A True Novel

by Minae Mizumura

  “It reminded me of a time half a century ago,” the man said, looking at him.

  “Half a century ago?”

  “Well, actually about forty years ago. That was the first time I heard the song here.”

  Yusuke, who had assumed that he was still in his late thirties, scrutinized him more closely.

  “As I listened to it, I began thinking what a long life I’ve lived …” Gazing into his glass, he continued, “And then I find that we have a guest staying with us tonight. So I said to myself, maybe the time has come … I gave up drinking many years ago, you see, but tonight would be a perfect occasion to change my mind.”

  Raising the glass in a toast, he took his first sip. Yusuke noticed that the woman looked up for an instant to watch. She had a peculiar look in her eyes that contained anger, sadness, and something unreadable. Although the man seemed to be speaking to him, Yusuke knew he was in fact addressing her.

  “Let’s also make a toast to the dead,” the man said. While he slowly poured the sake down his throat, the woman kept at her needlework, eyes now fixed on the cotton garment.

  “The moon is bright tonight,” he announced, to no one in particular, as he removed the glass from his lips. It was again left for Yusuke to respond.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It’s a full one too.”

  “Yes.”

  “The sky is usually so cloudy around here that even when the moon is full, it’s rarely this bright.”

  Yusuke was silent.

  “I was looking out of my window with the light off and it was so bright out I was surprised. That’s when I realized there was a full moon.”

  Yusuke wanted to know more about this man, but he found he was tongue-tied, almost frozen, in his presence. The man was merely making conversation, so perhaps it was the tone of his voice that made Yusuke feel he was being drawn downward, down into the bottom of the night.

  As soon as Yusuke emptied his glass, the woman led him out to the shed. She had fallen completely silent. She seemed to be afraid that if she opened her mouth, she wouldn’t be able to hold in whatever it was that she was struggling to keep inside.

  When they reached the shed, all she said was, “I hope you sleep well.” Then, forcing a smile, she disappeared.

  THE SHED WAS small, about three tatami mats in size.

  Against one wall were two built-in bunk beds. The bottom one was covered with a jumble of cardboard boxes, shovels, and raincoats, but a sleeping bag had been spread out on the top bunk. High on the same wall was a small window one could open and close; and from the center of the ceiling hung a bare lightbulb which the woman had switched on. It was a better setup than he’d expected. He climbed the ladder, sat himself down on the bed, and peered out of the window. The main cottage was a short distance away, with yellow light showing faintly through the curtains. It truly did look like the lonely hut in the folktale.

  Yusuke sat for a while looking toward the yellow light.

  The woman was probably crying somewhere inside there. No. More likely, she was arguing with him. Apparently, though, that hadn’t made her raise her voice, for, however intently he listened, all he could hear was the same chirping of the autumn insects. He felt the earth breathe heavily in the summer night, infusing the air with its warm scent.

  Yusuke realized that several moths had flattened their powdery white wings against the windowpane, drawn to the light from the bulb. They seemed to be pleading to be let in. His nerves were still fragile: the sight was suffocating.

  The white wings remained obstinately still.

  He switched off the bare bulb and wriggled into the musty sleeping bag, the wooden bed frame creaking with every move. The tension in him would not go away. The man’s face kept reappearing, and Yusuke, puzzled and disturbed that he should be so bothered by someone he barely knew, tried to push the face away and replace it with scenes from his journey that day.

  He saw again the sun-scorched lawn in Kaikoen Garden marking the site where an old castle once stood. There was also the deep green gorge he had looked down on from a small bridge, and Mount Asama, with its broad base, as he gazed up at it from Route 18. On his way back through Oiwake at dusk, he’d passed a rustic graveyard at the foot of the mountain, with some extravagant new granite tombstones in it, as well as humble older graves that were little more than piles of roadside stones: the graves of the unknown. Someone had placed fresh flowers even on those forsaken graves, this week being a special one for the spirits of the dead.

  Paper lanterns for the Bon festival hung along both sides of Nakasendo, the old Edo-period highway, swaying in the evening breeze. More flamboyant lanterns, with colorful bulbs, shone from houses along the road where historic inns once stood. In some houses there were many of these lanterns, their twirling colors, blue and red and yellow, reflecting on sliding glass doors. A little farther on, in the grounds of Sengen Shrine, a ring of people wearing T-shirts and sneakers danced clumsily to the beat of the big taiko drum and music from loudspeakers. When he got tired of watching, he went into a ramen noodle shop for a bite to eat. There were piles of manga comics, their gaudy covers garish in the fluorescent light …

  Not only were his nerves frazzled, but his wound, which hadn’t bothered him until then, started to throb. Even when he finally slept, he soon found himself half awake. And then that face came back again.

  HOW LONG HAD he slept?

  A gust of wind blew the shed door open.

  The night was warm, yet a chill ran through his body. A ray of clear, bright moonlight shone at a sharp angle through the doorway. In that clear light stood a girl wearing a summer kimono. With her frizzy hair flaring out around her head, she stared up at Yusuke on the top bunk, her eyes wild, her tiny fist tightly clasping a round festival fan. The sounds of the “Tokyo Ballad” floated in from afar. Yusuke propped himself on his elbows, holding his breath, looking down at her. In a frenzied voice she shouted something at him, then fled away, her long sleeves fluttering in the air.

  The door stood open, moonlight flowing in.

  Motes of dust rose and danced in the air around the doorway, illuminated in the still, transparent rays. No more than a few seconds could have gone by—yet it felt longer, as if he were watching images projected in slow motion. In the slight stirring of the air, the moonlight seemed even more fixed, unmoving.

  A moment’s silence: an eternity.

  Recovering himself, he scrambled down from the bunk and, shoving his feet into his sneakers, hurried outside. He saw something white wander through the gate and veer off to the right. All at once, he remembered seeing something similar pass in front of him just when his bicycle crashed into the hedge. In fact he was sure they were the same. Yet when he ran out past the gate, he saw nothing but empty space.

  As before, the tall fronds of pampas grass shone silver and ghostly in the moonlight.

  YUSUKE WENT BACK in through the gate to find a wary-looking figure on the porch staring at him. The man had apparently heard him running along the gravel path and come outside. He must have remained awake in the dining area, as he was still wearing the same white shirt and black trousers. Perhaps he’d been up drinking the whole time. Yusuke told him he’d had a strange dream. This always happened with him when he was wrought up.

  With the porch light off, the moon, now lower in the sky, tinged the man’s face with a bluish glow.

  “It felt as if someone came into the shed and then left …,” Yusuke explained.

  “Was it a woman?”

  “No, it was a girl, wearing a yukata.”

  “A yukata?”

  “Yes. Maybe it’s because I saw the lady taking apart that kimono this evening.”

  The man’s eyes were wild-looking now.

  “The one with the red koi?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  His face was almost contorted. The next instant he leaped down from the porch and, bolting through the gate, made a sharp right turn and disappeared. Startled, Yusuke hurri
ed after him, pausing when he reached the gate. Looking up the road, he saw the back of his white shirt as he ran up the hill like a man possessed. Yusuke stood at the gate and waited. Finally, when he couldn’t bear the mosquitoes any longer, he went back to the shed, sat on the bunk, and watched from the high window. He kept up his vigil patiently, but the man did not return. It was as if he had been swallowed up in the mountain darkness. Yellow light continued to shine from the front room.

  In the commotion, a moth had made its way inside and was flying around and around against the ceiling, its wings fluttering wildly.

  MORNING IN THE mountains felt chilly.

  Yusuke stepped out of the shed and found the cottage looking much more ordinary in the crisp morning air. He now saw that it wasn’t alone in the woods—other houses stood nearby, to the north and south. Unoccupied, they had been invisible in the dark. These houses seemed run-down as well—if anything, even more so than this one. Darkened shutters covered all the windows. With no sign of anyone’s having stepped onto the properties for years, nature had taken over what must once have been gardens, with long vines—wild grapes and poison ivy—tangling everywhere. The shed where Yusuke had slept was to the east of the main building. Behind it too, grasses stood tall and vines intertwined so that it was impossible to tell how far into the dense woods the property extended.

  He walked around the cottage toward the porch, last year’s fallen leaves rustling at his feet.

  There was a smell of fresh coffee in the air. Seeing Yusuke approach, the woman raised her chin off the palm of her hand and said, “Good morning. Mr. Azuma has already gone out to play golf.”

  So his name was Azuma. Hadn’t a night without sleep affected him, a man much older than himself? Yusuke wondered whether he had deliberately left the house early to avoid seeing him after the midnight encounter. Whatever the reason, he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy.

  ABANDONED COUNTRY HOUSE

  A white table and some garden chairs, stacked to one side the night before, were now set out in the middle of the porch. The woman stood up and, leaving her glasses there, told him she would be right back and went inside. On the table was a coffee cup and next to it a paperback, its cover bleached by the sun. It was a translation of a European novel. Yusuke immediately recognized his own publisher’s logo on the cover, but he had never seen this particular old edition before. He was standing contemplating the book when the woman reemerged. “I’m glad I’ve been saving these things. They can finally be of use,” she said, handing him a small travel kit containing a toothbrush and a minitube of toothpaste, along with a towel.

  He noticed that she looked older in daylight. He also noticed what he thought were signs of tears. Was she aware of Azuma’s disappearance last night?

  The bathroom was at the far end of the corridor, on the left, diagonally across from the room where the man had been the night before. As Yusuke walked toward it, he stole a look inside through the open door. It appeared to have been a study once—one of its narrow walls had built-in bookshelves, though now only a few books with faded covers occupied the shelves. However, below them, on an old desk, were a brand-new laptop, a small printer, and a cradle for some electronic device, all common enough in Tokyo, but here like objects transported from the future.

  After he had finished washing, he found the woman standing at the kitchen sink.

  Turning her head, she asked, “Did you sleep all right?” With water gushing out of the faucet, Yusuke had to speak up to make himself heard.

  “I did. Thank you very much.”

  She turned off the faucet and cocked her head in the direction of the front room.

  “I found the key, right outside.”

  “Really?”

  If not a fox, only the full moon could explain the key going missing—and the man.

  “How about some breakfast? It’s almost ready.”

  Given her initial reaction, she was surprisingly friendly. Their growing intimacy seemed to happen by chance, as events had unfolded; with the man away, the two of them were brought that much closer together, as if Yusuke were in some way an accomplice.

  “Yes, that would be great. Let me help,” he offered, stepping into the small kitchen.

  Another glance at her face, this time with sunlight flooding in, made him feel certain that she’d been crying the night before—perhaps all night long. Her eyes were clearly swollen. What’s more, she made no attempt to hide this.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Let’s see, what else? Oh, yes—do you drink tea or coffee in the morning?”

  “Usually coffee.”

  “Good! I just made some. Here, could you take this out to the porch?”

  She was holding a large, round tray on which were stacked some Western-style plates with a printed pattern of small violets. Everything about the plates—the pattern, the colors, the shape—seemed unusual to Yusuke, though he was not exactly sure why. Noticing his interest, she gave a little laugh. “They’re old, from the 1950s. Before long they’ll be considered antiques.” Her voice was unexpectedly cheerful—almost unnaturally cheerful—making him worry that she might break down again at any moment.

  ONCE THEY HAD set the table for breakfast, the two sat side by side at the round table, facing the garden to the south. He felt relieved that he didn’t have to look at her directly. Instead, what filled his eyes was an overwhelming greenness. Pure morning air filtered through the green, and through the pure air came the high-pitched singing of some birds whose name he did not know. Mixed with their song was the soft cooo, coo-coo-coo of turtledoves. Dragonflies sailed low across the garden, despite the early hour, on red translucent wings; the loud, insistent trilling of cicadas resounded from every tree beneath the tiers of leaves that obscured the sky.

  He drank in this summer feast.

  He then let his eyes wander over a different sort of feast: plates of roast ham, prosciutto, cheese, black olives, an assortment of pickles, and a tomato and basil salad. Eating surrounded by the green of the forest was already a luxury; now added to it was this fine spread, served casually to an uninvited guest. His initial impression of the woman as miserly had faded during the night and by morning was entirely gone. Moreover, he no longer felt that time had stopped here; rather, he’d begun to feel that this moment, as experienced in this place, was the only real time.

  “Excuse me for asking, but are the two of you brother and sister?” he said, though he already suspected they weren’t.

  “Oh, no,” she said with a low laugh, “I’m just his employee.”

  To Yusuke, the word “employee” meant working for a store or a company, and her answer puzzled him.

  “Employee?”

  “I’m his maid.”

  Yusuke looked the woman in the face, astonished. So she wasn’t the owner of a summer house. She wasn’t even a regular housewife. She was a maid … Somehow, though, the word didn’t at all suit the person who had set out this elegant Western meal for him. The revelation left him baffled, particularly when he remembered the way she had behaved and spoken the night before.

  She must have sensed his confusion, for she added, “But we’ve known each other so long that I feel he’s like my little brother, or my son.”

  “That long?”

  “Yes.”

  Maybe she was hired by the man’s parents when he was a child. Maybe that was why she called him simply by his first name, Taro, as if he were her younger brother.

  Her eyes were trained on a spot far in the distance.

  “We’ve known each other for a very long time,” she repeated and then pressed her lips together, perhaps to resist the temptation to be drawn into the past. Yusuke waited for her to say something more, but she did not continue.

  “He’s rather an unusual person, isn’t he?” he began again.

  She smiled sardonically before saying, “He’s an eccentric, all right—a genuine eccentric.”

  Yusuke didn’t tell her that other people somet
imes used exactly the same word about himself. The revelation that she was a maid, which still puzzled and surprised him, inevitably deepened his curiosity. The need to know more about these two only grew. Yet he didn’t want to push, not because he was ashamed of his curiosity or held back by her reticence. On the contrary, he felt that she herself wanted to tell him whatever she’d been storing up over the years; she was just unable to make up her mind and so was holding back. Still, he sensed that he had better not be the one to break the barrier. Otherwise, her need to share her story might vanish.

  A vision of the man’s face rose again, making him feel flushed and uneasy; the wound on his arm began to throb.

  Just then, she looked up at the sky.

  “Look—a helicopter.”

  Rotors pounding, a large helicopter was passing beneath the white clouds.

  “We get them a lot around here. Every time I see one, I wonder what it’s doing. Sometimes I think they may be doing a story on the imperial family’s vacation. But then we’re too far from Karuizawa. Perhaps they’re military. There’s a base just over in Matsumoto.”

  The helicopter spun out of sight. She continued, “Whenever I hear a sound like that, it makes me remember once during the Occupation when I saw a plane crash, out on a drill.”

  “The Occupation?”

  “Yes. In the old days, when I was working for the Occupation Forces, I got into the habit of looking up whenever I heard a plane fly over. One day, I looked up and flames were coming out of the plane and, before I knew it, it just fell to the ground.”

  “What happened to the pilot?”

  “He died, I guess,” she said matter-of-factly. “Right after the war, I was working on an Allied base.”

  Then she changed her tone, as though in excuse for bringing up old memories. “Since I came here this year, all I do is think about the past …”

  Once again she gazed far into the distance. “Especially today—I’ve hardly done anything since I got up.” It was virtually a confession that she had been crying. Both of them sat for a while until Yusuke broke the silence.