Grandpa taught me how to tend the bougainvillea and, year upon year, regardless of the rough cold air, the gnarled branches remained, bristling purple with a tiny white flower in each fluted cup. That last summer, when I walked out onto the grass, it had never occurred to me that there would come a time when my home, our land, and that view of the sea would no longer be mine.
I still go to Shimoda. I take the train and walk from the station up into the hills and through the forest. I can sense my mother there; I can feel her with me just beyond the curve of the trees. Still, when I venture down the slope to the bank where the treeline thins, I am brought back to reality. I look down at our house and I feel like a thief.
New people live there now. I am trespassing on them and on my own memories too. My grandfather’s greenhouse, built to grow strawberries in the winter months, is gone and instead there is only a plastic inflatable pool. The gardens and flower beds have been replaced by grass that is easily maintained. The old wooden veranda, which shaded the southern part of the house, has been torn up and the area is now laid with concrete and tiles. There is no bougainvillea. When I look up at the windows of my bedroom, I expect to see my tiger, Tora, waiting for me, but instead there are no toys at all. The people who live there know nothing of my family; they did not build our home, and they do not know what happened there. What was mine is mine no longer, and what was there is gone.
For the Child
What do you have left of your family? Memories, keepsakes, perhaps even home videos or, if you’re lucky, clips of loved ones on TV? I have only my Kodachrome slides and these tapes: reams of film, glossy and treacherous, like oil; recordings of a man who was charged with my mother’s murder. I have watched each interview repeatedly. What haunts me is the last one and the feeling that it was always going to lead to this.
When I first watched the opening moments of this tape, there was no outward sign of what was to come. The windowless walls of the interrogation room told me nothing. I could not even see what kind of day it was – fresh with a breeze rustling through the leaves, or wet beneath a sullen grey sky. I only knew that when Kaitarō came into the interrogation cell and sat before the camera, his demeanour was the same as it had been for every other recording.
Kaitarō had refused to sign the first confessions that were prepared for him by the police detectives, and there had been no sign of them since, but today when Prosecutor Kurosawa enters the room he carries a leather portfolio under his arm in addition to a newspaper. Kaitarō looks up and nods as though greeting an adversary whom one might, in other circumstances, quite like. His lips twist when he sees the folder and the confession within it, but by the end of the day he will look at it differently and he will do so under a new form of duress.
Kurosawa pulls a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket. He taps out one and then another and offers the first to Kaitarō, who lifts an eyebrow as though asking the price. Kurosawa sets the cigarette down in front of Kaitarō nonetheless and lights the other, taking a long, slow drag.
‘The press are out in force,’ he says after a moment, ‘foreign boys in particular.’
Kaitarō glances down at the cigarette and with a gentle flick of his finger rolls it back to Kurosawa.
‘Mr Sarashima has applied for custody of the child,’ the prosecutor remarks, sitting down. His posture like Kaitarō’s is relaxed and friendly. ‘Reporters approached him at home – luckily the child was away with the housekeeper at the time,’ Kurosawa says, ‘but now he’s had to pull her out of school.’
‘Will they go to Shimoda?’ Kaitarō asks.
Kurosawa pauses. ‘No,’ he says, eventually. ‘The house is for sale.’
‘I see,’ Kaitarō says softly.
‘Were you close to Mr Sarashima?’
Kaitarō considers this for a moment and then shakes his head. ‘Only one person was close to Yoshi.’
‘His daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he approve of your relationship?’
‘In the end.’
‘You did not care for him?’ Kurosawa presses. When Kaitarō does not reply, he changes tack. ‘What of the child? You knew her, you liked her?’
‘How is she?’ Kaitarō asks.
‘She has lost both her parents and she cannot live in her own home.’
Kaitarō swallows. He leans forward and places his palms flat on the table, looking down at his hands, his nails long, overgrown but clean.
‘The press would let up if we could proceed to trial.’
‘Really?’ Kaitarō asks. He is still looking down, though his voice contains a thread of levity, and I cannot tell if it is wry or indifferent, real or feigned.
‘Once I file the indictment, the trial will be expedited. Attention will move away from the family.’
‘You have your evidence.’
‘True.’ Kurosawa leans back in his chair.
‘She will be left alone?’
Kurosawa shrugs. ‘I cannot control the press, but media attention will shift, at least.’
‘And Sumiko?’
‘She will grow up with her grandfather.’
Kaitarō sits forward. ‘Has he told you what he plans to do?’
Kurosawa pauses for a moment, as though deciding how much the information is worth to Kaitarō. Eventually he says: ‘He has found a new school and will change her surname.’
‘To Sarashima?’
‘Yes.’
‘He gave this to me,’ Kurosawa says, reaching into his portfolio and drawing out a photograph. He offers it to Kaitarō, who takes it in both hands. For a second I cannot breathe as I realise it is a picture of me. Very gently, Kaitarō lays the photograph down on the table in front of him, his forefingers resting against each side of my face. I am six years old, dressed in my uniform for my first day of school. I look very neat and very small. Yet, despite all the formality, you can still see the excitement in my eyes, the brightness of my smile and I am suddenly sure who the photographer is, that I am looking at my mother.
Kaitarō’s finger traces the curve of my cheek, coming to rest at the dimple at the corner of my mouth. ‘Rina kept a copy in her wallet,’ he says. ‘She was never without it.’
‘This is not just about you,’ Kurosawa says pointedly, watching as Kaitarō’s face lifts, suffused with rage and pain.
‘What do you need?’
Kurosawa reaches for the leather portfolio on the table between them and draws out a thick sheaf of papers bound with a large clip. This confession is much lengthier than the ones Kaitarō first rejected. Kurosawa places an ink pad and pen next to the papers on the table.
Kaitarō takes a deep breath. ‘One of your flunkies write that?’
‘No, I did.’ Kurosawa keeps his eyes on Kaitarō’s face. ‘I referenced the tapes,’ he says. ‘Do you want to read it?’
Kaitarō sits still, thinking. He looks at the papers lying on the table and then he gestures for a pen. ‘I trust you,’ he says.
In silence, Kurosawa slides the papers towards him and Kaitarō signs where he is told. As he reaches for the pad of ink so that he can mark the final page with his fingerprints, Kurosawa offers him another cigarette. Very deliberately, Kaitarō shakes his head.
‘You really don’t want one?’
‘I quit,’ he says.
‘When?’ Kurosawa asks.
‘A year ago.’
‘For her?’
‘Yes,’ Kaitarō says. ‘For Rina.’
If I close my eyes, I can still see Kaitarō’s hands on my photograph, the ink pad beside him and his fingerprints on the paper, the characters of his signature. If I cover my ears, his voice remains in the darkness. From the very first moment I heard them his words stayed with me, swirling in my head: the intimacy with which he spoke about me, the softness of his voice as he said my mother’s name, th
e confidence when he spoke of our holiday home, Washikura. He refers to it by the shorthand ‘Shimoda’, as did my mother and as do I. He knew so much about us, was almost one of us. I remember the way he spoke about my grandfather. He called him ‘Yoshi’, not Mr Sarashima. ‘Yoshi’ – as though he had the right. As I sat in my bedroom with the screen flickering before me, I realised that my grandfather too had had a complex relationship with Kaitarō Nakamura, and that the answers I sought would not be found in the defence file or in the study or anywhere in my home in Meguro.
An Eye for an Eye
The road leading to Grandpa’s office was broad and quiet. There were several buildings on the way, squat business centres with floors rented out to accounting firms, but it was also a residential area, a slower environment for the practise of law than the glass-towered firms in Roppongi, where I had been offered a position. As I walked, I looked up at the trees lining the pavement. The leaves were motionless in the heavy summer air and it was quiet, very near dusk. The sky grew hazy in the twilight, that point in the evening that mirrors the dawn, and I could almost see my grandfather arriving at the office – an old man on his bicycle, the walking stick he now reluctantly used secured in the basket. The man who had raised me. And suddenly I was grateful that he was far away, where what I was about to do could not yet hurt him.
I buzzed the intercom and took the lift to the first floor. Walking through the open pool of secretaries, I stopped beside my grandfather’s PA, Auntie Yuka, who had joined the firm when I was twelve. She was seated in a small cubicle beside his office. ‘Sumichan!’ she exclaimed when she saw me. ‘Congratulations on your offer from Nomura & Higashino.’ I smiled and nodded, taking her outstretched hand. ‘Your grandfather told me before he went to Hakone. He is so proud of you.’ She beamed at me and patted my arm, squeezing it affectionately. I gave her a small smile in return.
‘Such a good girl! We are all so pleased.’
I bowed and thanked her once more, looking around at the office that I had visited so often as a child.
‘Auntie,’ I said, ‘Grandpa has sent me to collect some documents for him. He wishes to look over some paperwork once he returns.’
‘Of course, dear,’ she replied, taking the keys to his office out of her desk drawer. ‘I wish you would tell him not to work so hard. Do you know he keeps calling in for his messages?’ I nodded, murmuring something about stubbornness, and she patted my arm again. ‘He will slow down when you join us here after your time at Nomura. We are counting on you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, accepting the keys. My hand was on the door handle of Grandpa’s office and I was about to push inside when she called to me again. ‘Sumichan, would you like me to bring you some tea? Oh – how was your talk at Tōdai?’
‘It went well!’ I said, shameless now. ‘Please, I should hurry—’
‘Of course, dear! You must have so much to do before you start at Nomura. . . .’ She was still talking as I bowed once, and then twice, and shut the door.
Once inside, I breathed in the familiar scent of the office, cedarwood and sawdust and a hint of the lemon that Grandpa liked to drink with black tea. His tea service stood on the lacquer bureau: a Tokoname ware ceramic pot with a set of cups on a fitted tray – no vending machine here. The ikebana of lotus leaves and lilies by the window was elegant and fresh, replaced every three days. Nothing was neglected, even in his absence.
I walked past his desk and headed for the cabinets and drawers to the far right of the room, shielded by a tall ebony screen. All professional work was locked away in the firm’s storage library on the third floor, but this was where Yoshi filed his personal cases. Any material he would have collected on the death of my mother and the man who killed her would be there.
Under my mother’s name, I found my parents’ divorce registration form and a copy of the settlement with their signatures and personal seals at the bottom. It detailed a gift of the Ebisu apartment and a further transfer of funds to my father. In the same file, dated several months later, was the sales agreement for our home in Shimoda, along with an advertisement that was featured in the local papers and run by estate agents: A rare find! Unmodernised seaside home held by the same family for the last eighty years. Bargain price. I glanced once more at the date and saw that this ad had been placed while Kaitarō Nakamura was still in police custody. At the very back of the file was an envelope, yellowed with age. My mother liked to seal her envelopes with stickers, even private documents that she kept for herself. She favoured cranes – this one showed a bird in flight – now torn in two. I stood and traced the ragged edges of the sticker with my fingertips.
It took me a while to find Grandpa’s notes on the trial. The papers were filed under ‘Tokyo District Court’, as though my grandfather had only been able to associate my mother’s death with an instrument of justice. I took these to his desk along with the small yellow envelope and opened both.
What I discovered is hard to tell. I learned that the sale of my home in Shimoda was because of Kaitarō Nakamura. I learned that my grandfather had never come to terms with my mother’s death or his role in it. I learned that he would hunt her killer to the very end of life in order to extract the ultimate price, an eye for an eye.
Yoshi
1994
Yoshi pushed aside the sliding screen and stepped into the dining room of Washikura. Before him was a large table in the western style, commissioned at Rina’s birth. Slowly, he ran his fingertips over the maple wood. He loved its texture and variety, shards of gold mixed with stripes of deep brown and there were hints of charcoal at the edges, as though the tree itself had been singed. Slowly, he slid his hand across the oiled surface and paused over a knot in the wood, a walnut-shaped whirl, a mark of its age.
He used to talk to Rina here. She preferred this room to his study, and even as a little girl he would find her sitting at this table, looking out to sea, with her books and pencils laid out before her. It was here that she told him she had finally decided to leave her law degree. Here that they argued again and she had explained her choice. He could still hear her words, see her pacing before the window. She thought best on her feet, as he did.
People will always need photographs, she said. In the future, whatever the changes in technology, pictures will still exist and people will treasure them. This is what I love. Don’t you want that for me? Looking at her, so bright and purposeful, Yoshi realised that he wanted what she wanted. Now she was gone and he had only the echo of their words around him.
It was at this table too that he had first confronted her about Kaitarō. It was during the summer – the last summer they had spent together in this house. Sumi had gone out to play in the garden and Rina, perhaps sensing the opportunity for time alone, had been making herself some tea. She was coming out of the kitchen when Yoshi intercepted her. She halted, cup in hand, and wrapped the edges of her cardigan around herself. Yoshi gestured to the dining room and, reluctantly, she followed him. They sat in silence for a few moments with only their thoughts between them. ‘You’ve been meeting someone,’ he said finally. Rina unclenched her hands from her steaming cup of tea and looked at him. Her expression was calm and resolute. ‘Just a couple of trips, it’s nothing.’
‘Please be careful,’ he said, but she raised a hand to stop him. Yoshi watched as she rose from her chair. He remembered the rigidity of her stance and also, incongruously, her feet encased in white socks. It was the socks that stayed with him. She was a young woman, a mother, but still his girl, always his girl. ‘He is just a friend,’ she said, her voice firm but not convincing. Yoshi pressed his lips together and tried not to reply, but in the end he was unable to restrain himself. ‘You have not introduced him to Sumiko, have you? You’ve not brought him here?’ he asked. When she did not answer he looked up at her. ‘No, Dad,’ she said then, ‘not here.’ She moved towards the door and as she passed him he felt her hand on his shoulder,
the warmth of it spreading through to his skin. ‘I promise,’ she said. Now she was gone and this house was all he had left of her, one space alone that remained inviolate.
Yoshi sat at the table for a long while. It was some time before he could rise. There were moments when he thought he might never get over the loss of her. He felt it in his body’s resistance to life. His joints ached in the morning and he could not rise smoothly from his bed. He also knew that he was getting older, could feel in his bones that he was not young enough to be a father again, yet that was what he had to be: for Sumiko.
Out in the hall, Yoshi picked up his small suitcase and took it into his bedroom to unpack his things. He would stay for a few days and then send for Sumi. Hannae had taken her away to visit some relatives – to keep her away from the horror of everything and get her out of Tokyo, but now it would be good for them to be together here, in Shimoda. In the meantime, he would rest and try to find some peace; if he could not sleep at night, he would listen to the roll of the waves on the foreshore, the sound of the sea.
In the freezer Yoshi found frozen white salt-fish. He left it out to defrost and put a cup of rice into the rice cooker. He would light the wood burner in the living room and eat his supper in front of the fire. It was spring but the nights were still cold, and outside the skies were cloudy too, so not even the moonlight shone through to illuminate the darkness.
He placed the kettle on the hob and when the water had boiled he poured it into the small clay teapot to warm it. He prepared a light sauce of soy, mirin and spring onions and steamed the fish. It was a basic meal, like the kind his father made when his mother was away and they’d had to survive as men together. When he was alone and low, it was what he liked best. When Sumiko was ready for university, he would teach it to her.
What's Left of Me is Yours Page 22