This will be a clear day.
I have to carry my heavy, wet quilt out and hang it to dry in the yard.
When I go out my front door to take out the trash, I meet Sister Yamamoto, cleaning her doorway. She greets me with a clear and healthy “Good morning!” Her made-up face looks fresh, and her eyes look happy. She’s wearing an apricot-yellow shirt, looking like the rising morning sun. In comparison, my blue nightgown seems poor and ugly. I can’t reconcile the sight of this confident, elegantly dressed lady with the image of the cowardly, disheveled, depressed obasan who stayed in her dark room for days on end. Maybe my husband is right; maybe everybody does have a private life that they never show to another living soul.
The rains are gone and it’s another clear day. The sisters again return to their normal vivacious lives. They go out to walk their dog, Kamo. They go out to join their chorus and sing. They go out and participate in all their pleasant routine activities. Their small world is filled with sunshine and joy. It’s as if those unhappy, tedious, tough, and disgusting rainy days never even happened.
3
Now that the long rainy season is over, hot and humid weather is on its way. Soon it will be August. Kamo, the dog next door, seems to be ill; he’s not eating well. I see the sisters repeatedly squatting down at Kamo’s kennel, trying to convince the dog to take his medicine, as you’d do with a small child. Over the fence, I suggest to the sisters that an injection of the medicine would be easier and save them a lot of trouble.
Sister Yamamoto, busy dealing with Kamo, doesn’t reply. Sister Shibata comes over to me and says, “It’s not medicine; it’s only some nutritional fluid for dogs. Kamo is not sick, he’s just getting old; today he lost another tooth. You know, in human years he’s more than eighty years old.”
Oh. Kamo is becoming a dog with no teeth.
Shibata turns back and looks at the dog, who seems tired and listless. She says that even though Kamo isn’t eating anymore, he is happy.
“Yes,” I say, “Kamo must be happy.”
August 6 is the memorial of the atomic bombings in Hiroshima. Five-color paper-crane decorations hang over all the doorways, in memory of the event. I’m too shy to ask the sisters about the relatives and close friends they must have lost that day. It’s an intensely private issue; I don’t want to bring them pain. I would never ask unless they were openly willing and wanted to talk about it. But from their active, engaged attitude toward life, it’s obvious that they weren’t much affected.
Some families hang a national flag on their door. In the Guotai Temple Cemetery near our community, fresh flowers are placed on the ground. Countless people come to pay their respects and mourn their beloved. The tolling of a melodious bell can be heard all around the temple area. Bundles of flowers appear along the roadside, atop the river dam, and in the corners of the walls.
All these memories of the dead. Memories of the day sixty years ago when more than 140,000 people died from the atomic bombing and nuclear fallout. The torch built after the war, to keep the flame of peace alive, still burns behind the monument. It is said that the flame shall be kept burning until there are no more nuclear weapons in the world.
On TV there are continuous reports and interviews as well as live coverage of the memorial ceremony at the Peace Square. They broadcast the story of Sadako, a young girl who died several years after the bombings because of leukemia from the radiation. During her treatment in the hospital, her friend told her that if you make a thousand paper cranes, your wish comes true. Sadako used all the medicine-packing paper she could find to make hundreds of tiny paper cranes, praying for peace and health. She made 664 cranes before she died. Those little paper cranes were perfect and elegant, each only half the size of a fingernail. The story celebrates the power and determination of that little girl.
Early in the morning, the two sisters, both wearing their beautiful black kimonos embroidered with waterbirds, start walking toward the square to take part in the gatherings. Each carries a large folder and writing pad; they plan to invite everyone they pass to sign a petition in protest of nuclear weapons. Because I’m the first person they see as they head out, I am lucky enough to be the first one invited to sign. Looking into their sincere and confident faces, I have no reason not to sign my name. I’m certain that everyone they approach will gladly sign as well.
Again my husband scolds me, arguing that I should never sign such a document. My status here in Japan is that of an accompanying spouse, he reminds me, a foreigner who must not involve herself in national politics—and that includes signing a petition.
“But what if I already signed?” I ask. “Should I report myself to someone?”
“If you already signed, then you’ve violated the law of the National Immigration Bureau,” he tells me. “You could one day be expelled from the country.”
Expel me. Expel me from this country. Do it now. Surely someone else is eagerly awaiting a visa to come here; myself, I’d just as soon leave.
He replies, “Why don’t you think of it in another way? If there had been no atomic bombing, if those one hundred forty thousand people had not been sacrificed, how would World War II ever have ended? If those thousands of deaths hadn’t happened, how many times more Chinese, and people from other war-torn countries, would have had to be killed before the war ended?” He shakes his head. “They say you are stupid and silly, that you can’t think for yourself. I’m starting to believe it. How is it that you’re a senior council member of the Writers Confederation? How can you even be a so-called writer, with so little achievement or understanding?”
I tell him that the Writers Confederation aims to stop the use of atomic bombs in the world. “We cannot allow atomic bombs,” I argue with him, “at any time, anywhere in the world.”
My husband is angry now. He starts to shout at me: “Go away, you silly old lady. You can’t change the meaning of things! You’re talking nonsense. You’re no different from the crazy sisters next door! You are ugly.”
That night, still angry, I refuse to cook dinner for him. In the end, we both go out to a nearby restaurant. Eyeing a large, well-cooked prawn, fried to a golden yellow, my husband suddenly says, “Today is the Hiroshima memorial, when the locals remember the sad sufferings of their loved ones. How can you eat these nice, well-cooked prawns and have such a good appetite? How can that be?”
I stare at him for a minute and then pick up the large prawn and put it in my mouth, eating it whole.
Midnight, August 6, it starts to rain—heavily, a cloudburst.
A strong windstorm rises up; rain pours into the yard and the house. The windows shudder and even the window frames begin to tremble. The curtains inside seem to inhale and exhale. Large white birds struggle hard against the window. Cold raindrops begin to pour inside the house. It’s pitch dark outside. I can hear nothing but the roaring sound of the storm: the falling rain, the raging winds, the ocean waves crashing against the rocks on the shore. The chorus crescendos, and the sound grows strange and monstrous. Huaaa, the rain falls, hitting the tree leaves. Huuuu, the wind rolls, roaring and crawling along the cliff of the mountain. Shuaaa, the waves crash and roar from the dark sea, attacking the shore. Everything that can move is moving. Kooong, looong, a series of thunderclaps come after the lightning. I imagine thousands of horses and warriors in the ancient battlefield of the dark valley, pale and ghastly lightning revealing the roaring woods. I see the yielding trees struggling in the blowing rainfall, the billowing curtains of seawater and the mysterious mist fleetingly visible in the lightning. Hoolaa . . . hoolaa . . . hoolaaaaa . . . It seems like the whole world will be swallowed up in an enormous vortex, like the Bermuda Triangle, with no way to escape.
I believe that right now everybody in Hiroshima is awake and awaiting the end of the storm and the coming of the morning sun. Nobody but a fool would be asleep. Nobody is laughing or talking. We are all praying and worrying for the outcome. Here on Jupiter Hill, we all fear that the hill might crack a
nd crash in suddenly, and the stone and mud will all be washed away to the deep ocean gulf.
All of a sudden the storm stops. There’s a quiet moment—almost stagnant. Absolute emptiness; no one even breathes. And then here it comes again: hoolaa . . . hoolaa . . . even stronger than before.
I can hear, between the gusts of wind and crashes of waves, the sound of my husband sleeping, his deep breathing and snoring. He is sound asleep. You could carry him to the shore and throw him into the rolling sea, against the waves; still he would sleep.
When I look at the curtains, I suddenly think of the window: Did I leave it open? I’d better go check! Then I remember my washed clothes hanging in the yard. Nobody has been out to gather them in. I try to awaken my husband. Wearily he murmurs, “What the hell are you doing now?”
I say, “The sky is falling down on us.”
“That’s OK,” he mutters. “Don’t worry. If the sky is falling down on us, the third floor will catch it. You don’t have to worry about it.” He tells me he’s been awake the whole time, through the lightning and the stormy night. He’s been thinking hard about his students’ essays and their homework, he says. He’s not asleep at all.
I ask him to go out and help bring in the clothes hanging in the yard.
He says, “Leave it wet, since it’s wet already. Why should we bother to bring them in? Leave them in the rain.”
Soon after this conversation, I hear his snoring again. He must be thinking very deeply about those essays. I walk to the gate of the terrace and find that the clothes I hung out in the meadow yesterday are all gone. Who knows where they are now, blown away by the windstorm.
A moving spot of light catches my eye; it’s from a flashlight next door. Turning in that direction, I see the two sisters busily working in their yard—in the midst of this terrible stormy night! Are they out there digging for treasure?
I sense a new writing project welling up in me; there’s a story to be written here. It reminds me of the murder scenes from various TV shows: the old woman, nervous and afraid of the rain, hurriedly laboring in the dark night, fighting against the thunderstorm . . .
The next morning, I get up early. I learn from the sisters that Kamo passed away in the night. At night we experience great difficulties.
The door of the sisters’ apartment is left wide open so that Kamo’s soul and spirit may go freely to where it belongs. The sisters dress in traditional funeral attire: black skirts and tops, long necklaces of black pearls. Their clothes are clean and light; they mourn their dog just as fully as you’d mourn a human relative.
Kamo was my friend, too. So I go out and buy a bouquet of flowers for the sisters, to pay my condolences for their sad loss. A beloved animal and a longtime companion has passed away; they must be very sad and in low spirits.
Since the door is open, I enter their apartment with the bundle of flowers. I see the body of Kamo, dressed officially, lying in the center of the sitting room. His fur has been recently washed and cleaned, dried with the hair dryer. His body is covered with a small blanket. Sister Yamamoto and Sister Shibata are sitting on each side of Kamo, quiet and solemn. But they look calm, not distressed and mournful as I had imagined.
Sister Yamamoto accepts my flowers and places them near Kamo’s head. Sister Shibata tells me that the people from the funeral home will be there soon; the body of Kamo shall be given to them for proper treatment. That is more appropriate, she says.
I dare not ask them what kind of funeral home it is—a funeral home for humans or for animals? Pets are very popular in Japan; when a pet dies, there are special organizations to handle the remains. You can’t simply throw the dead body in the trash can.
Since I’ve come to pay my condolences to Kamo, that lovely dog, I should say something—to him and to the sisters. I offer some kind words about him, his beauty and talents. The two sisters smile at me silently while I murmur my praise for Kamo. Then I say that perhaps they will someday find another Akita Inu dog to love. I say that Akitas like Kamo are clever, smart, and faithful. The sisters sit still, not saying a word.
The vehicle comes at noon. Kamo’s body is put into a small wooden box and carried out to the vehicle; the kennel and the plastic food dish go with him as well. Now Kamo is gone, as if he disappeared into thin air. He enjoyed his long, lovely life, and then one morning it vanished, simply and without leaving a trace, quietly, as if it never existed. But I do feel and taste something palpable from his passing, something light and ineffable; the loss is there, but you can’t touch it. It’s hard to describe.
My heart feels empty. It’s strange to stand there on the terrace, looking at the neighboring yard, green and also empty. Kamo is not there. The lawn is still there, but now the southeast corner is vacant. Only the green grass, swaying in the breeze, quivers slightly with life. The sky overhead is blue and clean; white clouds float along, going somewhere. The sea, reaching far from the hillside, rolls its waves in mist. The bright white sun comes to shine over the land, dazzling. I smell the tempting, appetizing scent of fried garlic coming from someone’s kitchen.
I think, this is life, and life goes on with time.
Time flies.
4
After the heavy storm that day and night and the death of Kamo the dog, the flowers and bushes next door become withered. It is high time for Kamo the pale-faced young man to come see the sisters. But still he does not come. I wait for the sisters to call me for help moving their flowerpots, as the days are getting short and cold. But they do not call, either.
The year’s end has arrived. Both Sister Yamamoto and Sister Shibata are getting busier by the day. They study in an Esperanto class two half days a week. The class is held in a study center at Hiroshima Station; they go there by bus. I don’t really understand what Esperanto is, nor what it’s used for. It is said to be an artificial language (but aren’t all languages man-made and artificial?) invented by a doctor in Poland, intended to be scientific, systematic, easy to learn and understand. Apparently there are Esperanto associations throughout the world, bringing people together to communicate in a single language. It’s a new and largely unknown language. I have no personal interest in learning it or helping it take hold. However, the sisters next door are learning it; they have the courage and patience to do so. They have the ambition and curiosity for it—and for many new things. Sometimes I feel that they’re living a most precious life. They are extraordinary.
When you live with the extraordinary as your next-door neighbors, seeing them almost every day, you may start to feel a little scared.
One day, out of curiosity, I approach the sisters and ask them if Esperanto is easy to learn. Sister Yamamoto says yes, it is simple and easy. Sister Shibata says it is interesting. I ask them how to say “atomic bomb” in Esperanto. Yamamoto says, “Pahung.” Shibata also says, “Pahung.”
Uncertain, I say, “It is pahung?”
They both say, “Yes, it is pahung.”
The younger sister adds, “Pa means flash of lightning and hung means explosion.”
At the time, I think that they’re kidding, making fun of me. Two years later, I will have the chance to visit the United States of America and meet a professor who teaches Esperanto in a university. I will ask him for the pronunciation of “atomic bomb” in Esperanto, and he will tell me clearly that it is pronounced “pahung.” I will know then that the sisters were serious.
But today, they try to convince me to come to the Esperanto class with them. I say that I can’t even manage to learn Japanese well while living in Japan. Esperanto will have to wait; I can’t use Esperanto to buy cabbage at the Juniper Hill market.
Increasingly I start hearing the sisters working hard to memorize the Esperanto vocabulary. Auto, naiwude, shisise . . . It sounds strange and funny to my ears. The two sisters even write letters to each other in Esperanto, and then seriously go to the post office and mail them! They collect the letters they receive from each other, mailed from and dispatched to the very same
address. Each sister dutifully replies to the letters she receives, all in order to practice this made-up language. I start to worry that I’ll receive a letter in Esperanto as well.
The Japanese are always busy during the year-end period. One of the major projects that keeps them busy is writing celebratory greeting cards to friends and relatives. They bring their piles of New Year’s cards to the post office, and the post office distributes the cards on New Year’s Day, beginning in the early morning. Nearly every household receives bundles of New Year’s cards. The more cards you receive, the more popular you appear to others and the better your reputation among the neighborhood.
The other project at this time of year is preparing New Year’s presents. These presents, known as “New Year celebration gifts,” are usually given to close relatives or friends. No matter how far away, the shop owners are responsible for delivering the gifts to the recipients. Most shop owners hire temporary staff at this time of year to help handle the deliveries. They drive to the recipient’s home and call his or her name out loud, ostentatiously, thereby boosting the recipient’s status.
The sisters usually send New Year’s cards to each other via the post office. They send New Year’s gifts to each other, too. Yamamoto will call a shop to deliver one box of golden fish cake, addressed to Shibata. A few days later, Shibata will call for a package of mountain mushroom to be delivered to Yamamoto. I call the shop to deliver a beautiful handkerchief to each of the sisters, but shipped as two separate gifts, at different times. In return for my gifts, I receive their reward, a beautiful skirt made of wool.
My husband says that we’re living right next door—we don’t need to play games like children, just for amusement. I say, what’s wrong with amusement? It’s our life; we ought to make it more vivid and exciting.
My husband says this is not a project for busy people; it’s for idlers who have no real work to do.
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 20