by Linda Olsson
The restaurant was a simple okonomiyake place, hot and smelly. We were each given a bowl containing vegetables and chicken in a mixture of egg and rice flour, which my father showed me how to cook on the hotplate on the table between us. His hands moved expertly, emptying our bowls onto the greased plate, flattening the resulting mounds with a spatula, making two perfect circles. I watched, sipping cold beer. He worked with focus, turning the pancakes with an easy flick of the spatula, sprinkling them with fish flakes and seaweed. I suddenly remembered him teaching me to fish. How he would put up the oars, set me between his legs and let me hold the handle of the fishing rod as he cast, his hand over mine. His hands were soft and always warm. I watched him now, and like an attack of intense physical pain it struck me that my father would never know the man I had loved. He would never know, and this would always separate us.
He suddenly looked up at me, as if alerted. He raised his glass, waited for me to raise mine, then gently let them clink. And the pain faded.
‘Let’s eat,’ was all he said, but his grey eyes lingered on my face for a moment.
I stayed in Tokyo almost a month. Long enough for us to settle into a daily routine. We ate dinner out every night, usually at one of the small restaurants nearby. Some days we met for lunch in town, often at the National Museum of Modern Art, where even in winter we could sit outside on a sunny day. I sometimes took the train into town, usually just to walk the streets and watch people. I went to Asakusa several times, stopping for lunch at the same small restaurant where my father had taken me the first weekend. I would sit on the floor in the dark room, surrounded by Asian artefacts, transported into a world where I had no history and no future.
One day after lunch I walked to the Tokyo Tower. I stood at the base of the mock Eiffel structure and watched the crowds, but I didn’t enter. I strolled on and came by a large Buddhist temple. At the back was a terraced area with hundreds of little stone figures, many dressed in crocheted red hats and bibs and surrounded by colourful pinwheels, teddy bears and dolls. A middle-aged European woman dressed in a heavy sports jacket and walking boots was taking pictures with a long-lens camera. I stood still, watching, and after a little while she lowered her camera and turned to me.
‘Mitzuko,’ she said. ‘It means water child. These are the children who never made the transcendence from water to human life.’ She drew a wide semi-circle in the air, indicating the rows of red-capped stone figures. ‘And this is their protector,’ she said, pointing to a large statue of a man holding a staff in one hand and a baby on the other arm. ‘Jizo, the Buddhist deity who looks after the unborn.’ She looked at me with a shy smile. ‘Sorry, I am sure you know all this. It’s just that it moves me so. All those children. The sadness. And you know, there is no real comfort for them, in spite of Jizo. Ever. The water children play on the shore of the river that runs between this world and the other side. They build towers with pebbles, it’s their penance. Guarded by a monster. For ever. And there is this terrible double guilt. The child having caused the parents such grief by not being born. And the parents having caused the child to be in eternal limbo by not giving it life. Double guilt.’ She looked down, kicking the gravel with the toe of her boot. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and started to put her camera back into its case. She nodded goodbye and left, her steps loud on the path. I walked along the rows of mitzuko, hands in my pockets. The pinwheels whistled softly and the odd crow cawed.
The last weekend before I left, my father and I took the train to Nikko on the Saturday morning. We had booked to stay the night at a traditional Japanese inn. We got off the train in the small town itself, deposited our bags in lockers at the station and wandered uphill to the main temple area. We let ourselves drift with the crowds around us, not ambitious enough to explore anything more closely. A pale sun shone, the air was warm and dry and we removed our jackets. I walked behind my father up the steep stone steps, watching his back. He climbed slowly, panting, stopping every now and then for a little rest, yet somehow not acknowledging the need for a pause. I suddenly saw him as he would look to other people: a man approaching sixty, a little overweight, balding. Well dressed and well kept, polite and private. Was I like him? Would I come to resemble him more and more as I aged? As a child I had wanted to look like my mother, my beautiful, glamorous mother. But I had been told I looked like my father. Now, suddenly, I took comfort from the likeness. It was soothing to realise that the man in front of me was my father. That I was his daughter.
We arrived at the inn in the late afternoon. It was utterly lacking in immediate appeal. The brochures had been absolutely correct, yet at the same time absolutely inaccurate. It was our equating ‘genuinely Japanese’ with ‘charming’ that had misled us. But after our initial disappointment at the large scale of the place and the conference hotel atmosphere, we gradually began to enjoy ourselves. Our room was small and unadorned, but overlooked a peaceful garden with large trees. We installed ourselves and donned the provided yukata robes. We had booked to have a traditional bath before dinner. I found myself alone in the ladies’ baths. I had no idea of the rituals, and was relieved to be left alone to manage as best I could. After washing, I slid naked into the hot water, where I sat on the ledge that ran the length of the pool, my feet floating in front of me. The water was very hot, dark and smelled of sulphur. With my body carried by the hot water, alone in the spacious room, I again felt as if I no longer existed in the real world. As if I had entered a strange space in between life and death.
Later, we were seated in our own small dining room, just the two of us. We knelt by the table side by side, with the waitress emerging now and then through the slit in the curtain, presenting us with the courses one at a time. We talked a little about my father’s work and for the first time he mentioned retirement. He thought he might take early retirement, should the offer come up. Then, suddenly, he looked at me and asked if I had talked to my mother recently. After an awkward pause I told him no. It struck me that he looked disappointed.
After dinner we went up to our room. We rang room service, ordered a beer each and sat on the laid-out futons to drink them. I told him I had decided to leave at the end of the following week. I had confirmed my ticket and would fly to Stockholm on the Friday. I knew he had long since made plans to go to Bali over Christmas, and I thought he might have worried about what to do with me if I stayed on.
He nodded, but said nothing.
We turned off the lights and lay down under our duvets. I lay on my side, looking towards the window. It was still and quiet. When later I turned onto my other side I saw my father’s back, the duvet pulled up so that only the top of his head was visible. His breathing was light, but occasionally there was a slight pause, a hiccup in the flow of air. I turned onto my back, and I was suddenly overcome by such sadness. A gentle, unspecific sadness, not the raw physical pain of before. I rolled over on my side and curled up. And for the first time since I had left Auckland I cried.
In the morning we checked out after breakfast and went to see the waterfalls before taking the train back to Tokyo.
On the last morning I packed, showered and dressed. I had brought a small piece of carved greenstone from New Zealand for my father and I went into his bedroom to leave it on his bedside table. As I put it down, I noticed a copy of my book sitting underneath a couple of business magazines. I picked it up, weighing it in my hands. It was worn and tattered, as if having been read and reread, thumbed and carried around. I opened it and looked at the inscription. To my father, my fellow traveller. I put it back, and set the small pouch with the greenstone on top.
My father had tried to insist on driving me to the airport but I had refused. The compromise was that he was coming back from the office to drive me to the bus station. I stood ready, looking out the window, watching him drive up to the front door of the building, and I was just closing the door to the apartment when he stepped out of the lift to take my bag. We had agreed to allow time for lunch after checking my luggage in
at the bus depot. We sat at a small table up against a glass wall, with an atrium space on the other side. Light through a glass dome high above illuminated an arrangement of smooth granite stones and tall grass. We ordered champagne and orange juice and sat sipping, as we waited for our food.
‘I wish . . .’ he began, but the sentence was left unfinished and he looked through the glass and out over the stones. Then he cleared his throat and started again. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ Just then the waitress arrived with our food and we started to eat.
I convinced him to leave before the bus arrived. We said goodbye in the hotel lobby. He embraced me, then let his hand slide down my arm and take hold of my hand. He gave it a small squeeze, then abruptly let go. He turned once to wave, before disappearing around a corner.
I flew to Stockholm, still not knowing where I was going.
32
. . . now let me sing you gentle songs.
They drove home in the afternoon heat and agreed that the idea of a swim seemed a good one. After a quick change they got back in the car and left for the lake.
This time there were two cars parked at the end of the road, and they found a group of teenagers noisily splashing in the water and chasing one another on the sand. Still, once they sat down, there seemed to be enough space to allow almost complete privacy.
Astrid smiled a tight-lipped smile and removed her blouse and skirt. She stood awkwardly, showing none of her earlier confidence. The gaudy swimsuit sat uncomfortably with the expression of uncertainty, even fear, on the old woman’s face. Veronika dropped her shorts and stretched out her hand.
‘Come, let’s get in the water,’ she said, and pulled Astrid along. They waded into the smooth, dark lake, their steps a little wobbly as they crossed the strip of pebbles before reaching the soft sand further out.
‘It’s all about breathing,’ Veronika said. ‘It’s often about the simple things, isn’t it? Painting and photography are first about seeing, they say. Writing is about observing. Technique is secondary. Sometimes the simple is the most difficult.’ She scooped water into her hands and splashed her face. ‘And swimming is about breathing. Remember to breathe.’ She sank her knees, so that only her head and the tops of her shoulders were visible, and beckoned to Astrid to do the same. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’
Astrid nodded, her lips firmly closed.
‘Turn your back towards me,’ Veronika said, and Astrid did as she was told. ‘Now, lean on my arm. I will hold my arm under your shoulders while you stretch out your legs.’ The old woman slowly leaned back until she was resting on Veronika’s arm. ‘Spread your arms, look at the sky. Let the water carry you. And breathe.’
And slowly, through the surface in front of Astrid, the tip of her toes emerged, like pale mushrooms growing on the still surface. ‘Ah,’ she said, nothing more.
When the old woman seemed comfortable and her breathing calm, Veronika gradually loosened her hold of Astrid’s shoulders, until her body was supported only by a light touch at the back of her head, then finally just the tips of Veronika’s fingers.
When the old woman stood up again, she leaned over and put her cool fingers, where the skin had wrinkled, on Veronika’s cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and waded uncertainly towards the beach. Veronika went further out and dived into the golden water.
When she walked back across the sand she found Astrid sitting in her usual fashion, legs stretched out in front of her. She wore her faded sunhat and her glasses and she was reading from a small book.
‘It’s been so long since I read this,’ she said, holding up the book. ‘Karin Boye. Sit down and let me read you this one.’ She indicated the blanket and Veronika sat, hugging her shins and squinting out over the lake. ‘It is called “Min stackars unge, My poor little child”.’ Astrid’s voice trembled a little as she began to read:
My poor child, so afraid of the dark,
who has met ghosts of another kind,
who always among those clad in white
glimpses those with evil faces,
now let me sing you gentle songs,
from fright they free, from force and cramp.
Of the evil they ask no repentance.
Of the good they ask not for battle.
See, you must know, that all that lives
is deep inside of equal kind.
Like trees and herbs it seeks to grow —
pulled forward by its inner laws.
And trees may fall and flowers wilt
and branches break, their power lost,
still the dream remains — awaits the call —
in every living drop of sap.
She took off her glasses and closed the book. ‘I have always loved it.’ She let the book sink onto her lap. ‘ “Let me sing you gentle songs.” It is such a beautiful line,’ she said. Veronika stretched out her hand and Astrid handed her the open book. ‘I have never heard it before,’ she said, her eyes on the page. She read silently for a while. ‘It is. It is very beautiful.’ She held the book in her hands and looked out over the lake.
They drove back with the windows open and the wind against their faces. When Veronika stopped to let Astrid off at her gate, the old woman turned and looked at her. ‘I think I shall call this my birthday, too. Welcome to our joint birthday celebration tonight.’ She put her hand on Veronika’s for a moment, before stepping out of the car.
Veronika had showered. Dripping and naked she wiped the steam off the mirror over the hand-basin and looked at her image. It felt like a very long time since she had seen her reflection. She studied her face, the large green eyes framed by short black eyelashes and distinct black eyebrows, the long nose, the wide mouth. She wondered if she might have lost weight. Her face seemed thinner, the cheeks a little hollow. Or perhaps these were just signs of ageing. She lifted her hair and inspected her chin. She touched her breasts, weighed them in her hands, wondering if they, too, had aged. She ran her palms over the skin of her arms, her stomach, her thighs. And she could feel the softness.
She dressed in jeans and a white shirt and with a glass of white wine in her hand she went and sat on the front step. Heat still lingered in the air. She looked up at the sky, which seemed to arch infinitely above, and she knew that this was the moment when the shift occurred. Nothing had changed from the moment immediately before, yet everything had just changed irrevocably. Summer was no longer pausing: it had begun its retreat.
She could hear music through the open kitchen window as she approached Astrid’s house. The intense sounds of the Brahms sonata seemed to reinforce her sense of loss. The awareness that time was finite, an end approaching. She stopped in her steps, her eyes on the window, where she could see Astrid moving in the lit kitchen, and she was overcome by a memory from her childhood. Standing outside a house, looking through the window at her parents kissing. She realised now that it was her only memory of any sign of affection between her parents. She must have been young, perhaps five, but old enough to be outside in the darkness. On her own, outside.
She entered the kitchen, where Astrid was busy by the stove. On the table there was a serving plate with thinly sliced gravlax and a small bowl with mustard sauce. A basket with dark rye bread stood to one side, and two champagne flutes next to a chilled bottle of fine French champagne. The table was again set with the delicate china and the wine glasses were crystal, decorated with a gold pattern. Astrid moved purposefully between stove and table, her red skirt flowing around her legs. She had changed her white blouse for a long-sleeved sheer jacket of cream silk. The sleeves were wide and she had pulled them up, leaving her arms bare. She noticed Veronika’s look and shrugged her shoulders as if embarrassed.
‘I know, it’s a strange thing to wear. Not really intended for social occasions. It used to be my mother’s. A sort of camisole, I suppose. But it is so very beautiful and I thought it would be appropriate for this celebration.’ She smiled a little smile and turned back to the stove.
Veronika poured t
he champagne and they drank a toast, letting the glasses clink lightly. While Astrid cooked, they helped themselves to slices of bread with salmon and mustard. The light from the setting sun made slanted inroads, blending with the light over the table. The candles on the table flickered in the breaths of warm wind that wafted in through the window.
‘Now, let’s sit down,’ Astrid said, carrying a plate and a bowl across from the stove. ‘It’s been an eventful day for me. Filled with new experiences,’ she said. ‘This dish is not new to me, but I have never cooked it. And it’s been a very long time since I tasted it. My mother used to make it and it was my favourite. She had a name for it, but my father just called it fish balls.’
She spread her napkin over her lap and held out the plate for Veronika to serve herself. ‘I had the shop get me fresh pike,’ Astrid said, putting the plate back on the table. Without serving herself, she looked expectantly at Veronika, who helped herself to new potatoes and snow peas, and then the fish balls. The old woman sat still, watching, until Veronika started to eat.
‘It is delicious,’ Veronika said, realising that she sounded surprised. ‘Absolutely delicious.’
Astrid smiled and finally began to serve herself. She had bought New Zealand wine. Ordered at the local shop and carried back home. The vivid picture of the old woman making several trips to the shop made Veronika’s throat tighten, but when she looked across at Astrid, she saw a face reflecting peace and happiness, perhaps even anticipation. Veronika relaxed, took a sip of the cool wine and let the flavours fill her mouth.
When they had finished eating they cleared the table and Astrid went to the pantry, returning with a cut-crystal bowl half filled with wild strawberries. ‘I had intended to make a cake but I ran out of time. All this swimming,’ she said with a smile. ‘But I rather prefer them like this, with just a little cream poured over.’