A True Novel

by Minae Mizumura

  “My father died during the war, and then my stepfather came along. We didn’t get on very well, so I went to Tokyo.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “My younger brother and sister had no problems,” she added.

  “It’s the same with my younger sister and my stepfather. They get along fine.”

  The two shared a soft laugh, and a new sense of intimacy. With a smile still in her voice, the woman said, “Life is funny that way,” and then returned to her sewing. It looked like a summer kimono for a girl, an older one, with bright scarlet koi, like giant goldfish, swimming this way and that against a white background.

  Yusuke observed her quietly as she worked with her fingers. In his job as an editor, he had more than enough opportunities to meet people where his role was to listen patiently to what they had to say. Usually, he found himself looking forward to the end of the meeting, so that he could be by himself again. Yet tonight, perhaps because he was so startled by the man he’d just seen, he couldn’t help taking an interest in the woman as well and in how they were connected.

  She was obviously an accomplished homemaker, but there was a certain briskness, an efficiency in her manner, that seemed to set her apart from women who had always stayed at home. For one thing, her clothes—a simple cotton T-shirt and cotton slacks—looked far smarter than anything his own mother would wear. Maybe she’d had a career. At the same time, he found it puzzling how she somehow evoked an older style of life as she sat with her head bowed, taking apart an old cotton kimono, reminding him of his grandmother.

  Though her features were regular and not unattractive, she was the kind of person whose outward appearance was so unassuming that you wouldn’t remember her even if she sat directly across from you on a train from one terminal to the other. That she owned an old country cottage, however decrepit, suggested she came from a good family. Yet Yusuke detected none of the self-satisfaction that he thought characterized women of the privileged class. What seemed strangest of all was the way this reserved woman seemed to feel free to impose her will on the other person in the house. It was as if she possessed some absolute authority over him.

  What was their connection?

  When she next looked up from her sewing, she peered over her glasses to say, “Help yourself to the newspaper.” Small scissors still in her hand, she gestured toward the low, carved wooden table. Whether because she was preoccupied or because she was not a talkative person, she no longer seemed a willing partner in the conversation. After all, he was only an accidental visitor. Yusuke obliged and stood up from his chair.

  That day’s Japan Economic Times, folded neatly in half, lay on top of the pile of papers. As he picked it up, he was surprised to see two English-language magazines underneath, The Economist and Science. Both were current issues.

  The discovery, once he was back in his chair with the Japanese newspaper, made him wonder again about the man. The possibility that he might be a college teacher or a novelist had vanished the moment he set eyes on that fierce, energetic figure. It seemed equally unlikely that he was a regular company employee. After all, someone like that would have been conditioned to show at least a modicum of politeness. The man had displayed none—or had perhaps decided to display none to a youngster like him.

  The headline read “Fifty Years After the End of World War II,” but his eyes glided over the words, his thoughts drifting toward the room at the rear of the house. What was the man doing in there? He recalled the look in his eyes as he stood silently in the doorway. It was a look of refusal—not just of Yusuke but of everything and everyone, it seemed.

  The woman, her fingers moving mechanically, suddenly paused and looked up as if she had remembered something. She threw a glance at Yusuke, put the kimono and scissors on the table, and stood up.

  “I’m going out to the shed. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  With the big red Chinese flashlight in her hand, she left the room.

  Alone, Yusuke was finally able to relax and take a look around at his leisure. The stucco walls not only had cracks running along them but also had stains of dark green mold near the floor. The yellow curtains were so worn and faded that the original plaid pattern was barely visible. Just as the blackened ceiling boards were warped from years of humidity, the tatami floors in the adjoining rooms had turned a reddish brown from long exposure to the sun. Yet the owner was far from letting the place completely fall apart: careful mending had been done, and the rooms were clean and neat.

  The contrast was puzzling.

  Just when Yusuke noticed that the telephone next to the stack of magazines was also new, it began to ring. He looked over toward the screen door, hoping the woman would come back, but there was no sign of her. The man in the back room obviously had no intention of answering. The telephone continued to ring, the volume, to Yusuke’s ears, increasing with each ring. He let it go on a little longer, then reluctantly picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  The person on the other end said nothing. Yusuke once again said hello. A woman’s voice—poised, neither old nor young—returned the same greeting. After saying hello once more, she asked dubiously, “Is that Taro? This is Fuyue.”

  She sounded hesitant. At the same time, a bit comically, her intonation reminded him of the voices used in dubbed foreign movies, the Japanese version of the way Westerners speak. Just then, he caught sight of someone hurrying toward the house. He said into the receiver, “Just a moment, please.”

  Coming back inside, the woman quickly closed the screen door and ran to take the phone.

  “Hello?” She seemed to be expecting the call. “Oh, Fuyue, hello. Yes, this is Fumiko.”

  As she switched off the flashlight and put it down on top of the magazines, she glanced briefly in Yusuke’s direction, but it was clear she hardly registered his presence.

  “No, not at all. I imagine you must all be absolutely exhausted.” Her speech was formal, stilted again. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help to you. It happened so suddenly. Oh, really? You are bringing the bones and ashes with you? And Yoko’s too? Oh, my goodness. I see …”

  Yusuke, who had returned to his seat and had the newspaper spread out before him, flinched when he heard the words “bones and ashes.”

  “Indeed. That would be rather frightening.” She frowned as she spoke. For a while, she just stood nodding her head and responding as she listened—“I see … I see … I see.” Then she said: “Of course. Yes, most certainly. Would you hold on a moment, please?”

  She went down the corridor, where Yusuke heard her announce, “It’s Fuyue on the telephone.” What an unusual name, he thought. It must be her first name, but why would anyone call their daughter Fuyu—Winter? He thought he might have misheard the name until he heard it the second time. Now he also knew that the woman here was called Fumiko.

  “She says they got things more or less settled and will arrive in Old Karuizawa the day after tomorrow. And she asked me to help open up the house as usual, and to bring Ami along. That is, if it’s all right with you.”

  She came back and picked up the receiver again.

  “Hello? So the day after tomorrow, in the morning, is that correct? Oh, yes? Well, certainly, if that’s what you’d prefer … Then I will try to be there tomorrow afternoon as well.”

  After she hung up, she went straight back to the man’s room, without even a glance at Yusuke.

  “So they’re coming at last.”

  Yusuke heard the man’s low voice, but couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Apparently, Fuyue will be here tomorrow to air the house and wants me to come over in the afternoon. I suspect what she really wants is to talk.”

  The man did not respond.

  “She sounded rather sad on the phone. This may well be their last summer here.” After a brief pause, she continued, “The remains—the part they’ve saved for a separate burial—they plan to bring here by themselves. She says it wouldn’t be proper to have a courier ser
vice deliver something like that. I suppose she’s right.”

  The woman let out a soft laugh. She seemed to expect the man to say something, but, again, there was only silence. After another pause, she went on, in a slightly awkward tone: “They’ll be bringing some of Yoko’s remains too, which were also saved in a separate urn. The three old ladies are all in a tizzy because his will said something about scattering the ashes together in the garden. That means they would first have to crush the bones up into ash—which is pretty gruesome, isn’t it?”

  Yusuke then heard her go into detail about the arrangements with the temple for the forty-ninth-day memorial service, who would be coming when, and from where, but he was still gripped by the words “bones and ashes.” The words had never sounded so macabre as they did here in the night air of this tumbledown cottage, away from any city lights.

  “She said the lawyer is coming too. What happens after he arrives is none of my concern, though.”

  Closing with these words, she walked back into the front room, her eyes widening when she caught sight of Yusuke. She had apparently forgotten about this unexpected visitor. “There’s so much to do after someone dies,” she commented before reaching for the flashlight on the magazines to put it back near the window. Yusuke asked if he could use it again.

  “I want to go out and look for the key one more time.”

  The moon still shone brilliantly on the ground, but he still couldn’t find the key. He now felt it would be inappropriate to stay any longer in a house whose occupants seemed to be in mourning, though their relationship to the deceased was unclear. Unlikely as it was that he would manage to get into his friend’s house, he could at least ask the woman to call a taxi, then go back to the place and sleep on the porch. Or, even better, maybe he could stay at a bed-and-breakfast somewhere. As for finding the key, he could come back in the morning.

  “I’m still having no luck finding the thing. May I use your phone again?”

  Seated where she had been before, the woman looked toward the telephone with a blank expression. “Oh, yes. Go ahead.” Yusuke tried calling his friend’s cellphone and his home, but once again he only reached the answering machine.

  “Is there a bed-and-breakfast near here?” asked Yusuke. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning to look for the key. And I’d like to leave some money to cover the calls to Tokyo.”

  The woman shifted her impassive face toward the wall clock. It was nearly eleven.

  “Well, it’s very late, and it’s also the height of the tourist season. Besides, there aren’t any bed-and-breakfasts around here.” She spoke slowly.

  “In that case, I’ll just take a taxi back to my friend’s place.”

  One corner of her mouth curled up in a thin smile, and some animation began to return to her eyes. After a moment, as if humoring a child, she said, “Don’t be silly. There’s a shed out back where you can sleep. I went there a little while ago and put out an old sleeping bag for you. I hope you don’t mind if it’s a little musty.”

  Before Yusuke had a chance to object, she went on: “I’m sorry that’s all we can offer, but it might be more comfortable for you than staying here. It has a window, so it shouldn’t be impossible to spend a night there. Even if you did take a taxi back to your friend’s house, you wouldn’t be able to get in, anyway, would you?”

  Yusuke didn’t know how to respond to this offer. From the moment he had crossed the threshold of this mountain cottage, he hadn’t felt his usual reserved and solitary self. He found himself inclined—almost eager—to accept her invitation. He knew, though, that the other occupant wouldn’t exactly welcome the idea of his staying overnight.

  Seeing the uncertainty on Yusuke’s face, the woman asked him to wait, headed toward the man’s room, and, after a perfunctory knock, marched in and shut the door. Yusuke first heard low murmuring but, before long, the two of them began arguing as he’d feared they might, the woman’s voice steadily rising. He heard very little from the man. Abruptly, her voice rang out, shrill and sharp, almost shrieking: “I can’t believe you’re overreacting like this.” She went on: “Just stop that talk of yours. You know you still have years to live!” Yusuke was shocked that their conversation had taken such a dramatic turn. Even so, he stayed put instead of withdrawing, as he knew he should. His own obstinacy surprised him.

  The woman presently emerged from the room and told him with remarkable composure, “By all means, stay here tonight.” Showing a touch of victor’s pride, she glanced toward the back of the house and added, “You don’t need to worry about him. He’ll come out and introduce himself properly, if it’s not too late to be proper, that is.” So saying, she sat down and calmly picked up her sewing scissors.

  Yusuke stood there, undecided.

  Not a sound came from the other room. Her head bowed, the woman was working steadily with her hands. It was as if she were aware of Yusuke’s dilemma and was letting him stew in it.

  Was it just two or three minutes that Yusuke stood there? Or longer? The door of the man’s room at last creaked open. Yusuke grew tense, but the tall figure passed into the kitchen. The woman continued with her needlework, without looking up. He heard some cupboard doors open and close, and, at length, the man reemerged with three empty glasses in his left hand. He looked over at her and said, “Fumiko, is there any booze in the house?”

  It was a deep, penetrating voice. That he should ask such an ordinary question, in such a matter-of-fact way, surprised Yusuke. Yet there was still something unusual about the way he spoke.

  “Any what?” Her fingers stopped and she looked up at him. She seemed caught off guard.

  “Wine, beer, anything’s all right.”

  With no attempt to hide her dismay, she replied harshly, “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “Have a drink, of course. Our guest is welcome to join me.” Turning to Yusuke, he added, “Please, have a seat.”

  After slowly lowering himself into the rattan rocking chair, the man again motioned for Yusuke to sit down. To avoid staring at him, Yusuke looked away as he went over and sat on one of the dining chairs.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” Yusuke told him.

  The man looked in his direction, something close to a smile on his face. “I imagine you’ve had your fill of tea tonight.”

  Apparently still shaken, the woman kept her eyes fixed on the man, then asked, “Have a drink, really?” It sounded as if the question were directed more at herself than at him. There was something akin to dread in her expression.

  “Yeah,” he replied, not looking at her. She remained silent for a moment but at last stood up, her face tight, and headed into the kitchen. When she returned with a large, dark green bottle of sake, she spoke in a forced voice, as though something were caught in her throat.

  “This is a local brew. You can buy it anywhere around here but it’s actually quite good. I sometimes have a glass when I can’t get to sleep, so I always keep some in the refrigerator.”

  She poured some for Yusuke and herself, took a few steps, and held out the bottle for the man, her face still tight. The bold, lively brushstrokes on the white label were at odds with the tense mood in the room.

  His hand reached out to take it. “What’s that smell?” he asked, looking about him.

  “Oh, that? It’s mothballs. It seemed like a good time to clean out the closets,” she told him as she returned to the table. Yusuke heard the sound of sake being poured into a glass. As if to block out the sound, to defer the moment a little longer, the woman swept the fabric off the table and swung it around for the man to see. Scarlet koi danced around the room.

  “Look what I found in the tea chest.”

  Her voice still sounded forced.

  “If this were silk, I would’ve had to just throw it away. But it’s cotton, so it’s still in good shape. You hardly see this kind of pattern anymore. I thought I would make something out of it.”

  There was a caustic edge to her dry voice. His respons
e was merely a cursory glance at the fabric, but she wouldn’t stop.

  “I found an ogara of Grandma’s too. You know, a little bundle of straw? It’s more than thirty years old. I completely forgot she bothered to keep things like that. It’s the thirteenth of August, you know. I used it just before dark to light a little fire, the welcoming fire we used to make in the old days.” She picked up her scissors again.

  “A welcoming fire?” The man looked puzzled.

  BURNED OGARA

  “Yes. The little fire for the Bon festival—to greet the returning dead. Grandma used to light one every year at this time. Don’t you remember?”

  He didn’t say whether he remembered or not.

  “Now they can find their way back to us and not get lost,” she said without looking at him, her voice sounding even more caustic.

  “It’s just superstition,” the man said.

  “What’s wrong with superstition?” she retorted.

  He looked away. As he put the cap back on the sake bottle, he glanced at the camera next to Yusuke’s backpack. Yusuke had taken it out when he was looking for his datebook and forgotten to put it away.

  “That’s titanium, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Since I’m on vacation, I thought I’d use my camera for once. It’s been a while.”

  The man picked up his full glass of sake.

  The woman, eyes still cast down, told him that Yusuke worked as an editor on a literary journal.

  “A literary journal?” he muttered. He then asked him an odd question. “One that publishes novels and things?”

  “Well, yes.”

  The man mentioned the name of a woman novelist and asked whether Yusuke knew her.

  “I’ve heard of her.”

  “She’s someone I used to know—many, many years back,” he said, and raised the glass to his lips. But he didn’t drink just yet, as if taking the time to recall the past he had just evoked. “A little while ago, I heard the ‘Tokyo Ballad’ going on and on in Sengen Shrine,” he murmured.

  The woman remained silent and continued with her needlework, so it was left to Yusuke to acknowledge this.