by Hiromi Goto
PRAISE FOR CHORUS OF MUSHROOMS
“Hiromi Goto expertly layers the experiences of a Japanese immigrant woman, her emotionally estranged daughter and her beloved granddaughter into a complex fabric and compelling story.”
OTTAWA CITIZEN
“Such a love for words is evident in Chorus of Mushrooms, which contains passages of breathtaking beauty.”
THE GLOBE AND MAIL
“Hiromi Goto, a Japanese-Canadian writer, has written a masterpiece of our times … The readability of the text is attributable to the author’s craftsmanship, and one feels like reading it over and over again.”
THE HERALD (HARARE, ZIMBABWE)
“Not only is Goto’s language precise and evocative, she has crafted a complex and poetic text that weaves realities and mysteries into a subtle pattern.”
EDMONTON JOURNAL
NUNATAK FICTION:
Nunatak is an Inuktitut word meaning “lonely peak,” a rock or mountain rising above ice. During Quaternary glaciation in North America these peaks stood above the ice sheet and so became refuges for plant and animal life. Magnificent nunataks, their bases scoured by glaciers, can be seen along the Highwood Pass in the Alberta Rocky Mountains and on Ellesmere Island.
Nunataks are especially selected works of outstanding fiction by new western writers. Notable Nunatak titles include Icefields, by Thomas Wharton, Moon Honey, by Suzette Mayr, Fishing for Bacon, by Michael Davie, Dance, Gladys, Dance, by Cassie Stocks and The Shore Girl, by Fran Kimmel.
20TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION
CHORUS OF
MUSHROOMS
HIROMI GOTO
Copyright © 1994, 2014 Hiromi Goto
Copyright © 2014 Larissa Lai (afterword)
Copyright © 2014 Smaro Kamboureli and Hiromi Goto (interview)
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication — reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system — without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright © law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright © before proceeding.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Goto, Hiromi, 1966-, author
Chorus of mushrooms / Hiromi Goto. — 20th anniversary edition.
(Nunatak first fiction series ; 5)
Includes bibliographical references.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927063-48-4 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927063-49-1 (epub).—
ISBN 978-1-927063-54-5 (mobi)
I. Title. II. Series: Nunatak first fiction ; 5
PS8563.O8383C5 2014 C813’.54 C2013-907195-4
C2013-907196-2
Editor for the Board: Rudy Wiebe
Editor of 20th Anniversary Edition: Smaro Kamboureli
Cover and Interior Design: Justine Ma
Author Photo: Kiely Ramos
No bison were harmed in the making of this book.
Printed and bound in Canada
First printing: April 2014
No. 201, 8540 109 Street, Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6
t. 780.432.9427 w. newestpress.com
For Kiyokawa Naoe. I love you Obāchan.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chorus of Mushrooms
Afterword by Larissa Lai
Permutations: The Many Stories in Chorus of Mushrooms —
Smaro Kamboureli interviews Hiromi Goto
The legend is believed, it is remarkable, and also it is local.
Folk Legends of Japan
We lie in bed, listen to the click of blinds, watch a thin thread of dusty cobweb weave back and forth, back and forth, in the waves of air we cannot see. The blankets and sheet are a heap at the foot of the bed, and we are warm only where skin is touching skin. My shoulder, my arm, the swell of my hip. The curve of my thigh. Lean lightly into you. My fingertips are icy, but I am too comfortable to move. To bother getting up and arrange the blankets. I only want to savour the quiet of skin on skin. The murmur of our blood beneath our surface touch. Our breathing unconsciously falls into a pattern, follows the movement of the strand of cobweb that weaves above our heads. You lift your hand to rest its weight, the palm rough, just beneath my breast.
“Will you tell me a story?” you ask. Eyes on the strand of dust.
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me a story about your Obāchan?”
“Yes,” I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Slowly.
“Will you tell me a true story?” you ask, with unconscious longing.
“A lot of people ask that. Have you ever noticed?” I roll onto my side. Prop my elbow and rest my chin, my cheek, into the curve of my hand. “It’s like people want to hear a story, and then, after they’re done with it, they can stick the story back to where it came from. You know?”
“Not really,” you say, and slide a little lower, so that your head is nestled beneath my chin. Your face in my neck. “But will you still tell me?”
“Sure, but bear with my language, won’t you? My Japanese isn’t as good as my English, and you might not get everything I say. But that doesn’t mean the story’s not there to understand. Wakatte kureru kashira? Can you listen before you hear?”
“Trust me,” you say.
I pause. Take a deep breath, then spiral into sound.
“Here’s a true story.”
Mukāshi, mukāshi, ōmukashi . . .
PART ONE
NAOE
Ahhhhh this unrelenting, dust-driven, crack your fingers dry wind has withered my wits, I’m certain. Endless as thought as breath—ha! Not much breath left in this set of bellows, but this wind. Just blows and blows and blows. Soon be blowing dust over my mummy carcass and beetles won’t find the tiniest bit of soft flesh to gnaw on, serves them right. Dust in my joints dry as rust and I creak. Well worn, I am. Well worked. Can’t stoop to sweep up the dust swirling in the corners of the rooms. Dust swells and eddies, motes linger to parch my nose, my mouth. Don’t bother dusting, I say. It’ll come back, surely. Let the piles of dust grow and mound and I’ll plant daikon and eggplant seeds. Let something grow from this daily curse. But no. Keiko just looks at me from the corners of her eyes. I know. I know. Never mind. No matter. Just let Obāchan sit in her chair in the hall so she can see who comes and goes. My back to the staircase, and I can see who comes through the front door. People have to pass me to get inside this house. Don’t try to sneak by, I might stick out my foot. If I look straight ahead I can watch what goes on in half the living room. Turn my head to the right and I see all from the kitchen to the laundry room to the bathroom door. If I tip my head upward, I can see anyone who tries to creak down the stairs. No one moves in this house without meeting my eyes. Hearing my voice. Take no notice, I say. I’ll try not to stare. I’ll nod and smile. Welcome! Welcome! Into this pit of dust. This bowl of heat. Ohairi kudasai! Dōzo ohairi kudasai. Talk loudly and e-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-e. I might be stupid as well as deaf. How can they think a body can live in this country for twenty years and not learn the language? But let them think this. Let them think what they will, for they will. Solly, Obāchan no speeku Eeenglishu. Maybe I’m the fool, but stubborn I am and will remain. Keiko glances at me these days. More often than before with that curl of sour tofu curds lingering in her mouth. I’m not blind. I’ve heard the talk. “I think we should start looking for a h-o-m-e.” As if I can’t spell. Eighty-five years old and cast from my home. Ahhh, at least the dust here is familiar. Every grain, every mote as familiar as the smell of my body. No time now to learn new dust in a new home. Let me just sit here. Let me sit here in the hall by the door. There are no window
s here to torment me. I can only hear the muffled roar of the wind through the insulated walls and I can drown out the incessant swirl of dust, of chaff, with words. Little songs. And hum.
I mutter and mutter and no one to listen. I speak my words in Japanese and my daughter will not hear them. The words that come from our ears, our mouths, they collide in the space between us.
“Obāchan, please! I wish you would stop that. Is it too much to ask for some peace and quiet? You do this on purpose, don’t you? Don’t you! I just want some peace. Just stop! Please, just stop.”
“Gomennasai. Waruine, Obāchan wa. Solly. Solly.”
Ha! Keiko, there is method in my madness. I could stand on my head and quote Shakespeare until I had a nosebleed, but to no avail, no one hears my language. So I sit and say the words and will, until the wind or I shall die. Someone, something must stand against this wind and I will. I am.
I mustn’t nod off like that. I must keep this vigil. No, he is still there. Damnit. When did he begin to bother me, this wind? He has always been there, yet I’m certain he did not trouble me so much many years ago. When my hair was still dark and long enough to snap smartly like a flag in the wind. And now? Now my hair is short and silver, in tight little curls like a lamb. No wind in here. If I turn my head too quickly, the silver curls tinkle against each other like little bells. Outside, the wind howls and I am silent no longer. Bitter fruit of unripe persimmons. Am I that bitter? No, I am an old woman and I must speak.
Of course there was wind in Japan. I remember so well, the soft spring breeze rustling midori green bamboo leaves. Sara sara sara. Gentle as wish, as thought and certainly no need to challenge it with my voice. A breath of leaves. My sticky child feet slapping bata bata the freshly laid tatami sweet as straw. My brother and I drank miso-shiru from black lacquer bowls and crunched daikon left over from the pickling bins. Still as a pool of water, we were waiting. Waiting for Okāsan to bring our rice and Otōsan to come home. For the cicadas to cry tsuku tsuku boshi, tsuku tsuku boshi and the cat to jump up on the verandah. We were waiting as children. Waiting for everything.
Shige and I gathered soft white cloth, string and a crayon. We pressed cotton stuffing into a ball and twisted the material of the cloth around the ball and tied it so there was a smooth round head and the skirt of the cloth, the body. Just like a little white ghost. We drew in two eyebrows and two eyes, so he would be able to see. Our teru teru bōzu swung barely, almost motionless, from the rafters outside the house. In the warm wet of summer rain.
Teru teru bōzu
Teru bōzu,
Ashita tenkini shite okure.
He would charm the rain away and Okōsan would take us to the park. Waiting for tomorrow. The breeze as gentle on my face as my mother’s hand. Her fingertips. The green-smelling soil planted with peanuts the day before yesterday and the singe smell of Otōsan’s cotton shirts being ironed. We were happy to be waiting then, Shige and I. I could wait motionless for days, sitting on the wooden engawa, watching the koi make lazy ripples in the pond, the rafters dripping with summer rain. And the rain kept falling into tomorrow.
We had to burn the little white charm. That was the rule. If the teru teru bōzu couldn’t keep the rain away, you burned him.
Pichi pichi, chappu chappu. It hardly ever rains here. Funny how I hated the rain so much when I was a child and now I miss it sorely. A body isn’t meant to brittle dry. It’s hard to keep the words flowing if you have to lick them, moisten them with your tongue before they can leave your lips. The days stretched long and wet when the rains fell in our childhood waiting. But Okāsan would tell us tales.
Mukāshi, mukāshi, ōmukashi . . .
Okāsan told us tales in our childhood waiting, but the tales she told didn’t have the power to save us. Funny how parents tell teaching stories yet they never bother to taste the words they utter. How the words are coated with honey and nectar but the flesh inside is weak and hollow. Let me tell a different story.
Mukāshi, mukāshi, when I was a very young girl, there lived a happy family who was very rich with many storehouses filled to the beams with last season’s rice and soft-dried persimmons and the sweetest, smoothest casks of sake. There was fresh fish and salted fish and great urns filled with shōyu and miso. They weren’t rich in food only, but had many beautiful things inside the house. There were many rooms and everybody had their own silk-lined quilts to cover them. I never thought of where that silk came from. I knew only that they came from silkworms. And never thought beyond the lovely colours they had been dyed.
I had beautiful dolls to look at and a nurse who held my hand whenever I went outside to play. My brother Shige always followed me, but I didn’t mind. He was a quiet boy and he always listened to me. We would dabble our feet in the natural spring right beside the house and suck the water from our toes until the nurse caught us and told our Okāsan. Why, we were rich enough to have a pet when everybody else kept animals for work. We had a dog named Jack, because Otōsan liked Western things. And we were well-respected. People in the village always smiled when they saw us. The villagers smiled with their mouths and I was too young to read what they didn’t say in the corners of their eyes. The hollows in their necks. They would bow extra low for our Otōsan, even bow to Shige and me though we were only little children and I felt so important. It was important to me to be important then. I wanted to be like Otōsan.
One day, an extra special day, Otōsan came home early from his office and my, he was so happy! “Okāsan,” he said, “please set out my best suit and tie. Shine my shoes as well. The villagers are having a party in my honour.” He tried to be calm and serious, but we knew how happy he was. Otōsan didn’t have many friends, you see, because he was so rich and had so much land, there weren’t many people who were important enough to be his friend. And no one in the village could dress like our Otōsan. He sent for his bank clothes from the capital and he was the only man in our mura who wore a bowler hat. Okāsan flushed softly with pleasure to see her husband so happy, and she bustled about to get his clothes ready. I followed Otōsan into his bedroom so I could watch him dress.
“Naoe-chan,” my father said to me, “an important man never leaves his home without his hanko. You never know when there is a document to sign, a letter to stamp. If someone were to ask you to sign a letter of recommendation and you didn’t have your hanko, why you would shame the name engraved on it, passed down from fourteen generations.” He buttoned his shirt from the bottom, watching his reflection in the full-length mirror that stood in his room.
“Where is my hanko, Otōsan?” I asked. “Will your hanko passed down for fourteen generations be mine when I grow up?”
“No, silly girl. You will be a lady when you grow up and you will press the hanko of your husband.” He smoothed the silk of his tie with graceful fingers.
“Then who will press the hanko that carries our family name passed down for fourteen generations?”
“Your brother, Shige, of course.”
“But he is much younger than I.”
“Yes, but he will be a man some day.”
“I’ll be a man when I grow up too, Otōsan,” I said. “I want to press our family hanko and wear a bowler hat.”
“I must talk to your Okāsan,” he said. “You are much too big to be talking such silly nonsense. Now out! Out! Let Otōsan get ready for his party.”
He, dressed in his rich man’s suit, his shoes shining with pride, decided to walk to the party so people might see him in his best. We were so proud, Shige and I, that after he left we played going to a party and dressed up in our richest clothes, pouring sake into imaginary cups, eating sashimi and the tender meat of sweetly stewed eels. Okāsan shooed us to sleep, and we ran bata bata on the tatami, to dream of hankos and bowler hats.
Easy for a child to believe in the powers of her parents. When there is food and song and happy myths told long into the night. When you sleep beneath blankets made of silk. I could only trust what I had known in t
he house of my father. I could not know that we were privileged. That people hated us for our wealth and power. I could not know that loss and pain were as easy as one hanko pressed in red ink. One stamp on a legal document.
“Shhhh, shizukani. Naoe-chan. Pack your cotton kimonos. No, leave the silks, they are too fine. Quickly, now. Quickly!” Okāsan so strange and it’s not even morning, the sun isn’t up and grey and cold. Her eyes so strange and glittering. “Okāsan, what—” She slapped me. For the first and only time in my life she slapped me. “Pack your clothes. Be silent.” I didn’t cry, just packed the clothes my mother had heaped on my futon and stood where she told me to. “We must leave,” she said. And the words were like stone.
One hanko. The family seal. Kiyokawa. The simple characters of our family name engraved in ivory and passed down for fourteen generations, our home, our mountain, the land, one stamp. Kiyokawa. Pure river. Ha. Even the purest river can be polluted, and it will be. It was. The villagers plied our Otōsan with sweet words and sweeter sake. They lulled him with compliments and begged him to sing and to share with them his wisdom. They tricked him into signing documents he was too drunk to see. I am not bitter. The home, our mountain, the land, all Otōsan’s by right of a seal. The pain and the hardship of the villagers who only rented the land they had worked for fourteen generations but never owned for their labours. I am not bitter for losing something that was unevenly divided. The things I missed, the things gone forever, were the sweet smile on my Okāsan’s face, the silly stories Otōsan made for me.
“Otōsan, where does the breeze come from?”
“The breeze comes from the sky. He gets so tired of being blue, he sighs in discontent.”