It was hard for me not to watch Sarah, sitting there wearing nothing but a towel, the hazy afternoon sun lighting her pale skin and alluring hair. My last relationship had ended a long time ago and I was unused to this kind of intimacy. I couldn’t help feeling touched at how comfortable she was in my presence.
She continued, speaking enthusiastically about the woman I was going to meet. ‘She’s been a real godsend. When I arrived, she sorted everything out for me. I didn’t even have to ask. She’s had foreigners stay with her before, so she’s used to dealing with us. I must’ve stayed there about two weeks before I got to move into my apartment. It helped me acclimatize to life here.’
‘Do you think she’ll be willing to talk about ghost-hunting?’
‘I reckon she’ll be cool about it. She’s cool about most things. Just likes to talk mainly. I think one of her children was in the same year as the students who died, maybe even in the same class. So she may have some insight into all that. The other thing is, she met your predecessor.’
I sat up. ‘She met Charlie?’
‘I heard she invited him over for dinner.’
This was an unexpected piece of information. I’d been wondering where Charlie had stayed when he came to Izumi, who he’d talked to, what he’d done. I’d wondered whether he’d visited the high school, looked into the classrooms, met the teachers just like me. And maybe now I was about to find out.
Knowing he’d seen Sarah’s host mum in the last week of his life, I was fuelled with a need to know more. The change in tone and appearance of his notes had happened with alarming suddenness, as though a particular event had ripped the ground from underneath him. What that was I didn’t know. Out of respect or possibly fear, I had resisted reading the garbled notes of his final days. But what would Mrs Azuma have to say about his behaviour on the night he came to dinner?
We arrived at the Azuma residence right on time – Sarah told me this was the kind of thing Mrs Azuma appreciated. It was a large modern house on a typically quiet street at the foot of the hills. With its impressive gates and manicured traditional gardens, it stood out from the other houses. Sarah explained that Mr Azuma was rumoured to be raking it in as factory manager and Mrs Azuma had been born into one of Izumi’s richest families, so by Izumi’s standards they were royalty.
As we stood on the porch I was amazed to see a plaque on the door embossed with a floral pattern and bearing the legend ‘Home Sweet Home’ in English. Sarah noticed my reaction and laughed.
The door swung open and Mrs Azuma appeared with a show of theatrical surprise. She was a small wiry woman with cropped hair, over-sized glasses and an irrepressible energy.
She dragged us off the porch, took our jackets and generally buzzed around like an excited child.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ she cried, patting me on the arm. ‘You must be James.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Thank you for inviting me tonight.’
Mrs Azuma clasped my hand with a powerful grip, then started pushing me towards the sitting room area. ‘Come. Sit down. You must be very hungry.’
Entering the spacious sitting room the décor caught me by surprise, a weird blend of Eastern and Western furniture and artefacts. A small ancestral shrine with candles and burning incense was a feature along one wall, and this was flanked on either side by a collection of hideous porcelain dolls in glass cases. Against another wall was a kitsch red leather armchair and sofa set, beneath a beautiful classical Japanese wall-hanging. A low table in the centre of the room had been meticulously set for dinner and it was to this that Mrs Azuma led us.
‘Sit,’ she said, pointing the way.
Sarah nudged me in the back, enjoying the theatre of Mrs Azuma. ‘Where shall we sit?’
‘You sit together,’ Mrs Azuma said with a twinkle in her eye, in no doubt that we were already more than just friends. Then, satisfied we were doing what she wanted, she darted out of the room.
‘Wow,’ I said to Sarah, ‘that’s one wired-up bunny.’
‘It’s no joke. You just have to batten down the hatches and go with the flow. Don’t worry, she’s pretty manic at the start of the evening, but she usually mellows out.’
‘Nice display.’ I pointed to the porcelain dolls, staring at us from their glass cases.
‘Yeah, I know it’s hard, but do say something nice about them. She got them in France and they’re her pride and joy. They cost about three grand each as well.’
We sat in silence for a few moments while Mrs Azuma clattered about in the kitchen and I had a chance to take in the surroundings. It would definitely have been a lovely room, were it not for the Western tat. There were some beautiful traditional Japanese scrolls on the wall, a well-tended bonsai tree on the cabinet, while all the table settings were exquisite, with hand-painted lacquer bowls, carved wooden chopsticks and a bowl of floating orchid flowers as a centrepiece.
‘Oh and if you could comment on those frames she’ll love you forever.’ Sarah gestured to a row of framed certificates on the wall. ‘They’re all to do with stuff her sons have done.’
‘Are you ready to eat?’ Mrs Azuma appeared at the door, then withdrew before we’d had a chance to answer.
‘There’s something else you should bear in mind. She’ll feed you till you’re blue in the face, so pace yourself. She’s famous here for her hosting exploits.’
As soon as Sarah said this Mrs Azuma materialized in front of us and deposited an armful of plates onto the table. It was all weird and wonderful stuff and I recalled Josh joking that in Japan you never really knew what you were eating, that it was the culinary version of Russian roulette.
She plonked herself down beside us, sitting with her legs tucked underneath her in the traditional style of Japanese women, then began pointing to the different dishes, explaining their contents and exhorting us to eat to our hearts’ content. She also told us to bear in mind that this was only the first course, so to spare some room in our stomachs for several more. I replied by saying there was enough food in front of me to feed a small army. Getting caught up in this witty repartee, she then said her husband would be along soon and his appetite was roughly equivalent to that of a small army.
For a time, we tucked into the food and I got my first taste of seaweed salad, fried bean-curd parcels, octopus dumplings and a few things we couldn’t find a translation for, including a plate of fermented soy beans which smelled rank and tasted even worse, but would apparently do our digestive systems a world of good. Mrs Azuma was an expert host, jumping up every two minutes to fetch something else, plying us with Japanese beer and offering us lessons in the correct use of chopsticks.
As we neared the end of the appetizers Mr Azuma came in from work, a quiet serious man who greeted us cordially but with no real enthusiasm. Either he’d never had any of his wife’s sparkle or he’d long ago given up competing with her. Still, the poor guy had just walked in from work and the last thing he needed was to find two foreigners chowing down at his dinner table.
Having exhausted conversation about the food and how lovely it was, I decided to follow Sarah’s suggestion and comment on the dolls. This succeeded in sending Mrs Azuma into overdrive as she bombarded us with details about them. And seeing her in such good spirits, I hazarded another change of conversation.
‘Sarah told me that you met my predecessor, Charlie Whitehurst.’
Mrs Azuma put her cup down gravely and shook her head. ‘Ah, that was very sad. He came here to do research. Like you.’
‘I know. My professor told me.’
‘I don’t know why he came to Izumi. I don’t know what he wanted to learn. I remember he asked me many difficult questions.’
Whatever Charlie’s questions had been, Mrs Azuma clearly hadn’t approved of them and I got the impression that, underneath her cheerful exterior, she was quick to disapprove. But I knew what a valuable source of local information she was and I was keen to take advantage. ‘What kind of questions did he ask?’
She furrowed her brow and bowed her head in thought. Across the table Mr Azuma lit a cigarette and puffed on it languidly.
‘He didn’t ask me about the history of Izumi, about the many interesting events that have happened over the last two thousand years. He asked only about an incident that happened the year before. About Reiko, about Jun and Kanae, Hideki and Saori. My son was in the same class as those students. I knew some of them. I also knew their parents. It was difficult for me to talk about it then.’
I nodded my head sympathetically, keenly aware that I had just killed the atmosphere dead. Then I thought of Charlie in the last days of his short life, probably seated at the exact same table, trying to pick a reluctant Mrs Azuma’s brain. I could understand what a delicate topic it was, but I also wondered if the lapse of time might have made it easier for Mrs Azuma to talk about it.
She continued to bow her head, as though paying her respects. ‘It was such a tragedy. My eldest son is now an exchange student in America, so as a mother I know how it feels to be parted from your son.’
It seemed a good time to notch up some brownie points, so I asked about the certificates on the wall. This perked her up immediately – she sprang to her feet, went over and started pointing to each in its turn, providing a detailed commentary on the exploits of her two boys. The eldest – a genius and local celebrity – had various certificates for excellence in mathematics, judo and English conversation. His little brother – less able, but nonetheless brilliant – had mainly won plaudits for his chess-playing exploits. As I sipped my beer and listened attentively, I weighed up exactly what I could and couldn’t ask, so as not to cause offence. While I was happy to hear about Izumi’s ancient history, I desperately wanted to get some perspective on the high school incident from someone like Mrs Azuma, who had known all the main protagonists.
‘Are you all right?’ Sarah asked, when Mrs Azuma had gone to fetch the plates for the second course. ‘You’ve gone quiet.’
‘I was wondering whether I could ask the same things Charlie asked about. I don’t want to piss her off.’
‘You won’t cause offence. She’s not that easily offended. And anyway, when the other guy came it had only just happened, so the wounds were probably just a bit too fresh.’
I downed my glass of beer, thinking that if I slurred my words a little I could blame any transgressions on inebriation. I figured I’d already scored some valuable points by praising the dolls and showing an interest in the certificates.
Mrs Azuma returned shortly with another sumptuous array of dishes which must have cost a small fortune and taken the best part of a day to prepare. I exchanged a look with Sarah, embarrassed by this extravagant show of hospitality, considering I was only a passing tourist. Mrs Azuma talked us through the new arrivals, including both raw and cooked fish dishes with a selection of seasonings and dipping sauces. These were accompanied by what she referred to as the best food of all, a bowl of pure white glutinous rice.
We tucked in for a second time under our host’s watchful eye, making the appropriate sounds of surprise and delight. I told Mrs Azuma that if I’d been dubious about Japanese food before, she now had a complete convert, while Sarah claimed it was the best meal she’d ever served up. Even Mr Azuma seemed to join in the general round of compliments and appreciation. Only once did I commit a social faux pas – having let my chopsticks roll off my plate for the third or fourth time, I decide to solve the problem by sticking them into my rice. This drew sharp cries of complaint from both my hosts, and Mrs Azuma patiently explained that this was something traditionally done at funerals and thus associated with death. To do it at any other time was extremely bad luck.
It was just as Mr Azuma was introducing me to the delights of Japanese sake that I felt bold enough to bring up the subject of ghosts at the school. I carefully laid down my chopsticks, let out a sigh of satisfaction at the succulent raw sea bream, then turned to Mrs Azuma.
‘We went to visit the high school today.’
She sounded genuinely pleased for me. ‘Did you meet some of the teachers?’
I could see Sarah looking at me from the corner of her eye, maybe wondering if I was going to bring up the subject of Shirakami-san. ‘I met one or two. Do you know Aya, one of the English teachers?’
Mrs Azuma clapped her hands enthusiastically. ‘Aya is a very nice girl. She is a good friend of Sarah’s. But she is a new teacher, so I don’t know her teaching style. She wasn’t there when my youngest son was at the school.’
She lent forward and topped up my beer glass, which I took as a sign she might be amenable to the direction I was taking.
‘I also heard some of the ghost stories,’ I continued, making a point of downing my beer quickly. ‘I know it might be difficult for you to talk about that subject, but it’s something I’m interested in. It would be helpful for my research if you could tell me anything.’
A silence fell on the room as Mrs Azuma considered the question. After the effort she’d made in preparing the feast I knew I was taking a liberty, but I had both Sarah’s assurances and a growing sense that Mrs Azuma actually wanted to talk despite her stated reluctance. Across the table, Mr Azuma dragged on his cigarette and watched his wife. Beside me, Sarah quietly took another piece of sashimi raw fish, dipped it in seasoning and popped it in her mouth. And from across the room the dolls watched me with beady eyes from their glass coffins.
At last Mrs Azuma lifted her head and, to my relief, gave me a pleasant smile. ‘You can ask me any questions. It’s okay. It happened many years ago now.’
This was what I wanted to hear. Sarah had been absolutely right about her.
‘But first let’s eat some more.’
More food was the last thing on my mind, but more there certainly was. No sooner had the fish plates been whisked from under our noses, than a round of succulent meat dishes appeared – fried meat, boiled meat and even, to my amazement, raw meat. Mrs Azuma had not held back and she proudly pointed to each in turn and explained what it was and how it was prepared. I could see Sarah looking horrified at the prospect of more food and Mr Azuma gave his first hearty laugh, as though to say ‘look, she’s gone and done it again’. But I rubbed my stomach and let her know there was ample room for whatever she had to throw at me. I only prayed there wasn’t a cake tray to follow.
‘How about this?’ she said, pointing a little mischievously to the raw meat. ‘You like raw meat?’
‘I like raw fish. I didn’t know you also ate raw meat.’
‘This is special beef,’ she said, pointing to a beautiful arrangement of blood-red pieces. ‘And this is horse meat.’
‘Horse meat,’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘You can’t eat that.’
‘It’s very good,’ Mr Azuma cried, virtually his first contribution of the evening.
‘I’m certainly not touching it,’ Sarah said, taking the easy option of some fried chicken.
‘I’ll try,’ I said and, taking a piece, dipped it into my bowl of soy and put it in my mouth, eliciting a round of applause from my hosts. It didn’t taste too bad, just like a very rare steak without the seared bit. I even decided to further endear myself by ducking in for more. I had read the rules of guest etiquette in my guidebook and these included being a good sport and trying everything your host offers you.
‘I think you’re mad,’ Sarah said, making her disapproval known and causing further hilarity for the hosts.
With a belly full of raw horse meat and full pitcher of beer before me, I settled down to hear Mrs Azuma’s take on the darkest period in the history of Izumi high school. I’d thought I might have to work hard for small titbits, but in the end she spoke willingly and at length. She told me that the school and village had been alive with rumour in the week after Reiko disappeared. She had been a very beautiful girl, the object of many boys’ desires and the most popular theory had her eloping with an older man. However, she was also secretive and none of her friends knew of any liaisons. According to Mrs Azuma’s son, K
enji, many boys were in love with her, but Reiko didn’t appear to be interested in anyone. Kenji also said – and I was surprised that Mrs Azuma told me this – that some of the teachers were in love with her. One of them was even taken in for questioning by the police. Then an itinerant man, who occasionally passed through the village, was found in possession of Reiko’s bloodstained scarf. He protested his innocence, claiming he didn’t know how it came to be in his bag, but with a list of prior convictions to his name and no one to come to his defence, he was tried, found guilty and handed the death sentence. Mrs Azuma then said that she, like almost everyone else in the village, had serious doubts as to his guilt. He protested his innocence to the end and offered no clues as to what he’d done with the body.
He had been taken into custody seven days after Reiko’s disappearance. Another seven days later Jun Takada and Kanae Kubota, two of Reiko’s closest friends, were found dead at the school. According to Kenji, they often met up at school after hours and would leave a window open so they could sneak in and see one another. Both their parents disapproved of the liaison, so it was the only way they could meet. No one, including the police, knew whether it was a murder investigation or a lovers’ suicide pact. However, they were found in separate places, one at the bottom of the steps by the main entrance, one on the forecourt after a plunge from the third floor. According to Kenji, they had not been themselves for a while after Reiko’s death, so a popular theory in class had them arguing, with Jun pushing Kanae down the steps and accidentally killing her. Then, wracked by guilt and grief, he had returned to his classroom and leapt to his death.
Mrs Azuma was well into her stride, speaking gravely but animatedly, filling me in on plenty of incidental detail just as Sarah had predicted. She stopped only to offer everyone more beer before continuing with her tragic tale.
Reiko Page 8