The Translation of Love

by Lynne Kutsukake

  “Yes,” Sumiko said, whispering just as softly as Fumi was.

  After that they lay in silence with the blanket tucked up to their chins just looking at each other and smiling. It was cold in the unheated room, and Fumi could see her breath. She tried exhaling hard so the puff of her breath would brush against Sumiko’s cheek.

  Finally Sumiko said, “It’s New Year’s Day. Akemashite omedeto gozaimasu.”

  “Happy New Year to you, too, nechan.”

  “We should get up. I haven’t seen Mother or Father yet. I hope they won’t be too shocked to see me.”

  Fumi nodded but made no move to rise. If only she and Sumiko could stay just like this, Fumi thought, lying face-to-face, under the warm covers. She realized she didn’t want to share her sister with anyone, not even her parents.

  “Nechan, how long are you staying? Are you only here for the New Year’s holiday?”

  Sumiko closed her eyes and didn’t answer right away. “No,” she said, her eyes still shut. “I’m staying.”

  “For good? Forever?”

  Sumiko opened her eyes then, and Fumi was aware that she was being stared at. It was almost as if Sumiko were seeing her for the first time.

  “Yes,” Sumiko finally murmured. “I hope so.”

  Fumi had imagined her sister’s return for so long, but she had never gone beyond that point. Somehow she had always assumed that things would go back to exactly the way they had been before.

  But it wasn’t like that.

  It was hard for Fumi to put her finger on it but Sumiko wasn’t quite the same person. She was quieter, more distracted. She often said she was tired, but when Fumi peeked in on her, Sumiko would be sitting up with her eyes wide open just staring into space. Initially Fumi tried asking as many questions as she could. Who found you? Who ordered you to come home? What made you come back? Didn’t you meet anyone famous? She sought to find out if in any way the letter had been responsible for her sister’s return, but it did not appear to be so.

  Sumiko got irritated with all the questioning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fumi. Nobody ordered me to come home. I came home because I wanted to, that’s all. Aren’t you glad I’m back?”

  “Of course, nechan!” And so Fumi gave up.

  Still, Fumi took it upon herself to cheer her sister up. She couldn’t think of anything funny except the things Akiko and Tomoko used to tell her at school. There was the story about Sanae, who was so worried about her bowed legs that she tied them together with string every night in an attempt to straighten them. And then there was Michiko’s father, who wore a toupee and thought he looked very fine indeed except every so often the wind blew and twirled it around from back to front but he didn’t even notice.

  Sumiko laughed, and somehow that was more painful to hear because it didn’t sound like a real laugh. It had a forced feel, a cloudy laugh tinged with darkness.

  Fumi thought of another funny story to tell, about how Kondo Sensei had a small bald spot on the back of his head and how it was so smooth and shiny it looked just like an egg. Except she decided not to tell this story. She didn’t think it was funny anymore, and besides, she liked Kondo Sensei and didn’t want anyone to laugh at him. He was better now, but over the holidays he had been very sick. Everyone at school had heard about how he might have died had it not been for the penicillin from Aya’s father.

  “Mother told me what you did,” Sumiko said. “I can’t believe you stayed out all night in the Ginza. Don’t you know how dangerous that was?”

  “But I was looking for you.”

  “You scared Mother and Father to death. You should never have done that.”

  “But—”

  “You could have gotten hurt. It was a very foolish thing to do. I don’t blame Mother for being so angry.”

  When Fumi returned home after that night in the Ginza, she’d known her parents would be furious, but she had not anticipated the extent of the punishment she would receive. Even now, weeks after the incident, she still wasn’t allowed to leave the house on her own except to go to school. As soon as class was over, she had to come straight home. Sumiko took their mother’s side.

  “But I didn’t know where you were,” Fumi protested. “I wanted to find you.”

  “I know, I know.” A pained look crossed Sumiko’s face. “Oh, Fumi, it was all my fault, wasn’t it. Thank goodness you came back safely.”

  “And you came back safely, too.”

  “Yes.” Sumiko nodded her head slowly. “Yes, I suppose that’s right.”

  Gradually Fumi was allowed to take short walks in the neighborhood, but only if Sumiko accompanied her. She tried to persuade Sumiko to do this every day so that both of them could get out of the house. When they passed their neighbors in the narrow lane, however, Fumi quickly learned to merely nod hello and cut off any opportunity they might try to seize to start a conversation. Although the neighbors claimed to be concerned, Fumi knew they were merely curious and that their curiosity did not necessarily include compassion. They smiled but still they whispered. Panpan desho, they said, even though her sister looked nothing like she had before. Her hair was straight again, and she combed it the way she used to, parted in the middle and tucked neatly behind her ears. Her clothes, although Western in style, were modest and plain. She looked like all the other young women in the neighborhood, but still everyone whispered.

  Every evening in the tiny bedroom on the second floor, Fumi and Sumiko laid out their bedding on the tatami floor, side by side, futon pressed against futon, just as they always had. Fumi especially liked the time between when they slipped under their covers and just before one of them—usually it was Fumi—fell asleep. The nights felt particularly still then, the only sound being the soft crunch of the buckwheat-husk pillow whenever she moved her head. Those were the times she really wanted to ask. Not about the letter—it seemed clear that the letter had made no difference and Fumi didn’t care about that anymore. No, there were other questions on her mind.

  Did you enjoy being with the Amerikajin? What was it like to dance with them? Do you miss them? And then there were those questions that she didn’t even know how to put into words. Questions that, as much as she wanted to ask, she was afraid to. Were you a panpan? What exactly does a panpan do?

  “You’ve grown, haven’t you,” Sumiko said one night when they were lying in bed. In the darkness her sister’s voice was disembodied, the words floating somewhere close to Fumi’s ear. The pillow made a crunching sound as Sumiko shifted the position of her head. “Has Mother measured your height recently?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a sign of good health that you’ve grown so much. And Mother looks healthier, too.”

  Fumi couldn’t hold her thoughts in any longer. “Didn’t you miss us?”

  “Of course I missed you.”

  “Then why didn’t you come home?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Were you too busy?”

  “Sort of.”

  “But you could have visited.”

  Sumiko was silent, but Fumi could hear a sharp intake of breath. As soon as she spoke, she was sorry she had. She had not meant to accuse, but it was hard not to. She had a storm of words inside her.

  “I’m sorry.” Sumiko’s breath was like a feather tickling her ear. She had moved so her head was almost touching Fumi’s. “I can’t explain.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re too young. You’re only twelve.”

  “No, I’m not. I’ll be thirteen in March.”

  “That’s still too young to understand.”

  “To understand what?”

  “Please go to sleep, Fumi.”

  “To understand what? I can understand. I know what’s going on.”

  “You don’t. You can’t. Please go to sleep.”

  Sumiko abruptly turned and rolled onto her other side. Fumi could see only the outline of her back, and instead of the usual comfort it always brought, this tim
e it struck her as such a rebuke. Their conversation wasn’t over, she felt, it was just getting started.

  “I know all about what you did,” she said, declaiming this bold lie as calmly as she could into the darkness. “I’m old enough to understand everything.”

  Sumiko sat up and turned on the lamp that they kept on the tatami at the head of their futon. She twisted her body so that she was looking down on Fumi, and her face, lit from below, was cast in eerie shadows.

  “What do you mean you know?” she asked sharply.

  Fumi tried to turn away from this interrogation by rolling onto her side, but Sumiko grabbed her shoulder and forced her onto her back.

  “What do you know?”

  “I’m old enough,” Fumi whimpered. “I know things. You can tell me.”

  “No, you tell me. Just what do you think you know about what I did?”

  “You did special things. You did…” Fumi closed her eyes and hugged herself, wrapping her arms across her chest. Then she imitated the sound of kissing.

  “Is that what you think?” Sumiko said.

  Fumi opened her eyes. She nodded uncertainly.

  “What else?”

  “I—”

  “What else?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know, do you. Someday you’ll be older and then you’ll know. And then you might wish you didn’t.” Sumiko turned away and clicked off the lamp. “No more questions, Fumi. Please go to sleep. It’s late.”

  48

  January 1948

  Dear Capitalist MacArthur,

  Happy New Year’s greetings from the proletariat. Are you surprised to hear from us? You say you’re bringing democracy and freedom to Japan, but isn’t the truth that you’re in bed with all the old industrialists and militarists. How long do you think you can suppress the people? When the Japanese workers rise up and shake off the chains of capitalist enslavement, then you’ll see what real democracy is. Long live the revolution!

  Yours,

  Proud to be a Communist

  It was one of the more unusual letters that had arrived in the office amid an avalanche of mail sent to MacArthur over the holiday season. Everyone’s desk was overflowing with stacks of letters and cards waiting to be translated.

  “If you think this is a lot, just wait and see,” Sab scoffed. “The Old Man’s birthday is coming up soon. We’re gonna end up buried alive under the mailbags.”

  At the end of the day Matt took the work he had completed and placed the sheets of foolscap in the basket next to the typing pool. He paused briefly to look at Nancy. All he had was a view of her back, her head bowed over her typewriter, her shoulders hunched. She had returned to work in January but although two weeks had already gone by, they had not spoken at all. Whenever she had to pass his desk, she turned her head away.

  During the period over Christmas and New Year’s, Matt had had a lot of time to think. He realized that however bad he might have felt about failing Fumi and not finding Sumiko, whatever disillusionment he might have felt with himself, what bothered him most was what had happened between Nancy and him. During that failed search for a woman he didn’t even know, he had ended up disappointing Nancy—no, hurting her—and now it seemed that nothing mattered more than restoring their relationship. He missed the way they had been with each other before, how comfortable he’d felt with her. He missed her sardonic wit, her no-nonsense directness, her friendship. Yes, friendship. He couldn’t be more than friends, she would understand that, wouldn’t she? He hoped it wasn’t too late.

  Sometimes Matt stayed behind after work to read at his desk. He was about three-quarters of the way through Kokoro and determined to finish. Although initially his only interest in the novel had been because Baker had given it to him, now his engagement with the book was personal. It was his own private embrace of the lives of Soseki’s characters. One day he looked up from his reading and was surprised to see Nancy standing motionless at the window by herself. He wondered what she was looking at, how long she had been there.

  He didn’t want to startle her so he shuffled his feet as he approached.

  “Oh, you’re still here,” she said turning toward him. “I guess I should have known. You’re always working.”

  “No, I was reading.” He showed her the book.

  She took it from him and flipped through the pages. “Looks pretty serious.”

  “It’s a novel.”

  She opened it to the title page and ran her finger under the author’s name, then under the title, and finally under a name written in pencil in the top right-hand corner. Kurisutofaa, it said, in katakana. She tried pronouncing it aloud. “Christopher?”

  “The book belongs to Lieutenant Baker,” Matt explained.

  She smiled and gave it back to him. “He’s a nice man. He’s a really special person, isn’t he.”

  Matt nodded and felt his cheeks grow hot.

  “I hope he comes back soon,” she continued.

  They didn’t say anything for a few minutes, but the silence and stillness didn’t feel unnatural.

  “I wish those girls would come back, too,” Nancy said. “I keep hoping that if I stand at this window long enough they’ll magically appear the way they did that other time. I’d really like to see them again, especially Aya.”

  “Maybe they’ll come back.”

  “Maybe. But not likely.” She made a halfhearted effort to smile, but her mouth sagged in a lopsided grimace. “I’m sure they’ve given up on us. I hope they got someone else to help them find Fumi’s sister. Not a couple of hopeless cases like us.”

  “You know, I made a mistake. I don’t have the picture anymore.”

  “The picture?”

  “Sumiko’s photograph. I—it’s gone.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Well, you did your best to find her.”

  “We did our best,” he said.

  She gave him a full smile this time. “We did, didn’t we. We tried darn hard.”

  “May I ask, have you heard any news about your status?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. Everything takes a long time. Patience was never my strong point, but I’ve sure had to learn it.”

  He nodded. Patience, yes. It was as important as hope.

  Just as Sab had predicted, people began sending birthday greetings to MacArthur, who turned sixty-eight on January 26. Most were just short words of congratulations—Happy Birthday! May you live a long life!—but occasionally a letter of substantial length would appear.

  Haikei Makkaasaa Gensui-sama,

  Dear General MacArthur,

  Please allow this humble servant to extend sincere congratulations to Your Excellency on your sixty-eighth birthday and to wish you good health for many years to come. We, the Japanese people, are deeply grateful that you have chosen to spend the most vigorous years of your later life dedicated to bringing democracy to our country.

  I hope it is not too presumptuous of me to take this opportunity to seek your sagacious advice regarding a matter of personal concern.

  I myself am eighty-five years of age. They say that with advanced age one gains wisdom and understanding, but I have found the opposite to be true. With each passing year, I feel I know less than the one preceding.

  Perhaps I have simply lived too long? Everyone else in my family has gone before me—my wife and daughter-in-law of malnutrition and my son in a fire. I had two grandsons, both of whom served in the recent war. One perished at sea, but the other returned a strange, broken being. He suffered a terrible sickness of the heart, whether from actions taken or witnessed or some other cause, I do not know for he could not speak of it. Last year he died at his own hand.

  Ever since the beginning of our terrible war, I have been plagued daily by the same question: How should a man live? After all these years, even as I approach the time of my ultimate departure from this earth, I confess that I am still utterly unable to find a suitable answer. I feel that if I know the
answer, I will know how to die in peace.

  How should a man live?

  If Your Eminence can offer any advice in this regard, I would be exceedingly grateful.

  With deepest respect,

  T. Inoue

  How could he translate this, Matt thought. How should a man live? What kind of question was that to pose to MacArthur? Or to anyone. Matt wished he could send an answer to the old man, but the question was too hard. How to live? It was a question for a philosopher.

  He put the letter in his drawer. At the same time, he thought about the other letter he still had, the one from Fumi. That, too, had gone unanswered.

  49

  Kondo had been back at school for more than a month, yet each time he entered the classroom, he still felt the same rush of emotion that had hit him on the first day of his return after his illness. It was at that moment when he realized with unambiguous clarity that not only did he feel good standing in front of his class but that this was the one place where he really belonged. This was his true calling in life, to shepherd young people into the world. That first morning in mid-January, as soon as he entered the room, all the girls had stood up and clapped, and this unexpected enthusiasm and warmth had caused a salty lump to form in his throat. It was clear that everyone knew how sick he had been.

  “That’s enough,” he said brusquely. “Sit down.”

  They didn’t obey immediately. Instead they remained on their feet clapping even louder. He gazed at the sea of young faces, from Fumi and Aya in the front row all the way to the back where Tomoko and Akiko stood. They looked like the same students he had been teaching all year, the same but somehow different. He hadn’t been away for very long, but something seemed to have changed. They were a little taller perhaps. Was that it? A little older. He supposed he must look different to them, too. He had lost a lot of weight during his illness.

  On that first day of his return, Miss Ikeda had been standing at the back of the classroom and he’d felt a momentary puzzlement—why on earth was she here?—but recalled what the principal had explained: that she had volunteered to help out during his absence, somehow managing to run between his class and her own to supervise both sets of students. He’d nodded in her direction, in acknowledgment and in thanks, and in return she had bowed from the waist, a formal bow so low that her bobbed hair swung forward covering her face.