I certainly didn’t want her to know what we were up to, so I went out to the garden shed and started puttering around, tidying things up but really waiting for Taro to come out to do one of his usual errands—but he didn’t appear, however long I waited. Once or twice, Yoko peered out of the kitchen door and asked, “Not yet?” As evening was descending, I started making dinner—still no sign of him. It was close to six o’clock already. Just as I was about to give up, he came out of the house carrying a shopping basket.
The front doors and verandas of the rental houses faced south; it was easy to watch any comings and goings over the fence.
“Hey!” I called out, opening the kitchen door. I ran outside, and Taro stopped. He looked puzzled, and then suspicious. I stood near the well and gestured for him to come over.
I held out the brown paper bag with the fried bun inside.
“Your name’s Taro, right?” I asked, watching a new expression appear on his face in the growing darkness. He held his chin up a little and pursed his lips. There was a challenge in his look.
“It’s a fried bun,” I said, offering him the package. “The lady at the house asked me to give it to you.”
He didn’t move, so I thought it best to encourage him. “It’s for you. You can eat it here if you want.”
He’d obviously never been given anything like an afternoon snack. I could see that he wanted it, but he just stood there as if chained to the ground. He may have found it insulting to be given something to eat like that, so I took a few steps toward the well and put the package on the tree stump. I felt as if I were putting out bait for a wild animal. He just glared, first at me and then the greasy brown bag, his face as blank as he could make it. Then, without saying a word, he whirled around, the shopping basket swinging from his arm, and ran off.
It was like a bat flying off into the darkening sky.
I left the bun on the stump, hoping he might take it when he came back, and went back to the kitchen to report to Mrs. Utagawa. She only said, “I see.” Five minutes later, she looked up from the cutting board to add, “Poor child.”
It rained that night. Before I went to bed, I went out into the yard and, helped by some light from the kitchen window, made my way toward the well. I stood there, umbrella in hand; the brown bag was still there.
That night, hearing the sound of rain on the roof, I kept dreaming of that brown bag with its fried bun inside. I may have felt more disturbed because the maid’s room faced Taro’s house. In my dream, the brown bag receded and the lone figure of the hungry-looking boy came forward, poised like an animal about to charge. And there were those eyes of his, like glass beads. As I lay there, only half asleep, listening to the rain, my heart was heavy, knowing that this child was living such a life.
The spring rain did not stop until morning.
When I opened the kitchen door to get the milk bottles, I could hear O-Tsune shouting, “You wet your futon again, you idiot!” Mr. Azuma had apparently left for work, as I could hear the awful sound of Taro’s brothers slapping and kicking him. Back in the kitchen, I looked out and there again saw a thin cushion drying on the veranda.
The grease-stained bag had half dissolved in the rain.
IT HAPPENED SOON after we returned from Karuizawa that summer.
Around that time, most people had stopped washing kimonos on their own, because it was so much work, but Mrs. Utagawa continued to take her everyday kimonos apart, wash the long strips of unstitched fabric at the well, stretch them on boards to dry, and later stitch them back together—something everyone used to do. She would choose a sunny day, as the season was changing. Yoko usually didn’t spend any time in the back yard, but on those days, she would come out as soon as she got home from school to help, as much as she could, and chat to her grandmother. Thinking about it later, I realized that that day Taro must have been watching Yoko.
Without making a sound, he appeared at the well. When Mrs. Utagawa noticed he was there, she beckoned to him gently. Yoko, for her part, hid behind her grandmother and then peeked out, her round face showing beneath Mrs. Utagawa’s rolled-up sleeves.
I was certain the boy would refuse to come, but he immediately approached.
In her kindest voice, Mrs. Utagawa said, “So you must be Taro.”
Taro gave her only a brief glance and instead fixed his eyes on Yoko, who stared back. Suddenly, he opened his clenched left fist and spread his fingers wide.
Something gleamed under the clear autumn sun.
On his palm lay three white pebbles. They were small, round, and smooth, with any sharp edges long since worn away; shades of green and blue and yellow ran through them. Yoko looked at the pebbles in wonder. Taro, for his part, taut with intensity, thrust his open palm toward her as if his life depended on her taking them. I hadn’t imagined that a child could be so determined. Collecting those three precious pebbles must have been the sum total of this boy’s summer holiday—that much I could tell from the way his fingers curved back with tension.
A nameless emotion welled up in me—a mixture of pity, scorn, and awe.
Mrs. Utagawa, just as surprised as I was, looked back and forth between the children.
O-Tsune’s sharp voice rang out. “Taro-o-o-o!”
Under that high autumn sky, the voice served as a reminder of how adults could ruin everything.
“Taro-o-o!” the voice came again. As if on cue, Yoko reached out and took the pebbles.
“Where’ve you gone to? Goofing off, are you?”
It was probably those words that inspired old Mrs. Utagawa to relieve Taro, even if only briefly, of the burden of O-Tsune. She bent her knees, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Yoko told me that you’re older than she is, is that right?”
Apparently too stunned by having the pebbles accepted, he just looked at her blankly; he seemed to hear none of what she said.
“If you’re older than Yoko, then you might be a good helper for us.”
Taro still did not reply. So Yoko opened her mouth. It was as if she knew all along that he would understand only if she said it.
“My grandma says you’re old enough to help out around our house.”
Taro came to his senses and looked up at Mrs. Utagawa. Cautiously, he nodded at her.
Naturally, it was my job to go and ask O-Tsune if we could borrow the boy for a while. Mrs. Utagawa hadn’t gone near Roku’s house since the Azumas moved in, and I can’t say I wanted to talk to O-Tsune either or see the awful conditions there. I had to force myself to go over. As I got near the veranda, I noticed that the sliding doors were open. The room, which was small to begin with, was filled with the most extraordinary clutter, all sorts of little things covered the tatami, some in small piles, some just scattered around. The moment I realized that these had to do with her piecework, I also realized why Taro hadn’t been out in the yard lately. He had to help her with this work.
O-Tsune, wearing a tired old smock, slid on her knees toward me. On hearing my request, she muttered something noncommittal, treating me with some disdain, the way I assume she thought servants should be treated. I had no idea what went on in her head, really.
Then I heard Roku’s voice. “Please—go ahead, use Taro as you like.” He sounded feeble, but I couldn’t see him, since he was lying on the other side of doors kept firmly shut.
We didn’t actually have any particular job in mind for Taro that day. Yoko caught colds easily, so we were about to put things away, go inside, and have something to eat. Like many households with children at the time, we made a habit of having an afternoon snack around three o’clock—tea and something sweet. When Mrs. Utagawa called Taro over earlier, she must merely have wanted to give him a bun or two; it was only after hearing O-Tsune’s voice and seeing Yoko and Taro together, probably, that she decided to take the boy away and let the children play indoors.
This turned out not to be so easy: Taro was just too dirty to take into Mrs. Utagawa’s room, where we liked to have our snack
.
When Taro stepped up into the kitchen, Mrs. Utagawa gave him a good looking over. I remember her frowning and saying with a sigh, “We don’t want fleas in the house, do we?” She and Yoko waited in her room; it was up to me to wash Taro’s hair. Luckily there was still a full tub of bathwater from the night before. I took him over to the washing area next to the bathtub and began to wash his hair. Right away I realized that every corner of his body was covered in grime; I kept washing here and there until finally I just told him to take off all his clothes and scrubbed him head to foot. I tossed the rags he wore into the washtub. After he was clean, I had him put on a pair of sky-blue flannel pajamas that belonged to Yuko. I felt a little guilty but decided it would be all right if I washed them afterward. Taro apparently couldn’t tell they were girl’s pajamas, and he didn’t protest.
I led Taro into Mrs. Utagawa’s room. Perhaps it all worked out because Taro was wearing Yuko’s pajamas. And because he smelled nice from the soap. His skin also had a reddish glow after being scrubbed so hard, and his shiny black hair, a little too long for a boy, covered part of his forehead. I had noticed his features before, but I’d never imagined he was so cute-looking—more like a girl, in a way.
Taro stood in the doorway, his almond-shaped eyes wide open. Once he saw Yoko sitting there next to her grandmother, arranging the contents of the sewing chest, he just watched her. Yoko looked up. Surprised at his appearance, she leaped up, letting everything fall off her lap, and almost skipped over to him.
“Good! You’re so clean now!” she said, as she leaned her face close to his neck and, flaring her nose, breathed in. “Mm, you smell nice!” He did the same. Maybe because she burned like a little furnace, Yoko’s face and neck always smelled a bit like warm milk. I would guess that’s what Taro smelled then. It didn’t occur to me to wonder how things would work out for the children in the future. I had been so anxious about what Taro might be going through, I just felt relieved and exhausted.
Yoko was a good head shorter than Taro, and her frizzy hair brushed against his chin. Taro, elated, scowled to hide it.
I gave up my hour of reading that day.
It was late by the time I served the snack, which I had some of myself. I needed to wash Taro’s clothes, but somehow it didn’t seem right to use the machine, so I did it by hand. When I went back to Mrs. Utagawa’s room, I found Taro and Yoko at the old lady’s low desk with a schoolbook in front of them. I noticed the three white pebbles lined up on the edge of the desk. Yoko was confidently explaining their homework to him. The two of them were still in the same class, though in a new building, nearer by: their school had been divided up as new children flooded into the neighborhood. While I ironed Taro’s clothes and underwear to dry them, I could hear Yoko chattering about one thing after another. Even when I started mending his clothes, her voice never stopped. At some point, the two had gone into the playroom at the far end of the main room, from where the same voice came at more of a distance. I strained my ears, but I could hardly ever hear Taro’s voice.
Yoko continued her excited chatter. This was Taro’s initiation into a relationship in which he would wander ever afterward between bliss and pain.
THE FAMILIES
Original title: Honkaku Shosetsu, by Minae Mizumura
Copyright © Minae Mizumura, 2002
Photographs copyright © Toyota Horiguchi, 2002
Originally published in Japan by Shinchosha Co. Ltd., Tokyo
English translation copyright © Juliet Winters Carpenter and Ann Sherif, 2013
This book has been selected by the Japanese Literature Publishing Project (JLPP), an initiative of the Agency for Cultural Affairs of Japan.
Production Editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
For information write to
Other Press LLC, 2 Park Avenue, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10016.
Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Mizumura, Minae, author.
[Honkaku Shosetsu. English]
A true novel / by Minae Mizumura; translated from the Japanese by
Juliet Winters Carpenter and Ann Sherif.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-59051-203-6 (pbk. original : acid-free paper) — ISBN (invalid) 978-1-59051-576-1 (ebook) 1. Japanese—United States—Fiction. 2. Rich people—Fiction. 3. Karuizawa-machi (Japan)—Fiction. 4. Love stories. I. Carpenter, Juliet Winters, translator. II. Sherif, Ann, translator. III. Title.
PL856.I948H6613 2013
895.6′35—dc23
2012046090
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Master Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Map of Karuizawa
5. Lightbulbs
6. A Stolen Day
7. Nothing But Romantic Memories
8. Career Woman
9. Windrush
10. Drinks at the Mampei Hotel
Epilogue
The Families
5
Lightbulbs
YOKO WAS LONELY. This didn’t really occur to us until her grandmother and I heard her chattering away with such animation that day. She couldn’t go and play at a friend’s house since that would mean leaving her grandmother alone, and bringing a friend home would probably have seemed doubly wrong—awkward for the friend and an imposition on her grandmother. At the local elementary school her classmates were a motley collection, the children of farmers, cooks, station-front shop owners, carpenters, and real estate agents—few of them the kind to become close enough for her to ask over in the first place. Her mother, who was gone all day, had drummed into her that she mustn’t make friends with “vulgar” children. Yoko herself, although she was sickly, and shy around strangers, was the classic example of someone who at home turned into a little autocrat: she certainly lorded it over her grandmother and me. Making friends didn’t come easily to her. Still, she must have been lonely with no one but an old lady and a housemaid for playmates. That day when old Mrs. Utagawa invited Taro into the house, I’m sure she did so on an impulse, just to give him a break from the usual grind; but to Yoko the invitation meant that here was a ready-made friend, one who had her grandmother’s approval.
Then came the incident of the following day. If that hadn’t happened, I doubt if Taro would ever have become such a fixture in the Utagawa household. And I doubt if Mrs. Utagawa would have taken it on herself to become his protector to the extent that she did.
The afternoon this occurred, after she came home from school we couldn’t find Yoko anywhere in the house. She’d called out a cheery greeting, and her red leather backpack was right by her grandmother’s low desk where it was supposed to be, but there was no sign of its owner. She wasn’t upstairs or in the toilet. Mrs. Utagawa hastily opened the glass sliding doors that overlooked the front yard, then the front door facing the gate, calling “Yoko! Yoko!” in a loud voice, but there was no answer. Finally when she called from the back door, there was a response.
“Over here, Grandma!” Yoko’s high-pitched voice came from the direction of the Azuma house. Mrs. Utagawa and I exchanged looks and thrust our feet into wooden clogs, wondering what on earth was going on. We hurried past the wooden fence to find the sliding doors on the veranda wide open and Yoko’s little sandals lined up neatly on the s
tepping-stone beneath.
Mrs. Utagawa went and looked inside the small four-and-a-half-mat tatami room. For a second she seemed unable to take in what was going on—and then the blood drained from her face.
The day before, I had missed it—either O-Tsune had blocked my view when she came toward me, or else I just didn’t try to look in—but at that moment I saw just how unsavory that cluttered room was. In the center was a flesh-colored mound, a heap of tiny arms and legs. Looking more closely, I saw naked rubber dolls with blond hair, each one about the length of my hand. They lay piled up by the dozen, surrounded by fluffy nylon cloth, thread, and ribbons of blue, orange, and pink. But that alone wouldn’t have accounted for Mrs. Utagawa’s turning so pale. What was genuinely obscene, made worse by the mound of naked rubber dolls, was a scattering of pages that had been torn from old magazines—men’s magazines—and crumpled into balls for packing. Black-and-white photographs of women suspended upside down in their underwear; garish woodblock prints of naked young women, their hair piled high, being assaulted with bamboo spears … Fragments of such scenes were like poisonous thorns, stabbing at my eyes.
In the midst of this mess Yoko was sitting with her knees bent inward and feet splayed, as usual, her skirt flaring around her. To show off what she was doing, she grabbed a doll by the legs, turned around, and held it out for her grandmother to see.
As my shock wore off, it sank in that Yoko was just helping out, putting skirts on rubber dolls. When she went over to ask if Taro could come out and play, they must have told her that he had work to do and couldn’t leave till the job was done. So she pitched in, determined to do her bit so that he could play sooner. Since she was only eight years old and clumsy to begin with, she couldn’t have been much use, but O-Tsune’s character was so twisted I’m sure it tickled her to think of an Utagawa girl doing such work. Instead of stopping her, she probably egged her on. No one else from the Utagawa family had paid the Azumas a visit since they moved in, and I doubt very much that she expected Mrs. Utagawa to show up. Like most people, she knew only her own world and could never have imagined how appalled we might be to catch Yoko in these circumstances.
A True Novel Page 36