The Snow Kimono

by Mark Henshaw

  I went to reach out to touch her shoulder, but couldn’t. I was frozen to the spot.

  Then she was in the carriage. The train was already full. She was having difficulty making her way down the narrow aisle. I saw her looking at the seat numbers. When she found hers, she lifted her bag into the overhead rack.

  I must have turned to look down the platform then. I hadn’t expected the train to leave. Not yet. But when I looked back up it was already moving. There was a great confusion now beside me—the wheels squealing against the polished tracks, an incomprehensible announcement over the loudspeaker, the whistle blowing. I looked up to where I thought Fumiko was, but suddenly all of the carriages looked alike. I couldn’t tell which was which. I started to move along the platform, my hand outstretched. I don’t know what people must have thought. It must have appeared as though I was reaching out to try and stop the train. I scanned the windows of the carriage in front of me. Then the next. The one behind. The whistle sounded one last time.

  Fumiko! I called.

  A gust of wind snatched my hat off and sent it bounding along the platform, as though it was racing crazily along ahead of me. All at once, it changed direction and veered into the path of the train. Disappeared. One instant, it was there, the next it was not. The train was gathering speed. There was nothing I could do, and I came to a stop.

  As the sound of the train died away, a stillness, vast and desolate, descended upon the platform. And I was lost, and utterly, utterly alone.

  Part II

  KATSUO

  Chapter 8

  YOU asked me, Inspector, about Katsuo. What he was like.

  Where do I begin? We were childhood friends. Katsuo was a little older than me. Like me, he was an only child. But when his father was killed in the war—in a bomb explosion—and his mother died not long afterwards, he was taken in by an uncle who lived in a different part of the city. An uncle on his mother’s side. A poor uncle. For a couple of years after that I hardly saw him.

  Katsuo proved to be a gifted student. As a consequence, as was not unusual at that time, particularly for children who had been orphaned by the war, an anonymous benefactor arranged to pay the fees for him to go to a good Middle School. My school.

  He arrived midyear, in the ninth grade. I can still picture him standing at the classroom doorway with the principal, Mr Nakajima. I was overjoyed to see him again. I could hardly wait to tell my parents. For his part, Katsuo barely glanced at me. It was as if he no longer knew me.

  This is Master Katsuo Ikeda, the headmaster said to our teacher.

  She too seemed a little surprised to see him. They exchanged a few words. And then the headmaster introduced him to the rest of us. After which, with a gentle prod, Katsuo went to sit at the back of the class.

  After the bell, Katsuo stayed behind, I assumed to talk to the teacher about where he was up to, and to sort out his books.

  Guess who’s come back, I said to my parents when I returned home from school that afternoon. Of course, they had no idea.

  Katsuo, I said. He’s back. And he’s in my class.

  And so we resumed our friendship. He started to visit us again. In fact, he was always at our house. It almost seemed as if he lived there. His father and my father had been old friends. We were like brothers again. Both my parents loved Katsuo, loved him as if he was a second son. If only we had adopted him, my mother would say. As if they could have taken legal precedence over Katsuo’s own flesh and blood.

  For a long time, I thought it was my father who had provided the money for Katsuo’s education. Years later, when I asked him about this, he became very angry. One does not ask such questions, Tadashi, he said. I should know better.

  I never knew—until much later—whether he was angry because he had provided the money, but it was a matter of family honour that this not be revealed; or whether he was angry because he had never thought to do so, and wished he had.

  But that was later. At the time, when Katsuo came to my school, and we resumed our friendship, he reignited a joy in my parent’s life which had long been absent. Not that my parents were unhappy. They weren’t. But he seemed to bring them closer together again, to remind them that good things in life still existed after all.

  Of course, Katsuo did brilliantly at school—we both did, except that Katsuo did so effortlessly. Moreover, unlike me—I have always been somewhat reserved—Katsuo always seemed to know what to say. How to win favour with people. Teachers, his fellow students, other adults. Even when it was clear that what he was saying was exaggerated, or could not possibly have been the case, people did not take offence. Instead, they laughed at his audacity, became affectionately complicit, as though they enjoyed being taken in. He had the happy knack of stealing the limelight, by some witty remark or droll observation. But he did so in a way that almost always won him friends. Perhaps we thought that by being around him some of his brilliance might rub off on us. It was exciting. Nobody got hurt. At least not in the beginning.

  The next year, in the tenth grade, Katsuo published a series of daring haiku in one of Osaka’s leading literary magazines. After that, our teachers began talking about the great future which lay ahead of him. They treated Katsuo with renewed respect, fear almost.

  Later, before we went to university, Katsuo made me swear never to reveal his straitened circumstances, how poor his uncle was, or that his parents were dead. In particular, I was never to reveal to anyone that he was dependent on the generosity of others for his success.

  But you’re not dependent on anyone, Katsuo, I said. Any success you’ve had you’ve earned yourself.

  Don’t be foolish, Tadashi, he said. Only someone in your position would say that. If you could spend a minute in my shoes you would see how privileged you are to be you.

  As you can probably gather, there was, behind the perpetual smile, something harder in Katsuo, which his eyes betrayed. He was a merciless observer of people. He had a sixth sense about a person’s weaknesses, their foibles, their fears. I would find myself watching him when we were out together. One of us would be recounting something they had seen or done, and we would all be listening, nodding our heads to show we were following them. But not Katsuo. He would fall back into the shadows and listen in a way that was entirely different from ours. In comparison, we were hardly there. Katsuo, on the other hand, was not merely listening, he was imprinting. Everything. Every gesture, every intonation, every tiny detail. He used to entertain us with his impersonations of people—teachers, politicians, movie stars. We all thought he was a fantastic mimic. But when his stories began to appear, we realised that he had been observing us as well, and not one of us had escaped his cruel scrutiny.

  Much later, he would say to me: Look at people, Tadashi. Just watch them. If you want power over people, you have to get inside them, find out what they are afraid of. Be them. It’s the only way.

  And I remember responding: What if I don’t want power over people, Katsuo. What then?

  We all want power over people, one way or another, Tadashi, he said. Including you.

  Chapter 9

  WE were in our third year of university when the scandal broke. Katsuo had humiliated one of our most respected teachers, an old professor named Todo. After which, instead of waitin
g to find out if he was going to be expelled, he simply left.

  Then, one afternoon, over a year later, a telegram was delivered to my door.

  My dear Tadashi, it said. Urgently need to see you. Am at The Three Willows in Shirahama. Please come by earliest train.

  The telegram was signed: Your faithful friend Katsuo.

  I wondered, after the Todo incident of the year before, what trouble he was in now.

  The next morning I took the first available train. Shirahama was a fashionable seaside town about a hundred kilometres south of Osaka. I sent him a message telling him what time I would arrive.

  When I got off the train, there was no one waiting for me. I walked up and down the platform a number of times, in case I had missed him. I waited an additional twenty minutes, then caught a taxi to The Three Willows. I introduced myself at the desk, got his room number, left my bag. When I knocked on his door, there was no answer. I went back downstairs.

  I was expecting to meet Mr Ikeda here, I told the innkeeper. But he’s not answering his door.

  Well, I can tell you he’s still a guest here, the innkeeper said. I saw him go out late last night myself. Perhaps he is yet to return.

  This was typical of Katsuo. I had lost count of the number of times he had left me waiting.

  If he arrives, I said, could you tell him that I am in the garden. And could you have someone bring me some tea?

  The Three Willows was old, but its cedar framework, its sliding screen doors, its beautiful garden, with its koi pools, miniature waterfalls and its sculptures, had all been lovingly restored some years earlier. It was just the place I would have expected Katsuo, with his perverse love of ancient things, to stay.

  It was 4.15 before I saw him walk through the wooden archway and into the shaded inner courtyard. He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, casting about for me. I was shocked by his appearance, however. At university Katsuo had, as part of the shedding of his past, taken to portraying himself as someone who came from a wealthy family. He wore white linen suits, hand-stitched shoes, expensive shirts, and he always, always wore a bow tie. I liked to think it was something he had got from me. Now, standing at the top of the steps, he looked exhausted, unkempt, disreputable.

  I signalled to him.

  What happened to you? I said, when he sat down. His suit was mud-encrusted, stained all along one side. The sleeve of his jacket was torn. A sliver of red lining was visible. It looked as though someone had tried to tear it from him.

  I lost my way, he said. On one of the forest paths, up by the temple gates. I tripped, on a tree root or something. I couldn’t tell, it was so dark.

  I looked at my watch. It was late afternoon. Still light.

  And then, don’t tell me, the tree tried to steal your coat?

  He didn’t reply. He was clearly in no mood for banter. Instead he glanced across at a young couple sitting on the opposite side of the courtyard. They were leaning in to each other. The girl, young, pretty, moist-eyed, was smiling. I saw her catch Katsuo’s eye and then look quickly away.

  I don’t have time for this, Tadashi, he said, turning back to me. I need to get myself cleaned up. Have you got yourself a room?

  No, I said. I thought perhaps you might have booked one for me. Didn’t you get my message?

  What message? he said, looking distractedly about. Oh, yes, yes, that message. I’m sorry, Tadashi. I have had so much to think about lately. And then, last night something urgent came up.

  He inspected his trousers.

  I should know by now not to wear white, he said. He brushed at a patch of dirt on his trouser leg.

  What a week, he said. What a week.

  As we walked back to the foyer he put a hand on my shoulder in his familiar way. I had often wondered where he had picked this gesture up from. Some foreign movie, perhaps. But feeling the weight of his hand on my shoulder made me instantly feel better. Like we were old friends, happy to see each other again.

  I’m going up to my room, he said. I need to change. Why don’t you book yourself in. You’re lucky, if you’d come next week, you wouldn’t have stood a chance. Not in a place like this. But at the moment, it’s almost empty. The rooms either side of mine are vacant. Ask if you can have one of those.

  He told me his room number.

  I know, I said. The innkeeper gave it to me. I went up earlier and knocked on your door.

  Yamada?

  Yamada?

  Yes, Yamada, the innkeeper. He gave you my room number?

  Yes, I said.

  A look of anger flickered across his face. He half-turned towards the reception desk, where the innkeeper was chatting to a man, and a woman in a wheelchair.

  Is something wrong, Katsuo?

  He patted me on my shoulder again.

  No, he said. No, it’s nothing. I’ll see you in half an hour.

  And he headed for the stairs, leaving me in the almost empty foyer.

  An hour and a half later we were walking amongst Shirahama’s market stalls, the ones that sold worthless trinkets, summer clothing, hats, wax-paper umbrellas, song birds in cages, collapsible lanterns.

  And Professor Todo? I said.

  Haven’t you been listening, Tadashi?

  We had come to a stall selling cheap jewellery. Katsuo took down a pair of earrings that was hanging from a wire stand. He laid them out in the palm of his hand. He made a small adjustment to the way they lay.

  Is this real mother of pearl? he said to the stallholder.

  It is, Master Ikeda.

  He turned his hand this way, then that, in the light.

  So, did you hear me, Tadashi? he said, looking at the earrings. I’ve finished it. My manuscript.

  So you said.

  In fact, he had talked about nothing else since he had come down into the foyer looking like the Katsuo of old. Handsomely dressed in a new white suit—despite what he had said earlier. His dark hair slicked back. His cheeks freshly shaved. A gorgeous deep-blue butterfly at his throat.

  What do you think? he had said, tugging at his lapels and giving a knowing, new-garment kind of shrug.

  Impressive, Katsuo. As always, I said.

  He removed a piece of lint from his sleeve.

  Todo? I said.

  Todo is a fool, Katsuo replied. I’ve told you that before.

  I think he’s…was a kind old man. There’s a rumour going around that he committed suicide.

  I’ll take these, Katsuo said to the stallholder. He held up the earrings.

  Are they for Miss Yumiko, Master Ikeda? the stallholder asked. He was smiling, but almost instantly his smile faded. I glanced at Katsuo. I saw the same murderous look pass across his face as had passed across it when I mentioned his room number. It lingered for a moment in his eyes. And then he too was smiling.

  Todo is no great loss, Tadashi.

  How can you be so callous? I said.

  He shrugged.

  I don’t know. I’ve never really
thought about it. Weren’t we going somewhere for a drink?

  You mean to tell me you’re not in trouble?

  No.

  Of any kind?

  No, not at all. Why would I be in trouble?

  Why, then, the appeal for me to come to Shirahama? Why so urgent?

  Because, as I said to you before, Tadashi, I’ve finished it. My manuscript.

  I’m not sure I follow, I said.

  I need you to read it. I wrote to you as soon as I had finished.

  You mean to say that you summoned me here, to Shirahama, on the train, for the sole purpose of getting me to read your manuscript?

  You make it sound as though it’s nothing, Tadashi. It’s not. You, of all people, should know that.

  I took this to be a barbed reference to my own long-dead ambition to become a writer, an ambition my parents had not encouraged, and one that, eventually, I had relinquished myself.

  So, that evening, I read Katsuo’s manuscript while he paced up and down in my room, smoking cigarette after cigarette. In the end, the air became so thick with smoke that I had difficulty breathing, and I had to ask Katsuo to go out onto the balcony.

  Occasionally I’d look up and see the glow of his cigarette. Or I’d catch the embered arc of a burning butt cartwheeling into the darkness, flicked by a preoccupied Katsuo into the lily pond below.

  It was two in the morning when I stopped reading. I sat there thinking about what I had just read. Five minutes passed before Katsuo turned and saw that I had finished.

  So, what do you think? he said. Do you like the title?

  Spring Promise?

  Yes.