Child of Fortune

by Yuko Tsushima

  –Mm, Uncle Doi is strong– said Kayako to no one in particular while her eyes followed the bag’s movements. It was crammed full of her picture books, jigsaw puzzles, stuffed toys, crayons and coloring books.

  For at least a month, Doi had been suggesting they go away somewhere for a break. Of course Kōko had taken to the idea immediately, but she was held back by a suspicion that he didn’t mean to include Kayako. She could have simply asked him outright, could have told him she wanted to take Kayako along, and Doi wouldn’t have refused. He would have said easily, as he always did: –We haven’t any choice, have we?– He had already kept them company on Kayako’s outings to department stores and the zoo. But entertaining Kayako couldn’t have been much fun for Doi, for he had a child of his own of about the same age.

  Soon after Kayako was born, Doi had come around to congratulate them with his wife and their own baby, who was crawling all over the place by then and must have been about a year old. They brought a set of quoits as a present. When she thought of the old Doi, and then of this new thoughtfulness which extended even to other people’s children, Kōko sensed the weight that fatherhood must have in Doi’s own life.

  Kōko couldn’t forget his dejected tone when he’d told her –This time she wants to have the baby.– There was no show of indifference in the words. Kōko had been concerned for the woman – who was then living with Doi – and often wondered aloud what they would do. She believed she understood pretty well, in her own way, how they’d come to live together and how sour it must have turned. And every time she saw them she would be chilled by her own reading of the situation: when would they split up?

  –Well, anyway, she seems to want to have it– Doi had said. – Though she’s only letting herself in for a hard time.– As soon as the baby was born, however, Doi had registered their marriage. And only a couple of months after she heard Doi’s news of his girlfriend’s pregnancy, Kōko herself had begun living with Hatanaka. Then when she found she was pregnant, she and Hatanaka had made their marriage official.

  –Look, he’s an angel, an angel …–

  Balancing one of the plastic quoits on top of his son’s head, Doi had shared the joke with his wife like any doting father. When they were about to go, it had been Doi who picked up the boy as they took their leave.

  Five years later, Kōko had remembered the fatherly figure that Doi had been then – and that even he had surely forgotten – and her heart was heavy as she looked at him with Kayako. For, astonished though she’d been at the earlier change in Doi, she had wanted to give her blessing to the small peace she saw in that new scene, not least for the sake of the woman who had become his wife.

  Doi would cheerfully take five-year-old Kayako for monorail rides, fetch her bottles of pop, take her to the toilet. Seeing Kayako’s excitement, Kōko would be happy too. But on such occasions she couldn’t look Doi squarely in the face. The very depth of her pleasure bewildered and shamed her, and finally left her helplessly annoyed at her own reaction. She shouldn’t bring Kayako and Doi together after all, she would decide. At the time Kayako would romp around in childish high spirits, but after Doi had left she always clutched her mother’s hand and held on tight. –Don’t go away, Mommy. Stay with me, ’cos if you die I’ll die too.– Kōko would resolve never to let Doi near them again, but that resolution never lasted for a week at a time. When she next heard Doi’s voice she would go to meet him as she always did, with Kayako in tow. Always Kōko was goaded by the same greedy wants: wanting the child to adore Doi, wanting him to be loving to her.

  Until just a few days before the trip, too, she’d been intending to leave Kayako at her mother’s, as she’d often done in the first year or two after the divorce. Her mother shared the old house with Shōko’s family, and Kayako liked to play with her two cousins. As she grew older, however, she seemed to want to spend all the time she could with Kōko. Since she was easy enough to take out by then, Kōko heeded the child’s feelings and no longer left her with anyone – apart from her nursery school – if she could help it. Besides, she was growing reluctant to leave Kayako in the company of the cousins, who had a home with two parents, and a big grassy garden, and their own sandbox in the corner, and even a swing and a bar for acrobatics. Kōko was in fact proud of the way she and her daughter lived in their apartment – with no frills, and entirely on her own earnings – and she wanted Kayako to share that pride, but the cousins in their setting made a too-perfect picture. (Perhaps, she thought, it was only natural that Hatanaka, being young at the time, should have longed to fit into such a picture until faced with defeat. Partly for his sake, also, Kōko tried to stay as far away as possible from the house where she’d grown up. Though this might have been painful for Kayako’s grandmother, Kayako’s father clearly figured larger in the child’s life.)

  Before they reached Karuizawa Station, Kayako was trainsick, and after vomiting once she fell into a fitful sleep. When Kōko tried to lay her down and move to the seat opposite, next to Doi, Kayako’s wails kept her at her side. She had to rest the girl’s head on her knee and hold her hand. Doi cleaned up the mess with newspaper and got her a wet towel. Kōko couldn’t bring herself to thank him specially, so she said nothing; Doi, too, spoke only when necessary. The coach was empty. There was no one to object when they opened a window and let in a cold breeze. Along the way they saw white birds glide down and stand motionless in the dried-out fields.

  It was evening when they pulled into the station. A strong wind whipped up the snow in icy granules. Half dragged from her sleep, startled more by the force of the wind than the cold, Kayako started to cry again. They hurried through the quiet station to a waiting taxi. The windows steamed over as soon as it moved off. They felt a rising uneasiness about the hotel bookings they hadn’t bothered to make since it was the off-season anyway. The blue tinge outside was already deepening.

  The hotel was quiet. They were shown to a twin room, chalet-style, with its coffee-colored curtains drawn. Kōko lay down for a rest with Kayako. Doi went out to reconnoiter, as he put it – to see what the hotel was like. Whenever Doi went somewhere new, he could never settle down without first checking the place over from one end to the other. In the meantime, Kōko actually fell asleep. The night before she hadn’t slept till near dawn: she’d been nervous about bringing Kayako. All kinds of scenes from the past had kept running through her mind.

  She had visited Karuizawa with Hatanaka when they were first living together. In high school, too, she had once spent two weeks there with friends. Both trips had been filled with squabbles and easy, ringing laughter.

  When she went there with Hatanaka – shortly after they moved in together – they had stayed in a small inn on the outskirts of the town. Then, too, it had been an off-season lull. Hatanaka’s endless complaints about the shabby inn irritated Kōko. She wanted to travel lightheartedly, to take things as they came. Finally, when Hatanaka happened to invite a girl student along to their room, they began to relax and give each other gentler looks. The girl, who was staying alone at the inn, joined them in an all-night game of cards. The next day all three followed the same sightseeing route, and Hatanaka had the girl take their photo with his arm around Kōko’s shoulders. Given an audience, Hatanaka was at pains to demonstrate how well he and Kōko got on together. Kōko, for her part, rather enjoyed this childish behavior.

  Hatanaka resembled an actor then at the height of popularity, and his looks tended to make a good impression on both men and women. There were a few, on the other hand, who took an intense dislike to him, but he had such a circle of admirers that he scarcely needed to spare them a thought. Older people believed his prospects were brilliant, they welcomed him into their homes and made a fuss of him; younger students gathered at his feet, never doubting his seriousness. Kōko, like them, looked on Hatanaka as someone dependable, a man with a future.

  From the start, she had hardly ever been alone with Hatanaka. After they’d lived for six months in the same apartment, near
ly all the housewives in the building had taken to dropping in. Kōko, who didn’t make friends easily, was enchanted at first by all these people popping in and out as if conjured up by some magician, but before long she found herself dreading the sight of them, when Hatanaka wasn’t there she had to close the shutters by day and pretend to be out. There wasn’t anyone in his crowd with whom she could talk freely, and she’d lost touch with her own acquaintances – the few she had – because they didn’t like Hatanaka.

  Kōko was awakened by Doi as the dining room was about to close. Kayako was watching television alone and eating her supply of candies. They hurried down, seeing no other guests in the halls, the elevator, or the lobby. Kayako kicked off her shoes with a whoop and raced up and down the deep-piled wall-to-wall carpets.

  The hotel was unexpectedly large. Kōko and Doi had never heard of it before, being complete strangers to golf; in fact they mightn’t have turned up so casually if they had known. At the off-season rate, or whatever it was, the tariff had seemed low enough for a leisurely stay even on the little money they could put together, and when they had phoned from Tokyo and confirmed that they could afford it, both Doi and Kōko – each knowing the other’s lack of funds – had been in the best of spirits. But when she was asked if they wished to make a reservation, Kōko had replaced the receiver, unable to answer. She didn’t know how many people to book for. Doi had looked happy: he was revising their budget for the trip.

  In the deserted, spacious restaurant, Kōko smiled to think how excited they had been that day.

  –What is it, Mommy? What’s funny?–

  –Look, we’re the only ones here. Isn’t it great?–

  Doi burst out laughing. –But we can’t take our time over a drink like this.–

  Along the far wall stood a row of waiters surveying the three diners. Good though the food was, they withdrew quickly to their room; there they settled down with cans of beer from a vending machine.

  –We always end up this way– Kōko laughed. Kayako played awhile in the shower, then came to her clutching a stuffed toy and begging for a story.

  –You can read it yourself, can’t you?– Doi butted in before Kōko could answer. With a glare, Kayako pressed her cheek against Kōko’s shoulder and retorted:

  –I’m asking Mommy.–

  –What’s the matter with you? How old are you supposed to be?–

  –I don’t care. Uncle is just an old Bugle Hound, isn’t he, Mommy?–

  Bugle Hound was the name of a slow-witted villain in Kayako’s favorite TV cartoon. For some reason he always had a bugle slung over his shoulder.

  –All right– Kōko said. –Seeing it’s a special occasion. Which one shall I read?–

  Doi gave a wry smile and held his peace. After darting him another look Kayako chose a storybook from the overnight bag.

  In the end Kōko had to read all three books. Since Kayako had learned to read by herself, there’d been little opportunity for the bedtime stories with which she used to send her to sleep, every night without fail. Now she had another chance – and while she read Kōko couldn’t resist flashing a dirty look at Doi’s turned back every now and then. She knew it was the same look that Kayako had given him. Doi was not to say anything to Kayako that sounded like an opinion of her. He must never casually pass the same kind of remark he would fling at his son. Kayako – and Kōko too – overreacted. Even when Kayako plainly deserved a scolding, as soon as Doi opened his mouth Kōko would want to take her side. She was often shocked to find herself abusing Doi and stroking Kayako’s head. She would realize then that she was the one making Kayako hate Doi – exactly the opposite of what she’d meant to do. But, as if he were a gumdrop, she couldn’t bear to have him turn even slightly bitter to Kayako’s taste.

  –Well, so she’s out of the way at last. Whew!– As soon as Kayako was asleep, Doi put his arm around Kōko’s shoulders and drew her close. Though she couldn’t take her eyes off Kayako’s small black head, Kōko managed a smile for him. Why, she wondered, hadn’t she thought earlier of going away with Kayako, just the two of them? Although she had Doi to thank for the fact that now, anyway, she was settled in a hotel like this, gratitude was the last thing she felt: she was irked by his very presence in the same room. If only she could go back six months: then, she’d been as thrilled as a kid on her birthday because Doi, unlike other men, wasn’t discouraged from coming to see her even when Kayako was there.

  Kōko and Doi slept in the other bed. Though she had meant to move into Kayako’s bed by daybreak, she found herself still there on waking.

  That morning they had their first sight of the glittering snow outside the window. When she tugged the heavy curtain aside Kōko felt the white light strike her bodily, and she let out a gasp. Doi and Kayako came running to the window.

  –Snow!–

  –I never realized it was so deep last night.–

  –Look at the sky– said Kōko. They were all squinting into the glare.

  –Bright blue.–

  –Mommy, we can make lots of snowmen, can’t we?–

  –Yes, lots, all you want.–

  –Ooh, I’ll make a hundred. Come on, quick!–

  –Not yet. Breakfast first. Oh, look, a bird, can you see it?–

  There was a clump of trees and brush about fifty yards from the window, and under the nearest tree they could make out long brown tail feathers flicking up and down. Not a single human footprint was to be seen. Probably no one came near the place in winter. In this world of deep snow, the bird’s long tail was like a red flame. The words ‘I’m so glad we came!’ almost burst from Kōko’s lips, she was so stunned by the dazzling brightness outside the window.

  –That could be a hen pheasant– Doi suggested. –It’s not a sparrow or a pigeon, I can tell that much.–

  –Even a child could tell you that! But it might really be a pheasant, you know … A pheasant!– Glancing at Doi’s face, Kōko began to laugh. Only laughter could express the lightness of her heart. At her side were Doi and Kayako. Both were looking with sparkling eyes at the whiteness of the snow. They breathed in and out deeply. Kōko chuckled again: –A pheasant!–

  –I know pheasants too. The pheasant was given a dumpling, wasn’t he, Mommy?–

  –That’s right. A millet dumpling …–

  Before Kōko finished speaking the bird spread its wings and flew swiftly away. Several chunks of snow tumbled from the branches above, softly denting the snowy surface below. Neither the wing beats nor the rush of the snow reached them. It didn’t occur to Kōko that the double glazing was to blame. Enraptured, she felt as if the sheer whiteness of the snow repelled all sound.

  After a breakfast of coffee and toast in the dining room, they went outside. The road had been cleared, leaving the asphalt warm and dry with snow banked a foot high on either side. They rounded the corner of the hotel. The new view presented itself with the suddenness of a great mass of frozen snow descending on their heads. Kōko stopped still and raised her eyes. It was a mountain. Not a hill but a real mountain, rearing there, clear and close, so close that Kōko couldn’t hold her gaze steady. When she tried a casual look, the white mountain loomed even closer, threatening to crush her in an instant.

  At their feet lay a level snowfield which must have been the fairway. Fairway or field, it was all the same to Kōko. In the distance there was a single line of red pines, and to their left a row of small huts. Kōko turned her back on the mountain and ran in the direction of the huts. Letting out a pealing laugh like a scream, Kayako chased at her heels. They heard Doi calling:

  –Wait! You won’t get away!–

  Kōko looked back and stuck her tongue right out. Gleefully, Kayako did the same. Behind Doi’s thin body stood the mountain, so that he seemed to be leaning on its white bulk. He was laughing, his mouth gaping.

  With her hand on Kayako’s head Kōko started walking toward the huts. Though they hadn’t run far she was out of breath. Steam was rising at the edges of the as
phalt where it stretched away through the snow. Kayako slipped from Kōko’s grasp and ran on ahead. She hadn’t yet touched the snow with her hands. While she thrilled to this unfamiliar white world, it seemed she was also afraid.

  Doi overtook Kōko and gained on Kayako, in the lead. When she knew he was after her, Kayako’s laughter rose to a piercing squeal, a sound that traveled lightly over the shimmering snow. Kōko stopped and watched Kayako’s feet skipping about on the road. Clearly she wanted to spurt ahead out of Doi’s reach, but her feet were so tangled in her own laughter that she was stuck in one spot, and reduced to still more merriment at her own plight.

  With the dishes done, Kayako was heading toward the toilet. As Kōko gazed after her, she suddenly wondered what Kayako had worn on her feet that day. If she had forgotten even to take mittens, she could hardly have fitted her out in boots before they left Tokyo, nor was it likely she’d have packed boots in the bag full of toys. But it was hard to believe the child had been walking in the snow in sneakers for three days. What did she herself have on, then? She wasn’t in the habit of wearing leather shoes to travel, and she hadn’t even owned a pair of boots since her student days. So that meant sneakers. Had she and Kayako gone out in the snow in sneakers? Doi had on the leather shoes he usually wore in Tokyo, that much was certain, since he had pretended to his family that he was going on a business trip. Still, why hadn’t their unprotected feet bothered any of them?

  Their hands had soon complained at the lack of protection. That afternoon, once Kayako had lost her wariness of the snow, they began to build a snowman. Doi was the first to give a jarring cry and leap up from the ball he was rolling. –Yow! Ow! I’ve got frostbite!– While she was laughing at his antics, Kayako burst into tears.

  –Ow, Mommy, it hurts.– These were no ordinary tears. As she blew on Kayako’s hands, Kōko finally became aware of the pain in her own, a pain that wrung her spine. Doi turned his back on them and kicked at the knee-high snowball he’d taken so much trouble to make. The ball that Kōko and Kayako had been rolling between them had barely reached half its size.