A True Novel

by Minae Mizumura

  “The Occupation Forces,” he said, repeating the words to himself with no particular aim in mind. It felt strange to actually say the words, ones he had only seen in print before.

  “A lot of things happened then,” the woman began again, possibly encouraged by this. “The first time I ever saw an American parachute close up—it was made of nylon—I was amazed how beautiful it was, what a lovely sheen the material had. When I was little, there was something called artificial silk, but it had no body to speak of, and it wrinkled easily. It was just so shoddy. We were all quite impressed when nylon came along. Everyone then thought it was much better than silk.”

  For someone he’d imagined to be reserved by nature, she was getting quite talkative.

  “I worked for the air force,” she added.

  “What was your line of work?”

  “Line of work?” She smiled as if he had said something funny. “I was a maid then too,” she said, using the English word, which must have been in regular use at the base. “At one of the officers’ houses.”

  She explained that she’d been taught a few words of English and was immediately placed in one of the officers’ homes. Boys worked for the soldiers in the Quonset huts while maids worked for the officers.

  “I had an uncle—my mother’s elder brother. Do you know the Mampei Hotel in Karuizawa?”

  Not surprisingly, Yusuke had never heard of it.

  “Well, it’s quite famous, a historic place,” she said. “My uncle worked in the restaurant there as a busboy from a young age—I’d guess he was in his teens when he started.”

  After the Mampei, he worked aboard ocean liners for many years; then when the war ended, he started working for the Occupation Forces, and it was through him that she got her first job in Tokyo.

  “Do you know Tachikawa station, on the Chuo Line?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “There’s an American base in West Tachikawa. My uncle was working there as head steward—a manager of some sort, in the officers’ mess. It was considered a very good job back then. You see, that was where the American officers ate, so the place provided the best food to be had in Japan in those days. He was one of the few Japanese to fatten up right after the war,” she said with a laugh.

  Yusuke laughed too.

  “He was a little bit like a foreigner himself—I suppose it’s because he’d spent so many years on liners. Maybe a Nisei would be a better way to describe what he was like.”

  Her voice changed, and she spoke of the past with a fondness that was almost longing. “He was very good to me. He knew so many things—so many different ways to fold a napkin, for example. I guess he taught me a lot about life.”

  She smoothed the wrinkles in her paper napkin as she said this.

  “He died a long time ago,” she said with a drawn-out sigh, and again pressed her lips together as if restraining herself, in case the many doors of her long-stored memories burst open.

  After a brief silence, Yusuke said, “You mentioned you were from Saku.”

  “Originally, I’m from Saku Daira.”

  “You mean where the Saku Interchange is?”

  “Saku Interchange …” She seemed to be savoring the sound of an unfamiliar combination of words. “Well, it wasn’t right there, but nearby. There used to be nothing but fields of mulberry bushes in that area once. Then they switched to lettuce. And now, all of a sudden, we have a huge elevated highway running through it. Have you heard that they’re building a Bullet Train station there as well?”

  NEAR THE SAKU INTERCHANGE

  The woman glanced at him, then turned back toward the yard.

  “I’ve been around for a long time, but all this just makes my head spin.” Her eyes were focused on the garden. “The farmers who own land there are becoming rich overnight. I’m happy for them,” she continued without emotion.

  Out beyond the porch was a small area of sunlight; yellow, white, and scarlet wildflowers mingled under the bright summer sun. Tall trees shaded most of the yard, so the pool of light was the only spot where summer colors displayed their full radiance.

  Just then, Yusuke spotted a group of three or four youths with blond hair passing on a path. Talking as they went, they moved like deer through the shimmering woods.

  “Are they American?”

  “No, German. A little farther down the road is a group of cottages for rent where German missionaries still stay.”

  “I see.” He remembered something his friend had told him. “I heard that Westerners don’t come to Karuizawa much anymore now that so many Japanese come here for the holidays. They go to Lake Nojiri instead.”

  “I suppose that’s true. One hardly ever sees them around here. Some may have moved to Nojiri, but with airline tickets so affordable now, I imagine most of them go back to their own country in the summer.” With a faint smile she added, “Anyhow, everything’s so different from how it used to be.”

  They were quiet again. After a while, Yusuke finally mustered the courage to bring up a question he’d been wanting to ask. He tried to make it sound spontaneous.

  “What does Mr. Azuma do for a living?”

  “He’s in business, I guess you’d call it.” She was still looking at the yard, not at him.

  “Business?”

  “Yes, he’s always flying all over the world. He’s in the venture capital business.”

  The unexpected English expression nearly made him choke on the wedge of tomato he had just put in his mouth. So, the things he’d been surprised by—the English-language magazines of last night as well as the laptop computer and other electronic devices this morning—were all part of this venture capital business. Yet just as these objects seemed out of place in this half-ruined cottage, so too seemed the phrase venture capital.

  “Does he own this house?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Does he come here every year?”

  “Usually twice a year or so. But this time, it was a while since I’d last seen him.” Her eyes were still fixed on the yard.

  Just above the cluster of small sunlit wildflowers, a pair of white butterflies were chasing each other in circles.

  “Mr. Azuma—his full name is Taro Azuma—lives in America.”

  “He does?”

  At long last, she had said something that shed some light on the man. Her answer explained part of what had puzzled him. Indeed, there was something about the way the man looked and behaved that struck him as exotic. Not that he seemed like an American, but he didn’t quite seem Japanese either. Yusuke recalled his nasal way of speaking.

  “Has he lived there long?”

  “Yes, for ages,” she replied rather brusquely and, after a moment, added, “Now that I think about it, he moved there before you could have even been born. Way back when.”

  She said these last words to herself.

  “Is he over forty, then?”

  “Yes, he’s forty-eight.”

  “I was sure he was in his late thirties.”

  “He does look young,” she said, pursing her lips. Then, for the first time in a while, she turned and looked at him. “He says that everyone in America goes to the gym to exercise on machines. And every day too. That seems like quite a lot of work to me.”

  There was a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

  “He hardly ever eats meat,” she continued, looking away again, “and he doesn’t drink at all.” She then corrected herself: “Or didn’t until last night.”

  Something about her tone of voice made Yusuke refrain from asking more questions.

  The woman said nothing else.

  In harmony with their silence, the scene before them, already enveloped in clear sunlight, grew even brighter. The foliage was radiant.

  The butterflies continued to circle in their little dance.

  Perhaps there was a light breeze, for the leaves high on the branches rustled softly, their murmur mingling with the birdsong. The sunlight worked its way through them to reach t
he porch; as the leaves stirred, their shadows lapped across the floor. It was as if the rays of sunshine were whispering to each other.

  ROAD IN OIWAKE

  When he came out of this reverie, he saw that the woman’s shoulders, right beside him, were trembling slightly. Yusuke took a breath and held himself still. Before long, she planted both her elbows on the table, buried her face in her hands, and began to weep silently. The two stayed this way for whole minutes on end.

  Who would have thought that things would turn out like this? Yet Yusuke felt he had actually anticipated this scene from the moment they sat down for breakfast. The tears she shed were probably ones she had hidden for years from people she knew, tears that could only surface in front of a stranger. He felt as though the burden of this woman’s life had been thrust in his face. Momentarily, the idea staggered him, and yet he was in no way put off.

  So as not to disrupt her, Yusuke stayed completely still. The fluttering of the leaves and the dance of light shining through them flooded his senses. Nature was gloriously alive in that moment—so much so that, were ever a state of real bliss to be allowed on earth, this, he felt, would be it. But, unaware of her magical surroundings, the woman kept crying—for what reason he couldn’t even begin to guess.

  After a while, she raised her face from her palms and said in a cracked voice, “I hope you’ll forgive me. Lately, I haven’t been myself … Why, I haven’t cried in front of another person since I was a child, and now look at me.”

  She had picked up the napkin from her lap and was dabbing her eyes.

  Yusuke simply sat there, not knowing what he ought to say. When she lowered the napkin and turned toward him, he gently met her eyes, red with tears. He wanted her to know at least that he didn’t mind in any way.

  The woman returned his gaze and, without saying a word, pulled herself together enough for a weak smile.

  YUSUKE STAYED TO help her wash the dishes.

  “I see that you’re used to working in the kitchen,” she said, her eyes even puffier now.

  “I’ve been cooking for myself since I was in college.”

  Just before he left, he told her his full name, Yusuke Kato. The woman told him that hers was Fumiko Tsuchiya, adding that Tsuchiya was a common family name in this area. His own, he didn’t need to say, was one of the most common surnames in all of Japan. Fumiko refused when he offered to pay for the telephone calls to Tokyo.

  He dragged his bent and useless bicycle with him as far as the gate and then, pausing, asked her, “Why do they play the ‘Tokyo Ballad’ up here in Karuizawa?”

  Fumiko tipped her head to one side as a sign that she didn’t know. When she spoke, it was not to answer his question but to ask one of her own.

  “How much longer will you be here?”

  “Through next weekend.”

  “I see.”

  She said nothing more. Lowering her eyes, she pointed to the base of one of the gateposts. There were two dark pink thistles there.

  “Thistles,” said Yusuke.

  “No, not the flowers. Over here.”

  Her finger was pointing at something next to them. He saw a small, blackened pile on the ground, perhaps the burnt remains of some straw.

  “Last night I lit the ogara right here.”

  As the previous night’s conversation came back to him, she crouched down and spread out the ashes with her fingers.

  “Have you ever lit one of these fires, to welcome the spirits of the dead?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I had forgotten that there was such a custom myself.”

  Wiping her fingers on her apron, she stood up.

  With that, Yusuke said goodbye. Though he had wanted to, he did not tell her about the tall figure in a white shirt he had watched from behind the night before, running up this narrow road. He somehow felt his restraint might earn him another meeting with the woman before he returned to Tokyo.

  Fumiko stood at the gate, motionless. Whether she was seeing him off or just staring into the distance, lost in thought, he could not tell.

  THE BICYCLE RENTAL shop, which doubled as a repair shop, was located close to the main road. The old man in a straw hat was crouched by a bicycle when Yusuke walked in. He looked over at the one Yusuke brought in and said, “Very busy this week. Can’t fix it right away. You’ll have to come back to pick it up the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon.” Abrupt though his manner was, he was nice enough to tell Yusuke that the bus that ran between Komoro and Karuizawa would stop there in half an hour. Yusuke’s initial impulse was to wait for it, but he changed his mind and asked the man if he could call him a taxi. He realized he was already beginning to lose touch with his working life in Tokyo, where taking a taxi was not that unusual.

  BICYCLE RENTAL SHOP

  Traffic was heavy on the main road. As he watched the slow-moving cars, waiting for the taxi to arrive, he noticed license plates from virtually every prefecture. Plates from Gunma, Niigata, Omiya, and such nearby places were no surprise, but he was amazed to see ones from faraway spots like Ehime, Tokushima, and even Oita, in the outer islands. For a while, Yusuke kept track of where they were from, wondering both at their perseverance and at the absurdity of spending so much of their precious summer vacation driving. Eventually, however, it became boring, and he looked elsewhere.

  The long, gentle curve of the deep green mountain ridges made a wavy line against the blue summer sky. Among them Mount Asama stood out, distinct, with its reddish bare earth visible near the top. Apparently, wind was blowing high above, as white summer clouds flowed past.

  He found it difficult to imagine himself going back to Tokyo and his job after the week was over.

  This was his fourth summer since he’d started working for a major publisher. Though he was pleased to land such a competitive position, in taking the job he had given up the prospect of graduate school, so as to avoid being a further burden to his stepfather. He had several reasons for choosing to work for a publisher: he would not have to get up early, wear a tie to work, or lose contact with books. Which is to say, he thought he could earn a living without compromising his student habits. Once employed, however, work was work, and much of his life needed adjusting. Having been a physics major in college, he was assigned to a science magazine. Then, in his second year, when the economy turned sour, the publisher scrapped the magazine and he was transferred to, of all things, a literary journal. He had been quite keen on translated novels in middle and high school, but he had never laid hands on anything as dull as a literary journal. To make matters worse, he was ill-suited by temperament to such work, since he disliked having to meet people. Sometimes encounters with authors were engaging, but, more often than not, he could barely endure them. Every time he heard the “authorities” on cultural trends—people often not much older than himself and not necessarily as bright—pontificating to the editorial staff about the latest fad, it made him feel thoroughly out of place, like a stranger in his own country. One time, he had to help the publisher’s star novelist move into a new house, which he didn’t take kindly to. The fact that none of the other editors seemed to share his indignation only added to his sense of isolation. That must have been when it started. Something that had been smoldering inside him began to rise to the surface.

  “Hey, you look totally burned out. Are you okay?” a friend from school had said with a worried look when they met after work one day last year. Wise guys often have a caring side to them, and he was that kind of person. Not long afterward, in early summer, the friend called and invited him to his parents’ place in Nagano Prefecture during the Bon festival holidays in August.

  Yusuke had first met this friend, Kubo, in preparatory school in Kobe, where Yusuke was a boarder. When Kubo’s father was assigned to a post in Tokyo, Kubo moved into the same dorm, and the two shared a room for two years, until graduation. They went to college in different places—Yusuke in Kyoto and Kubo in Tokyo—but after Yusuke found work in Tokyo, their friend
ship revived. Yusuke had shied away from accepting the invitation to his summer house that year mainly because he didn’t relish having to socialize with the whole family.

  When Kubo called him this year, though, things were different.

  “My grandma’s in the hospital, so my mom can’t leave Tokyo,” Kubo told him. “And if she doesn’t go, my dad’s not going either. Plus, my older brother will be over at his wife’s place near there. So it would be just you and me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. We can totally relax.”

  He had decided to go. The chief editor would no doubt complain, but Yusuke had not taken a full week of summer vacation since he started working. His team would not be affected as long as he worked through the night for a day or two, before and after the vacation.

  “Besides, you really need a break,” Kubo insisted on the phone.

  The August holidays soon came around. Kubo picked Yusuke up at work on Friday and they made it to Nagano the same evening. They spent Saturday cleaning the house, putting the bedding out to air, and shopping at a supermarket larger than any Yusuke had ever seen in Tokyo. They stocked up for the whole ten days. That night, however, Kubo’s parents called to say that his grandmother was not doing well. Kubo decided to go back to Tokyo at once but urged Yusuke to stay and enjoy his well-deserved vacation, and having the house all to himself. The next day, after spending the night alone, Yusuke had left for his bicycle trip to Komoro, and it was on his way back that he had his run-in with the hedge.

  THE TAXI STAYED on the main road for a while before it turned left onto another busy road, and then, a little farther along, took a right turn. After crossing a bridge, it went up a smooth, winding drive lined on both sides with large summer houses in a range of styles, but each making the most of the mountainous terrain. Maybe because the houses were built, on the whole, along Western lines on decent-sized lots with landscaped yards, it didn’t look like Japan. Yusuke had the impression of being in an American suburb, the kind shown on television or in movies. He felt a strong sense of displacement, staring as if at something unreal as the orderly scenery unfolded outside the taxi window.