第 17 页

“Well, how did it go?” Ogata-San asked.

“What’s that? Oh, the meeting you mean. It wasn’t so bad. Not so bad at all.”

I had been on the point of going into the kitchen, but paused at the doorway, waiting to hear what else Jiro had to say. His lather, too, continued to look at him. For several moments, pro went on to welling his hair, looking at neither of us.

"In fact,” he said at last, “I suppose I did rather well. I persuaded their representatives to sign an agreement. Not exactly a contract, but to all purposes the same thing. My boss was quite surprised. It’s unusual for them to commit themselves like that. He told me to take the rest of the day off.”

“Why, that’s splendid news,” Ogata-San said, then gave a laugh. He glanced towards me, then back at his son.

"That’s splendid news."

“Congratulations,” I said, smiling at my husband. "I’m so glad.”

Jiro looked up, as if noticing me for the first time.

"Why are you standing there like that?” he asked. “I wouldn’t mind some tea, you know.” He put down his towel and began combing his hair.

That evening, in order to celebrate Jiro’s success, I prepared a more elaborate meal than usual. Neither during supper, nor during the rest of the evening, did Ogata-San mention anything of his encounter with Shigeo Matsuda that day. However, just as we began to eat, he said quite suddenly:

“Well, Jiro, I’ll be leaving you tomorrow.”

Jiro looked up. You’re leaving? Oh, a pity. Well, I hope you enjoyed your visit.”

“Yes, I’ve had a good rest. In fact, I’ve been with you rather longer than I planned."

“You’re welcome, Father,” said Jiro. “No need to rush, I assure you"

“Thank you, but I must be getting back now. There’s a few things I have to be getting on with.”

“Please come and visit us again, whenever it’s convenient.”

“Father,” I said. You must come and see the baby when it arrives.”

Ogata-San smiled. “Perhaps at New Year then" he said. “But I won’t bother you much earlier than that, Etsuko. You’ll have enough on your hands without having to contend with me.”

“A pity you caught me at such a busy time" my husband said. “Next time, perhaps, I won’t be so hard pressed and we’ll have more time to talk.”

“Now, don’t worry, Jiro. Nothing has pleased me more than to see how much you devote yourself to your work.”

"Now this deal’s finally gone through," said Jim, “I’ll have a little more time. A shame you have to go back just now. And I was thinking of taking a couple of days off too. Still, it can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“Father,” I said, interrupting, “if Jiro’s going to take a few days off, can’t you stay another week?”

My husband stopped eating, but did not look up. “It’s tempting,” Ogata-San said, "but I really think it’s time I went back."

Jiro began to eat once more. “A pity,” he said.

“Yes, I really must get the veranda finished before Kikuko and her husband come. They’re bound to want to come down in the autumn.”

Jiro did not reply, and we all ate in silence for a while. Then Ogata-San said:

"Besides, I can’t sit here thinking about chess all day.” He laughed, a little strangely.

Jiro nodded, but said nothing. Ogata-San laughed again, then for several moments we continued to eat in silence.

“Do you drink sake these days, Father?” Jiro asked eventually.

“Sake? I take a drop sometimes. Not often.”

Since this is your last evening with us, perhaps we should take some sake.”

Ogata-San seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally, he said with a smile: "There’s no need to make a fuss about an old man like me. But I’ll join you in a cup to celebrate your splendid future”

Pro nodded to me. I went to the cupboard and brought out a bottle and two cups.

“I always thought you’d go far,” Ogata-San was saying.

“You always showed promise."

"Just because of what happened today, that’s no guarantee they’ll give me the promotion,” my husband said. "But I suppose my efforts today will have done no harm.”

“No, indeed,” said Ogata-San. “I doubt if you did yourself much harm today”

They both watched in silence as I poured out the sake. Then Ogata-San laid down his chopsticks and raised his cup.

"Here’s to your future, Jiro,” he said.

My husband, some food still in his mouth, also raised his cup.

“And to yours, Father,” he said.

Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often it is heavily coloured by the circumstances in which one remembers, and no doubt this applies to certain of the recollections I have gathered here. For instance, I find it tempting to persuade myself it was a premonition I experienced that afternoon, that the unpleasant image which entered my thoughts that day was something altogether different—something much more intense and vivid—than the numerous day-dreams which drift through one’s imagination during such long and empty hours.

In all possibility, it was nothing so remarkable. The tragedy of the little girl found hanging from a tree—much more so than the earlier child murders—had made a shocked impression on the neighbourhood, and I could not have been alone that summer in being disturbed by such images.

It was the latter part of the afternoon, a day or two after our outing to Inasa, and I was occupying myself with some small chores around the apartment when I happened to glance out of the window. The wasteground outside must have hardened significantly since the first occasion I had· watched that large American car, for now I saw it coming across the uneven surface without undue difficulty. It continued to come nearer, then bumped upon to the concrete beneath my window. The glare on the windscreen prevented me from seeing clearly, but I received a distinct impression the driverwas not alone. The car moved around the apartment block and out of my vision.

It must have been just then that it happened, just as I was gazing towards the cottage in a somewhat confused state of mind. With no apparent provocation, that chilling image intruded into my thoughts, and I came away from the window with a troubled feeling. I returned to my housework, trying to put the picture out of my mind, but it was some minutes before I felt sufficiently rid of it to give consideration to the reappearance of the large white car, It was an hour or so later I saw the figure walking across the wasteground towards the cottage. I shaded my eyes to see more clearly; it was a woman—a thin figure—and she walked with a slow deliberate step. The figure paused outside the cottage for some time, then disappeared behind the sloping roof. I continued to watch, but she did not re-emerge; to all appearances, the woman had gone inside.

For several moments, I remained at the window, unsure what to do. Then finally, I put on some sandals and left the apartment. Outside, the day was at its hottest, and the

The journey across those few dried acres seemed to take an eternity. Indeed, the walk to the cottage tired me so much that when I arrived I had almost forgotten my original purpose. It was with a kind of shock, then, that I heard I voices from within the cottage. One of the voices was Mariko’s; the other I did not recognize. I stepped closer to the entrance, but could make out no words. For several moments I remained there, not sure what I should do. Then I slid open the entrance and called out. The voices stopped.

I waited another moment, then stepped inside.

Chapter Ten

After the brightness of the day outside, the interior of the cottage seemed cool and dark. Here and there, the sun came in sharply through narrow gaps, lighting up small patches on the tatami. The odour of damp wood seemed as strong as ever.

It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust. There was an old woman sitting on the tatami, Mariko in front of her. In turning to face me, the old woman moved her head with caution as if in fear of hurting her neck. Her face was thin, and had a chalky paleness about it which at first quite unnerved me. She looked to be around seventy or so, though the frailness of her neck and shoulders could have derived from ill-health as much as from age. Her kimono was of a dark sombre colour, the kind normally worn in mourning. Her eyes were slightly hooded and watched me with no apparent emotion.

“How do you do,” she said, eventually.

I bowed slightly and returned some greeting. For a second or two, we looked at each other awkwardly.

"Are you a neighbour?” the old woman asked, She had a slow way of speaking her words.

“Yes,” I said. "A friend.”

She continued to look at me for a moment, then asked:

Have you any idea where the occupant has gone? She’s left the child here on her own.”

The little girl had shifted her position so that she was sitting alongside the stranger. At the old woman’s question, Mariko looked at me intently.

“No, I’ve no idea,” I said.

“It’s odd," said the woman. “The child doesn’t seem to know either. I wonder where she could be. I cannot stay long.”

We gazed at each other for a few moments more. “Have you come far?” I asked,

“Quite far. Please excuse my clothes. I’ve just been attending a funeral.”

“I see.” I bowed again.

“A sorrowful occasion,” the old woman said, nodding slowly to herself. “A former colleague of my father. My father is too ill to leave the house. He sent me to pay his respects. It was a sorrowful occasion.” She passed her gaze around the inside of the cottage, moving her head with the same carefulness. “You have no idea where she is?” she asked again.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“I cannot wait long. My father will be getting anxious.”

“Is there perhaps some message I could pass on?” I asked.

The old woman did not answer for a while. Then she said: “You could perhaps tell her I came here and was asking after her. I am a relative. My name is Yasuko Kawada.”

“Yasuko-San?” I did my best to conceal my surprise. “You’re Yasuko-San. Sachiko’s cousin?”

The old woman bowed, and as she did so her shoulders trembled slightly. “If you would tell her I was here and that I was asking after her. You have no idea where she could be?”

Again, I denied any knowledge. The woman began nodding to herself once more.

“Nagasaki is very different now,” she said. “This afternoon, I could hardly recognize it.”

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose it’s greatly changed. But do you not live in Nagasaki?"

“We’ve lived in Nagasaki now for many years. It’s greatly changed, as you say. New buildings have appeared, even new streets. It must have been in the spring, the last time I came out into the town. And even since then, new buildings have appeared. I’m certain they were not there in the spring. In tact, on that occasion too, I believe I was attending a funeral. Yes, it was Yamashita-San’s Funeral. A funeral in the spring seems all the sadder somehow, You are a neighbour, you say? Then I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance." Her face trembled and I saw she was smiling; her eyes had become very thin, and her mouth was curving downwards instead of up. I felt uncomfortable standing in the entryway, but did not feel free to step up to the tatami.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said. “Sachiko often mentions you.”

"She mentions me?” The woman seemed to consider this for a moment. “We were exciting her to come and live with us. With my father and myself. Perhaps she told you as much.”

“Yes, she did.”

“We were expecting her three weeks ago, But she has not yet come."

“Three weeks ago? Well, I suppose there must have been some misunderstanding. I know she’s preparing to move any day.

The old woman’s eyes passed around the cottage once more. “A pity she isn’t here” she said. "But if you are her neighbour, then I’m very glad to have made your acquaintance. "She bowed to me again, then went on gazing at me. “Perhaps you will pass a message to her,” she said.

“Why, certainly.”

The woman remained silent for some time. Finally, she said: “We had a slight disagreement, she and I. Perhaps she even told you about it. Nothing more than a misunderstanding, that was all. I was very surprised to find she had packed and left the next day. I was very surprised indeed. I didn’t mean to offend her. My father says I amto blame.” She paused for a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend her,” she repeated.

It had never occurred to me before that Sachiko’s uncle and cousin would know nothing of the existence of her American friend. I bowed again, at a loss for a suitable. reply.

“I’ve missed her since she left, I confess it," the old woman continued. “I’ve missed Mariko-San also. I enjoyed their company and it was foolish of me to have lost my temper and said the things I did.” She paused again, turned her face towards Mariko, then back to me. “My father, in his own way, misses them also. He can hear, you see. He can hear how much quieter the house is. The other morning I found him awake and he said it reminded him of a tomb. Just like a tomb, he said. It would do my father much good to have them back again. Perhaps she will come back for his sake."

“Ill certainly convey your feelings to Sachiko-San,” I said.

“For her own sake too,” the old woman said. “After all, it isn’t good that a woman should be without a man to guide her. Only harm can come of such a situation. My father is

ill, but his life is in no danger. She should come back now, for her own wellbeing if for nothing else.” The old woman

began to untie a kerchief lying at her side. “In fact, I brought these with me,” she said. “Just some cardigans I knitted, nothing more. But it’s fine wool. I’d intended to offer them when she came back, but I brought them with me today. I first knitted one for Mariko, then I thought I may as well knit another for her mother.” She held up a t cardigan, then looked towards the little girl. Her mouth curved downwards again as she smiled.

“They look splendid,” I said. “It must have taken you a longtime.”

“It’s fine wool,” the woman said again. She wrapped the kerchief back around the cardigans, then tied it carefully. “Now I must return. My father will be anxious"

She got to her feet and came down off the tatami. I assisted her in putting on her wooden sandals. Mariko had come to the edge of the tatami and the old woman lightly touched the top of the child’s head.

“Remember then Mariko-San” she said, tell your mother what I told you. And you’re not to worry about your kittens. There’s plenty of room in the house for them all.”

“We’ll come soon,’ Mariko said. "I’ll tell Mother.”

The woman smiled again. Then she turned to me and bowed. “I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. I cannot stay any longer. My father, you see, is unwell.”

"Oh, it’s you, Etsuko,” Sachiko said, when I returned to her cottage that evening. Then she laughed and said:

“Don’t look so surprised. You didn’t expect me to stay here for ever, did you?”