The Snow Kimono

by Mark Henshaw

  When, eventually, I read these lines, and more or less most of what followed, I recognised them instantly from the letters Katsuo began sending me from Shirahama around this time. It was what had happened to him.

  Forgive me, Madame Kanzai. We are very busy. Would you permit someone, a gentleman, to share your table?

  Natsumi looked up from her book. She was sitting at her favourite inn, one of the few that overlooked the beach. The sun was shining. Soseki, the innkeeper, bowed to her as was his custom. She nodded politely in return. She held a hand up to shield her eyes, trying to ascertain if there was anyone, a gentleman, someone she did not yet know, standing beside him. But, of course, there was not.

  As Madame well knows, Soseki said, we have many customers who come only here. He smiled down at her. On the other hand, if you would prefer to remain alone…

  He smiled again. His request had seemed so natural, so considerate. So courteous. And he was right. She knew Soseki’s restaurant well. She had been here many, many times before. Soseki was always so welcoming. He looked after her. They shared, she thought, a special understanding. He knew her children’s names. How old they were. He spoke to them. She regarded him by now almost as an uncle, someone she could trust.

  Her table was a setting for four. And yet here she was, sitting by herself.

  She thought again of Soseki talking to her children, how he always brought them sweets after their meal.

  Please, she said.

  It would not be intruding?

  No, she said. And…this gentleman?

  From Tokyo. A writer, he said.

  I will try not to hold that against him, she said. She smiled her loveliest smile up at him.

  It is not always a mark of disrepute, coming from Tokyo, he said. He knew, in part, of Natsumi’s troubles there. She laughed at the subtlety of his misunderstanding.

  She looked around now, trying to intuit where her imminent companion might be. Wondering if, perhaps, he might be standing in the doorway of the restaurant.

  So, are we agreed, Madame?

  We are indeed, Soseki.

  Thank you, Mrs Kanzai, he said. You are most understanding.

  It was like a game, this repartee. This back and forth. She enjoyed playing at it. It made her feel young again.

  She watched Soseki disappear inside. She leaned forward to pour herself another cup of tea. Folded her book in her lap. It will be nice, she thought, to have some company. After her year of being alone.

  A minute or two later, Soseki returned.

  Allow me, Mrs Kanzai, he said, to introduce you. This is Mr Ikeda, Mr Katsuo Ikeda. From Tokyo. He stepped aside to reveal the subject of his introduction. Like you, Madame, Soseki said, Mr Ikeda is one of our most valued customers. Mr Ikeda, Mrs Natsumi Kanzai.

  Natsumi looked up to see the surprisingly young man standing beside Soseki bowing formally to her. She knew him, of course. Shirahama was a small place. She had seen him. At the markets. Strolling along the beach. Visiting the shrine above the town late one evening. Only yesterday she had observed him talking earnestly to Mr Soseki. She thought, for a moment, that he had glanced her way. He was shorter than she had imagined. Slimmer. Still, he was beautifully dressed—his linen suit white, his dark hair coiffed, his bow tie brilliant, the kerchief tucked into his top pocket. And how exquisite were his hand-stitched shoes.

  She looked back up at his freshly shaven, still-innocent face. Oh dear, she thought, how very young he is. Perhaps she had made a terrible mistake.

  Mrs Kanzai, Soseki said, has been coming to Shirahama for a number of years now. I think of her almost as a niece.

  Katsuo reminded her, standing there beside her table, his hat behind his back, of a young actor, someone you might expect to see in an old American movie, something from the forties.

  Mrs Kanzai, he said, extending his hand. I am very pleased to meet you. She raised her perfectly curved hand up to him. He held her long, thin fingers briefly in his. He bowed again.

  Beneath his nonchalance, Natsumi discerned a certain nervousness. She had felt it in his hand. It was something she had learned to do years before. Take a potential suitor’s hand immediately you meet them. Not later, when they have regained control.

  I trust I am not disturbing you, her new table companion said. But…He gestured with his palm to the crowded outdoor sitting area. I came down late this morning, he said. I didn’t expect so many people to be out and about so early.

  On the other hand, his voice was strong. Not like a young person’s voice at all. Rich, measured, like someone older, more experienced. Perhaps he wasn’t as young as she thought.

  You are welcome, Mr Ikeda, she said. I was just reading. Please.

  Katsuo turned to Soseki.

  Thank you, Soseki-san, he said. I appreciate what you have done for me. He bowed. Soseki inclined his head.

  You are more than welcome, Mr Ikeda, he said.

  Soseki bowed to Natsumi.

  Thank you, Mrs Kanzai, for accommodating Mr Ikeda, he said. It is most gracious of you.

  Natsumi smiled.

  You’re welcome, as always, Soseki. It is the least I could do.

  Once again, she watched Soseki’s retreating form. When she turned back to the table she glanced up to take a discreet look at her new companion, but he was already looking directly at her.

  The following morning, Katsuo rose from his bed early. He bathed, put on the new suit he had bought the previous afternoon. He went to sit in the garden as he usually did. The air was crisp.

  Kenji, the proprietor of The Nine-Tailed Fox, the inn he was staying at, came with his tea.

  Another beautiful day, Master Ikeda, Kenji said.

  Another beautiful day, Kenji, Katsuo replied. And he thought: How wonderful life can be.

  While he sipped his tea he went over what he knew of her. Her name was Natsumi. Natsumi Kanzai. How old did he think she was? Twenty-eight? Thirty, perhaps? Her skin still so lovely. And when she had turned, her hand raised, to look half-squinting out over the beach, towards the sea, how beautiful her profile was.

  It had been Natsumi who asked the first question.

  Soseki-san tells me you are from Tokyo, Mr Ikeda.

  No, I am from Osaka, he said. But I have been working in Tokyo for a number of years now.

  Oh, Osaka, she said. I am from Osaka. She hesitated. So, were you born there, in Osaka, Mr Ikeda?

  Yes, he said.

  He thought that it was both thrilling and strange that it was she who was asking him, someone she had just met, such intimate questions.

  Where, she said.

  Where? he asked.

  Where were you born, in Osaka?

  So surprised by the question was he that he gave her the district in which his uncle lived, instead of where he had been born. It was too late, and too complicated, however, to take it back.

  What a coincidence, she said. I live quite nearby. Do you know Hamada’s?

  Hamada’s was the famous artists’ shop where he had bough
t his drawing materials when he was a child, when he thought it was an artist that he wanted to be. The shop was centuries old, its high, narrow aisles stocked with all manner of things: special fan-shaped brushes, brushes as fine as a cat’s whisker, oil sticks, hundreds of different types of coloured pencil, all with their little heads poking out of their burrows like families of weasels, tiers and tiers of them, inks in tins, woodblocks, carving instruments as sharp as any surgeon’s, solvents in glass-stoppered jars. In short, it was a magical place, a place in which he had lost himself for hours and hours as a child.

  No, he said. I can’t say that I do.

  He shifted in his chair.

  What a pity, she said. It’s a beautiful old shop. And so close to you. You must go there sometime.

  He had expected the conversation to cease at this point. They had, after all, already established the polite limits of what each needed to know about the other in order for them both to now fall comfortably silent. A silence which he would soon break. It would give him the upper hand. But she continued: And what is it you do in Tokyo, Mr Ikeda?

  I work for a publishing house, he said.

  Ah, publishing. A noble profession.

  And you, Mrs Kanzai? he asked, now emboldened.

  Me? I am a governess, she said. To two lovely children. Their father is a wealthy businessman. Someone who is very, very busy. Who is often away. Although, it was not always so. Now, however, each summer, he sends me here with the children, to Shirahama, for the holidays.

  And the children’s mother? he asked.

  To tell you the truth, I am not sure what has happened to her, she said. I know that some time ago she disappeared. Now she rarely comes up in conversation. My understanding is that the children’s father has not seen her in years.

  She sat looking across at the shimmering horizon. Although it was early, there were people already on the beach, with picnic baskets, umbrellas, children. Others—couples, their cuffs half-rolled, white-calved—were walking down to the water’s edge. Only to run back laughing. Pursued by the small rippled sea.

  So, she was from Osaka. A governess. To two young children. Boys, girls? He did not know. And he did not have the opportunity to ask. It seemed Natsumi had confessed enough.

  Would you excuse me, Mr Ikeda? she said, looking at her watch. I have to go and collect the children. I hope you enjoy your stay in Shirahama. Then she added, as an afterthought, something he remembered, because he found it so odd: I hope it is everything you wish it to be, she said.

  She gathered up her book, and her bag, placed some money on the table, and left. She departed so quickly that he barely had time enough to stand.

  After a few minutes, Soseki came out to the table to pick up the money. So, what do you think, Master Ikeda?

  I don’t know, Soseki. There is no disputing that she is beautiful…

  The truth was that he had no idea what to make of Natsumi. He had never met a woman like her before. Someone older than he was, forthright, in control. Someone who knew her own mind. She was uncharted territory. He did not know where to start. But start, he knew, he must. It was what he had set himself to do. He took his notebook out, tore out a sheet of paper.

  My dear Tadashi, he wrote. I am done with little sparrows. I have finally met her, the woman I told you about. Her name is Natsumi. Would you believe she lived just two streets away from me in Osaka?

  The following morning, hoping to see her, he went to the markets again. It had been here that he had first observed her.

  He spent a fruitless hour or two walking up and down the market stalls before deciding, on the spur of the moment, to walk up through the narrow back streets to the mountain shrine. He was thinking about Natsumi as he walked, when, as though it were his thoughts that had summoned her, there she was, standing not more than fifty metres away. She had some parcels under one arm. She was trying to open the gate to one of the summer houses with her free hand.

  He thanked the gods for how lucky he had been.

  Here, he said. Let me help you.

  Oh, it’s you, she said, a little startled. Mr Ikeda.

  So, she remembered his name.

  Mrs Kanzai.

  Instead of opening the gate, he reached out and took the parcels from her. Open the gate, and she will thank you, and walk in. Take the parcels, and she will open the gate. And you can carry the parcels to the door. Who knew what might happen after that.

  Thank you, she said, turning back to him. She reached for the parcels.

  I’ll carry them to the door if you like, he said. It will save you having to put them on the ground. He smiled.

  She looked around nervously, a little unsure. A woman of propriety, he thought. Excellent, excellent. And now that he regarded her as a challenge, his nervousness evaporated.

  All right then, she said. But just to the door.

  Is this where you’re staying? he asked.

  Yes, she said, avoiding his eyes. When they reached the top of the stairs, she took her key out from her purse.

  This will be fine, she said. Thank you, Mr Ikeda.

  Katsuo, he said.

  Katsuo.

  He placed the parcels in her outstretched arms. She seemed more nervous than ever.

  Goodbye, she said.

  Clearly she was not going to open the door while he was standing there.

  Perhaps we could meet sometime, he said.

  No, she said. No, I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Ikeda, but I don’t think that would be possible. Her back was to the door.

  The more Katsuo looked at her, the more attractive he found her. She seemed so vulnerable standing there.

  Well, thank you, Mrs Kanzai, for allowing me to help, he said.

  Thank you, Mr Ikeda, for helping me. I knew when I met you that you were a man of principle.

  As he walked down the path this phrase kept ringing in his ears. A man of principle. How dismayed he was by this coincidence. He was Katsuo Ikeda, not Tadashi Omura. A man of principle!

  When he got to the gate he opened it, stepped onto the street, pulled the gate to behind him, turned, and without looking back, began walking towards the centre of town.

  My old friend Shigeo gave it to me, Kenji was saying. You remember, the caretaker of the temple gardens, the one with the missing fingers. You met him last year.

  Kenji was tending the garden at The Nine-Tailed Fox. He was holding up a small tree in a pot.

  It comes from the famous gingko by the temple gates, he said. The one that is a thousand years old. This is one of its children. He held the tree up to the light, the leaves, like miniature fans, suddenly translucent. Perhaps this one will be here too, in this garden, a thousand years from now, he said.

  Katsuo was only half-listening to the old man. He was thinking about Shigeo, the temple caretaker. About his right hand. How shocked he had been when he first saw it. The middle three fingers missing. Shigeo had been sitting on his haunches, spreading humus under the shrubs. His hideously maimed hand, as if lured out from his shirt sleeve, looked like a pale crab scuttling about in the leaf litt
er, as though it was trying to catch some elusive prey that was hiding there. Katsuo had been transfixed by how grotesque it had looked.

  There, that should do it, Kenji said, tamping the soil down. He picked up his watering can and began applying a fine incantatory spray to the young gingko tree as though it were a blessing.

  There, he said again.

  Are the markets open today, Kenji?

  Yes, yes. Today, and tomorrow, and the next day.

  Katsuo did not see Natsumi the next day. Or the next. He went to talk to Soseki. No, he had not seen her either. A week went by. He walked back to the summer house. The shutters were closed. The place looked deserted. He asked a passerby, an old man, if this was the house of Katsuo Ikeda.

  No, the old man said. Mr Ikeda lives two streets back.

  He started giving Katsuo directions.

  Are you sure? he said. Mr Katsuo Ikeda?

  Yes, yes. I’m quite sure, the old man said. I have known him all my life.

  Then who lives here? Katsuo asked.

  I have no idea, young man, no idea. Someone from the city, I suspect. People come and go. I thought you were looking for Mr Ikeda’s house, he said.

  I am.

  Then why do you want to know who lives here?

  Without waiting for him to answer, the old man turned and walked off, shaking his head.

  Katsuo came back later that night. To see if the lights were on. But the house lay in darkness.

  No matter, he said to himself, as he turned to walk back into town. Maybe he shouldn’t have given up on sparrows after all. Sparrows came in flocks, not ones or twos. Move on. There will be others.

  Chapter 12