about the fate of their lunch, Rina watched him, but soon she smiled, admiring his skill as he slit the belly of the fish open as though slicing down an invisible seam, deftly clearing out the dark red and maroon innards and washing the blood away in the water. Beyond him, the sun began to set on that short winter afternoon and the squid fishermen lit the lamps on their boats, their lights dotting the horizon.
The fire was burning steadily when Kaitarō returned, and a breeze prodded the flames, bending them for a millisecond and flicking them straight again. As the light began to fade, shards of wood broke away, smouldering into embers at the bottom of the pit. He’d bought a number of things while haggling, including the sweet shrimp that were in season now in the far north. She had seen pictures of them, but the ones before her were enormous, a full hand span at least, pale orange tinged with red, and so plump and meaty she could already imagine their intense flavour when roasted. Rina’s stomach rumbled as Kaitarō peeled the rind of a yuzu with his knife and threaded some of the prawns onto skewers before draping them with strips of knobby yellow peel. He did the same with the translucent chunks of fish. Rina watched transfixed as he worked. She was wondering about the fish, about what it was, when he told her – a wild halibut. She had tried some in Tokyo, but when he handed her a skewer she was amazed. It had never tasted like this, so rich and firm in her mouth, oozing with sweet liquor, which combined with the oils from the yuzu was slightly singed and bitter on her tongue. In delight, Rina sucked the juice off her fingers and then bit into the prawns, savouring the rich umami. They were extraordinary, these skills of his, and so straightforward too, natural.
By the heat of the fire, he shed his jacket, leaving only the thick weave of his jumper and his scarf. Both were unfamiliar to her; he must have taken them from his room at home. She couldn’t imagine him wearing them in Tokyo, but they suited him here, in this rough and elemental place. There were crabs in his bag, still live, and he had placed his coat on top of them. ‘I’ll cook them when we get home,’ he said, though she hadn’t asked. Smiling to herself, Rina revelled in this side of him, this man who could cook crab and probably lobster too, who knew the tides year-round and where to place the oyster nets in the spring. He seemed at ease here, and he became more so as Rina devoured the fish because it was so good, so fresh, only hours old. Eventually, they cuddled together, never quite warm but replete, sitting close.
‘You will have to do this for Sumi,’ she said after a while.
He looked down at her, nestled in his arMs
‘In Tokyo?’
‘In Shimoda on the beach by our house. Or we can bring her here? She would like it,’ Rina mused. ‘She’s a real little savage.’
‘Like her mother,’ Kaitarō said, leaning down to kiss her.
‘Like her father,’ Rina replied, ‘who will teach her to fish.’
Rina smiled at the strength of the emotion on his face; it matched her own. ‘If you’ll have us,’ she said. He pressed her down onto the rocky floor of the cave and kissed and kissed her. Beyond them, at the far end of the beach, the tide had turned, laying bare a stretch of fine shingle where a lone sandpiper lingered, looking for food.
part four
Be bad, but don’t be a liar.
– Tolstoy
Sumiko
Shimoda
There are constants in your life whose significance you don’t realise until they’re gone
. Our home in Shimoda was like that for me; it was the last thing I expected to lose. For so many years that house had been at the centre of my family, a site of love and happiness. I thought of all who had lived there and what it had meant to them. As I grew up I wondered about the storeys in its walls; echoes audible only to those now deep underground.
What I remember most vividly is not a picture or a person, but a sound. The sound of the clock in the living room chiming the hour. When Grandpa went down to Washikura alone, I would phone him from Tokyo. Each time I did so I would listen very carefully. I could hear the soft timbre of Grandpa’s voice. If the window was open there would be the faint cheeping of birds, and through it all the clock would chime, slow musical notes. I am told this is the sound of Big Ben, the largest clock in the world, but for me it is Shimoda. From the dust and smog of Tokyo, when I heard that clock down the telephone I could see the gleaming teak floors of our home; I could feel the warmth of the sun shining into the living room. I could even picture the ocean just beyond the edge of our garden, the light catching on the waves, the ocean I had lived beside all of my life. The sound of the clock would drown out what Grandpa was saying, but for those few seconds the words themselves didn’t matter; it was as though I were there with him, in the heart of our home, listening.
There are other things I remember. On summer mornings, when I slept late and came downstairs to find that everyone had gone out into the garden, I would stand barefoot on the pink linoleum of the kitchen, a cup of hot Milo in my hands, and look out across the lawn sloping down to the cliff’s edge. I watched the sun rise high up over the ocean, illuminating the south arm – a finger of molten lava that had poured down into the sea, and the tiny white lighthouse that stood at its tip.
Some days the water was charcoal-grey and choppy, heralding a coming storm. But sometimes, in bright sunlight, as I followed the path of my grandmother’s bougainvillea around the veranda of the house, the white clouds on the horizon would darken and roll inland as mist, and the wind would carry with it the salt of the sea.
What's Left of Me is Yours Page 21