Child of Fortune

by Yuko Tsushima

  Whenever she saw them together in the old days, Kōko used to wish Hatanaka would learn a thing or two from Osada. But the scene was always the same: Osada waiting on Hatanaka. And in spite of her irritation, Kōko would catch herself behaving as Hatanaka did, letting the bachelor Osada do the dishes and help clean up.

  When she broke the news of the coming divorce, Osada protested violently, and she learned that his own parents were divorced. He couldn’t approve of any grounds but child abuse, and Hatanaka had never once mistreated the child, had he? If Kōko would only hold out and refuse to divorce him, knowing Hatanaka, he’d very soon be back.

  Kōko nodded agreement, but she replied: –I don’t have the strength. And even when we’re divorced he’ll still be Kayako’s father … Don’t you think that a young enough child can go without her father and hardly be affected? And when she’s older she can see him all she wants … –

  Osada didn’t accept Kōko’s arguments, and after the divorce he no longer showed her the same affection. He maintained a fixed distance; when he came into contact with her it was strictly as Hatanaka’s friend. Though she missed his friendship, she was reminded also of his integrity: she felt she could rely on Osada in every way. But she never saw him unless there was some message to be relayed. They would exchange the latest news of Hatanaka and Kayako, finish their coffee, and go their separate ways.

  Last fall, Osada had phoned again after a long break. He had been asked to deliver another birthday present for Kayako. Kōko was unfortunately too busy to get away during the day, but she suggested that evening or the one after, since Kayako had just left on a three-day school trip.

  The next evening she met Osada at a beer hall. While she was living with Hatanaka they’d all gone out together on two or three occasions, leaving Kayako with her grandmother. They often drank together at home, too. Osada hadn’t been much of a drinker, though; after a large beer he would soon drop off to sleep, wherever he happened to be at the time. Now, eight years later, Kōko noted that his limit had increased. She was lighthearted as she recalled all the things they’d said and done. Osada also talked and laughed a lot that night.

  From the beer hall they went on to a small neighborhood bar, then Kōko invited Osada back to her apartment. They sat watching TV and drinking whiskey. Osada’s gaze roved around Kōko’s rooms with uninhibited curiosity. They talked about rents, how much she’d paid for the apartment, whether it was comfortable; they discussed the cost of living and swapped complaints about their jobs.

  When the TV station signed off, Osada said –Shall we go to bed?– Kōko nodded and got up to clear the table. Meanwhile Osada began to undress.

  Naked, Osada and Kōko embraced. They held each other’s bodies breathlessly, like children thrilling to secret mischief out of the sight of adults. Kōko could only marvel: had people’s bodies always been so warm, so soft? Since she’d stopped holding Kayako in her arms, she had forgotten the touch of another’s skin. She remembered that her own body was a warm, soft being, like this. Is there anything, she wondered, that gives people more comfort than this skin touching skin? As she explored Osada’s body with her face, her hands and feet, its comfortable presence – no more nor less than human – was unbearably dear to her. She wanted to give thanks for being this living creature, a human being. Like a child she clamored for more and more caresses. She wanted to make sure, with her own body, of the two legs, the genitals, the belly, the rib cage, all the human parts: why does the sheer fact that the flesh is alive – petty and even ugly as it is – convey a sense of such depth?

  Having seen Kōko’s expression, Osada was apologizing, over and over again, for having been remiss. –Even today, I wouldn’t have realized if you hadn’t invited me here. It was stupid of me – I never guessed what was on your mind, Kōko. I didn’t mean to keep you hanging like that, I just didn’t realize. It’s not easy for a woman to make the first move, I know.–

  Kōko met Osada’s words with a smile, but was thinking: if only the man were a mute. She found it hard to suppress a deep disappointment at Osada’s arousal – as deep as her joy at coming into contact with a human body. She couldn’t relate the pleasure that she felt to the physical desire between a man and a woman. Whatever it was she wanted from Osada, if anything, it was not sex.

  Some time later Osada fell asleep, snoring. Kōko sat up in bed many times in the night to light a cigarette and stare intently at his face, childish and vulnerable in sleep.

  She remembered a spiteful but plausible rumor that had gone the rounds of her class in grade school. They were so young that they thought babies happened automatically when the father and mother lived together. The rumor concerned a certain pale and peevish child who, it alleged, would never have been born if his mom and dad hadn’t stuck themselves together down there.

  Something is terribly wrong if even sex like this can lead to pregnancy, Kōko thought as she stroked Osada’s head with tears in her eyes. The workings of human sex – including her own – were terrifying. Kayako, too, had had her first menstruation that summer.

  Early the next morning, after seeing Osada off, Kōko opened Hatanaka’s present to Kayako. Her heart sank: it was a cheap dress-up doll. There’s no need for him to go on buying her trinkets from a sense of duty, she thought. It wasn’t that she wanted expensive gifts. But this one revealed only too clearly how his attentiveness to Kayako had lapsed. He probably never thought to ask himself, before entering the toy shop, what sort of thing a girl of eleven would like.

  Later that day Kōko called at a department store and bought a hand mirror with a carved wooden back; the dress-up doll she gave away to one of her piano pupils. Kayako naturally looked forward each year to her father’s presents. Kōko thought of suggesting, through Osada, that he take Kayako out for a meal from next year, now that she was starting junior high.

  Two weeks later Kōko telephoned Osada. When they met, after sex she told him about this idea. –I’ll pass it on sometime– he replied.

  She saw Osada several times after that. They met in a coffee shop and went to a hotel. They lacked even the guilt that would have accompanied the same behavior in their student days, and soon their phone calls stopped; it was hard to say on whose side. Osada, it seemed, having convinced himself that Kōko was highly sexed, was afraid her desire might trip him up. Just as Kōko had once felt toward Doi, it seemed that while he clung moment by moment to their sexual encounters he couldn’t help being repelled by the desire that each exposed there. Though she supposed Osada’s emotions were not unnatural, Kōko had to admit she found them unbearably humiliating.

  She hadn’t seen Osada at all since the beginning of the year. No doubt the matter of the birthday treat had completely slipped his memory by now. There was also the subject of her pregnancy. She probably should see him once in the near future – and already Kōko was starting to consider when. It didn’t look as though she could carry off the feat of giving birth to a child fathered by Osada, not letting him know, and continuing to see him as if nothing had happened. It would be awkward, though, if he worried and fussed. It might be better to tell him after it was too late for an abortion …

  They were getting close to the Ginza. As she took her purse from her handbag, Kōko bit hard against her lower lip. It was Doi’s child she’d wanted to have. How could she have deceived herself?

  Because of the weather she had the taxi take them to a store at Sukiyabashi, though she knew the traffic would be slow. It was evidently intending to rain solidly all day. Not surprisingly, there were few people about in the streets. At least when it starts to rain like this it means spring is almost here, thought Kōko as she held her umbrella over Kayako stepping out of the taxi behind her.

  3

  Mendelssohn’s ‘Songs Without Words’ was not a wise choice. Kōko wanted to block her ears, turn on the girl whose chocolate-smeared fingers were fumbling over the keyboard, and drive her out of the practice room. They’d been on this piece for almost a month now an
d still the girl’s fingers came nowhere near hitting the notes as they were written. She was forever making the same mistakes in the same places, and not even looking ashamed of herself. Perhaps the piece didn’t agree with her, since she was supposed to have a little more ability than the others. Kōko was thoroughly sick of teaching it, and for the last lesson or two the pupil had been squirming with sheer boredom as she shifted her fingers about.

  ‘Well, that’s it for today. Be sure to look at the music carefully, now, when you practice. It doesn’t matter if you play slowly, as long as it’s correct … And another thing, next week, don’t you come here with such dirty fingers. Wash your hands properly first … Goodbye.’

  With a mumbled goodbye the girl slipped from the room. Every one of the children came and went in the same way. ‘Goodbye’ and ‘hello’ were all they said; if they had to answer otherwise they spoke only in whispers, and then only to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. As Kōko talked on, all by herself, they gazed up at her derisively: fancy anyone caring about this stupid old stuff! These looks would drive Kōko to even greater talkativeness.

  After stretching hard she moved on to the next room, where a boy was patiently practicing Hanon. She sat down beside him and checked her watch: it was already after three. The phone call should have come at two. Perhaps Kayako had failed, as she’d thought. All the same, she wished she’d let her know quickly; being kept in such suspense was hard on the nerves. She considered calling her sister’s place to find out, but, on second thoughts, there was nothing she could do if she did learn the result an hour or two sooner. If possible, too, she wanted to avoid talking to her sister until she knew.

  The boy continued playing Hanon at his own pace. He seemed to be concentrating anxiously on the way he held his fingers. She couldn’t remember what instructions she’d given him the week before, but she must have told him to strike the keys with the tips of his fingers and not bend them back.

  Without comment, Kōko glanced through the window, which overlooked the spacious interior of the music store. Directly below was the record department, on the right stood rows of brass instruments, and the display window facing the main street held a white grand piano. Their own window wasn’t there to be looked through from this side; the management had put in the glass to give a good view of them from all parts of the store and thus attract business for the school. Behind the bluish panes, Kōko and the children wriggled soundlessly like fish in an aquarium. When new to the job she was acutely aware of being watched and used to duck into the corridor just to yawn. She soon discovered, however, that hardly anyone was interested enough to stand and watch. At most the store manager might cast an eye occasionally over the row of five windows, close under the store’s ceiling, to observe Kōko at work. Even then, unless she were gesticulating wildly, he would have difficulty making out her movements at this distance.

  ‘Yes, that’s a great improvement. Now try it again the same way, but a little faster this time. Like this: da-da-da-da-da.’

  Tensely, the boy tried to obey her instructions, promptly forgot his fingering, and scrambled the notes.

  ‘No, wait!’ Kōko cried in dismay. The boy tucked his head down and sneaked a glance at her face.

  Just then there was a knock at the practice-room door. Kōko hurried to answer, calling in a high-pitched voice. Sure enough, she was wanted on the phone.

  She ran quickly to the office.

  It was Kayako. Maybe she’d passed. Kōko sounded unexpectedly excited as she asked: ‘How did you get on? It was announced at one o’clock, wasn’t it?’

  Kayako’s reply was muffled. She repeated her question louder: ‘How did you do?’

  ‘Mm … no good …’ The sound of childish crying continued – perhaps it was easier to cry on the phone? Flustered, Kōko turned her back on the other people in the office, shielding the receiver. She was curiously disappointed at the news. If Kayako must take the exam, she had wanted her to pass (though actually enrolling at the school was another matter). Her grades hadn’t been at fault, she was sure; then she thought suddenly of the copy of the family register that she’d fetched from the ward office for Kayako’s application. Was that it? The thought was galling. In as level a voice as she could manage, she said:

  ‘Oh dear, that’s a pity … But public schools have their good points too, you know. You mustn’t take it too seriously. Exams are a matter of luck, not ability …’

  ‘But,’ Kayako burst out tearfully, ‘I can’t go back to Auntie’s … I don’t want to go back …’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘… At home. It’s in the usual mess. I nearly died …’

  ‘Now there’s no need to talk like that! Anyway, it’s a good thing you’re there. I can be home about six, so why don’t we eat out somewhere? Or else – Kayako, would you like to come and meet me here?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Well, then, come direct and stand in front of the window by the main entrance. Let’s see – about five-thirty, okay?’

  ‘Mm … And, Mom, I haven’t phoned Auntie yet.’

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll do it.’

  ‘… I’m sorry.’

  Kōko winced as Kayako began to cry loudly again. ‘There’s nothing to apologize about. Anyway, be here at five-thirty, will you?’

  She hung up, but for a moment could not leave the phone.

  ‘Anything wrong, Mizuno-san?’ It was the woman who did the general office work. She was fortyish, an old member of the staff, and unmarried. Though a pleasant enough person, she didn’t seem well liked within the company. Kōko was unable to feel friendly toward her, either.

  ‘My daughter. As they get bigger they come up with all sorts of new troubles, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure they do. You know, Mizuno-san, you look like you’ve put on weight lately. I could be wrong, though?’

  ‘I may have put on a little. Well, I must be getting back, I’ve left the children to their own devices. Thank you.’

  Between the office and the third-floor practice rooms, Kōko never took her eyes off her waistline. Was it noticeable already – in the third month? Did one get so big so soon? She’d put on another five pounds in the past week, till she tipped the scales at a hundred and twenty-two pounds; she’d gone to the public bathhouse the other day especially to weigh herself. Her wardrobe was gradually becoming unwearable. Since her day-to-day contacts were almost entirely with children, however, she hadn’t been too concerned so far. The children didn’t see their piano teacher as human, anyway.

  So the question of Kayako had apparently resolved itself, one way or another, but what should she do about this? A forlorn anxiety stole over her. She was horrified by the changes that had actually begun to appear in her body. While she felt steadily worse, her appetite alone was growing heartier by the day. At this very moment, even as her chilly fingers and toes were starting to shiver and a sensation like frost in her veins crept through her body, she was so hungry that she scarcely knew what to do with herself; her mouth filled with saliva at the thought of where she’d take Kayako for the promised dinner.

  As she walked along an empty corridor, she could no longer hold back the tears.

  Reaching the practice rooms she was surrounded again by the sound of the children at their pianos; the same Beyer, Hanon, and Czerny.

  On this particular day Kōko had the afternoon lessons. In that short space of time, twenty children passed through her hands. Teaching so many pupils should, in theory, have brought in a tidy sum, but the amount Kōko received monthly was barely enough to cover her own and Kayako’s needs. She supposed she should consider herself lucky, as she had no diploma in music and the job was better than she deserved. She’d been teaching at the music store for three years now. Since the store offered lessons with its pianos as a kind of after-sale service, most of her pupils had never played a note in their young lives, and they came and went in a fast turnover. Kōko was able to hold down the job for these very reasons; yet once in a wh
ile she would have liked to hear the full tones of a piano well played.

  As she was drilling a child on raising and lowering his forefingers, Kōko happened to think of Michiko, the friend who had found her this job, and how long it was – more than a year – since she’d seen her last. Perhaps she could go and ask her advice in a casual sort of way. Michiko was married but childless. No doubt she was still giving private piano lessons as energetically as ever. Michiko had put in a music room at home a couple of years ago, so that she could set up her own school. Kōko had received an invitation to her pupils’ recital at the end of that year, and had taken Kayako with her to the concert hall.

  She and Michiko had been taught from an early age by the same teacher. But Kōko had looked down on the piano as something that polite young ladies dabbled in, and while Michiko took her diploma in piano at a private conservatory, Kōko had been a literature major. She kept up her piano studies, though, from force of habit. Eventually her teacher arranged for her to take two pupils. Delighted to find that this paid far better than tutoring in the regular subjects, Kōko began to teach two little sisters in their home. And she’d relied on the piano for her living ever since.

  And yet she had never thought that masquerading as a piano teacher might be the only thing she was good for; at least, not until after the divorce. Masquerade or not, she was coolly carrying it off – and collecting a good wage for her trouble. The knowledge even gave her a sense of superiority. But when she began to live alone with Kayako, Kōko was finally forced to admit how little she had to fall back on. Feeling utterly at a loss, she’d gone to beg a favor of Michiko, who was teaching at a piano school sponsored by a foundation. And Michiko went to considerable effort, even asking her own professor to lend his name, to find her this more secure job.

  Kōko had Michiko to thank, then, for making it somehow possible to spend her days as she pleased, though, as she wasn’t conscious of any great distance between them, she had never expressed her gratitude properly.