A True Novel

by Minae Mizumura

  The same sense of displacement continued as he went into Kubo’s house. He had been away only one day and yet he felt as if he had returned from a long journey. The house was spacious and full of natural light. He was struck by the clerestory windows along the top of the high-ceilinged living room. Other details that had gone unnoticed now pressed for his attention: the solid insulated glass, the glossy hardwood floors, the gleaming kitchen cabinetry. All cried out “today.” Yet, whatever that “today” was, it no longer seemed real to Yusuke.

  He took a shower. He was searching through the bathroom cabinets for tape and gauze to rebandage the scrape on his arm when the telephone rang. It was Kubo.

  “I don’t know what the heck’s going on. Grandma’s a lot better now.”

  “Really?” Yusuke answered, not knowing what else to say.

  “I’ll go see her at the hospital tomorrow morning, and then I’ll head back your way.”

  “Is it okay for you to leave?”

  “Sure. They said she might even be able to go home soon. She just turned eighty, so she’s still got years to live—statistically speaking, that is. It’s a bit scary how people live so long nowadays.”

  Yusuke just smiled at his end of the phone. Kubo asked how he was getting along.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “I mean are you getting your head together.”

  “My head’s fine too.”

  The sensation that the full moon the night before had cast a spell over him still persisted. He felt as if someone else was speaking to Kubo while his own soul wandered about outside him in a different realm. He was far from feeling fine, really—yet he didn’t dislike the sensation either.

  “You know what? I’m really sorry, but I wrecked your bike.”

  Yusuke launched into a heavily edited version of the events of the previous night, but Kubo, after listening for a while, interrupted in an exasperated voice, “You could have just called 104 and found out the number. You know—Information.”

  “And asked for what number?”

  “The management office for the house.”

  “I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

  “Sure, you did. We drove by it a bunch of times.”

  “But I wouldn’t have known what name to ask for, anyway.”

  “You just say, ‘The Mitsui Woods in Middle Karuizawa.’ ”

  He now remembered seeing a sign with that name from the taxi, just at the bridge. He realized for the first time that the sign referred to the whole development. He also remembered that Kubo’s father worked for one of the companies in the Mitsui Group.

  “Don’t forget the mighty Mitsui,” Kubo said with a laugh. He then said he was glad Yusuke had made it home safely, adding that he shouldn’t worry about the bicycle, which was “a piece of junk anyway.” There the conversation ended.

  BY THE TIME Yusuke bandaged his arm and tossed his bloodstained shirt and jeans into the washing machine, he felt so tired that he went upstairs to his room and lay down on his bed, his eyes closed, his arms crossed under his head. Dazed from lack of sleep, his mind spun with impressions from the night before, circling in blazing colors in his head. He fell asleep amid the turmoil of those colors, only to be woken by the sound of a storm breaking overhead. It was a real summer storm, the kind one seldom sees in Tokyo. In an instant, the sky turned dark, thunder rolling just above him and farther off. Yusuke got up and planted himself by a triangle of window, watching the rain sluice down, his forehead pressed against the glass. Just in front of him, the leaves of a maple were being battered by the harshly rushing rain. Out in the yard, crevices quickly filled with water and widened into swirling, muddy creeks. It grew dark inside as well. After a while, he left the window and flipped on the light switch. With the artificial light’s reflection on the windowpane, the outside turned black, as if plunged into night.

  Yusuke suddenly felt hungry, and headed downstairs to see what was in the refrigerator.

  2

  Two Summer Villas

  KARUIZAWA IS AN old post town, turned into a summer resort by Westerners in the late nineteenth century. Looking for a place to escape the intense summer heat of the city, a missionary discovered this locale, deep in the mountains, often veiled in mist and fog, far above sea level. One by one the expatriates came, and soon Karuizawa, after years of lying remote and unvisited following the advent of the railway age, was transformed into a bustling summer retreat for Westerners. In modern history, Japan was one of the few countries in Asia that never fell to Western rule. Yet Karuizawa became a virtual colony—no, a mini-Europe within Japan. It was a special enclave where one could hear organ-accompanied hymns, watch children with curly blond hair play, and smell ham, sausages, and cheese dangling in storefronts on the main street. In no time the Westernized and privileged of Japanese society, from the imperial family down to successful artists, followed suit, and Karuizawa came to be known as the country’s most exclusive summer resort. It was also known for its liberated atmosphere, where the notion of “romantic love,” so celebrated in the West, could blossom. After World War II, Japan rapidly recovered and even became rich—and also thoroughly middle-class. More and more ordinary corporate employees started to build summer houses in Karuizawa. It lost its aura as a place for the elite, but thanks to its history, the name still evoked that early period, and the spot began to flourish as a tourist destination for masses of vacationers from all over Japan.

  It was, perhaps, due both to its history of exclusiveness and its present popularity that Yusuke had avoided visiting the area before.

  The nap he’d taken the previous afternoon prevented his falling asleep until well toward dawn, and by the time he woke up, the sun was already high. He decided to walk to Middle Karuizawa station, where he boarded a creaky local train and arrived in Karuizawa around eleven o’clock. The mountain weather was apt to change without any warning—clear sky one minute, fog the next, then suddenly a few drops of rain. Yusuke, who was caught off guard by the ferocious storm the evening before, had put an umbrella in his backpack, and he was glad that he had. He walked for a while along the main street, guidebook in hand, then decided to seek out the hotel that Fumiko had mentioned, the Mampei. A right turn took him to a road shaded by larch trees and lined with summer houses on spacious lots, less crowded with tourists than he expected.

  According to the guidebook, by taking a short detour he would find the tennis courts where the present emperor had met the beautiful young woman destined to be the first commoner to become empress of Japan. Feeling obliged not to miss the site of the “romance of the century,” Yusuke strolled toward it, only to find some ordinary tennis courts surrounded by a chain-link fence, just a block away from the clamor of the town. The place hadn’t even the faintest mystique, he noted with some surprise, and returned to his original route.

  Before long, he arrived at the Mampei Hotel, a grand chaletlike building with a formal porte cochère. Yusuke strode past the uniformed bellhops who greeted him with deferential bows and went on in as if he were a guest. In the dimly lit lobby were some curious stained-glass panels depicting scenes of Karuizawa in different periods, always against the backdrop of the volcanic Mount Asama. There was one from a couple of centuries ago, when Karuizawa along with Oiwake and Kutsukake—now Middle Karuizawa—were post towns with inns on a major highway. Another was from the 1930s, showing golfers in an open car stopping on the same road to unload their golf bags with the help of caddies; children with tennis rackets stood nearby.

  After lingering to study them at leisure, Yusuke passed on into a courtyard featuring a Japanese garden, probably created for the enjoyment of international guests in the early days.

  Leaving the hotel, he turned into a narrow side street, walked along a stream rimmed by an unsightly white guardrail, crossed a bridge, and headed toward a church founded by the missionary who first chose Karuizawa as a summer retreat. The church was a small wooden building. Yusuke had read somewhere that, while
the foreigners who had first come to spend their summers in Karuizawa lived in modest, Japanese-style houses, the Japanese who flocked here in their wake built more elaborate, Western-style villas. The church he stood in front of was indeed quite simple, almost primitive.

  By this time he felt he had fulfilled his obligations as a sightseer; he’d even paused several times to take pictures like a good tourist. He approached the commercial section of the main street, the so-called Karuizawa Ginza, from the higher end of the hill. The street, lined with traditional inns and tea houses serving sweets, had managed to retain a certain charm, with some buildings from the olden days. But before long he found himself swept up in a wave of tourists. As he shouldered his way down the gently sloping street, he noticed a crowd gathered in front of a bakery. He went in and bought a loaf of walnut-raisin bread, similar to the kind he had been served for breakfast in Oiwake the day before. Stepping out of the shop, he saw another crowd across the street, and, above them, an old wooden sign inscribed with traditional Chinese characters saying “Tsuchiya Photography.”

  Intrigued by the name, since it was the same as that of the woman he’d met in Oiwake, Yusuke crossed the street and made his way into the throng. Shoulder to shoulder with other tourists, he looked into the store window where, displayed along with photographs of famous figures who had visited Karuizawa—writers, sumo wrestlers, singers—was a view of that same street taken at the turn of the century. Several Western women wearing long skirts were walking briskly down the street, while nearby a couple of young local women stood with their mouths hanging open and eyes blank, their kimonos tucked up short and babies strapped on their backs. Yusuke couldn’t help thinking how utterly unattractive they were. Yet next to that photograph was another of some exquisite-looking Japanese women of the same period, sitting in a hotel dining room beneath a magnificent chandelier with their hair swept up in elegant coiffures and looking remarkably like the beauties in old nishiki-e woodblock prints. Here, he thought, was refinement it would be hard to match anywhere in present-day Japan.

  OLDEST CHURCH IN KARUIZAWA

  As he resumed his walk, the street became even more crowded, mostly with people younger than he was. They trooped by en masse, picking through the carts of tawdry trinkets in front of many stores, making the scene look no different from shopping areas like Shibuya or Harajuku in Tokyo. Yusuke, who had never liked places where young people congregate, decided he had seen enough. He quickened his pace.

  Sightseeing was not his only objective that day. He had come out to look for something to take to the mountain cottage as a small thank-you present. Yet, unaccustomed to buying such gifts, he had no idea what to look for. After crossing a traffic circle and reaching the Karuizawa branch of Kinokuniya, a well-known Tokyo food store, he realized he had reached the end of the Karuizawa Ginza. He wondered if he should stop and have lunch somewhere or, now that he was right in front of Kinokuniya, have a look inside.

  Just then, two women emerged from it.

  A middle-aged woman wearing a simple linen dress and carrying only her purse was in the lead, followed closely by a young woman weighed down by heavy grocery bags. There was something unusual about the younger one—her dark skin, large, round eyes, and a petite body whose shapeliness was emphasized by a bright, form-fitting T-shirt. She couldn’t be the older woman’s daughter as she didn’t resemble her in the least. The strange pairing intrigued him until it dawned on him that this must be a Filipino maid. He recalled reading an article in some magazine about Filipino women shipping out all over the world to work as maids, but he’d never imagined Japanese people being among those employing them, even though women here had given up this kind of work. If he had not met Fumiko, the idea that this young woman might be a maid would probably not have crossed his mind. As he gazed after them, thinking about the changes quietly taking place in his own society, another woman emerged from the store. She too was middle-aged and wore a stylish matching top and pants, but she carried her bags of groceries in her own two hands. No Filipino maid for her, he mused, and then was stopped short. It was Fumiko Tsuchiya.

  He knew her by her face, tilted upward, brow furrowed. Even as she turned and walked away from him, he was certain it was her. Running to catch up, he called, “Let me help you carry those.”

  She looked back with a guarded expression that changed as soon as she recognized him. “Well, well,” she said, “what a coincidence.”

  Yusuke felt blood rise to his cheeks. She had mentioned that she would be in town today, and he had chosen this same day to go there himself. Without being fully conscious of it, he had been searching for her face in the crowds.

  Yusuke reached out with his right hand.

  “Let me carry those,” he repeated, his voice animated in spite of himself.

  “You don’t mind?” She asked, looking up at him. Her eyes were no longer swollen from crying, and that stiff, impassive face was back in place. Even so, he could tell that she was pleased to see him.

  After looking at the bags she was holding, she glanced at his bandaged arm.

  “But what about your arm?”

  “I can manage a few bags of groceries.”

  “It’s more than you think.”

  He didn’t know if she was talking about the weight of the bags or the distance they would have to walk. Yusuke reassured her and reached over to take hold of the handles pressing into her fingers.

  Fumiko peered up at him after thanking him. “You probably haven’t had lunch, have you?”

  “No, but I’m not hungry yet.”

  “Good,” she said briefly, and then, apparently pressed for time, set off at a brisk pace. He assumed that they were headed for a parking lot, but instead she turned into a broad, shaded street lined with tall fir trees, where instantly it was cool and quiet. There were no other people, no cars.

  “It’s the Bon holiday, so the town is packed. I prefer not to use the car when the roads are so crowded. But look at how much I ended up buying!”

  The comment scarcely explained where they were going, but Yusuke didn’t press. He guessed she might be taking the groceries to the woman she had talked to on the phone that night in Oiwake. He imagined it would probably be worth his while if he just followed along. Maybe it had to do with the man he’d met. Beyond that, he had no idea what he was getting into. He sensed that Fumiko herself was aware of what he was thinking as she walked silently beside him.

  The tree-lined street continued straight on for a while, and as the two walked along he caught glimpses of spacious gardens through the hedges. All of them were carefully tended, with hardly a weed or a fallen leaf anywhere; in many, a luxuriant emerald-green moss covered the ground like soft carpeting. Tall trees—white birch, oak, Japanese maple—shaded the moss carpets, and behind them stood villas, each quietly dominating its territory and reflecting various tastes. The area looked quite different from Oiwake, with its little cottages planted haphazardly in the woods, or from Middle Karuizawa, where he was staying, with its houses arranged in an orderly new development on a hillside. Here he saw, among the large villas, ordinary two-story houses and even modest bungalows too, but what struck him most was the way the new residences did not diminish the prevailing atmosphere of an opulence that had taken years to develop. Did that impression come from the line of tall fir trees that told how many years had passed since the road was built? Or from the attention paid by generations of owners, suggested by the emerald moss gardens just visible through the hedges? Or from the bits and pieces of knowledge about Karuizawa that he carried in his head?

  Fumiko, intent on making her way back as quickly as possible, said hardly a word. Yusuke walked along, taking in the scenery unfolding to his left and right, wondering what awaited him. More than once there was a brief, light shower; the raindrops sparkled in the sunlight like scattered diamonds, making everything appear even brighter. They had not traveled far from the main street, yet it seemed as though they had already come a long way. At the nex
t fir-lined road, they turned left and walked on until Fumiko at last came to a halt.

  THEY WERE STANDING before a pair of gateposts made from large lava stones—remnants of Mount Asama’s repeated eruptions.

  The gateposts were imposing. Embedded in one was a stone nameplate with SHIGEMITSU engraved on it, while the other had two similar plates, SAEGUSA and UTAGAWA. Each was covered with fine cracks; the gateposts themselves were also worn by time, giving the impression that they had begun to erode from the inside. Patches of weeds grew where stones were missing, and moss covered the rest of the rough surface like mold. Here also moss carpeted the yard, though this particular one seemed less well cared for, as if it were giving in to the forces of nature. A thick stand of trees towered over the property.

  Fumiko said, “Here we are.”

  Through the trees he could see two old houses, both in the nineteenth-century Western style of architecture, one nearer the gate and the other farther back from the street.

  Yusuke paused, taken in by the sight.

  He took a deep breath, and only then did it occur to him that he had not seen any Western-style houses like this during his walk with Fumiko. Not only that, he had hardly noticed anything that suggested the period when Karuizawa had first been developed.

  Fumiko moved forward, but Yusuke stood still for a few moments, grocery bags in hand.

  The two houses were quite similar. With their peaked roofs, both were three stories high, but they looked less grand than timeworn. The house farther from the gate seemed older. The other one had apparently undergone numerous minor renovations over the years. Its rust-red roof tiles and its window frames and shutters were all relatively new, and the light dusty-blue paint on the clapboard siding still seemed fairly fresh.

  Yusuke’s eyes lingered on the more run-down house, with its faded tiles and siding.