The Gossamer Fly

by Meira Chand

  ‘He must long for his own kind of food,’ Hiroko had said, the first day after Frances left, stirring bean paste soup, washing under the tap a pale clump of long-stemmed mushrooms, with tiny pinhead caps. At the table Natsuko had eaten grilled eel and papery strips of black seaweed resentfully. Now, watching Hiroko at the chopping board, slicing tentacles neatly, Natsuko was filled with jubilation. It is only, she thought, that she cannot make thin flaky pastry, or gravies of wine and cream.

  Seeing Natsuko in the doorway, annoyance spread in Hiroko’s face.

  ‘Always watching. Have you nothing better to do? Go and call them to eat, it’s just about ready.’

  Natsuko walked back through the dining-room, on her way to the study. Since her mother left the table was set differently. It was laid with blue and white china rice and tea bowls, small rectangular plates and lacquer chopsticks. They ate Japanese food now every day, at Kazuo’s request and with Hiroko’s compliance. And Kazuo had decided, throwing himself into the role of organizer, that they should all eat together, Hiroko was part of the family. Her place at the table was between himself and Riichi.

  They came at once from the study, hungry, settling on their chairs with robust anticipation. Natsuko was alone with her feelings now her mother was gone. Kazuo and Riichi ate with relish, like deserters from a battle. Natsuko was left to watch the moving bulges in the side of their cheeks as they chewed, and their amiable exchanges.

  Between them Hiroko was busy. From a large electric rice cooker on the table she doled out the steaming rice with a flat wooden spoon, scraping it against the side of each bowl, clearing it of sticky grains. She poured tea for them all, refilling the small bowls as soon as they were empty. Inclining her head coquettishly, she asked if Kazuo and Riichi wanted more, in unnecessary politeness. They affirmed with a grunt, the raised bowls of rice half covering their faces, chopsticks shovelling rice into their mouths.

  Natsuko looked at the uneaten slices of tentacle on her plate, the pale smooth suckers rimmed by a thin black edge. In the bowl each grain of rice was covered with a hot starchy glaze. She left the octopus, but picked up the bowl of rice and began to eat, listening to the intimate, wheedling tone Hiroko insinuated into each pretentious form of verb; a less complicated language would have been equally polite. Every so often she gave a giggly laugh, hiding her mouth behind her hand. She clearly enjoyed these meals. It was only when she looked at Natsuko, sour and brooding across the table, food untouched before her, that her eyes resettled for a moment in their usual inscrutability.

  Now she was pouring tea with care, one hand holding the wicker handle of the pot, a finger of the other hand resting on the lid. She lowered her eyes assuming demureness. Her hair was pinned severely back, but a few strands escaped, fanning out upon her forehead.

  Holding the tea bowl cupped in his hands, Kazuo Akazawa noticed again the thick lid, and the narrow lobe of ear, blending smoothly into the cheek. Upon the teapot lid the finger was small as a child’s, the nail an oval shell. Straightening then she glanced up at him, and did not hurry to avert her eyes when she saw him looking at her.

  Watching them Natsuko saw the moment, wrenched away from the ticking clock, stilled and held between them, like a bubble. Hanging in the air, surrounded by air, filled with air, yet separate, special, closed and still. She knew something she could give no name to had passed between them, something ignited, fluid and warm. She saw it established, and what could not be expressed burnt within her. She felt sweat on the palms of her hands, and beating blood in her head. She knew she must break the bubble, so that the moments could flow again.

  Quickly then, she thrust out her hands, pushing everything before her. The rice bowls and hot tea tipped over, streaming across the table top, trickling to her knees. The warmth penetrating quickly through her jeans. Standing up abruptly, she pushed back forcefully with her leg at the chair. It fell over behind her with a blunt thud.

  ‘It’s horrible. I hate it. I don’t want any more of this awful food. She can’t cook. She can’t do anything.’ She screamed it out and ran.

  Turning at the door she saw them, sitting in amazement. Riichi with the bowl of rice halfway to his mouth and her father’s face clouded by anger. But on Hiroko she saw only the eyes, bright as jet, hard and hating.

  He told them at breakfast the next morning. He had thought it out well. First he had said to himself, she is to be punished, she must be taught some discipline and her place. But then he came back to the beginning. It was Frances. She encouraged spontaneity that now, in the present stress, over-reached itself. The child knew no other way to show she missed her mother. Because she was difficult, because he did not know how to approach her, he must try harder. The idea came to him then, he was pleased. And he himself badly needed the break.

  At first she seemed happy, her face lit up.

  ‘Arima is so near,’ he told her. ‘And the valley is sheltered. The cherry trees are already in bloom there.’

  The brightness flickered in her face. ‘Will she come too? Hiroko?’

  She looked at the half open kitchen door. Inside, over a running tap, was the sound of plates, slithering together into a bowl of soapy water.

  ‘Of course.’ It had not occurred to him to think she would not. He did not feel he could manage Natsuko entirely on his own. Immediately, Natsuko slumped back in the chair, lower lip pushed out in an ugly pout.

  No, he thought. She must learn. Some things she must accept.

  They took the road through the mountain tunnel, near the house. It ran for five kilometres, sooty and dank, like the tunnel of an earthworm. Cars came at them from the opposite direction flashing their headlights. Natsuko thought of the great mound of earth rising over them, hundreds of feet. She thought of the weight pressing down on the tunnel, and wished it soon would end.

  At last they sped out. The sudden glareofwhite and green, the airy bowl of sky, took her breath away. The road wound down between tall slopes of conifer trees. Bamboo grass reached to the kerb, there was a sweet smell in the air.

  Riichi sat in front with Kazuo. The back seat held Hiroko and Natsuko, who pushed herself tight against the corner, keeping her face to the window. Hiroko had refused to speak to her since yesterday. Natsuko was glad. Now it was established they hated each other. There was no longer a necessity to obey any rules.

  ‘We’ll go first to the fishing ponds,’ said Kazuo, from the front seat.

  For already they were there, in the narrow, humid valley of Arima Spa. They stopped at a traffic light. Outside Natsuko’s window a steep street pushed up a hill to the high torii arch of a Shinto shrine. Stalls covered by red and white bunting lined the road selling edibles and trinkets. There were always stalls out on feast days and festivals. Near the traffic light was a barrow of cooking cockles, their large shells crowded on to a charcoal grill. A man stood, cockle in hand, pulling the soft body from the shell with a tooth pick, bending his head low to bite off a piece. A sharp briney smell came in the car window. At the top of the street, through the shrine archway, was the pale frost of cherry trees in bloom. Then Kazuo turned the car sharply away, up a craggy road between old inns, souvenir shops and modern hotels. Twice they passed the steamy plume of a hot water geyser escaping from a pipe. There were many geysers in Arima, which ran into the baths of inns and hotels. The road became narrower, stopping suddenly at a footbridge. Here they parked the car. After the drone of the engine, it was silent and warm. Almost from their feet steep wooded hills soared up. Above the sky was far away. Natsuko felt she stood at the bottom of a green cup. From the footbridge she looked at the shallow moving water, listening to it rushing between foliage and stones. In the trees around was the sound of birds. She looked up into the thick branches above, layer upon layer, receding upwards, dense and peaceful, and drew a deep breath. For a moment these things took the edge off Hiroko’s presence.

  But then, beyond the footbridge, through the netted wire, she saw the movement of people and colour. From a brigh
t blue booth Kazuo bought tickets, and counted them in through the gate. Immediately it was another world, netted off in the fold of the hills. Crowds of people in holiday mood swarmed about the three huge fishing ponds, that on split levels backed up into the hillside. Kazuo and Riichi marched ahead over a red zigzag bridge, across the middle pool. Behind them Natsuko stopped and, looking down, saw the dark shadow of the bridge upon the water. In it, like a thick blowing curtain, moved the bodies of a shoal of fish. She stood quite still, watching their smooth undulation. When she reached the end of the bridge the others were already entering the small thatched hut, to hire rods, a bucket and to buy bait.

  Inside the hut it was dim, it smelt fishy and the concrete floor was wet. At one side was a bucket of bloody water, a knife lying next to it, and on the ground a silvery smear of scales. Outside the open door a man knelt beside a wooden tray. Natsuko looked over his shoulder and saw the limp, pale bodies of worms, mashed to pasty bait. With a large pronged fork the man pressed down upon the slimy mess, his body swaying forward. They carried the bait with them in a metal bowl. And with his bare fingers Riichi kneaded it about the hook, eager to start.

  Pushing between people Kazuo made room for them all about the fishing pool. There was even a stool for Natsuko to sit on, and a place for the bucket of water at her feet. Standing behind Riichi, clasping their four hands together about the rod, Kazuo helped swing the line, casting it into the middle of the pond. Together they swayed back, swung their arms, and pitched with a loud cry. Beside them Hiroko clapped as the line fell into the water.

  On the low stool Natsuko seemed very near the water. Its surface stretched out in a shiny grey sheet. She was aware of a crowd of faces and laughter. But everywhere she looked seemed grey. The pale oily water, the concrete surround of the pond, a watermark around the perimeter. She saw the sky had greyed, and the green of the trees was depressed and sombre. And in the water, a deeper grey still, were the sharp desperate movements of fish. Slim mottled fish swarmed near the surface. Above the water baited lines flicked back and forth, beneath the shoal moved with them, oiled and pliant. Occasionally an eager fish jumped clear of the water, breaking free of the dark shadows of larger fish moving about the bottom of the tank.

  As Natsuko watched, a fish broke the water again and fell back with a splash. She wanted to shout out to it, angered by its foolishness and ignorance. The grotesque conspiracy above the water, and the fact that they had paid to be part of it filled her with agitation. Jostling about the pool, people grinned unceasingly beneath holiday hats. In the sun colours grew reckless. A garish checked cap fell into the water and floated away under the red bridge. Two coy lovers offered each other the line. At a bucket a child dipped its hands into a mass of squirming bodies and laughed. And all the while, above the still water, the rods flicked quickly in and out. From the end of lines silver bodies twisted in the sun. The writhin fishs were small, without consequence, quickly grasped in a hand and ripped from a line.

  Suddenly Riichi gave a cry, feeling the tug of his first fish. The line swung out of the water, taut, spiralling wildly in the air. Immediately Kazuo helped him steady the rod, brought in the line and made Riichi take the fish in his hand. Together they tugged at the hook and line in its open mouth. The fish slipped from Riichi’s hand and swung across the water. They tried again, pulling harder, and ripped the fish free. Revulsion puckered up tight in Natsuko as they threw it into the bucket at her feet. She pulled back on the stool, feeling the water splash her bare leg, trickling into her sock. She could not look into the bucket. Almost at once Riichi threw in another fish, then a third. She was sure they must be dead, lying limp at the bottom of the bucket. Instead, when she looked, they were swimming feverishly round and round, knocking against each other. The thin line of their backbones curved tightly to the shape of the bucket.

  Riichi soon tired of the small silver fish and moved down to the lower tank. Here big grey carp swam slowly, deeper down. They took much longer to catch, less enthusiastic about their fate. But at last Riichi’s line grew taut, the rod curving pliantly to the surface of the water. Suddenly the fish appeared and came, twisting and swinging towards them, on the end of the line. Natsuko ran back a short distance, horrified. The fish landed near her feet, flapping and jumping, soon covered with dust and grit, large and strong. She ran back still further, afraid of it touching her. It jumped suddenly and she saw daylight clear beneath it. Behind Riichi, Hiroko squealed. They could not manage it, and called the attendant. Kneeling to the fish, holding it down with one hand, he ripped the hook swiftly from its throat. It came away with a lump of flesh. At that moment the gills dilated widely, showing tunnels of red light through its open mouth. They picked it up by the tail, and flung it in to the bucket. Riichi and Kazuo smiled proudly. Behind them Hiroko clapped.

  Natsuko held her breath unable to either scream or weep. They did not see the bucket was small, that the fish convulsed, half in, half out, and that the water oozed with blood.

  Turning her back she ran, unable to see any more the desperate fish, the grinning crowds with cameras and chewing gum, and the flicking lines across the water.

  She ran to the bright, bland area of the children’s playground. There she found a yellow swing, and sat down. Without taking her feet from the ground, she moved it gently to and fro. Its metal joints protested hoarsely. She closed her eyes and after a while it all began to drift away. From the swing she looked again at the wooded slopes, and felt the thick, closed silence. The sharp chirping of birds came to her. Near her foot a black and blue speckled beetle walked awkwardly past, antenna waving before it. A sleek beige lizard ran over a stone and under a bush. From a large wooden building behind the playground came the smell of frying fish. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds.

  The sun warmed her face and it seemed a long while since she ran into the playground. She knew soon they must come for her. Now and then, she looked back to the fish ponds, keeping track of them. They had moved from the tank, over to the counter for weighing the fish. She saw her father pay and hand the bucket to the attendant. Then they turned, coming towards her.

  Kazuo strode forward with a smile and pushed the yellow swing, and the ground jerked suddenly away from her. His hand grasped the thick rope near her face, and a fishy odour stirred in her nose. They stood round the swing smiling, asking if she was enjoying herself. The fish would be fried for them in the restaurant. This would be their lunch, they told her.

  Inside the restaurant it was crowded, filled with pungent smells. All the metal tables and chairs were full in the first room, so they left their shoes and stepped up into the tatami matted room at the back. Here they found a low table near a window overlooking the playground, and sat upon white cushions on the floor around it.

  Beneath the fried fish the room smelt strongly of rush mats, septic tanks and beer. Around them people were noisy, babies cried. At the next table a group of labourers lounged upon the matting, picking their teeth, skin leathered red, mouths filled by gold crowns.

  Kazuo ordered beer and had a glass placed by Hiroko too. When it came she poured it for him, kneeling up to the table on her cushion. The brown bottle was frosted and wet with condensation, dark against the thin pink material of her new Spring dress. She poured, careful that the beer would not overflow the glass. It fizzed up, frothy and white above the rim, then sank back. Kazuo drank it down in long gulps. Hiroko refilled his glass and then sipped daintily from her own. Natsuko saw it gradually relax them. Her father’s nose and cheeks turned pink. Hiroko giggled behind her hand. Soon they ordered more.

  For lunch the small fish came first, crisp and shrunken. On blue and white rectangular plates they lay like charred sticks, fins a papery yellow, heads shrivelled. They placed one before Natsuko. A cluster of blue chrysanthemums were painted across the corner of the plate. But she looked and could not eat, remembering the spiralling line in the water, the writhing silver end.

  At first they were too busy to notice her.
Holding the fish just below the head with chopsticks, they lowered their mouths. Across the table Natsuko saw again the pink curling tip of Hiroko’s tongue. The head of the fish disappeared into her mouth, her teeth snapped shut upon it. Then the body of the fish was pulled away, its trunk splintering into white-edged flakes. Around the table their jaws moved rhythmically. Within them Natsuko imagined the fish, fried eyes, gills and bones pounded to wet pulp. She pushed her cushion back against the wall, and knew they would tell her to eat.

  Dumbly, shaking her head, she refused. The more they persuaded the more vividly she felt the head in her mouth, her tongue brushing the dry wrinkled surface, the cooked lips and fins.

  ‘No,’ she said again.

  ‘Natsuko. I said eat it. Natsuko,’ Kazuo shouted, losing patience.

  ‘The eyes are still in.’ She knew she should not have told them. For immediately they laughed.

  ‘They’re crisp, Natsuko. Like peanuts,’ Riichi teased.

  But Kazuo was annoyed now. There seemed no way to please the child. She had learnt it all from her mother. Stretching across the table he lifted the fish with his chopsticks brusquely, from her plate to his. There was a looseness in him after the beer, making it difficult to control his resentment. Fishing with Riichi had produced a companionship between them he had not felt before. He knew now, undisturbed by Frances, it was possible to salvage something of the relationship between himself and his son. The thought made him feel good, almost lightheaded. It made him drink far too much beer. So that, although he tried to contain it, the woman Hiroko filled him again. He could not forget her presence, her watchfulness of him. He was aware of her all the time now, since Frances left. She was like a line drawn taut in his head. As he awoke in the mornings she came into his mind, and stayed through the day. He tried to push the thought of her away, but she grew in him like a disease, until he was filled by an aching impatience.