Child of Fortune

by Yuko Tsushima

  –It isn’t that far from here. Let’s go and take a look. There are lots of snakes – you like snakes, don’t you, Kayako?–

  Kayako, though annoyed at Doi’s little dig, had been the first to put on her shoes and hurry them along.

  –Come on, quick, let’s go!–

  Glass windows, row upon row, gleamed with a blue light. The oxygen pumps hummed faintly but steadily in the dimness of the hall. On the other side of the glass was a world of artificial light undulating in the water pressure. Living things were growing there. They moved without weeping or crying out. A single sheet of glass separated the creatures inside and Kōko standing outside, and yet a vast distance lay between them. The pressure supported by each pane was stifling. Both Doi and Kayako were peering in delight at the various marine forms.

  Kōko had later returned several times to the same aquarium, alone. She felt compelled to go and check the rows of artificial blue light. She had even learned the names of almost all the creatures they contained. Yes, even now she could still recall a few: the Nile lungfish, the pirarucu, the alligator gar. Yet she felt no special attachment to the fish that bore these names. She went expecting a creature that lived on without a name on the other side of the glass pane. And it was dread of finally finding it there in the blue light that made her seek it out.

  Around that time, Kōko had said to Doi: –I think I’d like to have a pet.–

  –Don’t. Knowing you you’d let it die straight off.–

  Doi was sprawled on top of Kōko.

  –No, I wouldn’t. Not if it was the right kind.–

  –You might manage to keep a cockroach.–

  –Don’t be silly.–

  –What, then?–

  –It should be a living thing, but not actually alive. Preserved in formaldehyde … Yes, if I could look at something like that every day, then maybe I’d feel as if I was looking after it. It would no longer be just a specimen. Yes, I’d like that.–

  Doi rolled away and sat up on the bed.

  –I don’t get it. What are you talking about?–

  –Kayako would like it too, I’m sure. We’d give it a name … Why don’t you get us one? It wouldn’t have to be anything special, and I’d love to have it. We’d both take good care of it … of the baby.–

  Doi didn’t answer. He went to the kitchen for a drink of water.

  Doi had once told her about seeing some deformed babies in glass cylinders. He was shown them by a friend who worked at a university hospital. Some twenty cylinders, about twelve inches high, were arranged on shelves. The surfaces were kept very clean. Inside floated the whitened bodies of all kinds of babies. Some were staring wide-eyed from behind the glass. All of them, Doi had said, looked very much as though they’d forgotten they were in glass jars and were still intending to be born.

  –No, they weren’t scary, poor things. They simply had some abnormality which meant they couldn’t live in the air outside. It was just that … well, they seemed so lonely, that was the disturbing part. It was as if they resented my staring at them and doing nothing to help.–

  –I’d be scared, that’s all– Kōko had murmured.

  She couldn’t see the white bodies in her mind’s eye, only the round glass cylinders – those well-polished cylinders – gleaming before her. The glass itself was invisible: she saw sparkling cylinders of sharp, silver light.

  2

  The telephone rang at 7:30 in the morning. Already up and fully dressed, Kōko deliberately let it ring several times before she lifted the receiver. Kayako’s voice sounded in her ear, running through their arrangements: she was about to come over, so would Kōko be ready and waiting?

  ‘It’s all right, take your time. Even if you get there at the last minute, you won’t lose marks for it.’

  But Kayako came racing over fifteen minutes later, breathing hard, her shoulders and hair wetly glistening. It was a sleety, cold morning.

  ‘With you talking like that I was afraid you’d go right back to sleep … So you were up already, that’s a relief.’

  ‘Will I do like this, do you suppose?’ Kōko asked after she’d sat Kayako down. She was wearing the black suit that she had hurriedly picked out at a department store for her mother’s funeral. She’d been worried that the skirt might be too tight in the waist now, but, luckily, as it had always been on the big side, she had managed to do up the hooks.

  Kayako nodded, giving a grown-up smile. She was so tense that her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone with an unaccustomed softness; Kōko noted with something of a shock that she’d turned into an altogether agreeable young girl. The pale-blue dress with white collar and cuffs suited her well, except that the sleeves and skirt were a little too short. (Kōko would have liked at least to alter the hem for her, but there wasn’t even time for that. With her sewing it might have taken a good two hours.) Her sister’s girl was small for her age – always the shortest in the class, so she’d heard. Almost as if to compensate, she did well in school and was always elected class president; at this rate, Kōko had heard Shōko say brightly, maybe they should have her carry on her father’s law practice, rather than expect too much of their son. –A woman lawyer, mmm, that would be something– Kōko had answered with rare enthusiasm, only to hear her sister laugh. –Oh, no! Nothing as high-flown as that. I’m talking about taking her husband into the family as heir.– You’re awfully keen on adopting sons and daughters, Kōko had thought with a rueful smile as she caught her sister’s amused expression. Her sister’s husband, too, had taken their family name through a form of adoption.

  After she’d made Kayako a cup of instant coffee, they took the elevator down. The sleet was still falling steadily. The street, the buildings, the curbside trees, the lampposts, and the sky all seemed heavier with water than they usually did in the rain. They hailed a taxi at once, but it made no headway in the traffic. It looked as though they should have taken the train, even if it was a longer way around. To Kayako, who was staring ahead and nervously licking her lower lip, Kōko said ‘I wish it would turn to snow. It’d be an improvement on this.’

  Kayako nodded vaguely.

  ‘… I used to take you to the nursery even on days like this, you know. I’m always reminded when I’m caught in bad weather. However did I keep it up, carrying you on my back or in my arms, every day for six years?’

  ‘… Do you think we’ll make it?’ Kayako asked in a low voice.

  ‘We’ve still got more than thirty minutes.’

  ‘Mm …’

  The car, which had started moving at last, stopped dead again. They could see the tiny red glow of a signal up ahead. Kayako sighed and sat up very straight.

  ‘It’s all right, I promise you.’

  ‘Mm. It’s not that … I’m sure to be asked … What should I say about Dad?’

  Kayako’s cheeks were flushed beyond pink to the color of bruised fruit. Did she have a cold? Kōko was tempted to lay her hand on her forehead. The only time Kayako’s face showed any color was when she was feverish. Kōko could generally gauge her temperature without a thermometer, from the shade of red: now it was about 39°.

  ‘If that’s what’s worrying you, we aren’t doing anything especially wrong, so why not simply tell them the facts?’

  ‘But what should I say?’ Kayako’s voice grew smaller and smaller.

  Kōko found herself lowering her own voice. ‘Just the facts – that your parents were divorced when you were three. There’s no need to say any more and, anyway, you’ve given them the family register, haven’t you?’ Kayako nodded. ‘Then there’s really no need to say anything. Tell them you only know what’s there in the official record …’

  ‘… I’ve heard a lot of people are turned down because of their home background.’

  ‘Huh! In other words, all they care about is their fees. They want children from families who’ll be good for fat donations, and never mind where the money comes from. Why don’t you drop this nonsense while there’s still time?�
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  ‘Mom …’ Kayako spoke in a whisper, her head hanging low. Looking at her from the side Kōko wondered if she was going to cry, but instead of tears she merely let out a small sigh, her features set and impassive. Kōko regretted her own childish outburst, but she couldn’t help feeling, too, that Kayako’s reaction was somehow not enough. She’d never had an argument with Kayako. From the time she first brought Doi and Kayako together, the girl had slipped out of her embrace and away. She was painfully aware of this now, so much later.

  Toward noon the sleet turned to rain. Kōko led the way into a restaurant. Since it was near the school whose entrance tests they had just attended, they could see several other couples like themselves. One mother bowed slightly in Kōko’s direction when their eyes met; they must have been together in the waiting room before the interviews, though Kōko didn’t remember seeing the dark, stout woman.

  Kayako hadn’t said a word since they left the school. She wasn’t even going to look Kōko in the face. Her downcast eyes told of the warning she was repeating firmly to herself: she must find a place to cry, she must bear up till then. In Kōko’s opinion the interview itself had been a great success. The trouble, evidently, was what the interviewing nun had said as they rose to leave. Kayako had heard from her cousin that the usual formula was ‘I expect we’ll meet again’ for a pass, ‘Goodbye, my dear’ for a fail. The interviewer already had on hand what amounted to the pass list. Her words to Kayako had been: –Goodbye, my dear.–

  Her comments earlier in the interview had seemed to imply a good score in the written tests, and she’d said to Kōko, tactfully, –It must have been a struggle for you on your own.– Suddenly ashamed of the bad impression she’d always had of the school, Kōko was all smiles for the rest of the interview. Nevertheless, once she’d bowed and left the room she was struck by the knowledge that Kayako could well have failed. Never mind what the nun had said: it was a near certainty. And so she hesitated to offer any cheery optimism; in fact she couldn’t bring herself to mention anything connected with the interview, not even the nun’s habit.

  The school buildings were old. Inside the great gates, a pupil, probably a senior, had greeted them with a deep bow. As it seemed unkind, somehow, just to pass her by, they’d asked where the exam candidates were assembling and said thank-you politely before going inside. The first-floor windows were fitted with iron grilles. They had been directed downstairs to the auditorium. There, too, seniors in beribboned uniforms were serving as guides. Kōko had seen the uniform before: her sister’s daughter Miho had been wearing it, crisp and new, at their mother’s funeral.

  When they were ushered into the waiting room, Miho put in an appearance. It must have been recess, to judge by the noise level outside – though even so it was rather quiet.

  –Sis, you’re late!– Kayako called sweetly as she went out to where her cousin waited in the corridor; this must have been prearranged. The sound of Kayako’s voice drew all eyes in the waiting room toward the corridor. Kōko found herself blushing. Couldn’t they at least have met somewhere out of sight of the other candidates? She was dismayed: was it becoming too much for the girl to show even a little consideration?

  Her thoughts turned to the interview that lay ahead of them both; intensely uncomfortable, she shifted again and again in her chair. She hadn’t entirely lost hope of dissuading Kayako even now. Slowly, too, her temper was rising. Why on earth had she taken time off from work to come here? Now she would have to take next Sunday morning’s lessons to pay back the teacher who was filling in for her. However did Kayako expect to repay these sacrifices?

  Kōko wanted a cigarette. It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet she didn’t feel free to smoke. With bent head she stepped into the corridor. Kayako was alone, gazing out of the window. Across a deserted back street there was a white building, probably some sort of dormitory. She had been cold enough in the waiting room, but the corridor was even colder – her breath was misting. Kōko thought of her condition: a chill would be the worst possible thing at this time.

  –Has she gone already?– When she was spoken to, Kayako finally looked around at her mother, letting her mouth droop open. Kōko asked again: –Has Miho gone?–

  – … She said to give you her love– Kayako replied without expression.

  Glancing away, Kōko fished her cigarettes out of her handbag.

  –Hey!– Kayako’s exclamation came as no surprise. Ignoring her, she proceeded to take one from the pack. At almost the same instant Kayako’s fingers snatched it from her hand. Kōko studied Kayako’s face: her nostrils were puffy and red. The girl turned back to the window, squinting at the light, with the cigarette tightly palmed.

  It had been then that their name was called. Kōko and Kayako had exchanged a look, then each hastily tidied her clothes. Kayako had shoved the cigarette into her pocket.

  Kayako was chewing dismally enough now to destroy the appetites of everyone else in the restaurant. Maybe, instead of bringing her to this unexciting place, she should have whisked her off to Ginza and treated her to a fancy French dinner. But let her taste her fill of bitterness over this meal, she thought. She wanted to take a mirror, show Kayako her own poor reflection, and point out the error of her choice. Look, if you go on like this you’ll only make yourself more miserable. You have to compete with your own kind. If a bird imitated a fish, it would only drown …

  As she waited for Kayako to finish eating, Kōko let her feelings reach out directly, for the first time, toward what had begun to grow inside her. Perhaps she needn’t be afraid to have the baby. Until now the very fact of being pregnant had seemed too threatening to think about. She shifted her eyes from the plates on the table to the window on her right, for fear that Kayako – though she had no reason to suspect – might read her thoughts. It was still raining, a viscous, opaque rain. The steamy windowpanes reduced the street scene to blurred shadows. The street lamps, which had come on automatically under the darkened sky, were circled by spreading blots of violet light. The air inside the restaurant was stuffy with the heat of people and the smell of food.

  Having this child would mean a new member joining the family. Kōko imagined a cradle holding a sleeping baby in her home. She would probably put it in Kayako’s sunny room during the day. She saw Kayako studying at the desk alongside and, when the baby cried, looking around into the cradle and gently patting its chest or picking it up. Then calling Kōko …

  Three people. Kōko was strongly attracted by the number’s stability. Not two, not four, but three. A triangle: a full, beautiful form. There was something to be said for the square, too, but the triangle was the basis of all form. The dominant. The chord do, mi, so. This perfect chord had grown too familiar to move her every time she heard it, yet its fullness had a tough resilience, more so than any other sound. Between the two of them they could never form a unit that could be called a family. With one adult, one child, they could only draw a straight line connecting two points. One end was too high, moreover, and the other too low. The straight line was askew. What harm could there be in providing Kayako with another, new point? Far from doing harm, it was the finest present there could be, and she could offer it from a direction Kayako least expected …

  At this point Kōko had to smile wryly at her own train of thought. What amused her was not so much its boldness as its childish optimism. Really, at thirty-six! She needed to talk some sense into herself. As her sister would say, where was she going to get the money? When the baby was old enough there were such things as day nurseries, but in the meantime what did she plan to do about her job? And Kayako, at her age, was hardly going to believe in virgin birth; the untimely pregnancy meant she’d know what her mother had been keeping secret for all those years. If she did go to that school – in fact, even at a municipal school it would probably come to the same thing – the disgrace would ensure that both teachers and pupils made her first year there a torment. It was doubtful whether she would last out a year. With her aunt adv
ising her, she might disown Kōko.

  But these worries were being answered, one by one, by an innocent voice in another corner of her mind. The money: she could have her brother-in-law make over the rest of her legacy. The job: she had heard of unlicensed nurseries that accepted babies from six weeks old, and she could get Kayako to babysit. It wouldn’t be difficult to have her own hours changed to evenings and holidays. Kayako couldn’t turn her back on her own flesh and blood, no matter how susceptible she might be to what people thought …

  Without noticing, Kōko had begun to retrace the doubt and indecision she had felt when she and Doi were lovers, and to gather them onto this belly of hers, which was not yet outwardly obvious.

  Her indecision in those days – she could tell now – hadn’t really amounted to indecision at all. But at the time she’d been stifled by her own ambivalence; her mind was always somewhere else whether she was teaching the piano or listening to Kayako’s chatter. Only when she saw and held Doi in the flesh would she remember that a child of his had already come into the world and was growing up, and her clouded mind would suddenly clear. How could she possibly have thought of getting pregnant? Then she could stop Doi as he whispered with the urgency of desire –Let’s worry about a baby when it happens, it’ll work out.– But as soon as Doi was out of sight the uneasiness would return over her own steady refusal to become pregnant, and she would begin to imagine herself having their child.

  As for Doi, he was half deserting his own child to come to Kōko – and when he got there he was Kayako’s captive playmate. Surely the question must have arisen at the back of his mind: why was he humoring Kayako when it was making his own child unhappy? There must have been moments on their tours of the zoo when the cruel absurdity of the situation made him wonder what on earth he was doing. Kōko couldn’t help thinking so as she watched them fearfully from behind. But, fearful as she was, she wanted to give Kayako every chance of enjoying Doi’s presence in her father’s place.