Made in Japan

by S. J. Parks

  She stood close enough to his cotton shirt to feel his generated warmth, and she followed his index finger as it traced along a small carving in the wood running into the corner of the building.

  ‘This is the number five,’ he pointed.

  The character was scored, cut in five straight lines, a lowercase ‘h’ given ground and a cap.

  ‘And here.’ He stretched up to the upright strut that joined the beam where a second character, exactly the same, had been carved above the first. ‘They match.’

  Could he be flirting with her? she wondered. No, a silly thought.

  He smiled as her eyebrows lifted in comprehension. Her eyes widened and he marked the length of her lashes.

  ‘This is the tradition. Where they know well on site which elements have been hewn to fit together.’

  ‘So they are simply labelled like this?’

  He traced over the numbers again, brushing against her arm as he did so. ‘The matching pair. They have made it easy for us,’ he said significantly. And then he added, ‘With these matching numbers’, retreating from his reference to the pair of them. She stood a moment before she moved.

  Chapter 44

  On the tracks out to Imaichi, 1989

  Naomi moved with the rhythm of the train out towards Imaichi. Mochizuki was feigning sleep and beside him the master carpenter, his traditional Haori jacket over a modest shirt and tie. The men had worked together on the restoration of the temple bell tower before this.

  Quite what the girl was doing with them, the carpenter did not know, but that the architect could be an eccentric, he knew all too well. He recalled when they had first met in Shibuya, where Mochizuki and friends hit the bars and yakitori restaurants. Shibuya, he reminisced, had been a dark tranquil sea of people. Today the crowd had wrapped him in a mantle of age-identifying him as one who didn’t belong there.

  Under the birdsong on the platform a boy with the leonine-red hair of a kabuki wig had jostled him. Pushed him over almost. He looked and behaved like an ancient god. If you swept away the familiar homogeneity so too went the ability to see the subtle change in differences. Life seemed to have moved on and he had to hold on. Despite being an ally of traditional values, he knew that, as time progressed, it moved inexorably west. The beauty of the old values rested on the premise that familiarity of form freed you to appreciate either departures from that form or the antithesis of the formless. Resting on his mind like a flash Polaroid, the indelible souvenir boy reminded him that he could no longer look for the subtleties between people when a noisy individualism, a call for all things new, was clamouring for attention.

  His gaze settled on the girl. Her youth gave her the potential for enthusiasm and energy. But he wanted very much to bring her to the same point of understanding and draw her spirit with his. To kindle a loyalty towards tradition, passing on his passion.

  As they slid through the flat plains of new forestry she opened her eyes to his smile. Mochizuki leaned across to take Minamioka’s measuring rule from its leather pouch and pointed it at her like an archer’s quiver before unfolding it to its full length.

  This, he explained was the rod, or motozue; one of three rules that they would use in the construction process. Marked out in shaku units, roughly the equivalent to a third of a metre. It had been around as a standard since the earliest timber buildings.

  She appreciated his investment in helping her to understand, and, as the carriage climbed the mountain, she was pulled hard against the support of the partition.

  On arrival, Mochizuki bought only two bento lunch boxes from the station kiosk and handed them to her to carry. Minamioka, the carpenter, he explained, would eat with the men from the timber yard. Light crystallized the freshened air as they alighted at Imaichi and they were met by the platform announcement as the owner of the sawmill bowed in a greeting now commonplace to her.

  The grey truck from the mill was waiting in the station forecourt; its black trade name lay flat and unreflective under fine particles of dust. The sawmill was a family concern within Shinoda Construction.

  It was nearing lunchtime and, as if in respect to a favoured client, work had ceased and the plangent whining of the cutters was momentarily quiet, allowing them to accompany Minamioka on his visit to the wood yard, prospecting for lumber, in peace. He had done some preliminary measurements and wanted to check the available sources this morning and pick out some trophy pieces for the project. Two men carrying a section of large tree trunk passed them in the yard beside the shed on the left of the gates. The wood shed had the internal proportions of a temple and large bolsters of hinoki, sugi, keyaki and akamatsu, or red pine, lay seasoning in rows like a wine cave, breathing noiselessly in the hushed moist atmosphere. Shadows of tall trees split the shafts of light that filtered through the high windows. She followed as the men paced round the stock, their voices muffled by the sawdust floor. The mill owner pointed out the different areas for each variety and those naturally seasoned logs, which had been lying for three years or more. Some of the trees were imported from Taiwan and some had been grown locally.

  ‘Two-by-four planks have no place in traditional Japanese architecture. The wood remains an organic form,’ Mochizuki told her, pointing then to Minamioka,

  ‘He is looking for strong trunks to use as the structural members. The diameter of these dictates the height of the building.’ He ran his hand along the weathered section of wood feeling for knots as he went.

  Grey as buckwheat noodles, she thought.

  Minamioka conferred with him and Mochizuki translated for her.

  ‘Any movement in the timber later on,’ he says, ‘will be greatest running perpendicular to the branch. The knots are a weakness and the success of the teahouse rests on his ability to predict how the wood might move and what its structural strengths might be.’

  She ran her fingers ran along the cut section of the wood, following the grain, as the master carpenter decisively chalked up the end with a kanji letter to denote that it should be reserved for use as one of the columns.

  ‘It’s good, very good,’ he concluded in English.

  Towards the end of the morning they left the carpenter to his discussions with the mill owner and took a walk up the south-facing slope behind the wood store, working their way up through the trees to where some of the lumber had been cut. On the upper reaches of the hill they stopped where, below, many trees had been felled.

  ‘Why have they cleared this section?’ she asked

  ‘This slope is well-drained and not densely planted. The grain grows tightly in the lower moisture levels in this soil and the wood will be slow-growing and hard. The conditions don’t hinder the branches. There will be a few more knots on this wood.’

  His ranging gaze over the woods came to rest on her. He was pleased that she should ask and suggested they take a seat on a large tree stump and eat lunch. As he leant across to take his bento box from her he kissed her very lightly on the cheek.

  She did not respond and she did not object. He had not stolen it. They both looked out across the slope to the plains of paddy fields, content not to take his unvoiced comment on the day any further.

  Josh would never see the indelible mark he had made on her that day.

  Chapter 45

  Tokyo, 2012

  It was Sunday morning. Back home in East London Hana would have been walking the length of Columbia Road flower market, lined with heads of peonies, the wrapped promise of rosebuds and the darting colour of fragile anemones. She and Tom would be about to take brunch in the café opposite the quilt shop. She was homesick and it prompted her to call Tom. But as he answered, he sounded strange.

  ‘Hello?’ He paused too long, he sounded odd when he finally responded. A hangover?. Had he broken something in the house? Work issues? Was someone there with him?

  ‘You there?’

  ‘Yes, hi, I’m here, is it cutting up?’

  ‘You sound different.’ They talked a while until she said. />
  ‘I can hear you not listening. What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting ready to go out.’

  ‘Where?’ Just then she heard a voice in the background. A girl’s voice. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘It’s Sadie,’ he said unapologetically.

  She had misgivings then that what was to be a fine morning, might not turn out to be quite so fine.

  ‘What’s she doing there?’ It left her rumpled. It was too early for Sadie to drop by. But then again she was eccentric.

  ‘We were going to the flower market.’ There was an edge in his voice. A determination.

  So they were going for breakfast. A group of them? After a late night? She held back from jumping into a vat of the wrong conclusions.

  But his voice had sounded strange. She knew him by now.

  ‘To our café? Tom? Is that what you’re telling me?’ She didn’t want to believe what she already understood. Bloody Sadie, who borrowed her jeans her coats her shoes and now Tom. It would hardly be his fault – she’d have sucked him in.

  ‘Well?’ The distance between them became more than just the miles. Everything felt taut and about to snap. ‘I wanted …’ She couldn’t bring herself to tell him what she wanted. They knew one another so very well.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Fuck you.’

  She caught crying in time not to.

  Decibels of inevitability blocked her ears for anything else he had to say and she wanted nothing more than to be in London and able to confront him. How could he?

  She put the phone down.

  Chapter 46

  Ed needed to be reminded of home. He would get Hana and the American girl over to his apartment. It was a showstopper of a company flat, he had to admit, and it would make just the right impression on Hana.

  Way back in the Eighties, had the grounds of the Imperial Palace been up for sale, they would have been worth more than the State of California. In the intervening lost decades Japanese property values had become sickly under the iron lung of financial easements. Ed’s law firm punched above their weight with the real estate agents; now rentals to the international firms had dropped off with the size of the Japanese equity markets. The equity warrant bubble, so huge around the time he was born, had burst, and along with it the property market where the superfluous cash had been invested. History, it seemed, had repeated itself.

  Piano lesson over, Ed lay on the floor of his spacious apartment enjoying a post-coital cigarette; a totem of ash threatening to fall and cover him. The girl had left. Now on his back with his legs up over the Western sofa, which Yumi from the office had helped him choose, he surveyed his view. The atmospheric pressure had vacuumed the sky, blown it clear of fluff, and left a rare continuum of blue; across the city he caught a glimpse of Mount Fuji. This celestial housekeeping, clearing the outlook to the volcano, was as unusual as a guest from home or indeed the forthcoming maternal visit. Even on the 41st floor he usually overlooked a city in heat haze or the blanket sea mists stole his views. This weekend he was mindful he could at any time be called back to Tokyo Midtown to prepare the merger documents for the Red Dragon Corp. It had been a bone-crushing week and, had he stayed a moment longer on Friday night, he would have been tempted to call Human Rights Watch on his own behalf. Thinking of Hana brought a rush of embarrassment over that evening at Shimo’s. He knew he had behaved badly at the club, though he could recall so little. He was making a mess of his personal life here and he had to sort out this unsatisfactory fling with the piano teacher, the closest thing he had had to a relationship.

  Sex with his piano teacher had been inevitable but had a scripted conclusion about it. She was cute and keen but he felt he was taking advantage when his commitment came in the absence of any other. He had not wanted to get into it but it had all become such a habit – why had he given her a key? The cigarette drooped threateningly and finally covered his chest in ash; he rubbed the stubble on his chin in indecision before he swung his legs across and came onto all fours, remembering too late the recurring complaint from his T7 vertebra. He blamed the piano lessons on the need to do something while his sports injury mended; that and sheer loneliness.

  His mother would not approve of the piano teacher and he remembered her blousy words now:

  ‘Remember when you are in Tokyo that some things don’t travel well. Holiday wines, for example. You’ll be drinking sake. And don’t forget the reputation those Japanese girls have for man-trapment. They used to be called a fishing fleet. They are absolutely desperate to leave the country and live abroad. They will play any role initially until you marry them. Be warned. When I come over and visit, we might just try a little original sake. They warm it, don’t they, like glühwein, which in my opinion doesn’t travel well either.’

  With this pronouncement she had relaxed, having got it off her ample chest.

  With her words ringing in his ears, he picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello. Yes, Hana.’

  ‘I’ll have a few friends over.’ He began. She warmed to it.

  ‘Yes, yes. I’d really like it if you can come and if you want bring your American friend?’ He stretched into his lower back. She agreed easily though chose a difficult day.

  ‘Great.’ His back-tinge shortened the conversation. It was a day he’d promised the piano teacher. ‘Okay. I’ll get you the details.’

  A few friends? He’d had so little time to make any out here. He thought of rent-a-crowd from the office. Best keep it small. Yumi, though, would help him. If he got a couple of the young lawyers to come? One of them had a cousin visiting. The piano teacher would have to come too, and Yumi, as thanks for all her help. And so there would be eight of them.

  Chapter 47

  They were due to go over to the Ed’s apartment for dinner. Hana still liked him, despite his poor performance at the club. He must be lonely to have got so trashed and she was sure the invite was his way of making it up to her. They dressed for the occasion from the narrow choice of their rucksacks.

  ‘He’s good-looking.’ Jess rubbed her stomach hungrily as if she would eat him alive.

  Hana wearied at the thought of watching Jess spending the evening like a salesperson on commission. She corrected herself. She didn’t want to be unfair; perhaps Jess was a romantic.

  Her own influences stemmed from a European culture which had once relied on the poetry of courtly love, predicated on the notion that it was perfectly sane to go war over a woman, albeit one of supernatural beauty; long Hellenistic traditions that had refused to die out entirely. And she guessed the lack of any early male influence in Jess’ life had something to do with her outlook. She knew Jess wanted male attention and was so easily satisfied with any immediate gratification. What was Hana’s own excuse for a bit distant, aloof? She couldn’t tell, and had never thought to question it. It was that she had Tom.

  Tom was a big issue. He remained in the flat but had acknowledged that when she got back it would be easier for him to move out. This rat’s nest would greet her on arrival and it prompted the fleeting thought that she should extend her visa indefinitely. Deep down she knew they had to move on and somewhere as yet unverified she had come to terms with losing him.

  She had, after all, left him when she stepped onto the train at Paddington. If she had been honest it had been a relief that he couldn’t come with her on the trip. The London friends they had made together belonged to them both and they would again, in some form. It was unlikely in the erosion of their own relationship that one or other could bag a friend as their own. Though Hana just couldn’t feel entirely comfortable about this value attrition; her network was based on the flimsy knots that held a net from unravelling into a mess of tangles.

  Jess was pulling her dress over a belt to make it shorter. She turned for approval. ‘What do you think?’

  Hana gave her a painted smile.

  Her lips matched the little red scarf Jess had tied round her head, knotted at the top like Frida Kahlo, just the sam
e way she always wore hers. Jess was festooned with jewellery too, most of which did not belong to her.

  ‘Well, where did you find that? ‘

  Jess touched the headscarf.

  ‘I found it in the store on the other side of the grade crossing.’

  ‘The level crossing,’ Hana curtly translated for no one other than her own benefit.

  Hana’s obsession with Kahlo had not waned since art school. The flavoured patterns, colours and totems were more than homage; they were her defining look now. At one time back then she had really associated with Khalo’s admission: ‘I used to think I was the strangest person in the world.’ When they browsed the Tokyo flea markets or hunted down a new noodle bar, it was as if Frida Kahlo walked with her.

  Jess, a muse in mourning, wore black with a regularity that smacked of lack of imagination. Though aware of a paucity of spirit, Hana was irritated by this appropriation of what she saw as her own signature image, and was riled that this evening they were about to set out as the same person in optional skin tones.

  ‘Well, I think the necklace is mine.’

  ‘May I borrow it?’ Jess asked innocently.

  Hana unwound the large bobble-fringed scarf from around her neck, removed several skeins of coral and turquoise, lifting them over her head and dropped them carelessly in a heap on the end of her bed.

  Halfway out of the door she threw out, ‘Many as you like.’

  After a second’s thought she marched back in and grabbed Jess’s red lipstick, and, without waiting for the answer before applying it to her own lips, asked, ‘May I?‘

  She felt appropriated. Sometimes, she fumed, you travel through life with people you don’t even like. This summary conveniently ignored how fondly attached they really were and how much she needed her.

  They left for Ed’s and it was anyone’s guess who would make headway with him that night.