by John Freeman
Under normal circumstances, the seller has the right to choose the buyer, and to even inquire about his or her background to the extent that the information is not confidential. All parties are more or less equal between the seller, the buyer, and the agent who works on commission. But this was not so in our case. We had no right to ask questions or to make decisions. They would have laughed in our faces if we had insisted. When my husband’s company filed for bankruptcy, we had no choice but to let go of our house, which was still under mortgage. “Voluntary liquidation,” they had called it. Neither my husband nor I—who had designed the house and grew to love it over the years—was to decide on the value and its future occupant. No, it was to be handled by a random stranger who had never seen or set foot in the house.
Everything happened so quickly. It was worse than a situation defined by the common expression “downward spiral”—I may have felt some kind of pain or fear then. Instead, with no end in sight, I felt like a tiny grain floating amid a giant blank space where I could see and touch nothing. Everyone was laughing at me behind my back, though people never voiced their scorn—those who called or came to see me, neighbors who greeted us on the street, anonymous passersby, friends I hadn’t seen in years were all laughing because the ostentatious house had caused our downfall.
Quiet by nature, my husband rarely spoke to me about his work. The accounting was processed internally by his employees, and I had no interest in that sort of thing to begin with. I knew he was involved in asset management and stocks, but those were handled at work and had nothing to do with me or my house. My role was simply to manage the household with the money left over after the monthly mortgage and insurance payments had been made. One day would pass, followed by another, and before long a whole year had passed without significance.
I couldn’t recall a single occasion when I felt we were financially lacking, even when my husband was an ordinary salaryman before he started his own business. He was never concerned with how I spent our money, since we had neither children nor extravagant taste to speak of. From his demeanor, I always assumed that business was going well, and had no cause for worry. When we built our present house six years ago after getting rid of the house his father had left behind (how I had detested that traditional Japanese house with its gloomy gray tiled roof), the paperwork was taken care of by my husband and his company. All I had to do was sit down over tea with the architect my husband had chosen, discuss the layout of the house that I had drawn up, and confront the challenge of turning my vision into a reality.
So, like a child under parental care, I was completely oblivious as to what was happening to my husband’s company and to my own home. Perhaps my husband had wanted it that way. I was kept in the dark until the very end, until the day he announced out of the blue that we would have to sell the house. I was aware that our nation was facing a financial crisis, and had even expressed concern when the topic came up among the neighborhood wives, but I never dreamed that the recession could affect us personally.
My life until then was made up of a series of numerical repetitions. The familiar numbers that appeared in the bank statement every month. The bill from my favorite antique furniture shop. House fixtures and furnishings would arrive carefully packaged. New fabric of the season. The bill from the farm in Kyushu prefecture that delivered fresh vegetables and meat. These appeared simply as numbers on the credit card bill, and I never imagined that they would come to an end. Those things happened to other people, living in other parts of the world. It was like politics—we understand that political issues are real and important, but still imagine that they exist in another realm separate from our everyday lives. I couldn’t imagine that words like “bankruptcy” and “foreclosure” would have any relevance to my own life. It never occurred to me that the two realms might come together.
“You have such girlish taste.”
“Pardon me?” I said, startled, with a smile frozen on my face.
“Oh it’s just that everything feels so delicate,” the woman said. “And so deliberate too, from the wallpaper to the windows to the overall look of the house. We women never grow out of it, do we? I’m the same—I’ve always loved this kind of aesthetic. Take what you’re wearing—it’s so girlish in the most tasteful way. Straight out of a childhood dream.”
“Thank you,” I uttered, and said no more.
The woman proceeded to praise every item in the room in an exaggerated manner. “How lovely the wallpaper is. Oh, the colors, the patterns. The height of the sink is just right. The tiles give such a foreign feel. Everything is just lovely.” Couldn’t this woman keep her mouth shut for a second? Why must she babble on and on? She must believe that people like to be flattered—perhaps she was in that line of work. There are those who believe that as long as you flatter, people will like you and help you get on in the world. Or, was there disdain behind all her flattery? Perhaps it was both. In any event, the woman’s exaggerated behavior annoyed me, leaving discomfort as if something was stuck between my teeth.
“Could I take a look at the bathroom?”
“Of course.”
She opened the cabinet where the toilet papers were stored, checking the width and the door. She made sure the water ran properly. Buyers always inspect every corner of the house—the layout of the closets, the shelving unit in the powder room, the inside of the dishwasher, the position of the showerhead, the depth of the bathtub, the grout of the tiles—everywhere from the storage room to behind the shelves. The only things they refrain from opening are the wardrobe drawers. The woman went around the house nodding approvingly and making mental notes, while the real estate agent followed closely behind her. After inspecting the kitchen, she opened the back door and asked about the garbage collection schedule. I answered.
“Do you get a nice breeze? It must come in from here and go out over there. Could I see the second floor? Do you mind?”
In silence, we ascended the small spiral staircase made of solid natural wood, designed to perfection. I always took special care to polish the handrail, but as I placed my hand on it, I noticed that it was already growing dull. My heart ached. The woman walked briskly down the hallway. “May I see the bedroom?”
“Please.”
“What’s that over there?”
“A walk-in closet. You can also enter from the other side.”
“What’s on the other side?”
“A room I use as an atelier.”
“An atelier? Oh, is that a sewing machine I see?”
“Yes, I use it to sew clothes.”
“My goodness,” the woman exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. “Are you a designer? Or do you make patterns?”
“No, it’s just a hobby of mine.” I noticed that my voice was faint.
“What a fairy-tale room,” the woman burbled on. “I love the way the triangular roof frames the walls against the high ceilings. So charming. The wallpaper echoes the living room, yes? And look at all this lace. You make clothes, you said? What a refined hobby.”
The woman seemed to smirk at me. As she turned and walked back toward the bedroom, I noticed that her footsteps and mannerisms had changed. Now, it was as if she were showing a visitor around her own house, proud of every little detail. “Oh, that tiny door over there?” She scurried back into the bedroom.
“It leads to a kind of dressing room,” I answered.
“Oh, so this is the ‘boudoir’ in the layout. What a lovely dresser. This room has such a foreign feeling.”
I watched as the woman walked across the carpet in my little room and stood next to the window with its delicate, ornamental shutters. The room would fill with gentle light in the morning and cool air in the evening. The woman was about to have it all. She’s standing where I should be. When she reached for the curtain, I almost cried out, “Keep your hands off!” But I didn’t. Then, looking through the window, the woman let out a short gasp. “Oh, the garden! Those flowers!”
I remained silent. Out of ev
erything I was proud of in the house, what was most precious to me, what I had most invested my time and energy in, was the flower garden. The ground was covered in different varieties of thyme, so that from afar, it gave the impression of green waves. And floating among the waves were anemones, forget-me-nots, violets, ranunculus, and tulips, all of which had just begun to deepen their color. In the shaded parts of the garden, there bloomed spring starflowers, ajuga, and impatiens. Flowers also filled the front porch, which was custom designed. How carefully I had chosen the front gate! The fence with the angel relief would soon be covered with climbing roses. Every year, when the weather got warm, the Lady Banks’ roses bloomed in clusters. Next to them were the Dorothy Perkins, and on the other side were the Japanese roses. And let’s not forget the Iceberg roses. The Uncle Walters drew attention with their stubborn faces, the only red you saw in the garden. Their petals felt smooth and rich, like velvet. How many hours had I spent choosing the perfect pot for each type of flower, considering the overall balance? I searched for weeks for a shade of brick for the flower bed that would match the outer walls. I buried the bricks—just the right tint between beige and pink—one by one, creating a gentle curve along which I carefully interwove the conifers and dead nettles. It was an utterly unique garden that I had created with immeasurable care. The mailbox, the curve of the exterior walls, the lamppost, the signature Juneberry tree—I labored to find perfection in every detail. In Tokyo, where houses resemble large gray tombstones straight out of a generic architectural catalogue, I had created a fanciful haven overflowing with blooming flowers that dazzled the mind and momentarily transported one to the Cotswolds. I had created the house that I had dreamed of since childhood.
“I love it. I really do. Should I go ahead and buy it?”
Having inspected the house, the woman sighed deeply and contentedly. Then, with the words, “May I?” she made herself comfortable on the living room sofa. “Isn’t it cozy?” she said to the real estate agent in an eager tone.
“We’re so pleased the house is to your liking,” he answered with a look of satisfaction, as if he had just given her a gift. We, he had said.
The woman glanced at the decorative shelf near her and noticed the photograph of my husband and me smiling happily. It was taken on our wedding anniversary last year at our favorite steak restaurant. Last year . . . we were smiling then. I felt a sting in my throat and leaned against the wall. All I could do was press my fingers against my temples and wait for the lump in my throat to go away. “Should I go ahead and buy it?” she had said. I repeated the words in my head. Should I go ahead and buy it? I almost laughed out loud. I wanted to burst out laughing to her face. But instead, I leaned against the wall in silence.
“I love it. A charming little house with a garden—I bet life would be pretty cozy here. And so many flowers—it’s like living in a fantasy manga world of Yumiko Ōshima.”
The woman kept rattling on to herself with a contented look on her face. I kept my eyes firmly closed and my arms crossed over my chest. Should I go ahead and buy it? How dare she? How could that be possible? And who was this Ōshima? You might be filthy rich, but you were a stranger to this house until today. You found it by chance through a real estate agent. You know nothing about what it takes to maintain a place like this—all the work that goes into getting the roses to bloom every year, to keep the garden lush and green. You couldn’t care less about the Kohler enameled cast-iron sink, William Morris textiles, Laura Ashley fabrics, or James Jackson’s Jacpol antique wax polish. You think the house looks like a fairy tale? You were irrelevant to my house, my life, my past until now . . . how could you possibly buy all of this? What does that even mean? To make it all yours? I don’t understand. Who are you anyway?
The woman thanked me and the real estate agent informed me that I would be contacted at a later date. They drove away.
I went back into the house and glanced at the clock. It had just turned five. At this time of day in spring, the flowers are engulfed in the mysterious aura of the evening mist, making you feel as if you’ve wandered into a Monet painting. How I loved gazing at the garden from the left-hand window of the living room. I would imagine myself from the outside, looking out through the small window of the house with its triangle roof, surrounded by modest yet well-groomed flowers amid the deep green. I never tired of gazing out as the garden faded in twilight, as the green leaves, the white petals, and the house melted into the darkness that fell soundlessly, the gentle fragrance of the evening accumulating.
And just like that, the house became hers.
The cutting board is all dried up. The edges of the cardboard boxes are frayed and black. The mattress is as hard as the bottom of a shoe. I imagined an empty toilet paper roll as I lay listlessly looking out at the electric wires hanging limp outside the window. I am like an empty toilet paper roll, I thought to myself as I looked around the cheaply furnished weekly apartment that was managed by someone my husband knew.
We had been able to take most of our dishes and clothing. Yet, for the past several days, I had been wearing a tattered old summer sweater that was covered in lint. It was almost three weeks since we moved into this apartment.
We left all of our furniture behind. We had no say in the matter. The realtor and the woman had agreed on the buying price, but apparently it was not sufficient according to whoever managed our debt. They ended up raising the price quite a bit, which resulted in renegotiations that delayed the closing date. We were allowed to continue living in the house until the deal was closed, so for a while, I imagined that we could live there indefinitely as if nothing had happened. But of course, that came to an end.
The woman settled on a price that was thirteen million yen above the initial asking price, but with the condition that she would have the right to buy all of our furniture for a price to be negotiated. This was convenient for both parties involved, so a price was agreed upon. The house was sold, as it was—only the inhabitants changed.
The same doors, the same tables, the same walls, the same garden, the same ornamental shelves, the same chairs. In my house, the woman became me. When I heard of the arrangement, I became so upset that I reproached my husband for the first time in twenty years. He responded with a look of fatigue. “We had to sell the furniture anyway to pay back the debt. If we hired a middleman, we would have had to bring money to the table.” He was not trying to explain, or to convince or console me—he was simply stating the fact.
“Couldn’t we have put everything in storage until we sorted things out and found a proper place?” I asked with tears in my eyes.
My husband answered in a low voice, “It was hard enough to take the clothes, the dishes, and all the little things with us. Plus, when we stepped out of the house, the furniture was no longer ours.” Still unconvinced, I continued to question him for over an hour after we turned off the lights. “It’s not going to be easy from now on—you know that, right?” was all he would say. Though he had stopped responding, I felt strangely excited and was unable to calm down. I buried my head under the thin summer futon in the stifling heat and cried until morning.
I can no longer recall the events that took place after the contract was signed—how we were driven out of our house and ended up here. What did we say to the neighbors? Did we slip away in haste or make up some elaborate lie? When did we pack our belongings? What did we eat? What time did we wake up and go to bed? Everything was a blur.
My husband was now driving a secondhand domestic car. I seem to recall him saying that it belonged to an acquaintance of his. Where was he during those hectic few days—or was it weeks? How did it all end? Was it really over? Come to think of it, it must have been my husband who took care of everything, but I had no recollection of discussing anything or even exchanging words with him. How did we get through it all? Surely, I was there, awake, and moving my body. Yet my memory was vague, as if something were pouring out of me despite my efforts to contain it. It was the same when I tried t
o remember my childhood. How did I spend those last days? How did I end up here?
Then I remembered something the woman had said. “Don’t worry, I won’t be keeping the bed.” We were standing at the entryway before the house was handed over to her. We happened to run into each other just for a moment.
The woman said those words to me after a polite greeting. The real estate agent had assured us that he would keep our misfortune confidential, but I knew then that he had lied. The expression on the woman’s face, the way she looked at me—she knew everything and was enraptured by her own benevolence and sympathy. She knew it all—that I had lost everything and had no choice but to lead a miserable life with my old, bankrupt husband. She was laughing at us both, who had never questioned our values and life choices until now. She was filled with a sense of superiority over the fact that she, who could be our daughter in age, was doing us a favor by taking on the girlish fantasy house that nobody else would want to buy.
With a wide-brimmed hat covering my face, grasping the straps of my purse, I set out to visit the house, which was now an hour away, and required three trains. This was already the fourth time I was going there. Fortunately, there was no one on the street in the middle of the day. It was so hot that sweat seemed to pour out when you just tried to keep your eyes open.
The house shone in the summer light. The neighborhood was dead silent, as if all the people had been annihilated, leaving the houses empty. On this summer afternoon, I sat on a bench in a small park down the street from the house. Under the bare branches of the wisteria no longer in bloom, I sat staring intently at the house. Hearing the rustle of branches in the wind, I watched a Juneberry tree—one I had planted—gently sway by the entrance gate. The color of the walls behind the tree was exquisite—a color that I loved, a color I had helped paint. The triangular roof. The tiny square windows. An abundance of green. Flowers blooming. Everything was as I had left it.
When I became thirsty, I would walk to a convenience store twenty minutes away and buy something to drink. Back on the bench, I saw no one save a few cars and an old woman with a bent back walking down the street very slowly.