A few days later, he came home and announced that on Sunday we were going out to find me a job as a proper maid.
“And, here, these are for you,” he said, handing me a girdle and a pair of nylon stockings, both labeled Made in U.S.A., which he’d picked up at the PX. “But don’t wear them till Sunday!”
I FEEL AS though my first real memories—those connecting me to the person I am now—date from the day I went out wearing stockings for the first time. It was that day that my life took a very different turn, though I didn’t know it then.
I’m not sure exactly where we got off the train—I think we took the Yamanote Line from Shinjuku and got off at Komagome or some station near the Rikugien Garden. We didn’t talk as we walked along, but somewhere on the way I remember glancing at my uncle and seeing a look of complete bewilderment on his face. He stopped, his eyes blank, and stroked his cheek.
“It’s all gone,” he said.
Apparently, an entire neighborhood of stately houses had burned down in the fire bombings.
All we had was the new address on a slip of paper. We turned one corner after another, retraced our steps, and in the end decided to ask the lady at a cigarette shop for directions. The house had an impressive gate; my uncle paused to study a pair of new nameplates before he pressed his finger to one of the doorbells. In a moment, an older woman in a kimono peered out of the service door at the side. When she saw Uncle Genji, she exclaimed, “George! It’s been ages! How have you been? What brings you here?” Then she led us in through the front garden, the hall, and into the parlor. The house, which had a woody smell, was in the Japanese style, but with a Western parlor. It wasn’t too long before her husband, dressed in a casual kimono, came out to meet us.
His name was Mr. Ando, but Uncle Genji always referred to him as “the gentleman in Koishikawa.” Later I learned that my uncle had been purser on the ship the family took when Mr. Ando was posted to Paris, and, coincidentally, also on the ship they took back to Japan. He had kept up some connection with him. Apparently, Mr. Ando was now an executive at Mitsubishi Docks.
After my uncle had duly presented the cartons of Lucky Strikes and the Hershey’s chocolate bars he’d brought in his bundle, he introduced me. The wife looked at me and smiled to put me at my ease, but I wasn’t sure whether her husband even noticed I was in the room. He just sat down and said, “You would not believe how shoddily built this place is.”
“Oh really?” my uncle replied, apparently accustomed to this kind of exchange. He looked up at the ceiling as if inspecting the quality of the construction himself. “You decided not to build a Western-style house?”
“What happened is that the architect told us that they’re no longer in vogue, that we should go for one of those modern things that looks like a square white box. Anyway, I didn’t want to live in a cake box, so I said make it Japanese-style. It’s only six months old.”
My uncle smiled and asked, “Is it one of your sons who’s in the place next door?”
“Yes, my eldest boy and his family.” It was unusually quiet that day because they had all gone to the zoo. Most of the time, he said, it felt as if they were living next door to an elementary school.
“On our way here, we walked past where your old house used to be.”
“Yes, the whole area burned down, so we ended up turning over the land to the tax man. But that was our home for a long time, and we didn’t want to move too far away. That’s why we bought this patch.”
“Certainly makes sense,” my uncle said, looking around the large living room and nodding understandingly.
“All of us survived, so I have no right to complain. But the fact is we lost everything we had.”
Mr. Ando, his face expressionless, told us that during the war he had secretly listened to Allied broadcasts and looked forward to their liberating Japan, but once they marched in, they confiscated all his property.
“The Americans are supposed to be anti-Communist, but the way they occupied this country, they might as well have been Reds themselves.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” my uncle affirmed without the slightest hesitation. Mr. Ando then told us about all the land the family had to give up because of property tax laws enacted after the war—land in valuable resort areas like Kamakura and Oiso. He also mentioned people he knew who had been purged from the civil service for their wartime allegiances, and others who had been sentenced as war criminals. These stories were the first I’d heard of anything like this, and as they poured forth one after another I had to struggle to follow what was being said. I was stunned but of course fascinated too.
“George, what have you been doing with yourself all this time?” Mrs. Ando asked when she came back into the living room, carrying a lacquer tray. My uncle told her briefly about losing his wife and daughter in the fire bombings, and explained that my father had died at the front as well. Mrs. Ando, her forehead wrinkled with concern, looked back and forth at the two of us. Her husband, though, didn’t sound all that sympathetic as he said, “So you’ve had a hard time of it too.”
Yes, was all my uncle said.
The fact is, Uncle Genji had managed to maintain his relations with people like the Andos because he knew his place. He understood that our taking an interest in the lives of those above us was taken for granted, while their taking an interest in our lives was a favor they were bestowing upon us.
“With you getting all that food at that American base, I feel reluctant to serve you what we have in our kitchen,” said Mrs. Ando as she offered us some thin slices of sponge cake. Uncle Genji took this as his cue to bring up the subject of a job for his niece.
“So what happened to your maids?”
“Today’s Sunday; ours has the day off. You see, she’s not a live-in maid like the ones we used to have.”
“They call them housekeepers now, not maids,” her husband volunteered.
“Oh yes, we’re supposed to call them housekeepers. I just assumed that we’d always have maids living with us.”
My uncle raised his chin slightly in my direction and said, “If I may make a suggestion, my niece might work out well in that position.”
After glancing at me, she shook her head a little and explained that not only was their house fairly cramped, but their daughter, whose husband had died of tuberculosis, was living with them. They could manage with one housekeeper.
My uncle, not one to be discouraged, suggested, “Perhaps one of your other sons or daughters?”
She replied that all of her children had one live-in maid to help them with their young families, and, the times being what they were, none of them was in a position to hire a second. She went on to explain who was who in her children’s families, counting them all on her fingers.
Before she could finish, her husband, who had busied himself with the cake and his cup of black tea, asked, “Do you remember our Masao? Our third son?”
Uncle Genji tipped his head slightly to one side as if trying to remember his face, then nodded, “Yes, of course.”
“Well, Masao married the Shigemitsus’ daughter. You remember Shigemitsu, the man who was with us then? He came back from London by way of Paris. Well, Masao took their family name when he married their daughter Yayoi.”
“Miss Yayoi? Shigemitsu’s daughter?”
His face suddenly came alive. It was as if he felt a sudden surge of warmth inside.
I wonder if I’m reading too much into my memories of that day. But I remember seeing that expression on his face, then feeling something shift inside me. I sensed that I was about to step into a new world, that my life was about to change.
Looking at Uncle Genji as he leaned forward in anticipation, Mr. Ando went on with his account.
“They got married not long before the war ended. Now they’ve got a child in elementary school, a boy.”
“I see,” said my uncle, the same animated look on his face. He stroked his chin with one hand, apparently pleased at the turn their
conversation had taken. “The Shigemitsus, eh? That’s a name I haven’t heard for quite a while. What good news—that the two of them got married.”
“Indeed. They live in Kinuta.”
“Kinuta Village?”
“Yes, the Shigemitsus have a place there.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm. It’s still a bit like the back of beyond, I must say.”
Apparently, the Shigemitsu family had lived near the Andos before the war, but not long after the Odakyu Line was built, they moved out to Kinuta Village so their children could go to the Seijo Academy, a new progressive school. The area was renamed Seijo, after this school.
“Until recently, people there still walked around with paper lanterns for light, I gather. But the Shigemitsus have been there all this time. Became real Anglophiles, built a large Victorian-style house. Old Shigemitsu likes to pretend he’s an English country gentleman. The sad fact is, though, there’s not enough land for that in Tokyo, even out there.”
“True,” my uncle agreed, noting this new location on the map inside his head.
“You see, Masao is a bit of an odd one himself. He took a liking to the woods out in the Musashino Plain. It’s not to everyone’s taste, though. There’s nowhere to enjoy yourself. You’d end up sober in a place like that by the time you reached home after a night on the town.”
My uncle was stroking his chin again.
“I’d been wondering what became of the Shigemitsu family. I had no idea you were now in-laws,” he said, and then immediately seized his chance. “If no one in your family is looking for a maid, what about them?”
“The Shigemitsus?”
“My niece is quite capable for her age, and a hard worker.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
“Just the right age,” he declared, after looking at me briefly. “But there must be lots of people looking for maids now. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding her a position.”
“That’s what one would think, but I want her to be in a respectable home, like yours, so she’ll get properly trained. It’s for her own good.”
He was quick to agree. “Quite understandable.”
“So do you think the Shigemitsus might take her on?”
“You seem to have forgotten about the Demon.”
“She’s still with them?”
“She’ll be there for the rest of her life.”
“Well, then, how about Miss Yayoi’s place?”
“They’re not living on their own,” he said. “You know, there was a tragedy in the family.” He hesitated, then explained. “They didn’t lose their house in the war. But their son Noriyuki, the one who played the clarinet?”
“Killed in action?”
“That’s right.”
I could tell from my uncle’s face how genuinely shocked he was at this news. He sat in silence for a moment, then murmured, “He grows up in a great city like London, and then comes back to Japan just to die in the war?”
“That’s what happened.”
Later I learned that Noriyuki was Yayoi’s elder brother and the Shigemitsus’ only son. At the time, I understood from my uncle’s tone of voice that not all deaths were equal. Some deaths weighed far more than those of people like my father.
Mrs. Ando looked at him and said, “Why don’t I give Yayoi a call? She’s known everyone in the neighborhood since before the war. Maybe she could put you in touch with someone who’s looking for a maid.”
Her phone call that day had long-lasting consequences. When she called, she was told Yayoi was at her next-door neighbors’. A few minutes later, Yayoi returned the call. Mrs. Ando explained the situation and—who’d have believed it?—heard that one of her neighbors’ three sisters, the middle one, was looking for a maid. This was such a promising prospect we thought it better to settle the affair sooner rather than later and so decided to go directly to Seijo that same afternoon.
Straightening the collar of her kimono as she settled herself, Mrs. Ando looked pleased that she had been able to help.
“Which one is the middle sister?” her husband asked, head tilted to one side.
“How could you forget? She’s the prettiest of the three.”
“Really? I thought the eldest was the prettiest.”
“Oh, I see—you prefer her, do you?”
“Don’t be silly—to tell the truth, I can’t remember which is which.”
“You might pay a little more attention.”
“That’s expecting too much of me. I’ve only met them a few times—once at Masao’s wedding and a couple of times in Karuizawa.”
Uncle Genji interrupted.
“So which family is this?”
“Well, they and the Shigemitsus have been close for a long time, since before the war, in fact. They’ve even split the plot of land in Karuizawa, so they’re neighbors there too. It’s not an important family, though. No one has ever heard of them.”
“But the three sisters are real beauties,” Mrs. Ando said. “In Karuizawa, everyone knew about the Saegusa girls, and they had plenty of admirers. I’m sure you’ll want an eyeful of them, George, knowing you.” She said this last part with an unexpectedly teasing look.
“They’re pretty girls, all right, and quite fashionable too,” her husband said, straightening his back and raising his chin to mimic a stylish woman. “Come to think of it, they somehow managed to look more chic than Yayoi, though she’s the one who grew up in London.”
“My sources tell me,” Mrs. Ando added, “that the three of them were all in love with Noriyuki.”
Nodding, Uncle Genji chimed in, “I’m not surprised. When I met him on the ship, he was only in his teens, but if anyone deserved to be called Genji the Shining Prince, he was the one.”
The couple laughed; they obviously knew about the curiosity his name had aroused among foreign passengers. My uncle was still shocked by Noriyuki’s death, but apparently had no intention of letting on to the Andos.
“I hope it works out for you,” Mrs. Ando said.
We said our goodbyes and left. I would never set foot in their house again, but I did see the Andos a few times later in Karuizawa. Mrs. Ando, at least, would remember who I was and nod to acknowledge my presence.
It was Sunday, so the Odakyu Line was fairly uncrowded. We were able to sit together in the warm afternoon sun. As the train swayed along, the relief I’d felt when I heard that there might be a job for me vanished. What am I getting myself into? I wondered. Uncle Genji picked up on my anxiety.
“Hey, there’s no reason to worry,” he said, giving me a pat on the hand.
FROM THE MOMENT I emerged from Seijo station, I knew that life from then on would be different. Everything was bright, the air fresh. A breeze, blissful in the May sun, danced through the warmth.
Naturally, Seijo was no longer the rustic place that its old name, Kinuta Village, suggested. In fact, for someone like me, it felt as if I had stepped halfway into Europe. The fire bombings of Tokyo had reached only as far as Shimo-Kitazawa, so Seijo was still an area where some grand Western-style houses survived. We walked along a broad avenue lined with ginkgo trees until we started to see rice paddies, fields of vegetables, and woods. These sights, so familiar back home, seemed different here—more “picturesque”—maybe because you couldn’t help seeing them with the romantic eyes of those idealists who first tried to transform this ordinary landscape into a Western-style “garden city.” For me, as it spread out bright and clear, it was a picture of the future: one promising a new Japan, free of poverty, its people free to undo centuries-old ties to communities and moss-covered ancestral graves.
We got directions at a shop just as we left the station and could see the “Victorian-style house” from quite far away, since its walls weren’t high. I was overcome by its sheer size. As I approached the granite gateposts, a woman wearing a white smock over her work kimono showed up from behind the house, as if she’d been watching for us.
I followed my uncle into the property through a service entrance in the wall, still astonished, but also trying to take in the wide, semicircular gravel driveway. As we got nearer the woman, I realized she must be the one they called the Demon: her eyes slanted sharply upward on her square face, and the points of her canine teeth poked out a little on both sides of her mouth.
“Hello, O-Kuni,” my uncle said.
“Nice to see you again, George.”
Later I found out she had served as the Shigemitsus’ head maid for years. My first impression was that she made the perfect servant for a house with a stone gateway—she seemed rather self-important. She told us the family was over at their neighbors’ and that she had stayed to wait for us.
“This is my niece Fumiko. Fumiko Tsuchiya.”
“Hah. So you’re Fumi,” was the Demon’s greeting as she looked at me. “What are you up to these days, George?”
“Working for the U.S. military.”
She gave another “Hah.” “I see that you’re as clever as ever, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“And still decently married?”
“No.” He explained, as briefly as possible, that he’d lost his wife and child in the March 10 fire bombing. She didn’t offer any sympathy, but at least there was no “Hah” again.
After a short silence, my uncle said, “I hear that the young master died …”
She nodded.
“I’d like to light a stick of incense in his memory. But I imagine there’s nowhere to do it in a house like this, is there?”
“You’ll find a picture and an incense stand on the mantelpiece.”
My uncle, apparently aware of what the English word “mantelpiece” meant, looked at her as if he expected her to show him in.
“We’ll have to use the kitchen door,” she said rather tartly, turning on her heel and showing us the way. Once inside, Uncle Genji, who had already slipped off his shoes, nodded that I should do the same. We stepped up onto the cool wooden floor of the spacious kitchen.
A True Novel Page 27