by Mark Henshaw
In the lamplight, with her kimono only half-covering her, Katsuo saw for the second time what he had seen earlier, that her body had that strange beauty only experience brings, in which every cell knows what still good thing the next moment might bring.
This is a beautiful kimono, Natsumi said, picking up one of its deep-blue seams. She gathered up a flock of cranes in her hand. Just beautiful, she said.
You can keep it, he said. I bought it for you.
He sends me here, you know, my husband. To Shirahama. I’m sure he knows what I do. I’m sure that’s why he does it.
She lay back on the bed. The kimono fell open. As she talked, she ran the tip of a finger around one of her nipples distractedly, as if he wasn’t there.
I thought you were a governess, he said.
I am. At least, that’s how I feel. Now. You know, she said, the first time I came here, I think my husband paid someone to seduce me. A young man, someone from his firm.
She reached for her cup of saké. Took a sip. A drop escaped her lips, curved down her chin and fell onto her breast.
Oh dear, she said.
She sat up a little. She dipped her finger into the tiny tear-dropped pool on her skin.
It never occurred to me to have an affair with him. I was still too troubled by my husband’s withdrawal. Trying to understand what had brought it about. I had had two children. But had my body not returned to its former youthfulness? I used to stand in front of the mirror, trying to discover what had changed. I wished I had kept a photograph of myself as I was when my husband first married me, so that I could see the difference. Had I changed that much? Hadn’t I become more beautiful, not less?
Not that my husband was not good to me. He was. He had become successful. He provided for me. And our children. All my friends envy me. But they do not know how much I still long for him to see me. To speak to me. To fracture the silence with a single word.
I know it’s not going to happen. Not now, she said. The time for that has passed. So now, each summer, I come here. And each summer I find someone who still finds me attractive. And we spend a few nights, sometimes a few weeks, together. And I will keep coming here until no one wants me. Until no one sees me. Until all I am is myself.
In the morning, when he awoke, she was gone. The saké cup had been returned to its place in the cupboard. The half-empty bottle was back on the shelf.
He walked into the bathroom. It was as ordered as if he had only just arrived. The mosquito netting on the balcony was folded. He leaned over the balustrade. There were two half-full glasses of saké sitting on the table below. A piece of clothing was draped carelessly across one of the chairs, as if it had been thrown there. The garden below was still.
Chapter 14
LATER that same morning, he went to see Soseki again.
Master Ikeda, what can I bring you?
Soseki, my good friend. You know Mrs Kanzai?
Yes, Master Ikeda.
What more can you tell me about her? You said she’s been coming here for years.
Yes, he said. Every year, she comes down from Tokyo.
Tokyo? he said. She told me she came from Osaka. That she was born there. She told me that she lived near the famous Hamada art store.
No, no. She comes from Tokyo. Her husband is a very well-known industrialist. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, Katsuo. She doesn’t have an Osakan accent. Not a trace.
Yes, Soseki, but neither do I.
Natsumi is not you, Master Ikeda.
Katsuo thought about what Soseki had said. That she was not from Osaka. She was from Tokyo.
Do you know anything else about her?
Soseki looked away.
I am sorry, Master Katsuo, he said. But there is something I have not told you. You remember that first meeting—you pointed her out to me, asking if I knew her. And then you asked me if I could arrange for you to meet her.
Yes, Soseki.
Well, she asked me first.
Asked you what first?
Mrs Kanzai asked me to find a way to introduce her to you. She had seen you a number of times, at the markets, walking on the beach. I know why she comes here. It is an escape from the unhappiness of her life in Tokyo. She is not the only woman who comes here for the same reason. But Natsumi, Mrs Kanzai, seems so different. She seems…more lost. So she asked me to introduce her to you. And seeing you had asked me the same thing, I thought, how perfect. I would do what each of you had asked me to do.
Why didn’t you tell me?
She asked me not to.
But we are friends, Soseki.
We are. But then, so too are Mrs Kanzai and myself. I have known her for a long time now.
She told me she was a governess!
A governess?
Yes.
Soseki let out a small owl-like laugh.
Ah, my dear friend, it seems that you are not the only one who can play this particular game.
So it would appear, Katsuo said.
He looked down to the beach, to where families with their children were already playing.
One last thing, Soseki, he said.
What is that, Katsuo-san?
Did Natsumi, Mrs Kanzai…did she know that I had asked you to introduce us?
She did, Master Katsuo. She did. She told me she wanted to see how determined you were. Whether you would persist if she made things difficult for you. And now she knows.
Chapter 15
THERE is a young woman here to see you, Mr Omura.
A year had passed since Katsuo had summoned me to Shirahama, Omura told Jovert late one afternoon. Katsuo had continued writing to me, telling me of the progress he was making, of the many conquests he had made, of the places he’d been, the people he’d met.
Does she have an appointment? I asked.
No, she doesn’t. She seems very upset.
Upset?
Yes, very.
All right, I said. Just give me five minutes and I’ll see her. What time is my next appointment?
Not till 10.30, she said.
I put what I had on my desk away. Then I picked up the phone: You can send her in now, I said.
Miss Nakamura came to the door.
Miss, she said. Mr Omura will see you now. She held out her hand and a well-dressed young woman in her early twenties came through the doorway.
I could see that she would have been very pretty if she had not looked so distressed. Her eyes, her nose, were red.
But I don’t understand, she said, immediately on entering the room. You’re not Tadashi Omura!
I’m sorry, I said, taken aback, but I am Tadashi Omura. At least, I am this Tadashi Omura. These are my offices.
But you’re not the person I…I met. Last year, in Shirahama.
Shirahama.
You’re not the Tadashi…
But the truth had alre
ady dawned on her. I could see her sifting through her memories: how she and this other Tadashi Omura had met, at a café, in the marketplace, on the beach. Had he offered to carry something for her, helped her with directions? Perhaps he’d made some comment about the shrine they were visiting. Permit me to introduce myself: my name is Tadashi, Tadashi Omura.
If, I thought, I went back through the letters Katsuo had sent me, would she be there somewhere, on one of those pages—this pretty young girl, that one, the one he had met in the forest, whose husband had followed her, who had chased him down the mountain?
All at once, she started sobbing, twisting her purse in her hands.
How could I have been so stupid? she was saying.
I got up, went to the door.
Could you come in here for a moment, Miss Nakamura, I said. Bring some tissues, please.
No wonder you weren’t there that night, she said. I mean…I don’t understand, she said. You…he, Tadashi, was so nice to me.
And this…Tadashi? I said. What did he look like?
She described him to me, his hair, how he was always brushing it back with his hand, his impeccable clothes, his shoes. She told me how he had described his legal practice. How, by chance—it had been lying under his coat—she had come across one of the documents he’d been working on. She had looked at it, seen the address. My name.
I’m sorry, Miss…?
Keiko Yam…She hesitated. I’m sorry, she said. I feel so foolish. It doesn’t matter who I am. You know, that’s why I went back to Shirahama this summer. I was hoping to see him again. But I see what has happened now. I’ve been misled. Made a fool of.
She dried her eyes, dabbed her nose.
I can’t believe it, she said. He was so nice to me. So nice, she said again, as though remembering. Do you have any idea who he might be?
I signalled for Miss Nakamura to leave us. She bowed, turned and pulled the door to after her.
No, I said. I was in Shirahama last year myself. On business. Some of my papers were stolen. They had my name on them. This person must have taken them.
I see, she said. What a pity. I would so have liked to have seen you…to have seen him again.
She got up. Put the tissues in her purse. Brushed her skirt down.
Thank you, Mr…Mr Omura, she said. For being so kind.
I came out from behind my desk. She bowed a number of times, then looked up at me. I saw her scrutinising my face one last time, as if she were thinking, if only I could get behind this mask, then I might still find the real Tadashi hiding there.
You’re welcome, Miss…Keiko, I said, bowing.
She turned and walked towards the door. I followed her.
Could you show Miss Keiko out, please, Miss Nakamura.
Certainly, Mr Omura.
I pulled the door closed. I went back to my desk. To think about what had just happened, and what to do about it.
You can not do this, Katsuo, I said. These childish pranks. We are not at university anymore.
In the end, after much asking around, I had found his house, or the place where he was lodging, in one of Osaka’s poorest suburbs. The house was shabby beyond belief.
The old woman who answered my knock at the door greeted me still holding a dirty tea towel. She was drying her hands with it.
I am looking for a Mr Katsuo Ikeda, I said. Is this where he lives?
Without speaking, but not before she had given me one last look, she flicked the towel over her shoulder and disappeared back down the corridor. I could hear her hollow footsteps retreating. Then I heard voices, a door close, more footsteps. Then nothing. I waited. Another set of footsteps came down the hallway.
Katsuo could not have been more surprised to see me than if I had waylaid him.
Tadashi! What are you doing here? How did you get this address?
Katsuo, I said.
We were like two sparring partners waiting for the bout to begin.
Aren’t you going to invite me in?
He stood aside, gestured with his hand. He led me down to his room at the end of the corridor. In it, there was a narrow bed. An old wooden desk. Writing pens, paper. A small statue, incongruously beautiful. A piece of threadbare carpet, makeshift bookshelves overflowing with books. On the walls, a few woodblock prints.
He didn’t waste any time.
So, Tadashi, what is it?
A young woman came to see me the week before last, I said.
He reached for his packet of cigarettes, held it out to me.
No, thanks, I said.
He took one out from the pack. Lit it.
Her name was Keiko, I said.
Keiko, he repeated.
Yes, Keiko.
Dear little Keiko, he said, exhaling. Such a pretty girl. Yes, I remember her. She reminded me of Mount Fuji. Mount Fujis.
She came to see me, I said. She thought I was you. You told her your name was Tadashi Omura.
He inhaled on his cigarette.
What did she say?
What do you mean, what did she say? She was upset.
And that was all?
I realised now what he was after. He wanted to know what she’d thought of him.
That was it, I said.
He stood there observing me as though I was an insect.
You can’t keep using people, Katsuo. Keiko. Me. I have a career now, which I’ve worked hard for.
He still didn’t say anything.
It was you, wasn’t it, that time when I came to see you? You took one of my documents. One that had my name on it. To use. To impress someone, someone young, like Keiko. To get her to believe you were someone you weren’t.
To impress her? he said.
He walked over to his bookshelf, retrieved a sheet of paper.
Here’s your precious document, Tadashi, he said. I don’t need it anymore. Not that I ever did. You have no idea how long it took her to find it.
He threw it across to me.
And just so you know, Tadashi, I could not care less about your career. Or your stupid, self-serving moral principles. Because you know what you are, Tadashi…
I could feel his anger building. He was speaking slowly now, with deliberate emphasis, as if he was explaining something to a dim-witted child, something he’d explained a thousand times before.
You-are-just-a-footnote, he said. A footnote. To-my-life. You-are-a-nothing, a zero, a meaningless cipher. He spat the words out. You’re what happens when history blinks. Don’t you see? You don’t exist. Except as a function of me. You and your stupid, stupid career!
He seemed momentarily lost for words.
You have no idea, he said. None.
He turned to look at the bookshelves.
Oba-san! he shouted. Oba-san!
I heard footsteps hurrying.
He was still staring at the bookshelves. It was almost as if he didn’t recognise what
they were. He reached out with his hand. At first, I thought he was going to take something down, a particular volume, something to give me, as he had done in the past, something that would show me where I had gone wrong. Instead, with one powerful sweep of his arm, he swept a whole shelf of books to the floor.
None! he shouted. You stick to the law, Tadashi. You don’t know it yet, but you and your principles are like cement. You’re already set. Imagine what you’ll be like when you’re sixty! Another row of books came crashing down. You won’t be able to move! So don’t you stand in judgement of me. I choose to do what I do.
He said these last words with pure rage. I, for my part, did what I had been trained to do. I stepped away, I removed myself, the better to understand what was happening. Calmly, with reason. I said to myself, just imagine that you are in the courtroom, that this isn’t personal. If you don’t, you won’t be able to marshal your thoughts in the midst of this onslaught. This chaos. For the moment, observe, don’t react.
O-ba-san!
I saw the handle move, but the door did not open.
Master? I heard the old woman say. Is everything all right?
You don’t know, he kept saying. You just don’t know.
But it wasn’t clear to me if he was talking about me, or himself.
I went to the door. The old woman was waiting outside. She looked at me quizzically, then tried to see past me into Katsuo’s room. But the door was already closing.
I walked down the long corridor with her following behind me. Then I was outside in the street again, listening to the silence which now surrounded me.
Part IV
MARIKO
Chapter 16
TWO years after Mariko disappeared, Katsuo published a novel—his third—a semi-autobiographical work called The Chameleon.
Omura and Jovert were out smoking on Omura’s balcony once again. Almost a month had passed since Jovert had seen him. The Paris skyline shimmered in the early autumn air.