by Susan Barker
Mariko roused at this, visibly anguished that I would suspect her of this highly prohibited activity. ‘No, no!’
I went to get the first-aid box from the cupboard under the stairs. I took out the thermometer, wiped it with a sterile swab and returned to the living room. ‘Mariko, I want to check your temperature,’ I said.
I inserted the thermometer beneath her tongue, then rolled up my shirtsleeve and timed one minute on my wristwatch. When the minute was up, I inspected the thermometer. It was a fraction of a degree above 37. But taking into account the margin of error in the thermometer’s calibration, Mariko’s temperature was probably normal. I looked at her in confusion. Against the opalescence of her face her cheeks glowed like embers, as though she was burning up deep inside.
‘You haven’t got a high temperature,’ I told her. ‘Do you have any idea what is wrong with you?’
The mantelpiece clock ticked. The hot-water timer clicked on and the pipes rumbled as water began to circulate. Mariko lay still, her arms and legs lifeless, as though excommunicated from the rest of her. Tears welled in her eyes.
‘My father is dead,’ came her reply.
I climbed the stairs with slow and heavy footfalls, Mariko asleep in my arms. Now I am no psychologist, but if I had to guess what Mariko was suffering from I would have to say grief. I was still in a quandary about whether to call a doctor, though. In the end I decided there was no point in disturbing Dr Sono in the evening time if Mariko was not running a high temperature. It was better to wait until the next day. I laid Mariko down on the bedspread and, averting my eyes, pulled down the hem of her skirt, which had ridden up slightly. I unfastened her red buckle shoes and put them by the bed. I debated whether to remove her socks, as sleeping in your socks can give rise to all manner of fungal infections. But fearing it might cause her embarrassment to wake and find her feet denuded, I decided that one night wouldn’t cause any irreparable fungal damage. I took one of your handmade patchwork quilts from the linen cupboard, shook it out on top of her and drew it up to her shoulders. She still had a pale, consumptive look about her, but her expression was peaceful now, like that of a sleeping child. Her lips were dry and cracked, and I wanted to apply some moisturizing lotion, but thought it would be wrong to do this without her consent.
As I watched her sleep I was conflicted with tenderness and anger. Part of me wanted to shake her awake and demand to know what she was playing at. Why my doorstep? Why not the doorstep of an acquaintance proper? You will be glad to hear that this selfishness was short-lived, though. How deplorable to think only of the inconvenience to myself when Mariko has endured such loss. I resolved to speak to her the next day. In the meantime she needed to rest.
As I pulled the curtains shut I heard Mariko whimper softly. I turned to where she lay and watched her until guilt at my voyeurism made me turn away. As I left the room I remembered the strange confession she had made the night before, and for a moment I wished I could trespass into her dreamworld. It was the only way to see if what she had said was true.
Owing to Mrs Tanaka’s bad mood I arrived at work in good time this morning. Miss Hatta, the office assistant, and Miss Yamamoto, Mr Takahara’s temporary replacement, were already there. Miss Hatta was humming to herself and putting a fresh filter in the coffee-making machine. Miss Yamamoto was already logged into the computer system, checking the email account enquiries. We exchanged our morning greetings and I was just getting settled at my desk when Matsuyama-san burst in, waving about a sheet of white paper.
‘Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor Murakami just stopped me in the corridor. He gave me this letter. Takahara-san faxed it from a 7–11 in Hawaii last night.’
‘No!’ Miss Hatta gasped.
‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed.
I rushed from behind my desk and snatched the fax from Matsuyama-san. Miss Hatta and Miss Yamamoto came and stood by me as I read the handwritten note, shaking my head in disbelief. I read it twice to myself. The third time I read it aloud in the hope that the sound of my words rebounding from the filing cabinets might help the contents of the fax to sink in.
‘Dear Finance Department,
‘I hope this fax finds you all in good health. I am well, though I have a little food poisoning after eating some undercooked swordfish. Apologies for going AWOL on you all. There is no excuse for what I did.
‘I expect you are all wondering what has happened to me. I also, from time to time, wonder what has happened to me. The simple answer is: the most ordinary, yet extraordinary thing that can happen to a man: a woman. A beautiful Hawaiian lady called Leilani. She cannot speak Japanese and I can only say “Hello, I am a citizen of Japan” in Leilani’s mother tongue. But our love soars beyond vocabulary. It is astonishing how much can be said without words.
‘We married last week in a beach ceremony, and barbecued a small hog at the reception afterwards. I know that my career at Daiwa Trading is for ever ruined. But that’s OK. I never enjoyed the life of a salaryman anyway. I collect shells now and fashion them into trinkets to sell to tourists. Please, do not worry about me. As I breathe in the tropical sea breeze I feel nothing but gratitude for the good fortune that has befallen me. I intend to live out the rest of my days in Leilani’s Honolulu trailer, helping her to raise her five children from a previous marriage. Good people of the Finance Department, I only hope that one day you will all be as happy as I am now.
‘Goodbye and good luck.
‘Ex-Assistant Section Chief Takahara’
The shocking news drew us into a tight, sombre circle. Our crowns touched as we rescanned the letter. It was as though we had been delivered news of Takahara-san’s death.
Matsuyama-san tutted. ‘His wife can’t even speak Japanese, eh? What kind of marriage is that?’
‘But he hates the beach,’ Miss Hatta cried. ‘Before he went he said he had a sun allergy.’
Miss Yamamoto, who had known Assistant Section Chief Takahara-san only by sight, said: ‘Well, at least he hasn’t been eaten by sharks.’
Taro tap-danced in, wafting into the office the carnivorous stink of the McDonald’s breakfast muffin he was eating. When he asked what was going on, I despondently handed him the fax and watched as he read it, his lips silently forming the shape of each syllable.
‘Way to go, Takahara!’ he cheered upon reaching the letter’s conclusion. Humming off-key, he did a little Polynesian hula dance about the photocopying machine.
Miss Hatta went to the coffee-pot to pour a cup for Matsuyama-san, who had announced his need of a stiff drink. Miss Yamamoto returned to the emails. I excused myself and went to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water. Since moving to the Finance Department eight months ago I have worked with Mr Takahara nearly every day. During that time his fastidious character has impressed itself upon me greatly. He was a first-rate accountant and head of the Daiwa Trading Tea Ceremony Society. When a brief mania for ambient-nodding Moomins swept over the desks of junior employees, Takahara-san successfully petitioned for a company-wide ban. Had he really abandoned his position as Assistant Section Chief for the life of a hapless beach-bum? I could not help but suspect foul play. Or a blow to the head, instigating a serious personality disorder.
All day today I had trouble concentrating on my work. As I negotiated contracts with clients over the phone, my thoughts stole back to Mariko, lying beneath your patchwork quilt. As I proofread the Hitachi report my mind swam with the previous evening. It has been years since happenings in my own life have consumed me so.
Mid-morning, Miss Hatta came to my desk with a cup of honey-laced camomile tea. As I burnt my tongue on the hot liquid I began to worry, somewhat irrationally, that my colleagues would find out that I had a young hostess in my bed. The news is so full of monstrous salarymen enticing schoolgirls to love hotels with the promise of designer clothes and jewellery, people would automatically assume something of a sexual nature had occurred between us. How their estimation of me would sink! At least I can trus
t Mrs Tanaka to have the good sense to know otherwise.
Alone in the office at lunch-time I ate a boxed meal of rice and salmon that I ordered from the canteen and reflected further upon Mariko. Was she awake? Had she found the note I had left her? The bread and jam I had put out for her? I was tempted to phone the house to check she was all right, but I did not want to wake her if she was still sleeping. Laughter drifting up from the sunny car park distracted me. I took my lunch over to the window and saw Taro and Miss Yamamoto amusing themselves with a badminton rally. Miss Hatta and Miss Akashi from the Delivery Department had joined them also, giggling as they stretched a long roll of accounting paper out between them as a makeshift net. In mischievous spirits, the girls raised the net when Taro batted the shuttlecock, blocking its path to Miss Yamamoto. Taro waved his racket about, gesticulating in a wild show of frustration. Anyone could see he was in seventh heaven to be in the company of such pretty girls. I chuckled to myself.
A deep voice boomed behind me: ‘Ah! Children at play . . .’
The voice gave me a fright. I turned from the window and saw the silvery crest of hair and imposing shoulders of Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor Murakami blocking the doorway. He greeted me with a nicotine-ravaged smile.
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘I thoroughly approve of a little physical exertion at lunch-time. It kickstarts the metabolism . . . Banishes the usual afternoon lethargy.’
Murakami-san crossed the room to join me. ‘And yourself, Mr Sato? Have you had much physical exertion lately?’
‘Just my daily walk to and from the train station. That’s twenty minutes a day – what the medical board recommends for a man of my age.’
‘I’m sure you could get away with much more than that. I like to take as much exercise as possible . . . keep the old motor running.’
Murakami-san gave me an infuriating wink. He may be a keen golfer but that is no reason to assume he is in better shape than I am. I wanted to tell him of my weekend DIY, but it struck me as absurd to defend one’s health before an alcoholic chain-smoker. I dug some rice up with my chopsticks and put it in my mouth. In the car park Taro acted out a buffoonish pratfall as a shuttlecock hit him on the head. The girls pealed with laughter, the net collapsing in their mirth.
‘See how Taro strives to impress Miss Yamamoto,’ Murakami-san remarked indulgently. ‘It must be love.’
I chewed and hmmmed non-committally.
‘And look at old Takahara-san and his Hawaiian missus. Who would have thought it, eh? The love bug has bitten everyone lately.’
‘Yes. I was going to speak to you about Takahara-san,’ I said solemnly. ‘I think that someone ought to track him down and speak to him directly. The whole thing is so out of character I cannot help but suspect he is suffering from some kind of mental affliction.’
Murakami-san chortled. ‘Ah, Sato-san, ever the cynic! Well, I will definitely be contacting him in the near future to rebate his pension payments. Until then, you’d better give him the benefit of the doubt. Is it so hard to believe the man has given it all up for love?’
I hmmmed once more. Down in the car park Miss Hatta and Miss Akashi were rolling up the improvised badminton net and Miss Yamamoto was caught in a post-match handshake with Taro. He grinned adoringly at her, unwilling to relinquish her hand.
‘I must get back,’ Murakami-san said. ‘I have to show round a few officials from City Hall this afternoon. I am still worn out from entertaining our guests from the Taiwan office last night!’
‘What a busy schedule you keep,’ I remarked.
I observed Murakami-san’s profile as he unleashed an extravagant yawn. The broken veins in his nose and cheeks wriggled like tiny worms, elongating as his face did. In the breath expelled by his yawn I detected whisky and breath mints.
‘See you later, Sato-san,’ he said, giving me a hearty slap on the back. ‘And try not to be too hard on old Takahara-san. You never know, the love bug might bite you next!’
His crow’s-feet proliferated in another crafty wink. Then he was gone, pounding down the corridors of Daiwa Trading as the company chime sounded for the end of lunch.
Around five o’clock I became very fidgety and could barely sit still. I was gathering loose paper-clips and straightening up my in-tray when Miss Yamamoto came to speak to me. She looked as fresh as she had been at the 8.30 chime, smart in her white shirt and pinafore dress. She asked my permission to begin the Nakamura credit check – a lengthy undertaking that required my supervision and would consume many hours. Reluctantly I assented and, before I could restrain myself, let out a weary sigh. As you know, I try not to sigh. Too many sighs can negatively charge the office, creating an atmosphere unconducive to work.
Quick to register my lack of enthusiasm, Miss Yamamoto said: ‘There is no need for you to stay and supervise, Mr Sato! You have worked so hard today. I can manage perfectly well by myself . . . In fact, I insist you go home.’ She spoke with such gusto and determination I had to smile.
‘Very well, then, Miss Yamamoto,’ I said, ‘it’s all yours.’
‘You can count on me, sir!’ Miss Yamamoto replied, and gave me a witty salute.
When I alighted from my express train at Osakako the weather had turned quite blustery. The wind boxed at my ears and tore at my jacket lapels. My necktie flew out in front of me, pulling this way and that like a leash. As I turned into our street I saw two of the Okamura children flying a kite fashioned from a plastic carrier bag and string. They both held tight, shouting as the wind threatened to wrestle their economy kite away from them. When I reached our house I was pleased to see the bedroom curtains wide open and the windows narrowly opened to encourage ventilation. This meant Mariko was up and about. I put my key in the front door and found it had been left on the latch. ‘Mariko?’ I called.
The house was silent as a grave. I kicked off my loafers in the entryway and put down my briefcase. I jogged up the stairs and knocked on the bedroom door. When there was no reply, I listened with my ear pressed to the panelling for a few seconds before peeping inside. The patchwork quilt had been carefully folded and the red buckle shoes were gone. I turned back down the corridor.
The bathroom door was open a crack. I rapped gently on its surface. ‘Mariko?’
I slid open the bathroom door and stepped into an embrace of moist warmth. Bath-water vapours misted my spectacles and condensation speckled the wall tiles. Mariko must have bathed quite recently. I could smell my supermarket-brand anti-dandruff shampoo (I have had the same bottle for over a year now, so low are the shampoo requirements of my balding pate) but the chemical fragrance was tainted with something else, something sweet and musky, like honeydew. I wiped my spectacles on my shirt, and as I replaced them something unusual caught my eye. On the mirror of the bathroom cabinet the word ‘FATE’ had been etched in the condensation. The tapering of the strokes was just so, making it appear to have been drawn with a calligraphy brush. A towel was draped on the rail. I reached out and touched the dampness of its fibres, before going back downstairs.
In the kitchen the bread and jam were gone, and the plate and knife had been washed and placed on the draining board. The note I had left Mariko had been folded into an origami lotus flower. I surveyed the empty kitchen in disappointment. ‘Fate,’ I said aloud. ‘What a funny word to write on a mirror.’ Then I heard the front door click open.
I waited, listening as Mariko exchanged her shoes for a pair of indoor slippers and padded towards the kitchen.
‘Mariko . . .’ I said, as she came into view.
She stopped in the doorway and looked at me, her eyes burning with shame and gratitude. Her clothes were sleep-rumpled, the pleats of her skirt flattened. One sock was drawn up to her knee, the other bunched up around her ankle. I was relieved to see that the peaches-and-cream of her complexion had been restored. Your old wicker shopping basket, long banished to a distant corner of the kitchen, had been dusted off and hooked over her arm. Her damp hair was a fright, mauled and matted
by the wind. I thought it unwise of her to venture outside with wet hair.
‘I . . . I want to apologize for my behaviour last night,’ she began.
I cleared my throat. ‘Are you feeling better now?’
Mariko met my gaze with a lucidity she had been incapable of the night before. Her cheeks coloured. ‘Yes, thank you. Thank you for taking care of me. I feel terrible about turning up on your doorstep and . . . and burdening you like that.’
Why me? I wanted to ask. Why my doorstep? But I knew this question held back a whole avalanche of questions. I told myself to at least let the poor girl sit down first.
‘I am glad to see you have recovered,’ I said.
‘I found the bread and jam. Thank you. I was so hungry I finished all of the bread. When I saw you had no more food in the fridge I went to the market for you . . .’ Mariko raised the wicker basket, then lowered it again, her gaze askance, perhaps out of fear I would think her kind gesture presumptuous.
‘That is very thoughtful of you, Mariko. I seldom have the time to go shopping myself.’
Mariko smiled. The kitchen was dim with the crepuscular shadow of dusk. I usually snap the light on right away, to avoid eye strain, but tonight I let the shadows harvest.
‘I would like to cook dinner for you before I go,’ she said. ‘To say thank you for your help last night. It’s the least I can do.’
‘Really, there is no need . . .’ I protested.
‘But I would feel so much better if I did something to repay you for your kindness . . .’ Mariko touched her fingers to her damp hair. ‘And I think I owe you an explanation. Shall we sit down?’
Mariko set the wicker shopping basket down on the floor and we each pulled back a chair. In the semidarkness the salt and pepper mills and milk jug sat in a runic circle on the table-top. Yesterday’s newspaper lay beside the pot plant, only main headlines legible. Mariko’s smile swept over these objects, towards me, like a wave crashing against a shore.
‘I woke quite soon after you left for work,’ she began, ‘so I have had all day to sit and think about my situation and what I must do. Firstly, let me explain what was wrong with me last night. Sometimes, when I am very unhappy or distressed, I fall into a deep sleep. It is a medical condition I have suffered from since childhood. I suppose it is a kind of narcolepsy. It does not prevent me from leading a normal life, but sometimes an episode will catch me unawares, like last night.’ Mariko spoke with a matter-of-fact fluidity, as if she had delivered this explanation so many times she had learnt all the words by heart.