by Meira Chand
Even at the most ordinary times she felt in their house something strange and inexplicable. It was an old house. At night Natsuko lay sometimes and thought of the people who had lived there before them. She wondered if anyone had died there, especially in her own room. With her mother absent these apprehensions attacked her more often, shapeless, dark and menacing. They hovered just below her skin, breathing softly on her nerves.
The night before she had woken, thirsty, and gone to the bathroom for a drink of water. She cupped her hand under the tap and drank. Still half asleep, she turned to go back to bed, into the passage outside the bathroom. It was not dark, on the upper landing was the light they left on at night. But Natsuko had glanced over her shoulder down the well of the staircase and had seen the blackness at the bottom. At once all drowsiness left her. She stood, rigid, looking down into the ring of night. It filled her with terror, for she saw the house did not sleep with them. The blackness was alive, staring back at her, waiting. If she dared to go down it would consume her. She ran back to her room, heart thumping. No light, no locked door could ever deter the secret life within the house.
Other people’s houses were not like this. She knew, for once, briefly, she had a friend at school, an American girl called Suzanne, who had left to go on to Jakarta. Sometimes she visited Suzanne’s home, a modern flat by a traffic light in the middle of Kobe. There had been six floors to the block, and a fast lift up and down. The walls and floors of the entrance hall were of polished stone. There were bells to ring and a microphone at street level, to speak directly to the flats above. Suzanne’s apartment was sunny and light and had plant-filled balconies. The ceilings were low and smooth, the walls untroubled. They ate cake and cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. It was all plastic, chrome and press button gadgets. Suzanne showed her how even the rubbish was ground up by a machine in the sink, and flushed away down the water pipe. She pushed in egg shells, a cabbage leaf, leftover sandwiches and a paper bag to demonstrate. With a terrible rattle everything vanished, pulverized to dust while Natsuko watched. Suzanne’s bedroom was a small neat box, the windows chrome edged, unlike the cumbersome wooden-framed windows of Natsuko’s own room, that must be opened by an adult. One wall was a brilliant green and everything else, furniture, curtains, ornaments matched in either green or white. There were clown dolls to put pyjamas into hanging on the walls. In one corner of the floor a family of patchwork turtles made a flowery green and pink tower. In the lounge after tea Suzanne’s mother, dressed in black leotard, practised yoga on a floor of cushions. Smilingly, she invited them to join her. They had tried, rolling and laughing over the cushions. A small, soft-haired dog called George romped with them, jumping and barking. Whenever he could he licked Natsuko’s face with his soft, moist tongue.
From Suzanne’s bedroom Natsuko looked at the building opposite, filled with lighted windows. In each, people and activities went on, like many separate plays. In the road below cars and buses passed. Here, it seemed, nobody was ever alone. She thought enviously of Suzanne, able to wake in the middle of the night, and look from the window at the lives of other people.
Suzanne’s mother drove Natsuko home. It was dusk as they approached the house. Tall trees stood darkly around it, melting into one another. The windows were dark and Natsuko wished she need never come back. That night she thought about it all and knew everything would be all right, if she could live in the chrome-filled, white-walled flat of Suzanne, with pyjama dolls or the turtle toy family. She knew now it never would.
In spite of the sun, a haze shrouded the bay, and came down like a white sheet to the edge of the Kobe docks. Sea, sky and Wakayama were all hidden. The haze rose up like a wide blank canvas. Walking down the hill Natsuko had several times run her finger over the letter in her pocket, and eventually she sat on a low wall to read it again.
It was a blue airmail letter form, thin and crisp. She held the smoothness between her fingers looking at her own name written there, in her mother’s small neat writing. It was not long.
Darling,
I have thought and thought about you all, wondering how you are. I really am so worried. I do hope Hiroko has turned out all right, and that she is managing the cooking. Are you eating enough? I don’t think it can yet be too warm, so don’t forget to take at least a cardigan to school with you. Even on a warm day it can turn chilly suddenly in the middle of the afternoon. And that, of course, is just the moment you can catch a cold.
Don’t worry about me. I am resting and taking lots of medicine to try and feel better. The doctor is good and kind but it will take a little while longer before I am well enough to return. Be brave. Be a very good girl for Daddy and Hiroko. Do everything they tell you. It will be a great help to me if you do.
With lots of love,
Mummy
She had some trouble in places following the writing. Her father had read it with her and then she understood. But the meaning made no difference. She looked at the date, written a week ago, and found it made no sense. For a few moments, writing these words, sitting thousands of miles away, her mother had thought briefly of her, one week ago. Sitting on a stone wall at the bottom of the hill, one week later, none of it was relevant. Her mother lived now in a different time, a different dimension. She might as well be dead. She was not here, she could not be touched, seen or spoken to. She could only be written to and, in one week’s time, she would read the words put down by Natsuko on a piece of paper. The uselessness of it all made her want to cry. She had waited for this letter, but understanding its form now, she felt even more alone than before. Suddenly, angrily, she shredded the letter into little bits. Twisting round on the wall she dropped it all into the open drain behind her, filled with the water of mountain streams. She watched the little bits of blue confetti stick to the moving surface and ride away. One piece swam safely to the stones at the side and rested there. From it the words stared up at Natsuko, surrounded by their ragged edge: Hiroko, enough. I. cardigan.
‘Listen,’ he said, and began to read to them from the book. ‘Note on the game of playing football: The game of football was in great favour at the Japanese court. It was introduced from China in the seventh century. The Emperor Mommu, who reigned at the end of that century, was the first emperor to take part in the sport. His majesty Toba the second became very expert at it, as also did the noble Asukai Chirjo, and from that time a sort of football club was formed at the palace. During the days of extreme poverty of the Mikado and his court the Asukai family, notwithstanding their high rank, were wont to eke out their scanty income by giving lessons in the art of playing football.’
Kazuo looked over his book at Riichi, and they both laughed. They had just returned from a baseball game. At the stadium in Nishinomiya, the Yomiuri Giants had played the Hankyu Braves. Natsuko had not gone. She listened to them talking excitedly of the number of home runs, the fantastic pitching of the star player, the unbeatable brilliance of the favourite team. Nowadays they did a lot of things together that left her alone at home.
In the evenings now it had become a ritual that they sat with their father in the study. He read or talked about all kinds of diverse historical facts. Mostly Natsuko was bored, except when he read the fairy stories. Of these there was one each night. Tales of vampire cats, foxes that changed into beautiful women, badgers who lured victims by drumming upon bloated stomachs, a boy born from a peach. Some of these she already knew, others not. Tonight he had read her the famous tale of the Cat of Nabashima, a two-tailed vampire monster. Now he would send her to bed. It was so each night. After the door was shut he and Riichi talked on.
‘Natsuko you should go to bed. Riichi will be up later.’ When she came to him he kissed her, relieved to see her docile. At least in the evenings he was sure he had got things right. A traditional story for Natsuko, and then he could turn to Riichi. It was difficult to know how long Frances might stay away. Once she returned the flow between himself and Riichi would surely be disrupted. It was important to lay
a foundation quickly. The abhorrence Frances generated for certain aspects of Japanese life was absurdly out of context. He wanted desperately for Riichi to respect and understand the code of ethics, the courage and dignity behind much of what Frances ridiculed. Now they were reading from Lord Redesdale’s book, and his historical Western viewpoint. With this he alternated from his own long article on the Samurai ethical code. Riichi listened intently, Kazuo was pleased.
Outside the door Natsuko paused. They were reading of ceremonial hara kiri executions long ago. Last night all she heard were the boring details of etiquette. That the execution place must be eighteen feet square, at what angle the condemned man should sit, how many quilts he should sit on, of what colour and order they should be, what clothes the witnesses should wear, what clothes the seconds should wear, how high when sitting they may hitch their trousers.
‘… afterwards the head is to be struck off at one blow. To lay down thick paper and place the head upon it shows a disposition of respect to the head. To place it on the edge of the sword is insulting. The course pursued must depend on the rank of the person …’ her father read, and Natsuko shivered and ran upstairs.
Before Riichi’s room she hesitated, then slipped in, closing the door. She had thought of the magazine he bought in Arima suddenly, and knew it must be somewhere. She remembered the size, a vague pattern of colours. On the bookshelves was nothing like it, only firmly bound books and martial art magazines. The drawers of the desk and the cupboard produced nothing. Kneeling she looked under the bed. There was a baseball glove, a battered cardboard box and thick rolls of dust. She pulled out the box, angry at all the secrets, cutting her off. It seemed they all, her father, Riichi and Hiroko, were no more than a myriad of little drawers, in each a thought, a feeling, a piece of knowledge. Sometimes these drawers were opened and the contents shared. At those times Natsuko saw threads of emotion vibrate briefly between the three of them. But these warm and vital communications seemed never extended in the same way to her.
Pulling open the flaps of the box, she saw the magazine at last, sitting on a pile of comics. Natsuko picked it up and stared at the pictures of a scantily dressed woman with smooth, polished limbs. She was afraid, kneeling beside the box, that Riichi might soon come up. Furtively, she opened the magazine. It did not take long to absorb the essentials, flicking quickly through the pages.
Afterwards she replaced the magazine carefully, but her heart was thumping, and her stomach tight in the same way as when the kimono had fallen from the spindly body of the dancer on New Year’s Eve. But above these feelings, as she pushed the box back under the bed to its resting place amongst the dust, came anger for Riichi. As she closed the door behind her it knifed up, filling her mind with the pictures she had seen, the raised arms and legs, the taut thrusting midriffs, and soft globes of breast.
Lying on her bed she began to cry, until her head throbbed and her nose was full and clogged, unable to understand the confusions around her.
‘It will not be for long, just over the weekend. It is kind of Hiroko to take you with her.’ Kazuo worked with a toothpick at a piece of pork cutlet stuck between teeth. He was going to Tokyo, and Riichi would accompany him. There was an important exhibition of swords and scrolls of famous battles they were interested to see. Once Kazuo’s appointment with his publisher was over they would have time for this and much more. It would have been enough, thought Natsuko, to have stayed here, alone with Hiroko. But a telephone call had come the day before, telling Hiroko her mother was ill. Natsuko could neither be taken to Tokyo nor left alone. It had been decided she would go with Hiroko, back to her village home.
‘Hiroko’s village is famous for handmade paper. Her family are papermakers. There will be much of interest there for you to see.’ Kazuo wiped grease from his mouth on the corner of a paper napkin.
In her own mouth the lump of meat was rubbery. Natsuko rolled it about, unable to swallow. The voices of Riichi and her father swung back and forth across the table, planning, timing, anticipating. Riichi’s manner was excited, Kazuo smiled expansively. Their journey has already begun.
The tablecloth spread before Natsuko, white and blank, on their empty plates a film of grease congealed. It was useless to protest. Day by day, Natsuko felt herself shrinking. Her limbs were heavy and slow. When she wished to speak no voice came. It was worst inside her head.
There was nothing left to trust, and nowhere to run to. Sleep was fitful and never deep. Strange noises slid off the night and the walls of the house, and always now there was the soft opening and shutting of doors, the whispers and rustles, the creak of the bed in rhythmic spasms. She no longer crept out to search the meaning, to see if Riichi still crouched at the keyhole. She pulled the covers over her ears, and drew her knees tight to her belly, in an effort to stop the shivering.
8
It was a fine Saturday morning. They left the house, walking down the hill to the station. Hiroko carried a canvas bag, Natsuko a small blue knapsack on her back. They took the train, changing once. The first train was crowded, taking commuters to the busy centre of Osaka. They stood all the way, swaying precariously, hemmed in so tightly by bodies they could not fall. Natsuko clung to Hiroko’s hand, level with jacket ends, handbags and hips. Sometimes through the crush of people she glimpsed a chink of window and through it a passing view of T.V. aerials, scaffolding, washing, the cross-hatching of tiled roofs, a continuous harsh grey urban texturing each side of the train; hot air blew up beneath her feet. The second train was comparatively empty. Natsuko sat on an olive plush seat, glad to breathe freely and look about. Now they had begun to leave the town. The grey depression of factories and concrete gave way to a patchwork of farmland. Fallow paddy fields cut to a stubble, the neat lines of turnips and cabbages snuggled close to the ground. They passed an electric generator, all springs and pylons, a school playground alive with children in blue tracksuits, a mass of parked bicycles before a station, mercurial in a pool of sun. White and ultramarine, the bullet train streaked by on a track below them, on the way to Tokyo. Then, in the distance, the dark olives and umbers of tree-covered hills moved nearer, pale feathery slabs of bamboo at the base. The crusty tiled roofs of houses looked cleaner, windows brighter. A sequence of new houses still showed raw wood skeletons, a temple with a large bronze bell hanging from its deep eaves rushed by. In the train Natsuko looked at the bright advertisements hanging like flags from special hooks in the ceiling, glossy colour spots of Kabuki, fashions, red-lipped girls and slabs of chocolate. A microphone announced each station, echoing down the carriage. Sometimes, swinging deliriously round a curve, Natsuko saw the front of the train through a window, snaking ahead of them. Next to her a young girl studied a book of English lessons, another in a black coat and high boots, stood nearly in front of her, carrying a cased violin. Beside the door an elderly woman swayed unsteadily, clutching two long-stemmed bunches of flowers for an arrangement lesson. The head of each chrysanthemum was swathed in tissue paper. Above a short coat her mauve scarf picked out the colour of her kimono and the flowers. Time passed quickly, and Hiroko, equally absorbed did not bother with Natsuko, and only spoke to tell her they had reached their station.
The bus was empty but for a farmer, a student in black uniform and an old woman in a grey suit, spectacles and an anxious expression. Hiroko and Natsuko sat near the back. Over the empty seats was the rigid, uniformed back of the driver. Natsuko took the inside seat, next to the window. Beside her was the warmth of Hiroko’s body, from behind the knapsack pushed her forward uncomfortably. She felt suddenly tired and leaned her head against the window. Wherever she looked were tall tree-covered slopes. The road wound up and down and around the contours of the land. Once she saw they were high, the side of the road slipped precipitously away through the vertical strata of conifer trees and bamboo, down over terraced paddy fields to a thin white river far below. Soon again the land was flat, cultivated each side of the bus, the hills a distance away in mauve shadow.
Natsuko had woken that morning with a headache. Now the journeying and staring from windows filled with unfamiliar views pulled the pain tighter in her head. Her eyes hurt when she moved them. Her throat was beginning to feel rough and sore. Beside her Hiroko was unzipping the canvas bag and taking out a plastic box. Inside was their lunch of onigiri, cold rice balls wrapped in papery strips of seaweed, two cans of juice and an orange each. Natsuko ate without appetite, turning her face to the window again. In places now trees stood thickly at the side of the road, and against them the window turned dark and reflective, and showed Natsuko Hiroko’s profile behind her own, the woman’s wide jaw moving rhythmically, the thick lips sinking deeply into the soft ball of rice. Then the window grew lighter leaving only Natsuko’s own eyes, floating amongst passing fields and hills. The sun shone warmly on the glass. She felt drowsy, and tried not to think of the weekend to come, or the discomfort of the headache.
The bus dropped them outside a garage, shiny with posters of cars and bikini-clad girls. Around it was silence and strawberry fields, the long furrows of plants blanketed under polythene. Here and there a few leaves pushed above the shroud. Beside the strawberry patches were fallow rice fields, prickly with dry yellow stubble. Natsuko remembered her mother once teasing her, saying the stubble was noodles growing.
Around them the steep hills of the valley rose up, dark green with conifers. Hiroko was walking forward now, pointing to a narrow road between a cluster of farmhouses, disappearing round a bend. It kept close to the side of a hill, bamboo bent pliantly above, ruffling up in the breeze. The opposite side of the lane were farm workers’ houses, some dilapidated with open gardens and fruit trees, others small and closed behind stone walls. Between the road and the hill a narrow strip of land was planted with Japanese mushrooms, grown on straddled logs. Hiroko, suddenly good humoured, told Natsuko how the starchy water of washed rice was poured over the logs each day to ferment and grow the mushrooms. They sprouted like pale nobbly warts all over the wood.