‘This will be over, soon. Trust me. The damage is done. We’ll go to a matchmaker, find a husband, the way we had planned if she’d decided against the apprenticeship.’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘I can’t sit here and pretend I know nothing. I can’t stand the thought of him touching her.’
I took his hand. ‘We can do this. We must be patient.’
‘How can we let it go on?’
‘Kenzo, this is why. What if she thinks she loves him?’ He could not answer and I folded the picture up. ‘Have dinner somewhere else tonight. Try not to drink too much. We’ll fix this. Trust me. Go now.’
When Yuko came down to dinner I said her father had been detained at work. I studied her as we ate. My quiet child had flowered since that summer without us, until that day, understanding why. She was winter blossom burst from the chilled bud, delicate and yet defiant. Why had I not seen this? I should have been more watchful, more careful. She smiled at me as we picked at our food, recounted some tale about a friend, which must have been a lie. She frowned when I did not respond. ‘Are you well, Mother?’
I managed to smile. ‘There have been so many lunches and charity meetings, I feel I’ve been neglecting you.’
‘No, not at all. Don’t feel bad. I’ve enjoyed this summer. I feel . . .’
‘Yes?’
She blushed as she replied. ‘Alive.’
Maybe Yuko, eventually, would have realised how Sato had used her for her youth, for her convenience, for her beauty. Maybe she would have learned she was not his first infidelity, perhaps not even his youngest. He would have thrown her away as he had so many others before her. But my regret is this: maybe if I hadn’t tried to prise them apart so forcefully and suddenly then perhaps she would have had time to appreciate his weaknesses; she would have broken away from him naturally, and yes, just maybe, if that had happened, she would have lived.
Moral Indebtedness
On: People incur social and psychological indebtedness upon receiving a favour from those in superior positions. The concept of on derived from Chinese philosophy and Japanese feudal society. The samurai warrior fulfilled his obligations to his lord in battle, risking his life if necessary. Sons and daughters exercise acts of ko (filial piety) and take care of their ageing parents. Human relations are bound by a complicated network of mutual responsibilities and obligations.
Kenzo and I only had to wait two days before Yuko betrayed herself. She put on her sandals, an excuse light on her lips and said goodbye. The slim rectangle of her grey kimono dipped out of sight of the garden before I followed her down the hill. Under the canopy of a butcher’s shop I watched her step inside a street car. I signalled for a taxi and told the driver I would pay him extra for an unusual errand. The city passed by in streaks of colour, dappled by sun, illuminated in shadow. Down through the centre, past Chinatown into a street of noise, trade and poverty; this is where Yuko went. She walked past stalls selling baked squid, buttered peanuts and fried wasabi peas and disappeared into a building between a noodle bar and a cycle-repair shop. That he would take her to this corner of Nagasaki where children ran naked and toothless women long since sent packing from the brothels of Maruyama sold trinkets or themselves. That he would treat her like one of the city’s whores. I vowed Sato would pay for this.
The driver stopped outside the building and I asked him to wait. I called out and an old woman appeared. She seemed amused by my presence. ‘Yeah? You lost?’ I tried to peer into the gloom of the hall. ‘I’m looking for a girl.’ She laughed. ‘Any particular kind?’ She shouted behind her and a man appeared, bare-chested, a phoenix tattooed across his chest and arms. ‘Makito, who’s around at the moment?’ I opened my purse, a drawstring silk bag. ‘I’m not buying. I just need to know where the girl in the grey kimono goes.’ She looked at the money in my hand. ‘The room number, that’s all I want.’ She gestured and the man disappeared. ‘You’re not going to cause us any trouble, are you?’ I told her no. I just needed information then I would go. She looked me over. ‘The wives normally don’t want to know. Apartment 15.’
I told the driver to take me to Mitsubishi, and the smells and calls of the traders collecting excrement for the hillside farmers gave way to the stench of metallic smoke that belched from the brick factories of Kenzo’s workplace. The receptionist cast curious glances at me when I delivered my note to Kenzo. My husband and I made an odd pair to many. They did not see what I loved in him and they could never know what he saw in me. I wrote the directions to Yuko’s location and under the address I added, ‘Bring my daughter home.’ I handed the girl the message and left.
When Kenzo returned with Yuko an hour or so later she ran to her room, eyes bloodied with tears. He went to the cabinet and poured a drink. He walked to the window, kept his back to me. His voice was flat, as if it came from a place where emotion had been drugged. He said he had done what I had told him to do. He hadn’t knocked, he hadn’t politely waited, he had entered the room unannounced, he had found them together as planned. He paused and took a drink. ‘While I waited for Sato to dress, there was an empty bottle of sake on the windowsill. I thought when he came through from the bedroom I could break the glass, drive that bottle into his neck, hurt him. That’s what a father should do for this affront, yes? But I couldn’t. What kind of man does this make me?’ I told him Sato was the moral coward, not us. Why should Kenzo punish himself when the doctor was the one in the wrong? He shook his head. ‘We did a bad deed today, wife. How can Yuko and I be the same again? How can this family be the same again?’
I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘All pain passes, eventually. We’ll get through this moment. We’ll be a proper family again. What we did, we needed to do. I’m sorry for the hurt it caused, but I’m not sorry for the outcome. Did he agree to our demands?’
Kenzo nodded yes, finished his drink and said he should get back to the office. I watched him leave and made my way to Yuko’s room. She was sitting on a window seat, her body twisted away, statue-still. ‘I don’t want to talk, Mother.’ I knelt down by her feet. ‘I must tell you this then I’ll go.’ I told her the arrangement made between her father and Sato had been one of mutual understanding. I told her the doctor had been in agreement. He wanted to safeguard his marriage and reputation; Kenzo and I wanted to protect her from the scandal. There must be no more contact, none. He had promised to leave the city. She looked at me then, anger and hate in her eyes. This I could stand as long as she was safe. I continued speaking. The arrangement suited everyone. In time, she would see this. Any disgrace for the family had been contained. We did what we had to do. ‘How did you find out?’ I reached for her hand and she flinched. ‘The drawing, Yuko.’ She started to cry and begged me to leave her alone. So I did.
We all tried to erase that afternoon from our memories, but the humiliation burned longest for Yuko and her father, perhaps indelibly. I believed Yuko and Sato’s abasement was necessary. I needed Kenzo to see what kind of man his former friend was. He needed to witness the depravity of the doctor, and what better way than to put the evidence in front of his eyes? Yuko must be ripped from Sato. How else could we drive him away if any one of us clung to some romantic notion of him? All these years later, I dared not face what Yuko had written about the day but this cowardice forced me back to the page.
‘I cannot stand the thought of Father standing there in the doorway. He could not look at me, only Jomei. He stared at him with an expression of bewilderment and fury. I tell myself he saw only a brief sketch of us, just the outlines of our bodies. I tell myself he could not colour in the detail, the shadowed limbs, the tensed muscles, the texture and contrast of hair against skin. I tell myself he saw none of this. How else could I look at him again? Father said nothing. He just slid the doors behind him and waited in the other room. Jomei began to dress and told me not to be scared, we had done nothing wrong, but whatever happened, he would take the blame. Hi
s last words were: “Cio-Cio-san, I won’t let you go.”
‘He went through to the kitchen to speak with Father while I picked up my clothes. By the time I found the courage to join them, Father was alone, sitting at the table. I sat down opposite him and slid my hand across the surface until my fingers were an inch from the tips of his own. He moved his hand onto his lap. I wanted to beg his forgiveness but I just sat there paralysed by my shame. He stood up and walked to the door. I could not move. “Father, I love him.” He turned away from me and I realised he was crying. “Well then, you are a fool, and a child.” I started to cry too. “I’m not a child. He loves me too.” He wiped his tears from his eyes. “Oh, Yuko. No he doesn’t. If he did, he’d still be here.” He opened the door. “Let’s go home. We shall speak no more of this.” I wanted to run after Jomei, call him back, make him tell Father the truth. I looked for him outside in the street. Father had to be wrong. Jomei had to be there. But he was not. I will never recover from the loss of him. His death could not cause me more agony.’
The end of a first love is operatic in its drama, physical in its showing. I could stand her tears and silence, her withdrawal from us; I could bear watching my daughter too unwell to eat or sleep or talk. This had to be done. I was saving her from Sato. She could never know why. And this too I could stand. I believed she would heal well enough, given time. Perhaps if I had remembered the anguish of my own early years, perhaps if I had been gentler with her, the intoxication of Sato would not have lasted so long.
‘I am trapped in a perpetual present, the past torn from me. If the hours pass, I do not feel them. If days surrender to nights, I do not see the changing colours of the sky. Time is a prison. Caged in the house, I slither around like a snake, soaking up no heat from a cold winter sun. Father cannot speak to me, Mother can only look on me as if I am something foul that has polluted the home. That plans are afoot, I am sure, given the whispered conversations behind doors, the accusatory looks, the family dinners eaten in silence. I retreat to my room and torture myself with the possibilities. Where is Jomei? Is he out there somewhere among the streets, or bars, or maybe he is home with Natsu or working late at the hospital? Such thoughts provoke a retching that shudders through my body. “I won’t let you go,” he said. But he has.’
All friends were banished from the house, all excursions forbidden. Only Misaki acknowledged Yuko’s existence. She would leave cake outside her door or put fresh flowers in her room. ‘Mrs Goto appeared in the hall today, took my hands in her own. “How are you?” I did not know what to say. She squeezed my fingers. “I remember you as a child, so inquisitive. You would stare at, I don’t know, a leaf, an insect, a crack in the soil, for hours. I never knew what you saw, but you were so fascinated.” She laid one of my hands on her breast. “Feel my heart beat. Feel it? Blood keeps the heart beating, not love. Do you understand? We make do, child. That is all we can do. We make do.” But how am I to make do? I cannot, I will not. I must meet Jomei again. What is the point of living without him?’
An Arranged Marriage
Miai-kekkon: Until the end of the Second World War, most marriages were arranged. Nakodo (a go-between) helps with the exchanges of information between the two families. It is customary for the man to send gifts (usually an engagement ring and some money) to the woman, when his proposal is accepted. This engagement ceremony is called yuino.
My enquiries were discreet but I knew word would soon spread that we were looking for a husband for Yuko. Mrs Kogi was the most highly recommended of Nagasaki’s matchmakers. Her network of contacts was extensive. She made good matches and fast. I studied her as she consulted her notebook. She wore a black kimono and her hair was drawn in a tight bun high on her head. Round tortoiseshell glasses sat low on her nose and the smell of mothballs lingered on her skin. She assumed the guise of a widow with little care for personal vanity. The only suggestion of frivolity was the eyebrows she shaved off and painted too high on her forehead. Yuko sat opposite me, next to the matchmaker. A teapot and three red pottery cups decorated the low table in front of us. A beam of sun from the window fell across the room to our incense holder. I wanted to light the sweet musk to mask the odour of this woman Sato had forced into our home. She listened to me with her head bent to the side, a picture of sincere concern.
‘The matter is rather pressing, Mrs Kogi. My husband stresses that while we don’t want to lower our expected standards, we are happy to look beyond what would be the more obvious candidates.’
‘Of course, of course,’ she said. ‘I understand.’ She whispered thank you when I offered her more tea. ‘I do have one young man who might prove suitable.’
‘From a Nagasaki family?
‘One of the islands, Iōjima.’
I saw Yuko’s face pale. ‘I’m not sure whether –’
Mrs Kogi placed a fluttering hand on the locket that fell across her flat bust.
‘Yuko, dearest, have I told you about my husband?’ Yuko said nothing and Mrs Kogi giggled.
‘My Manabu, so handsome in his youth, clever too, and strong. Here, take a look.’ She opened the locket and showed a photograph of her husband, dead five years. A fierce man with a large brow and long chin stared back. ‘Manabu was an island man. Our deputy mayor is an island man. The assistant police chief is an island man.’
I could only guess Mrs Kogi created the facts to suit the business at hand. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘I apologise, Mrs Takahashi, that indeed is not what I inferred. Only this young man is quite remarkable. These island men have nothing of the flightiness of the urban male. He’s just finished his engineering degree and has secured a position at Mitsubishi Mining. A good, strong character. Quiet, not showy. Solid, like my Manabu.’
‘And his name?’
‘Shige Watanabe.’
‘A picture?’
‘I’m afraid Mr Watanabe is only a new acquaintance and he has yet to provide me with a photograph but I assure you he has a good, honest, solid face.’
That word again. Solid. I imagined a giant cabbage embellished with a pair of spectacles.
‘And his father?’
Mrs Kogi stroked the locket. ‘His mother is a member of the Kawano family, the printmakers down by Dejima.’
I knew the Kawano shop. We had prints in the home; Yuko had copied them as a child. ‘Very good, and the father?’
‘A fisherman.’ She must have seen my concern. ‘A love match, I understand, Mrs Takahashi. They found each other late in life. The mother had made something of a name for herself as an artist. I heard she had been more married to work than marriage itself, despite her apparent beauty. Then she met her husband. I’m told there is money to be made in the harvesting of uni.’
‘They eloped?’
‘They took a less conventional path to marriage, certainly.’
‘And the Kawanos had no objection?’
‘The matter was rather taken out of their hands.’
‘This is rather shocking, Mrs Kogi. I’m not sure if the association with such scandal would be beneficial.’ I saw a smile tickle the matchmaker’s lips and I knew she had worked out the transaction at hand; we were looking for a quick sale.
‘The matter happened long ago and this little city of ours has produced far more food for the gossips in the intervening years. I can reassure you that Shige Watanabe has none of the impetuousness that his parents might have displayed. He seeks my services, I imagine, to allay such fears. He is an impeccable man, truly.’
‘And are there other options available?’
‘Always, but I’m sure you’ll find Watanabe to be a fine prospect. And given your hopes for a spring wedding . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she smiled. ‘Would you prefer I look elsewhere?’
‘He is perhaps not what we had in mind but he does seem a possibility.’
Our conversation completed, I asked Yuko to see
Mrs Kogi to a rickshaw. I waited for her return, braced for battle. She sat down opposite me.
‘Mother, these arrangements aren’t necessary.’
‘Your father thinks they are.’
‘I can’t accept this.’
‘You have forced this upon yourself.’
‘I don’t want to marry this Watanabe.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. What? Do you think someone else is ready to stake a claim?’
‘They’re recruiting at the medical college for nurses.’
‘Did he put this in your head, this married doctor? Why stop at a nurse if you are so determined to ruin this family? I hear the brothels of Maruyama are recruiting too.’ She lowered her head. ‘This man, this doctor of yours, needed a whore, nothing more, and he was too lazy, too arrogant to find one by more regular means. We should all be grateful if this Watanabe, this fisherman’s son, agrees to take you.’
‘I won’t marry him.’
I leaned forward and grabbed her chin. ‘You promised your father.’ I looked in her eyes and stroked her soft cheek. ‘Daughter, why did you let him touch you? If you care for me, your father, this family, you will forget Sato. Be grateful only that this engineer will consider you.’
‘I love Jomei, Mother.’
‘You think this love? This was not love. Women are not put here to love. The folly of romance. This doctor would have ruined your life. We saved you, Yuko. I ask only one request from my one daughter: consider the engineer. Not for our sakes, Yuko. For yours.’
My words must seem harsh. I wonder now what the alternatives could have been. I think back to the years before 1936 when Yuko talked about wanting to become a printmaker. What if she had become an apprentice immediately? What if we hadn’t made her wait that year? How would her life have been? Would she too have run off with a fisherman to some island?
I believed Yuko did not need a profession because marriage would be sufficient and the role of a housewife was an important one. I wanted to save her from having to work because you had no choice, because not to do so meant going hungry. I did not appreciate the satisfaction and use and freedom of a job. I looked only to my own life: an engineer had brought me emotional and financial security. Why couldn’t this Shige Watanabe do the same for my daughter? As I read her diary, I realised I had been so preoccupied with my own strategy that I didn’t see Yuko had her own.
A Dictionary of Mutual Understanding Page 8