“Well?”
“You look very pretty.”
Hisayo beamed. “Thanks.” She carefully unbuttoned the blouse and hung it back up in the closet. She didn’t even attempt to try on the skirt, instead hanging it up, too. She ran her hand back and forth across the clothes hanging on the line. The different fabrics rustled against each other.
“These kinds of clothes must be expensive,” Fumi said.
“You bet. You see how many nice clothes the big sisters have.” Hisayo sighed. “Say, you better not tell anyone I looked at their clothes, okay? You’ll be in trouble, too, you know.” Her tone had changed, a harder edge to it now.
“Don’t worry, I won’t say—”
Before Fumi could finish, Hisayo cut her off. “Shhh. Be quiet.”
She pulled the cord attached to the ceiling light and the room turned dark. From outside Fumi could hear the faint sound of knocking and a woman’s voice repeating “Sumimasen, sumimasen. We’re looking for a friend.”
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Shhh. Don’t make any noise.”
The knocking stopped but Fumi didn’t dare move until Hisayo finally turned the light back on.
“What was that?”
Hisayo shrugged. “I don’t know. Might have been the police or the landlord.”
“But it was a woman’s voice.”
Hisayo shrugged again. “Beats me. All I know is that the big sisters never like to open the door unless they know who it is. They said that anyone who has to knock doesn’t belong here.”
Hisayo went over to the side of the room and crouched in front of a small pile of soiled-looking clothes. She pulled out a tattered yukata.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to get changed for bed. It’s a bit early but let’s go to sleep, okay? I’m bushed.”
She turned around and undressed, quickly exchanging her cheap kimono for the yukata that served as her nightgown. When she was finished, she looked Fumi up and down again, taking in her baggy pants and threadbare jacket. “You going to sleep like that? In your clothes?”
“I don’t have anything else.”
“I’d give you a nightgown, but I don’t have an extra one. But here, maybe you can use this.” Hisayo reached into a cupboard and pulled out a gauzy piece of material. It was the shade of a peach, and so sheer it was practically see-through.
“What’s that?” Fumi asked.
“It’s an American nightgown. It’s what a real woman wears. Why don’t you sleep in this.”
“But it’s someone else’s.”
“Oh, go on. You don’t want to sleep in your clothes, do you?”
“Why don’t you wear one of these?”
“I will, soon enough. Anyway, don’t worry. Whoever this belongs to probably won’t come back tonight. Sometimes they stay out all night. They’re having lots of fun. Here, put it on. Let’s see what you look like.”
Fumi took off her blouse and put the nightgown on over her undershirt. Hisayo giggled. “You don’t even have breasts yet, do you.”
Hisayo unrolled a futon and motioned for Fumi to do the same. She pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. “I’ll be asleep in two seconds. Can you turn off the overhead light?”
She wasn’t kidding. Almost instantly, Hisayo’s breathing took on the slow, steady rhythm of sleep and she began snoring lightly. Fumi lay in the dark listening to her. She knew she couldn’t possibly go to sleep. She was much too worried.
Besides, she had to think. She had to focus. Concentrate, concentrate! Despite her exhaustion, she had to come up with a proper plan to find Sumiko. That was the whole point of her efforts, wasn’t it? Everything she’d been doing was to find Sumiko. Lying in the dark, Fumi realized she did not have the slightest idea how to find her sister. Even worse, she no longer felt confident she could recognize her. For even if Sumiko looked the same on the outside, Fumi was afraid that she might not be the Sumiko she knew from before. If she were, why wouldn’t she have come back to visit? Why would she have vanished so completely from Fumi’s life like this? Again the hateful thought came to her unbidden: What if her sister had simply forgotten about her?
Over the past months Fumi had tried very hard to imagine what her sister’s life was like. She’d tried to fill her mind with the same thoughts her sister might have had, tried desperately to dream the same way. But she had come up blank. Certain details were easy: Sumiko’s new clothes or hairdo, or the way she might laugh when a handsome GI approached to ask for a dance. But inside, that was hard. What was going on inside? If a man put his arms around your waist and drew you close, how did that feel? Many of the new pulp magazines featured pictures of fallen women on their covers. The pictures were confusing; Fumi liked to look at them but knew they were somehow bad. Her father seemed to think he was shielding her from this world of pulp fantasy, but Fumi already knew what lay between the covers of those magazines, as did all her classmates at school.
Her parents also thought they were protecting her by not talking about Sumiko, as if her sister had never existed. Neither of her parents were the same people who had raised her, who had fed her rice porridge when she was sick, who had brushed the sand off her knees when she fell, who had told her with pride how she would grow up to be a fine wife and mother in the new Japanese empire and how wonderful her life would be. All that had changed as life shrank to the bare essentials of getting by.
Nechan, where are you? Why don’t you want to come home?
She should never have given away the photograph. What a fool she had been. It was the only solid evidence that Sumiko still existed. She did still exist, didn’t she? Didn’t she?
Fumi tried to conjure the image of Sumiko’s face, but somehow the only face that came to mind was Aya’s. Aya was taking up the space where her sister should be. It made Fumi mad, and then it made her want to cry. “Stupid,” she muttered as she clutched the dirty blanket and pulled it tighter. “Baka.” She was angry at Aya, and at the same time she was afraid for her. Afraid for both of them.
It was cold tonight, so cold that even inside the room she could see her breath when she exhaled. The futon was thin, the blanket even thinner. It was very quiet. All she could hear was a wintery wind whistling softly through the spaces between the window frame and the wall. The wind played snatches of a sad off-key little tune. It was, Fumi decided, the song of loneliness. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and then over her entire head.
She shouldn’t go to sleep. She should go outside and wait for Aya to return. What if the person knocking on the door had been Aya? Fumi should get up and look for her. But the cold made it impossible to move, and Hisayo’s steady breathing was hypnotic. Against her will, against her better judgment, Fumi started to feel very drowsy.
39
Kondo Sensei felt awful. It was one of the coldest days they’d had so far, and he knew it was foolish to be sitting outside in the Alley in weather like this. But it was the last Sunday before Christmas, and once again Yamaguchi was going on and on about how much money was to be made at this time of year. Most of the other translators, in fact, intended to work every night until New Year’s. Over the past few weeks, however, Kondo had developed a bad cough that he couldn’t seem to shake, and now his throat was so raw it sometimes hurt to talk or even to swallow. He rubbed his dry, chapped hands together and tucked them under his arms to keep them warm. Even his fingertips were numb, so he periodically blew on them, trying to keep the blood circulating. It didn’t seem normal to feel this cold all the time. Deep in his chest he felt a dull heaviness.
Although it wasn’t very late, he began packing up his things. Business had been steady throughout the day and he had made decent money. He rolled his brushes and ink sticks in newspaper, wrapped his pencils and pens in an old handkerchief, and placed everything in the top of his worn black satchel. He would stop somewhere and have a bowl of oden and maybe treat himself to a bit of hot sake. He pulled the scarf around his neck tighter. Yes, that was what h
e really craved, something to warm him from the inside. He felt energized by this small promise to himself. To hell with Christmas, to hell with these onlys and butterflies. He would go home and go to bed.
“Excuse me, you’re not leaving already, are you?”
He turned around. The woman wore baggy pants, a plain blue top, and a large gray shawl around her shoulders. While her clothes were not those of a panpan, she had a direct gaze that suggested she was accustomed to looking at men. He stared back at her. She brought her face closer to the candle and something about her, especially around the eyes, reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t place who it might be. He cast the thought aside. He saw so many women that they were all starting to look alike.
Maybe one more job wouldn’t hurt, he thought, but then he felt the fire rise in his throat again. It reminded him that he needed to get some rest. “I’m done for the day. There are other letter writers at the entrance. You must have seen them.”
“Yes, I saw them.”
“Ask one of them.”
“They were talking together in a group. I didn’t want to disturb them. I want someone who will work in private.”
Kondo pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. The winter air was so dry it felt like bits of sand were lodged in the lining of his throat. “Sorry, I’m finished for the evening.”
The woman didn’t blink. “Couldn’t you please take a quick look? I’ve come a long way.”
“All right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s stop wasting time. Show me your letter.”
“No, it’s not a letter.”
Kondo narrowed his eyes. “If it’s something you want me to compose, come back another time. I have to go home.”
“I need a really good translator. Someone who is completely accurate.”
He gritted his teeth and thought about the incident with the woman with the broken geta. Sometimes accuracy wasn’t what people really wanted.
“And someone who’s discreet. You look like a serious type. Not a chatterbox. Not like those other men I passed on the way here.”
“Why don’t you just show me what you have.”
She set the furoshiki she’d been carrying on the ground and unknotted it. Inside was another cloth, a smaller furoshiki, which she also unknotted. Judging by the care with which she had wrapped the contents, Kondo assumed it must be something very valuable. When he saw the newspaper, he waited for her to unwrap it as well. Instead she picked up the paper and held it in front of his face. The Pacific Stars and Stripes. For the first time, it crossed his mind that she might not be quite right in the head. Despite her appearance, she might be one of the damaged ones, just a crazy lady trying to sell issues of the U.S. Forces’ newspaper that she’d picked up from the garbage outside the barracks. There was no telling what people would try to sell.
“Do you know this newspaper?” she asked.
“Of course. It’s for the American military.”
She nodded, as if affirming that he had passed the first test. “I need you to translate it.”
“The whole paper?”
“Well, I…” Her voice was hesitant.
“Miss, this is not even current. Quite frankly, I don’t think you want to waste your money on out-of-date news.”
The woman closed her eyes and was silent for a moment. Then she pulled a thin envelope from her purse and placed it on the tangerine crate. “Please. I don’t know how much your services are and I suppose this is nowhere near enough, but if you are willing to accept this as a down payment, I will return with the full amount.”
Kondo was again conscious of the scratchiness in his throat and the ache in his chest. Damn woman. Even without opening the envelope she offered, he could tell it had hardly anything in it. The whole business was too humiliating for both of them.
He pushed the envelope across the crate toward her.
“Please, I need to know what this says. As quickly as possible. Please reconsider.” The woman’s voice had lost its crisp edge. She slid the envelope back to his side of the tangerine crate.
Kondo sighed. Everyone always wanted him to do something for them. As a teacher, as a translator, as a letter writer. He picked up the envelope and began tapping it against his wrist.
“In a hurry? For old news?”
The woman winced.
“Tell me, are you in some kind of trouble?”
She shook her head. No.
“I see. But there’s something important in these newspaper articles, am I correct?”
She nodded.
“Obviously you don’t want me to translate the entire newspaper. Don’t you think you better give me some guidance?”
She stared at her hands and began pulling on the frayed edges of her shawl. “A friend needs to know.”
Her voice was barely audible and Kondo leaned forward to hear better.
“A man was stabbed to death.” The woman’s voice cracked, then fell even lower. “An American.”
The candle flickered, as if in acknowledgment of the gravity of her statement. Kondo held his breath waiting for her to continue, but she simply hung her head as if it had taken all her energy to make that statement. When she recovered, she picked up the newspaper, folded it open to an inside page, and handed it to him. The headline in large typeface said BAR LUCKY NOT LUCKY, OFF-LIMITS MEANS OFF-LIMITS! Next to the article there were pictures of five GIs.
What the hell was this about? Kondo was going to refuse when he was overcome by a fit of coughing. He doubled over, and when his coughing subsided, he became aware of her hand rubbing his back. She tried to wrap her shawl around his shoulders. He shooed her arm away.
“You’re not well.”
“I’m okay. It’s just a cold. I’ll take this home and look at it there. Come back next week.”
“Next week?” Her voice sounded distraught. “Can’t you do it sooner?”
“How soon do you need it?”
“As soon as—”
“All right, all right. Tomorrow evening after six.” He stuffed the newspaper in his satchel. Then he returned her envelope. “You can pay me when I’ve finished the job.”
“I can’t tell you how—”
“Forget it.” He waved his hand in the air to cut her off and started down the slope ahead of her.
“Thank you so much,” the woman called out after him. “I will be here at six. I will be here without fail.”
When he arrived at his boardinghouse, Kondo took off his shoes, his gloves, and his hat, but kept his overcoat and scarf on. As was often the case in the winter, it actually felt colder inside than it did outside. He wondered if his landlady had opened the window while he was out and forgotten to shut it, but the window was closed. Cold air blew in around the edges where the glass met the ill-fitting wooden frame. Every few minutes, the glass pane rattled ominously.
The bowl of noodles he’d had on his way home had helped to warm him but the effect was only temporary. How he wished he’d come back in time to go to the public bath. A long soak in the hot sento would have heated his blood enough so that by the time he crawled into his futon, he would be fast asleep and dreaming of warm places. Once asleep, you didn’t feel the cold. A deep sleep killed all pain, masked all discomfort. He thought about asking Mrs. Kanehara if she would prepare a hot water bottle for him, but it was already very late and his landlady was a prickly type.
He decided he might as well tackle the translation. Why on earth had he agreed to do it? The woman must have bewitched him. As for promising to return tomorrow evening—Monday—well, that was even more proof that he was getting soft in the head. He had to teach all day.
He located the article—BAR LUCKY NOT LUCKY, OFF-LIMITS MEANS OFF-LIMITS!—and quickly scanned it. It was puzzling because he didn’t see anything about the stabbing the woman had mentioned. He sighed. It happened all too often, didn’t it. Women who got their facts mixed up and jumbled. Well, it wasn’t his problem.
All U.S. servicemen are sternly reminded once ag
ain not to enter any area designated as off-limits. Violations of these regulations will be considered as prejudicial to the goals of the Allied Occupation of Japan. For good reason SCAP has determined that certain districts must be out of bounds. Protect yourselves. Obey all regulations.
There was more but he was tired now. The thought of having to teach tomorrow made him realize that he needed to go to bed right away. He would get up early and finish the article in the morning.
40
Fumi woke to the caress of warm yeasty breath on her face. Her first thought was that Sumiko had come for her.
“Little thief! Look, she wear my nightgown.”
Fumi opened her eyes. The woman leaning over her had her face so close it was hard to focus. Fumi made out a set of charcoal-rimmed eyes and scarlet lips.
“Aw, don’t get upset, honey. I’ll buy you all the nighties you need.” The GI stood in the doorway of the apartment, filling the frame.
“But it mine.” The woman pouted.
“I’m gonna buy you brand-new ones. What do you need that old thing for? Leave the kid be. Pack up your things and let’s go.”
“O-nesan, what’s going on?” Hisayo sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.
“I came to get my things.”
“You’re leaving?” Hisayo sounded panicky.
“Who’s the kid wearing my nightgown? Did you bring her here? Did you give her my nightgown to wear?”
“O-nesan, she’s new. She wants to work here. I told her what a nice place this is.”
The woman snorted. “Good, I’ll sell her my stuff.” She tugged on the nightgown Fumi was wearing. “You want to wear my clothes so much, huh. How about if you pay me for them.”
“What’s the matter, honey?” The GI remained standing in the doorway.
“Nothing,” the woman replied in English, standing up. “Everything okay.”
She was dressed like she was going to a party. Her hair was piled high on her head and she wore round earrings that looked like small white clams. Her dress was cinched in tightly at the waist and flared out wide with a skirt of crinoline. The material was sheer and looked more suitable for summer. Over her shoulders she wore a thin navy cape.
The Translation of Love Page 24