Child of Fortune

by Yuko Tsushima

  At the recital, a little over a year ago, Kōko had understood something for the first time: that in the end she had let everything slip away from her, that in reality she hadn’t a single resource. It was an alarming discovery. Not only for her own sake – for she’d never made a genuine effort to teach Kayako the piano, either. What had she ever given Kayako? In fact, she was robbing her daughter of what she had while she persisted in living so erratically, so selfishly. When her mother was alive she had kept an eye on Kōko, but her mother had died six months earlier.

  It was there, at Michiko’s class concert, that Kōko put this thought into words: I have nothing.

  Afterward, she had simply delivered her bouquet backstage and gone home. She hadn’t seen Michiko since, not wanting another taste of the alarm that had filled her that day. Now, though, for the very same reason, Kōko needed to see Michiko. The fact that Michiko hadn’t had a child of her own would be a great help, too. In her predicament, Kōko wouldn’t be spared Michiko’s scorn for a moment. She made up her mind to phone, perhaps that evening.

  Her last pupil for the day was a newcomer, a seven-year-old boy. His mother sat in a corner of the room, looking more tense than he did. The lesson Kōko gave was hardly a lesson at all. She told them which texts to buy at the sheet music counter, recommended several other books and records, and added a word about the right approach. The boy should be made to do the exercises daily, however briefly, and if possible one of his parents should keep him company. Politely, the mother began to talk about her son – how the boy’s music-loving father had certain hopes for him, how she wanted him to develop his finer feelings as he matured, how he was a nervous child with few friends, and so on. Kōko smiled and nodded. Normally she would have made a beginning at once, teaching the boy to read music, but she was feeling too heavy and listless. While his mother talked the boy kept his forehead pressed to the window overlooking the store floor. His back view reminded Kōko irresistibly of the time – had Kayako been so small? – when she’d been seeing Doi frequently. They had often gone out as a threesome, Kayako, Doi, and herself, to department stores. In fact, they’d been to the one nearby.

  On weekends when Doi stayed overnight, Kōko would be reluctant to let him go in the morning, to send him back to his family, and Doi, too, would hesitate, not wanting to get to his feet and go off alone, until by some sort of tacit agreement they would set out together with Kayako. Then they’d start wondering where to go. Since they’d come out for no good reason they seldom had anywhere in mind; they would have liked to stay quietly in the apartment. They sometimes went to zoos or amusement parks for Kayako’s sake, but they couldn’t do that every weekend.

  Doi generally left the choice entirely up to Kōko. If she took too long to decide, he would say there was nowhere worth going in the city anyhow, and after a cup of coffee somewhere nearby he’d go off by himself, leaving Kōko overcome with remorse like a child who’d let a promised reward slip through her fingers. Afraid of making the same mistake again, the next time she would blurt out the name of some department store, though it might be the last place she wanted to go.

  As long as Kōko had somewhere definite in mind, even if it took him out of his way, Doi would always head straight there. And department stores were certainly useful places for frittering time away. The rooftop playgrounds, mini-zoos, aquariums, gardens, and stage shows provided easy entertainment, while browsing slowly through the displays of books, records, toys, and sports gear helped consume more time. Another regular stop was the food department in the basement. If they happened to find something special, some imported delicacy among the canned goods, Doi would buy one for Kōko; or sometimes he’d get two and take the other home.

  They generally separated after lunch in the store cafeteria. Kōko and Kayako would give Doi a cheery send-off, as Kōko knew she couldn’t press him to waste any more time. But this left her alone in the store with Kayako, and always at a loss: there was nothing to do there, nothing of interest, and yet she could never go straight home. Instead she would hustle Kayako along to a bargain sale of children’s wear or to look at kitchen utensils.

  Once, Doi had gone into a drugstore and asked for a particular nutritional supplement. Kōko wanted to know what it was. –Just something I was asked to pick up– he said. The clerk brought a package which Kōko recognized as a supplement for pregnant women. Laughing, she observed –So you’re having another child, are you?– She was being sarcastic: surely Doi’s wife couldn’t be pregnant again after all that had happened?

  –Yes– was the answer, –as a matter of fact we are. I don’t suppose it bothers you, does it?–

  Five months later Doi’s second child was born.

  Still staring at the boy’s back, Kōko wondered whether that conversation, and others like it, had reached Kayako’s ears too. By that time their department-store rambles with Doi had been going on for three years, and five-year-old Kayako had grown into a girl of eight. It was possible she remembered each scene more clearly than her mother did.

  At the time it hadn’t occurred to Kōko that Kayako had a memory. Far from it. Shortsightedly, she’d been convinced it was much better for Kayako to see her mother smiling with a man she loved (whatever their relationship might be in other people’s eyes) than to see her lonely, tight-lipped, and grim. Lips without lipstick, set in a hard line: Kōko’s own mother had been like that. Unlike her older sister, Kōko knew their mother only as a widow, a staunch protector of her children who had looked more than ten years older than she was. As a child, Kōko had feared and hated this mother who never relaxed her guard.

  When 5:30 arrived Kōko sent the boy and his young mother home, after scheduling his next lesson, then hurriedly made ready to leave. She tidied and locked the five practice rooms and returned the keys to the office, where she also handed in her quota of attendance cards and clocked out. At 6:30 the evening teacher would come for the keys. Of the five regular teachers on the roster, Kōko taught for the smallest number of hours. The woman in the office called to her again: ‘Thanks for locking up. I wish I could leave with you, but I’m on the late shift today. What a drag! Why don’t we go somewhere nice for a meal, sometime soon?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’ As she spoke, Kōko asked herself whether deciding to have the baby would mean she’d have to quit this job.

  ‘I wonder if I could put on as much weight as you, if I ate enough.’

  ‘… Do I really look so fat?’

  ‘You’re just right, now. You were too thin before.’

  ‘Really? It’s not easy to tell, myself … Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.’

  With a smile and a bow Kōko hurried from the office. The baby was really no reason to give up the job of her own accord; in fact, it would have been out of character for Kōko the charlatan to quit now. What she really wanted was to be made a full employee, because apart from raising her income this would entitle her to maternity leave, health insurance, and other benefits. No, why should she give it up? – but in practice she wasn’t at all sure how much she could take if the going got rough. Kōko hadn’t found friendship among the people she’d worked with for three years; instead, they had been very understanding, seeing her as a no-nonsense woman raising a daughter single-handed, and making allowances for her accordingly. No one ever complained when she was a little late for work or left a little early; it was accepted that she was hard-pressed.

  Yes, she was forced to admit, if she was going to have the baby it would be much simpler to quit. Perhaps Michiko would find her another job: she knew it was a lot to expect, but she couldn’t quite give up the idea.

  Kayako was leaning against the big window where the white grand piano was on display, gazing up at an old building opposite. She was wearing the warm white sweater that Kōko had bought her after the interview ten days earlier. Her mouth hung half open, and she didn’t notice Kōko at her side. Laying a hand on her head, Kōko said, ‘You’ll turn into a goldfish if you s
tand there with a face like that.’

  ‘Oh, Mom,’ Kayako murmured, not much surprised. Kōko noted, with a sense of anticlimax, that the violent emotion she had shown over the phone was already under control. Kōko had imagined her clinging to her breast in tears, and had even been wary of Kayako’s first move in case, in her own present state, she couldn’t give her all the support she might need.

  They went into a Chinese restaurant, Kayako’s choice. At this hour they could expect a thirty-minute wait by the cloakroom before they were given a table. Kōko hardly knew the restaurant, but she had eaten there once, with Osada, the year before. She didn’t remember what they’d talked about; all she remembered was the good fried shrimp with tofu. (Sex always gave her a healthy appetite.) She intended to order the same thing today.

  Kōko smiled at Kayako, who was gazing around curiously at the Chinese decor. ‘What are you looking so pop-eyed for? Anyone would think you’d never been in a place like this in your life.’

  Kayako dropped her eyes to the floor in confusion and answered in a small voice, ‘But it’s true, I haven’t.’

  ‘What? You’ve been lots of times. Have you forgotten?’

  ‘I don’t remember anything like this …’

  ‘We often ate at Chinese restaurants when you were in nursery school. Of course, they weren’t so elegant … But when your father was with us we went to even grander places than this.’

  That’s funny, Kōko was thinking as she spoke, I’d completely forgotten about all that. Money, in Hatanaka’s view, could always be expected to bubble up from somewhere. While Kōko was worrying and scrimping over their evening meal, he would turn up with money he’d blithely borrowed from someone or other to take her to an expensive restaurant. Even when they could no longer turn to Kōko’s mother, Hatanaka never seemed to run short of people willing to lend. And although Kōko suspected that only a small fraction was ever repaid, that didn’t seem to cost him anyone’s friendship. Kōko didn’t believe in borrowing money, and so, while Hatanaka’s borrowings seemed like sleight of hand, she’d been too alarmed by his attitude to applaud these feats at the time. The fact that he wasn’t deliberately setting out to defraud only made it worse.

  Now, though, after nearly ten years, she was beginning to wonder: in the end, hadn’t this fellow Hatanaka given her and Kayako more good times than anyone else? When had they ever had such a full life? This was certainly true of Kayako, anyway. But what did it mean? Was it a sign of how young they’d both been? – one thinking it was funny to take Kayako to fancy restaurants; and the other, unable to forget that the money they were spending wasn’t their own, so irritated and ashamed that she wanted to run away.

  Kōko felt a pang of nostalgia for the good times that had seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. She was beginning to think that as long as they were having fun it made no difference how much irresponsibility was behind it.

  ‘With Dad? Really?’

  When they talked of her father, Kayako’s voice would take on many shades – dazzled, and fearful, and embarrassed – all at once.

  ‘Yes … to places we couldn’t possibly go even now. It was crazy to eat there anyway, and crazier still to take a baby along, but we had so little money and your father had time on his hands, and so … we did it several times.’

  ‘… But wasn’t he busy studying?’

  ‘Hm, well …’

  Just then a waiter came to show them to a table. Kōko stood up briskly, grateful for his timing. She hadn’t a hope of giving Kayako a true picture of those years. There they’d both been, partying irritably day after day, running through one unpayable loan after another. On days when they stayed home, company would turn up. They were both fleeing continually from the moment that would bring them face to face, alone together in their room.

  Until Kayako was about nine, Kōko had explained her father’s absence by saying simply that he’d gone somewhere far away. Kayako never asked expressly for details. Just after entering the fourth grade, however, she asked shamefacedly if she couldn’t be allowed to see her father. After thinking it over till she was too weary to think further, Kōko contacted Osada and arranged for Hatanaka to have Kayako for a day, meeting her at a certain restaurant. From there, she heard afterward, they had gone to an amusement park where they licked soft ice-creams and watched an open-air show starring a children’s TV hero.

  The night before, as a precaution, Kōko had lightly told Kayako just one thing about the way her parents had parted: it had happened at a time that was very difficult for Dad because of all the studying he had to do. Hatanaka wasn’t likely to talk about the circumstances either, unless he was questioned very closely.

  It was true that Hatanaka had been struggling with examinations. She could account for the divorce that way if she wished, because he had set himself the sole duty of sitting at his desk until he passed the state law exam, making no attempt to earn an income in the meantime. But she was bewildered to find that now, nearly ten years later, she couldn’t recognize any of the reasons – the debts, Hatanaka’s lover, and the rest – that had once seemed as final as a blazing, consuming fire. Why did they get a divorce? They had simply been foolish and naive, that was all.

  Now, when she sometimes talked with Kayako about her father, Kōko couldn’t help seeing an accusation in the girl’s veiled expression: why had she driven away such a kind and charming father? And she would very nearly let slip what was on her mind. You’re right, she’d think, why did I, when we were having so much fun? The next moment, though, she’d be tempted to hide whatever might reflect badly on herself and deliver a stream of complaints about Kayako’s father instead. She never could do that either, and in the end she would take guilty refuge in other subjects.

  Kayako had asked to see her father barely three months after Kōko left Doi.

  While Kayako was at the amusement park with Hatanaka, Kōko had walked the streets, cursing herself once more for not conceiving a child with Doi. Just one baby would surely have created so much that was new and different. She and Kayako were left behind, she realized, more alone than they had ever been. In the evening, at the agreed time, she went to meet Hatanaka and Kayako in the square outside the station. Noticing the relief on their faces when they saw her, she’d been struck by how very alone she and the child were.

  When they were settled at the table and had given their order, Kayako finally began to discuss how she’d done in the exam. Outside the music store Kōko had thought she might be only barely in control of her distress, but she gave no sign of it, in fact she spoke quite easily.

  ‘I wasn’t really very confident from the start. Before the exam I kept having nightmares about failing.’

  Kōko tried for the same lighthearted tone as she protested, ‘What you were telling me sounded just bursting with confidence.’

  ‘You can’t tell people you haven’t any confidence in yourself.’

  Kōko laughed. ‘That’s true. You can’t let others see your weaknesses.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Kayako agreed with such vehemence that Kōko had to laugh again.

  ‘Well, it must be a relief to know finally, isn’t it? What have you been doing?’

  ‘Watching TV at home.’

  ‘Uh-huh …’

  ‘Did you ring Auntie for me?’

  ‘Ah! I’d clean forgotten.’

  ‘After I asked you especially.’ Kayako’s voice dropped instantly.

  Kōko hastened to add: ‘She’ll have guessed by now anyway, after not hearing for so long … I can phone from home.’

  ‘But what if I get there before the phone call?’

  ‘Get there? Get where?’

  ‘Auntie’s,’ was the muffled reply. As Kayako’s voice grew fainter, Kōko’s was getting louder.

  ‘Auntie’s? … You mean, you still intend to go back there? But you said you weren’t going back again.’

  Kayako swelled out her cheeks in silence. She looked up at her mother from under her
brows and rolled her eyes, indicating the tables to left and right as if to say ‘Look, you’re making a scene in front of the other customers.’ This provoked more heated words from Kōko. Did the girl mean to suggest that Kōko was the one letting her emotions run away with her reason?

  ‘And I thought that from today you were … But since when can children come and go just as they please, eh? … You’re just taking advantage of everyone’s goodwill. You haven’t a hope of getting into a cozy, snobby setup like that. They’re a different race … I’ve got a few thoughts on the subject myself, believe it or not. So you come right back where you belong.’

  Kōko broke off, her breath coming hard, and turned aside from Kayako’s flushed, glowering face. No, she couldn’t keep it up, couldn’t press her attack if Kayako decided to hurl her words back in her face. Wasn’t it Kōko who had come and gone just as she pleased? Which of them had no idea how thoughtlessly she’d behaved? A few thoughts? She was afraid that Kayako would jab a finger at her and demand to hear what they were.

  The food arrived. Kōko helped the waiter arrange the dishes on the table, giving him a pleasant smile. ‘This looks good, doesn’t it?’ she said encouragingly. ‘Take all you want, Kayako …’

  Kayako suddenly stood up. The tip of her nose was red.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter?’

  Kayako looked down, dry-eyed, at her mother’s face. Kōko looked back silently at her daughter’s: a face that resembled her own, and Hatanaka’s as well. How strange it was that one face could be the image of both parents. There was a kind of children’s toy where the same picture turned out differently when held at different angles. Tilt it to the right and you saw her mother’s face, to the left and you saw her father’s, and yet full on you saw neither, but Kayako’s own.

  Kōko was frightened by Kayako’s look. ‘The toilet?’ she asked. Kayako shook her head blankly and opened her mouth. ‘I won’t go back anywhere!’ she cried and raced out of the restaurant. Kōko scrambled after her but lost her at once in the street; there were any number of places to hide if she chose. Kōko gave up hope of finding her and returned to the restaurant. When the waiter inquired what she wanted done about the meal, Kōko promptly decided to eat all she could; it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Kayako might wander around the streets for a little while, but sooner or later – when she got too hungry, for one thing – she was sure to come home. But where? Kōko couldn’t believe her daughter would come home to her. Far from being able to give the child what she was seeking, she was seeking the same thing herself.