A Dictionary of Mutual Understanding

by Jackie Copleton

  ‘Shige tells me you are an exceptional artist.’

  Yuko shook her head. ‘It’s just a hobby.’

  I could not hide my pride. ‘She is being modest.’

  Sonoko reached for my daughter’s hand. ‘May I be a nagging mother-in-law already? You must not let your artistic talents go to waste. It is such a lovely thing to be able to show the world how you see it, the shadows and the light, and the spaces in between. We miss those details in everyday life. Art reminds us of what we have no time to see.’ She tipped her head. ‘I apologise. Perhaps that sounded far too grand? Come to the island. We can draw together.’

  ‘She studied me with those artist eyes. What does she see? Does she think me good enough for her son? Am I good enough?’

  As I stood up to serve strawberry-and-chestnut steam cakes Kenzo burst into song. ‘The pearl is my child, the shell my heart, Susano-o.’ He put his arm around Shige’s father and they sang the lyric again. We lifted up our glasses in a toast. Suddenly sober, Kenzo declared: ‘To our pearl, Yuko, and her oyster shell, Shige.’

  The two of them laughed and nodded their thanks, carefree and unguarded in that drunken moment of celebration. Sonoko and I looked at one another, and in the polite smile we exchanged we acknowledged a mutual appreciation that this union, for whatever reasons, suited us all.

  Filial Piety

  Oyakoko: In old days, filial piety was one of the most valued codes of ethics binding children. In their childhood, they were taught to be obedient and loyal to their parents. On a daily basis, they were encouraged to help parents with various kinds of errands. If parents were too sick to work, elder children were supposed to take their place to support the family.

  Yuko chose a Western-style dress for her wedding, high cut at the neck, the sleeves long, a fishtail gathering of crêpe silk at her feet. She had seen the design in a magazine and a seamstress had drawn up the pattern. The fabric clung to her thin frame as she stood in front of the mirror. She wore a veil of silk tulle decorated with mother-of-pearl butterflies along the trim. I told her she looked beautiful and Shige would be proud. Later that night she must be careful not to show her experience. I looked at my own black kimono, twisted around to check the embroidered plum blossom. ‘I assume he thinks he’s getting a virgin?’

  ‘I said nothing. What could I tell her? We had kissed just that once. Mother watched me as I stared again at my ghost reflection. She told me to follow his lead. I must react and not act. Did I understand? Little did she know, the rousing of desire is not what I fear, but its absence.’

  I had suggested holding the ceremony at Urakami Cathedral but Shige felt it too ostentatious. I thought this a slight to Yuko, but I said nothing. Instead they had chosen Oura Church. I walked to Yuko’s bedroom window and looked out at the palest pink flowers that adorned the trees in the garden. As planned she would be married by spring. I allowed myself a brief moment of congratulations until Mrs Goto entered the room with an envelope in her hand. A boy had just delivered the note. Yuko reached for the message and I felt a flare of apprehension. I stepped forward, warning her not to get ink on her dress and took the letter from Mrs Goto’s grasp. I scanned the contents, nodded and smiled. A school friend of her father had sent his congratulations, I explained, before I put the letter in the dresser drawer. ‘You can read it later, come, we’ll be late, we must go.’

  In the street Kenzo opened his arms wide and moved to kiss Yuko’s cheek. ‘Exquisite, hey, Mother?’

  ‘Her make-up, husband.’

  He kissed her fingers instead and gestured to the waiting car. ‘Well, shall we deliver you to your groom?’

  The butterflies trembled more visibly in the wind as Yuko stood surrounded by a crowd of bystanders. ‘There I was dressed in wedding finery for a man I hardly knew, a good man, yes, but a stranger with a gentle mouth and still unknown hands. I try to imagine how life could be. Shige and I will build a home together; our days will be busy and productive; I will stay in the present, not the past. Jomei will become a memory, softened and healed by time.’

  We arrived at the white church and the few dozen guests were seated inside. Shige was dressed in a black tuxedo and bow tie, his hair shone from the oil combed through the short layers. He beamed as he watched Yuko come toward him, held steady in Kenzo’s hand. Her white satin shoes clicked against the stone floor and there was a ruffle of movement as an organ creaked into a hymn and the heads of those gathered rose and turned.

  ‘I saw them stare at me and then my mind went blank. I remember nothing of the priest’s words, or the songs, or even the vows spoken or the kiss granted.’ The wedding reception at a hotel near Mount Inasa was when memory came sharper into focus, if still fragmented and drowned by the noise of voices, champagne bottles popped and glasses clinked. Guests pressed envelopes stuffed with money into Shige’s hand as Sonoko approached Yuko. ‘My mother-in-law smiled and said, “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? All the people, all their goodwill? Don’t worry, my dear. They will soon get drunk and forget you are here.” I smiled at her, conscious that we had never spoken privately. I told her I wished I could draw this moment but it was just a blur. She seemed to think about this for a moment before replying, “Shige is happy, this makes me happy. I hope you will let him make you happy?” She nodded and moved away to speak to Mother, who glowed, triumphant and relieved.’

  The newly-weds sat on two high chairs at the top of the room and dined on a banquet of snails and sashimi, steaks and Chinese noodles, and rice with red beans. More drinks were served and the guests grew even more lively. ‘Shige turned to me and asked, “How’s your throne, wife?” I told him, uncomfortable, and he agreed. “Let’s go.” Could we leave? He laughed. “The guests are waiting for us to do just that.” We made our way out through the throng of people who offered three cheers for a good life. I looked for my parents but could only see the red, black and pink smudges of faces and clothes before we poured forth from the confines of the hotel into a waiting taxi. Shige reached for my hand in the darkness of the interior and his palm was hot in my own. He leaned toward me and whispered so the driver could not hear: “Remember the day we met on the Dutch Slope?” Of course, I told him. “I’ve been in love with you since that very first moment.” He could not see me but still I smiled. “Thank you, Shige.” “For what?” he asked, his breath gentle against my neck. I turned my mouth to his. “For you.”’

  Inner Feelings

  Honne-to-tatemae: An opinion or action influenced by one’s true inner feelings and an opinion or an action influenced by the social norms. These two words are often considered a dichotomy contrasting genuinely held personal feelings and opinions from those that are socially controlled. Aiming at peace and harmony, the public self avoids confrontation, whereas the private self tends toward sincere self-expression.

  Kenzo stood weaving from side to side in our garden as he looked up at the moon breaking through black clouds. A night heron called out in the dark. He sighed. ‘The blossom will soon be over for another year.’ I watched him make his way, loose-limbed with drink, to our door. He was a sentimental if practical man, and both traits had been good for me. My life since marrying him had been about control, constancy and loyalty. I had never once strayed but the chaos of the years before our married life echoed through me. I thought of Yuko and Shige alone somewhere in a ryokan. I could still remember that burn of fresh desire and the agony sometimes of its surrender.

  We took the stairs to our bedroom and he stumbled forward for a kiss. I stroked his cheek and told him I would take some tea, I was still too excited by the day. ‘You looked beautiful.’ We kissed again and he smiled, satisfied by some unspoken thing. I waited until he slid shut the bedroom door before I made my way to Yuko’s room. The letter sat pristine white against her sketchbooks, pencils and boxes of charcoal. I had not allowed the note to ruin the day. Its presence had reassured me. It proved Sato had heeded my warning and would s
tay away. This was the closest he could get to Yuko. I turned the envelope in my hands. No address, no seal, only her name. I sat by the window and read his words by moonlight.

  Dear Yuko,

  I apologise for not writing sooner. I wanted to do so, many times. News of your wedding has reached me and I must speak out. I hope it’s not too late. I cannot believe that this union is anything but one of convenience and I beg you to find the courage not to go through with it. Know that I love you. If you ever had any doubt of this then with all my heart, I am sorry. I am no longer in Nagasaki but I am close enough for you to join me, should you wish. Do you love as I love? If you do, write to me at the address below. The recipient will be a friend who can deliver your response to me safely, without fear of discovery. Please forgive me for the manner in which I left you. I broke my promise. I said I would never let you go. Those words haunt me. Believe me, I had no choice. I did it to protect you. But it is not too late for us, Yuko. We can be what we once were. Is that what you want? Write and set me free.

  Jomei

  The arrogance of the man. How dare he threaten the wedding day. I had worked so hard to give Yuko this opportunity for a stable future with a good man. He would ruin Yuko, for what? Some vague promise of being together. This was typical of him. Status and self-regard came naturally to him. He would not have thought of the shame involved in the wedding being called off and the reason for it. All that mattered was his happiness, no one else’s. He did not know what it took to build a life from nothing nor how it felt to live in fear of that security being taken away. I had followed the rules, I had buried my past for my daughter. He would destroy all this with a few hastily written words and some pathetic appeal for forgiveness.

  I took the letter downstairs to the kitchen and stood in front of the hearth, where embers still burned. I held the paper to the white coals and watched the edges blacken and glow red and burst alive until all Sato’s promises were taken from the world. The floorboards creaked with my footsteps as I made my way to Kenzo’s office. I sat in his chair and placed a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I wrote Jomei in black ink. How hard could it be to mimic the voice of a heartbroken girl? Had it been so long since I was one myself? I had to convince Sato that further pursuit was futile. He was too late. Yuko had married Shige. She would have a comfortable, secure life with no more lies, no torment, no vows broken. This would be her future. I waited for the words to come and when they did I wrote not only for her but for me. I told him of hurt fossilised to anger, of rejection turned to hate, of truths that could not be ignored. Maybe I had loved him once, yes, but no longer. His actions proved what I had meant to him. Nothing. He let me go. That had been his decision. He could blame no one else. He must never have loved me and no paper promises would convince me otherwise. I begged him not to torment me again. He must stay away. He had made me desperately sad but I had found a husband who would be faithful and who made me happy. He was a fool if he thought I would risk a better man for him. This was my letter to Sato.

  Decency

  Seken-tei: One aspect of the national character of the Japanese is shame culture, in which people are more afraid of shame than sins. Fear of being held in disrepute by society gives the individual an adequate reason for refraining from acts offensive to public morals. Sensitive to criticism from others, Japanese people take much account of the public eye and mind what the world says about them.

  The doorbell rang and I felt a rush of anticipation. My days had been so ordered, so devoid of interest. The man who called himself Hideo had brought possibilities of unknown hours and unexpected endings. He seemed loaded with energy. ‘Get your coat, I’m taking you to lunch.’ He waited outside, stomping his feet against the cold, while I put on my jacket, a knitted hat and fur-lined boots. I could not find my gloves so I shoved on Kenzo’s black leather mittens. I had a canvas bag in one hand and he took my free arm. ‘Here, it’s slippery underfoot. Where’s good to eat?’ Kenzo used to like a small diner three blocks away so we headed there. The morning lectures and workshops had gone well, he said. A local TV station had given them good coverage and he might even make the evening news. Tomorrow would be the last full day of the conference. He had the morning free and then he would make one final speech before he flew home the following day. The hours were leaching away and still so little resolved.

  We reached the restaurant and he pushed open the door. A few customers turned their heads to look at us before a waitress led us to a table near the back. Her green uniform strained against her chest as she handed us laminated menus sticky with past meals. ‘This is for you.’ I handed him the bag. ‘It belonged to Kenzo. I thought it might interest you.’

  He pulled out an edition of the magazine Life. Kenzo had collected stacks of the publication, with its images of Marilyn Monroe, Queen Elizabeth and Eisenhower on the front covers. When he died I had thrown them all away apart from the issue from September 29, 1952, which featured blonde girls tap-dancing in leotards and fishnets. Above their heads were the words: First Pictures – Atom Blasts Through Eyes of Victims. Kenzo had been uncertain whether to show me what was inside. ‘You might find it too distressing?’ I had, of course, but also those images were validation of why we had left Nagasaki. The horror was real, not imagined. Five Japanese photographers had taken the shots in those first hours after pikadon, but US military censors kept their pictures hidden from public view through the duration of the occupation. On January 1, 1946, the Emperor had given his humanity declaration. He was no living god. The following year, the country outlawed war as a means to settle international disputes. In 1951, Japan had renounced its position as an imperial power by signing the San Francisco Peace Treaty. Only now could these photographs be shown. There was a child soon to die after her first sip of water, a baby, burnt by the flash, held to its mother’s breast. Other wounded survivors hopelessly waited for aid among the corpses under the caption The Walking Dead.

  Hideo turned the pages and after a while he looked up. ‘I wonder about the weather, sometimes.’ I did not understand him. ‘Those clouds over Kokura that morning, the smoke from the fire bombs that drifted from Yahata, the fact the crew needed a visual marker, the fact they had a fuel problem, the delay waiting for the observation aircraft, the Japanese fighter planes drawing closer. All those details that made the plane divert to Nagasaki.’ He closed the magazine. ‘Think of the air currents that made those clouds part over Urakami just at that moment, at 11.02 a.m., so Fat Man could be dropped.’ He shook his head. ‘Fat Man. What sort of name is that? A bad joke.’ He looked at the menu. ‘Hideo Watanabe. It’s just a name. Two ordinary words . . . but for those damned clouds. What will you eat, Grandmother?’

  I would not be manipulated so easily. ‘Hideo, I can manage to call you that, but the last time I was called Grandmother was thirty-nine years ago. I’m not ready to be that person again.’

  He nodded his acceptance. ‘Well, Hideo is a start, at least.’ He turned his head in profile as he tried to catch the waitress’s attention. His left ear had melted away, his nose, still small like a child’s, must have been burnt to the bone, skin grafts had stretched the skin around his mouth. And yet those scars that had so shocked me seemed somehow less disturbing in the few hours we had spent together. The waitress arrived and he ordered a steak, rare. I chose corn chowder.

  I stared at the yellow plastic water jug on our table, the ice cubes bobbing on top. ‘Do you know what I think about that day?’ He looked at me with those inquisitive eyes of his. ‘I hear the children, crying out their last words. Not “Mother”, or “help” but “water”. Mizu, mizu. Every time I drink a fresh, cold glass of water that’s what I hear, mizu, mizu.’ He stared out of the window. ‘Can I ask you a question, Hideo?’ He nodded. ‘Why have you no memory of life before pikadon?’

  ‘At first the doctors thought I must have been knocked unconscious or suffered a brain injury when the bomb fell. They said it was perhaps some kind
of retrograde amnesia. I was expected to remember, eventually. When I didn’t, they decided it must have been some sort of emotional amnesia, a reaction to the trauma. Again they thought my memory would return. It never did.’

  ‘So you remember nothing of your parents?’

  ‘I have a memory of a green canvas bag, a grey ship. I’m standing by boxes, possibly at a harbour. A man, it must be my father, is saying something but I cannot hear him. I see the ship pulling away and the woman next to me is dressed in a nurse’s uniform and she’s crying.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose every child had a story like that back then. Who knows? Is it even a real memory? Do I imagine a nurse because I was later told my mother was one? We tell ourselves stories and they become our history. I can’t say what’s real.’

  ‘But you remember pikadon? The flash and the bang?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sat back at this, stared out of the window again. ‘But I can’t talk about that here.’ The waitress brought our food, and when she left, he said, ‘I’m not sure how I can prove who I am. I guess I’m hoping there will be something, some small thing that you will recognise, some detail that confirms I am who I say I am.’

  Maybe he spoke with sincerity, maybe I believed him, but I could not trust the doctor. ‘You should know that Jomei’s letters are written to Yuko. Why would he do that?’

  He took his time with this revelation. ‘Well, I can guess one reason, but I don’t want to distress you.’

  ‘Please, don’t worry. I’m made of sterner stuff than I might look.’

  ‘Well, if I survived, perhaps he thought there was some possibility she could have done so too. He was keeping a record of all those missing years.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. She died. I promise you. She died.’

  He held his hands up. ‘I can understand your suspicion. No word for years, and then I turn up. I’m not sure I’m what anyone would have in mind as a long-lost grandson. I understand that. But why is it so difficult to believe that I am Hideo? Can’t you see how wonderful this is? How rare? How lucky?’