The Perfect World of Miwako Sumida

by Clarissa Goenawan

  “Then you should’ve gone to the police, especially after I tracked him down. But no, you would never do that. You shouldn’t take pity on people like him. He didn’t care about you. He never loved you. He only saw you as a source of income, just wanted your money. A man like him—”

  I felt Miwako’s hand on mine.

  “That’s enough,” she said in a soft voice.

  Next to her, my sister was silent.

  I stood up. “I’m done. Thank you for lunch.”

  Miwako and I finished painting the base coat way past dinnertime. I treated her to supper at a nearby yakitori stall, where we ate way too many grilled chicken skewers. After that, we returned to the studio to tidy up.

  My sister told me to walk Miwako home. Miwako didn’t want me to at first, but Fumi-nee insisted.

  “It’s not for you. It’s for me,” she said to Miwako. “It’s late, and I want to make sure the young girl I’ve employed gets home safely. If you say no, I can’t in good conscience hire you. Do you still want to work here after today?”

  “Of course I do.”

  My sister kept her word and officially took on Miwako as an assistant. The only casualties of the day were Miwako’s tank top and skirt, which were covered in white paint.

  “It’s okay, I bought them on sale in Shinjuku,” she told me when I walked her home. “And if you look at them from a certain angle, don’t you think the paint spots look a little deliberate?”

  I shook my head. No one would think that. “If you want, I can paint something to match the paint spots,” I said. “But I’m not as good as my sister. No promises on how it’ll end up looking.”

  “It will be fine. I trust you.”

  I trust you. Her words made me ache.

  “What do you even need the money for?” I asked. “You’re not in debt to a bunch of loan sharks or something, are you?”

  Miwako tilted her head. “What do you think?”

  “Knowing you, it’s probably for more romance novels.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  “One can never have enough books.”

  “True. The question is where to put them.”

  “Get a new shelf?”

  “What if there’s no space for it?”

  “Get a bigger house.”

  She nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Let me figure out how many hours I need to work for that.”

  We both laughed. Finally, we reached her neighborhood.

  The night was quiet, the street empty. All I could hear was the occasional rustle of leaves. I looked up as I stretched my arms. The moon was bright and perfectly round, lighting up the cool dark sky.

  As a kid, I used to imagine what sort of people lived on the moon. My mother told me the tale of Princess Kaguya, who was discovered as a baby by an old childless bamboo cutter inside the stalk of a glowing bamboo plant. He named her Kaguya, and she grew into an extraordinary beauty who captured the hearts of many men. Kaguya was revealed to be a celestial princess from the moon and eventually returned to her home, leaving her adoptive parents in tears.

  Kaguya was supposed to be a princess, but I’d always pictured her as a fairy, with a floating robe and steps so light it was as if she were dancing in the air, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as she made her way back to the moon. One, two, three . . .

  “Your sister really is pretty,” Miwako said, startling me.

  “You’ve said so quite a few times already,” I said.

  “She’s like a fashion model, and so tall.” She turned to me. “Isn’t she almost your height? How tall are you, Ryusei?”

  “About six feet, I think.”

  “Your sister must be at least five-ten. That’s so tall for a girl.”

  I chuckled, though I felt crazy doing so. She had no idea how close she was to the truth about Fumi-nee.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “You always say what’s on your mind, don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Is that bad?”

  “No, it’s one of the things I like best about you. You shouldn’t change.”

  She went quiet, probably embarrassed.

  “This is my building,” Miwako said and stopped walking. “You can go back now.”

  I looked at the apartment in front of us. A modest four-story structure painted white with rows of doors close to each other, probably only one-bedroom units.

  “You live by yourself?” I asked.

  She nodded. “My family’s house is too far from campus. I didn’t want to spend that much time commuting.”

  “I see,” I mumbled. “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Miwako.”

  “Good night, Ryusei.”

  She smiled at me, then started up the stairs. I pretended to walk away, but after two steps, I looked back. Miwako was looking at me too. We both laughed.

  “Go home already!” she shouted.

  I waved at her and took eight steps before turning around one last time. She was entering a unit on the second floor, the third from the right. I wondered if Miwako’s apartment was number twenty-three, the same as the studio.

  On my way home, I stopped at a convenience store for a bottle of umeshu. I drank quietly, alone in my room. My sister must’ve seen the empty bottle when she cleaned the next morning, but she never said a word.

  As I drank, I thought about what I’d learned about Miwako that afternoon. That she was clumsy at painting and bought her clothes from the bargain basements in Shinjuku and disliked children.

  These were tiny steps. But if I continued to take them, I thought that one day, I might finally reach Miwako Sumida.

  Dear Ryusei,

  How are you? I hope things are well.

  At this time of year, the leaves in Tokyo must be starting to fall. It’s probably windy and cold there, especially at night. I know you usually wear thin clothing. Please at least put on a scarf when you go out, so you don’t get sick.

  I’m in the village where my great-grandmother grew up. I was nervous about coming here, since it’s quite remote—only accessible on foot—and I’d never visited before. But it’s so beautiful and peaceful here. We’re at the top of a mountain, so the air is crisp and refreshing. There aren’t many people here, perhaps about thirty families, mostly farmers.

  I’m staying with a distant relative of mine who’s set up a health clinic here. In the afternoons, she also holds free lessons for local children. In return for food and lodging, I help out with the day-to-day operations for this special school of sorts. We have students from as young as six to teenagers who will either leave soon or end up here forever.

  My aunt—I call her that, though she’s really more of a cousin—is named Miss Sugi. She’s a single woman in her forties and the only doctor here. I hear she used to work at a big university hospital in Tokyo. Sometimes volunteers, usually university students, come to help out. But right now, it’s just the two of us, so we get pretty busy.

  Every day, I wake up around 5 a.m. to do the cleaning. I’m in charge of the state of the clinic’s building and the house next to it, where Miss Sugi and I live. According to Miss Sugi, the house doubles as extra hospital lodging when needed, though we don’t currently have any live-in patients. I also cook and prepare lesson plans for the students. After that, I tend to the kitchen garden and feed the cattle. The clinic has two cows, four goats, and a dozen chickens. Would you believe I’ve learned to milk cows and goats? It was a bit messy at first, but I’ve finally gotten used to it.

  The lessons start in the afternoon, after most of the students are back from helping their families in the fields. They come around noon and eat lunch together, then divide into groups and do the exercises we give them.

  I’ve noticed that what they’re learning is years behind what we studied at their age. But accordin
g to Miss Sugi, it’s good enough. Most of them will remain in the village their whole lives and take over their families’ farms. A few might go to work in the factories, where basic literacy skills will come in handy.

  Once in a while, we have a student who dreams of moving to the big city, and those who leave never come back. Miss Sugi hopes it’s because they’re too busy with their new lives, but I wouldn’t be surprised if many of them are struggling to find full-time employment and are too embarrassed to return.

  I teach here as well. I’m in charge of the art classes. Remember how Fumi-nee always laughed at my drawings? I’m the first to admit I’m not as talented as you, but your sister has coached me well in the past few months. I’m so much better now. I’ve passed along several of Fumi-nee’s pointers to my students. Some have a knack for painting. I told Miss Sugi we should go to an art market in the city to sell their work. She said it was a good idea, except for the logistics of how to bring their paintings down the mountain. We’ll have to think of a way around it, but I’m excited about the possibility.

  After classes end, this place becomes quiet. Normally, I clean up and Miss Sugi prepares dinner. At the very end of the day, Miss Sugi knits. She tried teaching me once, but I’m terrible at it. I wonder if it’s for the same reason I’m not a natural artist.

  It’s past midnight. I have to get up early tomorrow, so I’ll end here. I’ll write to you again soon, Ryusei.

  Miwako

  3

  On

  a

  Lovely

  Afternoon

  in

  July

  A year after the first time I met Miwako, I attended her wake. When I arrived at the funeral home, a substantial number of visitors had already gathered. The first familiar face I saw was Sachiko’s. Clutching a white handkerchief, she was sobbing. Chie went over and hugged her, both their eyes red and swollen. Not far from them, Toshi and Jin stood side by side in their stiff black suits. When they saw me and my sister, they bowed awkwardly, and we returned the gesture. It felt strange to see them looking so solemn.

  “Let’s go in,” I said to my sister.

  The room was packed with mourners in black, facing a coffin decorated with carnations and chrysanthemums. A framed photograph of Miwako was displayed on the altar. In the photo, which looked like it had been pulled straight from her student ID, she was unsmiling.

  As I stared at the photo, it finally dawned on me that even though I was at Miwako’s wake, it didn’t seem like she was gone, just away for a while, like she had been for the past few months. That framed picture looked nothing like the Miwako I knew. When I closed my eyes, I could still hear her sharp, stubborn voice and surprisingly unbridled laugh. I recalled the second time I’d asked her out last summer.

  We had been reading in the park on campus when Miwako said, “Those girls thought we were dating. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I looked up from my book. A group of girls was walking away, giggling and whistling at us. I recognized them as juniors from my high school.

  That summer, the weather was good—breezy and cool. Miwako and I had decided to read books on a park bench instead of our usual spot in the library. She’d tied her long hair up with a plain black hairband, but the wind had made it messy.

  “They’re going to spread rumors,” Miwako said.

  “Oh,” I mumbled and looked up at her. “But that’s fine, isn’t it? Doesn’t seem like something you’d care about.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Is it so you’ll have fewer girls to bother you?”

  I continued to read, or rather, pretend to read, absorbing none of the words on the page.

  Leaning in closer to speak to her, I caught a strawberry scent; she always used the same shampoo. “What do you think?” I whispered. “Shall we put those rumors to rest?”

  Miwako moved away, shrugging. “How exactly would you do that? Talk to every single one of them?”

  “That—that’s not what I meant,” I stammered.

  She looked into my eyes, and my heart pounded again. I took a deep breath and thought about the line I’d practiced so many times on the nights I couldn’t sleep. The words came tumbling out.

  “I like you,” I said.

  She frowned.

  “I’d like us to be a couple,” I said hurriedly. “Will you go out with me?”

  She was silent, though her face had turned red. Better than her non-reactions, at least.

  Miwako finally said, “That’s not funny.”

  I swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it to be.”

  She stood. “Enough, Ryusei. You’ve gone too far.”

  “Miwako, I’m serious. You already know that.”

  Her posture was tense. I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t.

  “Please, let’s at least give it a try,” I continued.

  “No,” she said sternly. “I told you, it wouldn’t work out between us.”

  And then she stood up and walked away without looking back.

  Dumbfounded, I tried to refocus on my book to calm down. But it was no use. On a beautiful afternoon in July, for the second time, I had confessed my feelings to the girl I loved, and she’d turned me down without a moment of hesitation.

  The bus ride back to Ueno seemed to last forever. The passengers took too long to board, and the driver navigated too slowly. The creaking of the doors as they opened and closed at each stop made me sick, and the noise of the teenagers at the back of the bus was headache-inducing.

  The air-conditioning blasted away, chilling the inside of the vehicle. But when I leaned against the window, it was warm, baked by the afternoon sun.

  The bus stopped again, and a bald middle-aged man in a suit came onboard. Carrying a tattered leather briefcase, he glanced around the bus and chose the empty seat in front of me. Once the journey had resumed, he took a newspaper out of his briefcase. The date read April 21, 1990.

  Miwako Sumida had been dead for three days, but the world kept on as normal. The late cherry blossoms bloomed, lining the streets with a cotton-candy hue. Children in uniform ate their vanilla ice cream by the roadside, and birds pecked around at the park ground.

  A falling petal stuck to my window pane. I traced it with my index finger, but the bus moved and sent the split-tipped petal to the ground.

  “Ryu, are you all right?” my sister asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said after a moment, still staring out the window. “Of course I’m fine.”

  My sister sighed. I snuck a glance at her. She was nervously fiddling with her fingers. The polish on one of her nails was chipped. I made a point not to look at it. My sister wouldn’t like it if she knew I’d seen the chip. She put so much effort into maintaining a flawless appearance. “Looking good is the first step toward feeling good,” she always said.

  The bus stopped again, and a group of boys got on. Sporting soccer uniforms from a neighborhood high school, they stood near the door and talked rowdily. Two of them were stealing glances at my sister, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’ve got some admirers,” I whispered.

  “Oh,” she mumbled, not even bothering to look.

  At times, I would catch my sister staring intently at nothing in particular, which I’d always reasoned as one of her quirks. But on this particular occasion, she had me worried.

  I reached for her hand. “Fumi-nee, are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned to face me. “It’s so sudden, isn’t it? It feels like if I were to go to the studio and wait for Miwako, she would turn up any minute.”

  I looked straight ahead. “Should we do that, then? Let’s go to the studio.”

  My sister nodded. I squeezed her hand.

  The bus made a turn and passed a grass field. Young children played tag under the sun, screaming and laughing as they chased e
ach other. I felt warm tears drop onto my hand. My sister wept silently as I counted the children. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  Before I’d finished counting, the bus made another slow turn.

  My sister tugged at my sleeve. “I’m not feeling well.”

  As we got off the bus, she leaned on my free arm. I held our koden-gaeshi in the other.

  “Hang on just a little longer,” I said. “We’re right around the corner from the studio.”

  My sister nodded. Her black dress didn’t suit her fair complexion. It made her look too pale.

  We had bought these mourning clothes when the previous pastor in charge of the orphanage had passed away. He died peacefully after a long and fulfilling life. Everyone was encouraged not to cry during his funeral, but no eyes remained dry.

  I hadn’t thought I would use my mourning suit again anytime soon. Apart from my sister, I had no living family or relatives. My friends were around my age, and we were all approaching the first peaks of our lives. Graduating, finding a job, getting married, having kids. But Miwako Sumida wouldn’t be among us.

  My sister and I turned onto the alleyway where the studio was. The street was quiet, as always.

  “Ryu.” She nudged me. “Who was the lady that spoke to you at the wake?”

  “Miwako’s mother,” I said. “She told me she had something to discuss with me later.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I’m not sure.” I climbed over the wooden fence and opened the gate for her. “Maybe we should get a new lock.”

  My sister shook her head. “We can’t do that. This is Kenji’s place.”

  “It’s as good as yours. It’s been years since he left. He’s not coming back.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that it’s his,” she insisted. “You wouldn’t change a house lock just because the owner left it uninhabited for a few years, would you?”

  I stared at the building. It was only a matter of time before the area was slated for redevelopment. But until then, the studio would remain a special place for me. I had spent so much time with my sister and Miwako here—working together, bickering, laughing. If only we could return to those days.