The Snow Kimono

by Mark Henshaw

  Father! she screams.

  But the man in the stairwell has already leapt down from the bus. He seizes her assailant by the throat. She sees his knuckles blanch. The fingered grip around her arm goes limp.

  When she looks again to where the blind-eyed man should be, he has gone, swallowed up by the turmoil around them. The man in the suit turns back to her.

  Thank you, Sachiko says. Her eyes well with tears. She rubs her arm. A small bruise has already begun to surface.

  Her saviour barely glances at her. He is brushing down his coat. She pictures what he sees. She knows what he is thinking. She wants to tell him that he is mistaken. That she is here with her father. She is waiting for him. Surely he has seen her on the bus. But he is no longer interested in her. He has already resumed searching for the thing he has not yet seen.

  She is shaking. Alone. The world is blurred. Her fingers find the tenderness in her arm again. She dare not look down. She is dizzy. She does not know how much longer she can stay afloat. And now the stranger is stepping down from the bus. He is leaving her. She sees his retreating back. It is too late to cry out to him. To plead with him to stay.

  Miraculously, as she is watching, her father appears from the same void into which the stranger has disappeared, as though he has been transformed into him. She is overjoyed. Now her father has returned, she is safe.

  But her ordeal is not yet over. A wagon laden with bamboo trunks passes between her and her father. Then another. She looks left, then right. Where has he gone? A sea of new faces sweeps up around her. It surges up against the bus, then cascades down on her again. Her panic returns. Where is he? Wave after wave of people crash over her. Nausea, hot and thick and viscous, rises in her throat. The noise and heat and fetid smells of the square press down on her, on her shoulders, her head. She feels her legs grow weak. Her knees begin to buckle. The earth gives way. She is forced under. Now she is drowning, struggling for breath.

  Father, she cries out.

  But there is no answer. Instead she feels a hand closing around her arm once again. She sees the sickly clouded eye, how it turns in its socket. The buyer of young girls has returned. She struggles to get free. But can’t.

  Sachiko, Sachiko…

  She hears her father’s voice calling. From a distance. As though from a dream. Sachiko…

  When she opens her eyes, her father is crouched beside her. Is it night? Shadow figures swim past her in the darkness. Pale spectral faces turn her way.

  Sachiko…

  She is lying in a sheltered doorway. They are no longer in the square. They are in some kind of dim arcaded alley.

  Are you all right, daughter? her father’s voice says.

  Her heart is still pounding. Her eyes fill with tears.

  Here, drink this, her father says.

  He cups her head. She sips the water he has offered. Then he says to her the same thing he said to her at the inn.

  You must be careful, Sachiko, he says.

  She remembers.

  You must be careful.

  Chapter 22

  TO her, he is always the man without a face. Mr Ishiguro.

  She recalled lying on a cold stone step in a darkened doorway. Hearing her father’s voice, the dull-edged tumult of the square now distant. Faces turning her way.

  Then her father is saying: Sachiko, we’re here…Sachiko.

  Memories of a hand waylaying her, malevolent. Meaning her no good. Swirling around her, a nightmare noise. She is tumbling beneath the waves. Trapped in a tangled mass of limbs. Shadows close over her. She cannot breathe.

  Sachiko?

  Then she is awake.

  Where are we? she says.

  We’re here. You fell asleep.

  She lies curled on the soft leather seat. Her father’s coat is folded under her head. The pleated grey sky above her is horizoned with blue. She begins to surface. Leans up on one elbow. She and her father are encased in a car that is coming to a stop so gradually it could be an ocean liner.

  Outside, above the door sill, a smiling, hatted face, as round and full as a festival balloon, bobs up and down. She imagines a small child, a tiny clenched fist tugging on a string. When her father opens the door, the mask rises abruptly into the sky, and is checked there. The light outside is blinding.

  Ah, Yamaguchi, a voice says. Finally, you are here.

  She sees that the smiling face is invisibly stitched to a suit. Her father is still sitting beside her in the car. A hand reaches in. Takes her father’s hand. Shakes it for a long time. It seems it will never let him go.

  Ishiguro, her father says.

  So this is the Ishiguro her father has spoken of. Whose name her father sometimes calls out in his sleep. The Ishiguro about whom her mother endlessly complains. Whose spirit has occupied their house for longer than she can remember.

  Please, Mr Ishiguro says. He holds his other arm out, half-stepping aside to make room for her father. He still has her father’s hand in his.

  What happened? Ishiguro says.

  I’m sorry, Ishiguro. We were trapped by the storm on the mountain last night. The bus broke down.

  Her father turns to Sachiko. Who is now sitting up. He reaches in, takes her hand. Helps her slide along the seat. Then she too is standing beside the long black car, its roof gleaming in the splintered sun.

  Sachiko, her father says, this is Mr Ishiguro. I have told you about him. It is he who buys the kimono your grandmother and mother make.

  Miss Sachiko, Mr Ishiguro says.

  He extends his hand, bows deeply. The gesture surprises her. This is not what a man would normally do. Not with a girl her age.

  His hand still waits. Her moment of hesitation passes. Her father is here. She is safe.

  Mr Ishiguro is smiling. Sachiko can see the fold of skin that encircles his face. She thinks of the plump crease that separates a newborn’s hand from its wrist, as though this is just a temporary hand, not yet permanently attached. The final choice is yet to be made. She feels sure that, if Mr Ishiguro took off his hat, the mask would come with it, and the something completely different that lies beneath would be revealed.

  Your father, Miss Sachiko, is a truly valued customer.

  They are in an unfurnished room. Against the walls, hanging on horizontal bars, are bolts of cloth. They are arranged to mirror the changing day, from dawn to noon, late afternoon to dusk. And, finally, night.

  Beside each array stands a young woman dressed in a kimono made from one of the samples. Seven girls. Seven kimono. All different. All exquisite.

  Each of the girls is painstakingly made-up, her face powdered, her hair tied up, pinned. Each arrangement coded. Each face porcelain-perfect. Their lacquer rosebud lips glistening, as though, just now, they had sipped from a water cup, the memory of which still clings to their lips.

  To one side, two women tend a brazier on a wheeled cabinet. An ancient iron kettle, two squat cups, a bamboo whisk. Rows of small stoppered jars arrayed on shelves. They are preparing tea for her father and Mr Ishiguro. She can smell the faintl
y perfumed burning coals.

  Negotiations, she knows, will not begin until this ritual is complete. She will not be allowed to stay.

  A girl not much older than her comes in. She bows to Mr Ishiguro, goes to stand inside the door. She too is meticulously made-up.

  As though Mr Ishiguro has read Sachiko’s thoughts, he nods to the new girl.

  The girl comes over to Sachiko, takes her arm. Mr Ishiguro has asked me to show you the mills, she says, sliding the door closed behind her. I am Misako. And you are Sachiko, are you not?

  Misako leads her down a long corridor. There is a wooden door at its far end. She pushes it open. When they step through the opening, Sachiko is momentarily disoriented.

  I know, Misako says. I had the same feeling when I first stepped out here. The corridor is so long, you think you’re walking the building’s length, but you’re not, you’re walking through it.

  They have emerged along one side of an enclosed square, parts of which are open, designed to trap the light. Other parts are shaded, with carefully tended gardens, oases of tranquillity where Sachiko imagines one might sit and read. Or think. Or meet at night. In the centre of the square there is a lotus pond, so large she cannot see its outer limits.

  What a beautiful garden, she says.

  Yes, it is, isn’t it.

  Misako too stands there for a moment surveying the gardens, the lotus pool, the trees, the discrete areas of sun-filled light, as though for the first time. Then she breaks free of her reverie.

  They walk across to the shaded verge of the pond. Leading away from the edge, into the water, is a pathway of flat stones.

  I know, it looks like they’re floating, Misako says. But they’re not. See. And she steps impossibly out onto the first stone.

  The stepping stones did not lead directly across the pond. Instead, at certain points, they branched off. As Sachiko and Misako made their way across the water, a brightly coloured comet’s tail of red and gold and silver koi trailed after them.

  When they stepped off the last stone onto the edge at the far side of the pool, they stood facing the building opposite. There was a door in the wall in front of them, the mirror image of the door through which they had just come. Misako opened it to a deafening clatter and they both stepped inside.

  In the semi-darkness, rows of women sit at looms. Each loom is lit by a narrow, overhead light. From each, cloth spills into wooden troughs below. The cloth looks like brilliantly coloured, viscous liquid.

  Some of the women glance up when they enter the room. None of them stops what they are doing. There are a number of girls her own age sitting at the tables with the older women. They too look up.

  She sees the unasked question: Is this the new girl who will soon be joining them?

  A luminous white cloth catches Sachiko’s eye. In the overhead light, it is as if the cloth has been spun from newly sunlit snow. She recognises the fabric instantly, its pattern—tall thin stems of still-budding orchids pushing up through freshly fallen snow.

  Oh, she says, leaning into Misako, her voice alive with surprise. This fabric was one of my grandmother’s favourites. I remember helping her lay the kimono she made from it out in the snow, so that the cold could fix its colours.

  Yes, it’s beautiful, Misako says. We’ve only just begun making it again.

  So, Sachiko says, is this where I will be working?

  Misako takes a step back, frowns, then looks into the vast room again; at the rows of women working there, the young girls, the looms, the shuttles, the bolts of freshly woven cloth.

  She turns to Sachiko. Says something. But Sachiko cannot hear what it is over the noise of the machines. Misako points to the door.

  They went to sit in the sunlit courtyard.

  You know, Sachiko, Mr Ishiguro was right, Misako said eventually.

  What do you mean?

  Mr Ishiguro told us all you were coming. He said you were beautiful. And he was right. You are very, very beautiful, Sachiko.

  Sachiko felt the heat rise to her face.

  You don’t believe me?

  I don’t know, she said. You are beautiful yourself, Misako. And besides, Mr Ishiguro does not know me. He has never met me before.

  Misako laughed, a short, soft, not unfriendly laugh.

  Oh, Mr Ishiguro knows a great many things about you, Sachiko. A great many things. And you are mistaken. He has met you before.

  When? she said.

  Years ago. When you were young. And a number of times since.

  She wanted to ask Misako what she meant. But Misako was now sitting on the stone wall, leaning back on her arms, swinging her legs, warming her face in the sun. Her eyes were closed.

  How do you bear it? Sachiko said.

  What? Misako asked.

  That, in there, being tied to it all day.

  Misako’s laugh seemed to well up from within her again. She was shaking her head, smiling.

  Oh no, Sachiko, she said. I don’t think you understand.

  And she laughed her strange, full-bodied laugh once again.

  Chapter 23

  SO, Hideo, Mr Ishiguro said, the car will come for you at nine.

  Sachiko and Misako were still sitting in the courtyard. Mr Ishiguro and her father were standing in the open doorway behind them.

  Agreed? he asked.

  Sachiko’s father looked across to her, then back to Mr Ishiguro. He nodded.

  Agreed, he said.

  Nine o’clock then, Mr Ishiguro repeated. Don’t look so worried, Hideo. I assure you, everything will work out for the best. You will see.

  Mr Ishiguro turned to glance at Sachiko across the stone expanse that separated them.

  What had Misako said? Mr Ishiguro knows a great many things about you, Sachiko.

  The two men bowed to each other. Mr Ishiguro turned again and bowed to Sachiko. His hand was resting on her father’s shoulder.

  Are you ready to go, daughter? her father called to her.

  Yes, she said.

  Thank you, Misako, for showing me the looms, she said. I hope that one day we will meet again.

  I am sure we will, Sachiko, Misako said.

  Sachiko stood up.

  Mr Ishiguro was now walking alongside her father, guiding him towards the stone archway at the far end of the courtyard. They both stopped to wait for her.

  Miss Sachiko, Mr Ishiguro said.

  Mr Ishiguro.

  I hope Misako has looked after you, he said.

  Yes, she said. She was extremely…She searched for a word. Kind, she said, when what she really meant was free.

  The archway led down to the stone terrace overlooking the forecourt. At the far end of the driveway, the car sat half-hidden in the shadows of the trees.

  The three of them—Mr Ishiguro, her father and Sachiko—walked down the steps onto the driveway. She could hear the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel.

  I have arranged a car to take you
to Ikeda’s, Mr Ishiguro was saying to her father.

  Sachiko saw that the car had already begun to glide silently out from its shadows towards them.

  The same car will pick you up tonight at nine, Hideo. Remember, at nine. Not eight as usual. Miss Sachiko can make herself at home. Ikeda-san will be there. Everything has been arranged. Ume will take care of her.

  The car came to a stop beside them.

  Mr Ishiguro turned back to her father. Don’t worry, Hideo, he was saying. You will see. You have made the right choice. He grasped her father high on his shoulder once again. I promise you. A man like Ikeda comes along only once in a lifetime.

  A uniformed driver got out of the car. He stood waiting. Mr Ishiguro bowed to her father.

  He turned to Sachiko. Reached out, took her fingers lightly between his, bowed.

  You are a beautiful young woman, Miss Sachiko, he said. Your father must be very proud of you.

  Sachiko thought again of what Misako had told her: Mr Ishiguro said you were beautiful.

  It has been a pleasure to meet you, he said.

  Then the uniformed driver was opening the door.

  Miss, he said.

  As they pulled away, Sachiko looked out the side window. Mr Ishiguro had gone to stand at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met for an instant as the big car wheeled around to face the gates through which they had come. Then the car swept him from view. She felt sure, however, that if she turned to look out the rear window he would still be there, immutable, silent, his long shadow spilling down the dark stairs towards them, as if he was a stone custodian positioned there to see who came, and who went.

  Chapter 24

  THE journey took them half an hour. With them slumped back in the car’s plush interior, the world passed by outside as though they were in a high-sided boat.