“But maths is Akira’s favourite subject. Isn’t it, Akira?”
“Maths is easy!”
“And what does the little lady enjoy most at school?” the woman asked, turning again to Mariko.
Mariko did not answer for a moment. Then she said: “I like math too."
“You like math too. That’s splendid.”
“What’s nine times six then?” the boy asked her angrily. “It’s so nice when children take an interest in their schoolwork, isn’t it?” said his mother.
“Go on, what’s nine times six?”
I asked: “What does Akira-San want to do when he grows up?”
“Akira, tell the lady what you’re going to become.”
“Head Director of Mitsubishi Corporation!”
“His father’s firm’ his mother explained. “Akira’s already very determined."
“Yes, I see,” I said, smiling. “How wonderful,”
“Who does your father work for?” the boy asked Mariko.
“Now, Akira, don’t be too inquisitive, it’s not nice.” The woman turned to Sachiko again. “A lot of boys his age are still saying they want to be policemen or firemen. But Akira’s wanted to work for Mitsubishi since he was much younger.”
“Who does your father work for?” the boy asked again. This time his mother, instead of intervening, looked towards Mariko expectantly.
“He’s a zoo-keeper,” said Mariko.
For a brief moment, no one spoke. Curiously, the answer
seemed to humble the boy, and he sat back on his bench- with a sulky expression. Then his mother said a little uncertainly:
“What an interesting occupation. We’re very fond of animals. Is your husband’s zoo near here?”
Before Sachiko could reply, Mariko had clambered off the bench noisily. Without a word, she walked away from us, towards a cluster of trees nearby. We all watched her for a moment.
“Is she your eldest?” the woman asked Sachiko, “I have no others.”
“Oh, I see, It’s no bad thing really. A child can become more independent that way. I think a child often works harder too. There’s six years’ difference between this one”—she put her hand on the boy’s head—“and the eldest one.”
The American woman produced a loud exclamation and clapped her hands. Mariko was progressing steadily up the branches of a tree. The plump-faced woman turned in her seat and looked up at Mariko worriedly.
“Your daughter’s quite a tomboy,” she said.
The American woman repeated the word “tomboy” gleefully, and clapped her hands again.
“Is it safe?" the plump-faced woman asked. “She might fall."
Sachiko smiled, and her manner towards the woman seemed to grow suddenly warmer. “Are you not used to children climbing trees?” she asked.
The woman continued to watch anxiously. Are you sure it’s safe? A branch may break”
Sachiko gave a laugh. “I’m sure my daughter knows what she’s doing. Thank you all the same for your concern. It’s so kind of you. She gave the woman an elegant bow. The American woman said something to Sachiko, and they began conversing again in English. The plump-faced woman turned away from the trees.
“Please don’t think me impertinent," she said, putting a hand on my arm, “but I couldn’t help noticing. Will this be your first time?"
Yes,” I said, with a laugh. “Were expecting it in the autumn."
“How splendid. And your husband, is he also a zoo- keeper?"
“Oh no. Reworks for an electronics firm”
Really?”
The woman began to give me advice concerning the care of babies. Meanwhile, I could see over her shoulder the boy wandering away from the table towards Mariko’s tree.
“And it’s an idea to let the child hear a lot of good music,” the woman was saying. “I’m sure that makes a lot of difference. A child should hear good music amongst his earliest sounds."
“Yes, I’m very fond of music.”
The boy was standing at the foot of the tree, looking up at Mariko with a puzzled expression.
“Our older son doesn’t have as fine an ear for music as Akira,” the woman went on.. “My husband says this is because he didn’t hear enough good music when he was a baby, and I tend to think he’s right. In those days, the radio was broadcasting so much military music. I’m sure it did no good at all.”
As the woman continued to talk, I could see the boy trying to find a foothold in the tree-trunk. Mariko had come lower and appeared to be advising him. Beside me, the American woman kept laughing loudly, occasionally uttering single words of Japanese. The boy finally managed to hoist himself off the ground; he had one foot pressed into a crevice and was holding on to a branch with both hands.
Although only a few centimeters off the ground. he seemed in a state of high tension. It was hard to say if she did so deliberately, but as she lowered herself, the little girl trod firmly on the boy’s fingers. The boy gave a shriek, falling clumsily.
The mother turned in alarm Sachiko and the American woman, neither of whom had seen the incident, also turned towards the fallen boy. He was lying on his side making a loud noise. His mother ran to him and kneeling beside him began to feel his legs. The boy continued his noises. Across the clearing, passengers waiting for the cable-car were all looking our way. After a minute or so, the boy came sobbing to the table, guided by his mother.
“Tree-climbing is so dangerous," the woman said, angrily.
“He didn’t fall far,” I assured her. “He was hardly on the tree at all.”
“He might have broken a bone. I think children should be discouraged from climbing trees. It’s so silly.”
“She kicked me,” the boy sobbed. “She kicked me off the tree. She tried to kill me.”
“She kicked you? The little girl kicked you?”
I saw Sachiko cast a glance towards her daughter. Mariko was once more high up the tree.
“She tried to kill me.”
“The little girl kicked you?”
“Your son just slipped,” I interrupted quickly. “I saw it all. He hardly fell any distance.”
“She kicked me. She tried to kill me.”
The woman also turned and glanced towards the tree. “He just slipped,” I said again. You shouldn’t be doing such silly things, Akira,” the woman said, angrily. “It’s very very dangerous to climb trees."
“She tried to kill me.”
“You’re not to go up trees.”
The boy continued to sob.
In Japanese cities, much more so than in England, the restaurant owners, the teahouse proprietors, the shopkeepers all seem to will the darkness to fall; long before the daylight has faded, lanterns appear in the windows, lighted signs above doorways. Nagasaki was already full of the colours of night-time as we came back out into the street that evening; we had left Inasa in the late afternoon and had been eating supper on the restaurant floor of the Hamaya department store. Afterwards, reluctant to end the day, we found ourselves strolling through the side streets, in little hurry to reach the tram depot. In those days, I remember it had become the vogue for young couples to be seen in public holding hands something Jiro and I had never done—and as we walked we saw many such couples seeking their evening’s entertainment. The sky, as often on those summer evenings, had become a pale purple colour. Many of the stalls sold fish, and at that time of the evening, when the fishing boats were coming into the harbour, one would often see men pushing their way through the crowded side streets, carrying on their shoulders baskets heavy with freshly caught fish. It was in one such sidestreet, filled with litter and casually strolling people, that we came across the kujibiki stand. Since it was never my habit to indulge in kujibiki and since it has no equivalents here in England—except perhaps in fairgrounds—I might well have forgotten the existence of such a thing were it not for my memory of that particular evening.
We stood at the back of the crowd and watched. A woman was holding up a y
oung boy of around two or three; upon the platform, a man with a handkerchief tied around his head was stooping forward with the bowl so the child could reach. The boy managed to pick out a ticket, but did not seem to know what to do with it. He held it in his hand and looked emptily at the amused faces all around him. The man with the handkerchief bent lower and made some remark to the child which caused the people round about to laugh. In the end, the mother lowered her child, took the ticket from him, and handed it to the man. The ticket won a lipstick, which the woman accepted with a laugh.
Mariko was standing on her tip-toes, trying to see the prizes displayed at the back of the stall. Suddenly she turned to Sachiko and said: “I want to buy a ticket.”
“It’s rather a waste of money, Mariko.”
“I want to buy a ticket.” There was a curious urgency in her manner. “I want to try the kujibiki.”
“Here you are, Mariko-San.” I offered her a coin.
She turned to me, a little surprised. Then she took the coin and pushed her way through to the front of the crowd.
A few more contestants tried their luck; a woman won a piece of candy, a middle-aged man won a rubber ball. Then came Mariko’s turn.
“Now, little princess,”—the man shook the bowl with deliberation—“close your eyes and think hard about that big bear over there.”
“I don’t want the bear," said Mariko.
The man made a face and the people laughed. “You don’t want that big furry bear? Well, well, little princess, what is it you want then?”
Mariko pointed to the back of the stall. “That basket," she said.
“The basket?” The man shrugged. “All right, princess, close your eyes tight and think about your basket. Ready?” Mariko’s ticket won a flowerpot. She came back to where we were standing and handed me her prize.
“Don’t you want it?” l asked. You won it.”
“I wanted the basket. The kittens need a basket of their own now."
“Well, never mind.”
Mariko turned to her mother. “I want to try once more.“Sachiko sighed. “It’s getting late now.”
“I want to try. Just once more.”
Again, she pushed her way to the platform. As we waited, Sachiko turned to me and said:
“It’s funny, but I had a quite different impression of her. Your friend, Mrs. Fujiwara, I mean.”
Oh?”
Sachiko leaned her head to see past the spectators. “NO, Etsuko,” she said, “I’m afraid I never saw her in quite the way you do, Your friend struck me as a woman with nothing left in her life."
“But that’s not true," I said.
“Oh? And what does she have to look forward to, Etsuko? What does she have to live for?”
“She has her shop. It’s nothing grand, but it means a lot to her.”
“Her shop?”
“And she has her son. Her son has a very promising Career.
Sachiko was looking again towards the stall. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said, with a tired smile. “I suppose she has her son.”
This time Mariko won a pencil, and came back to us with a sullen expression. We started to go, but Mariko was still looking towards the Kujibiki stand.
“Come on,” Sachiko said. “Etsuko-San needs to be getting home now.”
“I want to try once more. Just once more.”
Sachiko sighed impatiently, then looked at me. I shrugged and gave a laugh.
“All right,” said Sachiko. “Try once more.”
Several more people won prizes. Once a young woman, won a face-compact and the appropriateness of the prize provoked some applause. On seeing Mariko appear for the third time, the man with the handkerchief pulled another of his amusing faces.
“Well, little princess, back again! Still want the basket?, Wouldn’t you prefer that big furry bear?”
Mariko said nothing, waiting (or the man to offer her the bowl. When she had picked out a ticket, the man examined it closely, then glanced behind him to where the prizes were exhibited. He scrutinized the ticket once more, then finally gave a nod.
“You haven’t won the basket. But you have won—a major prize!"
There was laughter and applause all around. The man went to the back of the stall and returned with what looked like a large wooden box.
“For your mother to keep her vegetables in!” he announced—to the crowd rather than to Mariko—and for a brief moment held up the prize. Beside me, Sachiko burst into laughter and joined in the applause. A gangway formed to allow Mariko through with her prize.
Sachiko was still laughing as we came away from the crowd. She had laughed so much that small tears had appeared in her eyes; she wiped them away and looked at the box.
“What a strange-looking thing,”she said, passing it to me.
It was the size of an orange box and surprisingly light; the wood was smooth but unvarnished, and on one side were two sliding panels of wire gauze.
“It may come in useful,” I said, sliding open a panel.
“I won a major prize,” said Mariko.
“Yes, well done,” Sachiko said.
“I won a kimono once," Mariko said to me. “In Tokyo, I won a kimono once.”
Well, you’ve won again" - “Etsuko, perhaps you could carry my bag. Then I could carry this object home.
“I won a major prize,” said Mariko,
“Yes, you were very good” said her mother, and laughed a little.
We walked away from the kujibiki stand. The street was littered with discarded newspapers and all manner of rubbish,
“The kittens could live in there, couldn’t they?” Mariko said. “We could put rugs inside it and that could be their house.”
Sachiko looked doubtfully at the box in her arms. “I’m not sure they’d like it so much.”
“That could be their house. Then when we go to Yasuko-San’s house, we could carry them in there.”
Sachiko smiled tiredly.
“We could, couldn’t we, Mother? We could carry the kittens in there.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sachiko. “Yes, all right. We’ll carry the kittens in there."
“So we can keep the kittens then?”
“Yes, we can keep the kittens. I’m sure Yasuko-San’s father won’t object.”
Mariko ran a little way ahead, then waited for us to catch up.
“So we won’t have to find homes for them any more?”
“No, not now. We’re going to Yasuko-San’s house, so we’ll keep the kittens after all.”
- “We won’t have to find owners then. We can keep them all. We could take them in the box, couldn’t we, Mother?”
“Yes,” said Sachiko. Then she tossed back her head and once more began to laugh.
I often find myself recalling Mariko’s face the way I saw it that evening on the tram going home. She was staring out of the window, her forehead pressed against the glass; a boyish face, caught in the changing lights of the city rattling by outside. Mariko remained silent through out that journey home, and Sachiko and I conversed little. Once, I remember, Sachiko asked:
“Will your husband be angry with you?”
“Quite possibly,” I said, with a smile. “But I did warn
him yesterday I might be late
“It’s been an enjoyable day”
“Yes. Jiro will just have to sit and get angry. I’ve enjoyed today very much.”
“We must do it again, Etsuko,”
“Yes, we must.”
“Remember, won’t you, to come and visit me after I move.”
“Yes, I’ll remember
We fell silent again after that. It was a little later, just as the tram slowed for a stop, I felt Sachiko give a sudden start. She was looking down the carriage, to where two or three people had gathered near the exit, A woman was standing there looking at Mariko. She was around thirty or so, with a thin face and tired expression. It was conceivable she was gazing at Mariko quite innocently, and but for Sachiko’s reaction I d
oubt if my suspicions would have been aroused. In the meantime, Mariko continued to look out of the window, quite unaware of the woman.
The woman noticed Sachiko looking at her and turned away. The tram came to a stop, the doors opened and the woman stepped out.
“Did you know that person?” I asked, quietly.
Sachiko laughed a little. “No. I just made a mistake.”
“You mistook her for someone else?”
“Just for a moment. There wasn’t even a resemblance really.” She laughed again, then glanced outside to check where we were.
Chapter Eight
In retrospect it seems quite clear why Ogata-San remained with us for as long as he did that summer, Knowing his son well enough, he must have recognized Jiro’s strategy over the matter concerning Shigeo Matsuda’s magazine article; my husband was simply waiting for Ogata-San to return home to Fukuoka so the whole affair could be forgotten. Meanwhile, he would continue to agree readily that such an attack on the family name should be dealt with both promptly and firmly, that the matter was his concern as much as his father’s, and that he would write to his old school friend as soon as he had time. I can see now, with hindsight, how typical this was of the way Jiro faced any potentially awkward confrontation. Had he not, years later, faced another crisis in much the same manner, it may be that I would never have left Nagasaki. However, that is by the way.
I have recounted earlier some details of the evening my husband’s two drunken colleagues arrived to interrupt the chess game between Jiro and Ogata-San. That night, as I prepared for bed, I felt a strong urge to talk to Jim about the whole business concerning Shigeo Matsuda while I did not wish Jiro to write such a letter against his will, I was feeling more and more keenly that he should make his position clearer to his father. As it was, however, I refrained from mentioning the subject that night, just as I had done on previous occasions. For one thing, my husband would have considered it no business of mine to comment on such a matter. Furthermore, at that time of night, Jiro was invariably tired and any attempts to converse would only make him impatient. And in any case, it was never in the nature of our relationship to discuss such things openly.