Hundreds of bonsai were lined up with careful precision along thick wooden planks throughout the estate grounds. Among them was a large pine that resembled the tree my grandfather prized so dearly. In my estimation, it was much too impressive and expensive even to begin to compare to the one my grandfather had.
“I’m sorry to ask, but does my grandfather really know nothing of bonsai?”
“He’s a rogue amateur.” The probation officer snorted with contempt, his genial expression suddenly darkening.
“But if my grandfather tricked people, they must have been extremely wealthy.”
I was thinking that if there were people who were so rich they were susceptible to my grandfather’s scheme, their lack of appreciation for the bonsai he adored must have made him blind with anger. I could hardly imagine that people would actually be willing to spend so much on a single bonsai; it seemed to me that the swindled were worse than the swindler. Of course, the probation officer didn’t see it that way. He was furiously poking his hand though the air around him.
“Plenty of people in this area got rich off the compensation money paid when they lost their fishing grounds. This whole area used to be under the ocean, you know.”
“Under the ocean?” I gasped in spite of myself, completely forgetting the bonsai. I suddenly realized that the love that had been ignited between my mother and father, and the energy it had generated, dissipated the moment conception took place. The new life-form that was to become me ought to have been released then and there into the sea that opened up between them. I’d thought that for a long time. And now at last I had found my release in this new life that I shared with my grandfather, a life that was the sea itself. My decision to live with my grandfather in his tiny pomade-permeated apartment, the fact that I had to listen to his ceaseless chatter and live in a room surrounded by bonsai, was for me the sea, the very sea itself. This coincidental congruence made me happy, and that’s what led me to decide to stay in the area.
When I got home, I told Grandfather about meeting the probation officer at the Garden of Longevity. Surprised, my grandfather began to question me.
“What did he say about me?”
“That you were a bonsai amateur.”
“Shit!” my grandfather growled. “That bastard doesn’t know shit! That ‘true oak’ of his that won the Ward Prize was a joke. Ha! Just thinking of it makes me want to bust a gut! Anybody can throw money around and buy a good tree. Let him boast about his five million yen. You just look, he doesn’t know about inspiration.”
From that day on my grandfather spent the entire day on the veranda talking to his bonsai.
I didn’t learn this until later, but the probation officer used to work for the ward office. He took a position as a guide at the Garden of Longevity, when he retired, and volunteered to monitor my grandfather’s probation. He’s dead now. As soon as he died, my grandfather and I felt as if a huge boulder had been lifted off our heads.
My grandfather? He’s still alive, but he’s a senile old man who sleeps most of the day. He has no idea who I am. I change his diapers and work like crazy to look after him, but he just points at me and asks me who I am. Occasionally he’ll call my mother’s name, and say things like, “Better do your homework or you’ll end up a thief!” Each time I’m tempted to respond, “Yeah, well, look who’s talking! You’re the one who turned out to be the thief.” As long as grandfather is alive, I can continue to live in his government-sponsored apartment, so I can’t come down on him too hard.
Oh, yes, I want my grandfather to live a long and frugal life. It seems the word inspiration has completely evaporated from his brain. I wore myself out two years ago trying to take care of him, so I had to put him in the ward-managed Misosazai Nursing Home.
My grandfather really did work as a handyman, and I did more than just answer the phone for him. When I could I was happy to help him with his jobs. I really enjoyed it, especially since I hadn’t had a lot of contact with people until then. Hardly anyone came to visit us when I was little. My father preferred to associate with people from his own country, but even then he rarely included his family. My mother didn’t associate with others in the neighborhood. She didn’t have a single friend. She never came to meet our teachers or sit in on our classes. Needless to say, she didn’t belong to the Parent-Student Association. That’s the kind of family I had.
I never thought Yuriko would return to Japan and ruin everything. But four months after moving to Switzerland, my mother committed suicide. Before she died I’d gotten a number of letters from her, but I hadn’t sent her a single note in return. That’s right. Not one.
I have a few of her letters still with me and will be happy to show them to you. As much as I read them, I never imagined she’d commit suicide. That’s because I never dreamed Mother had such a hidden store of pain. Until she actually chose suicide, I never even noticed that she wanted to bid this world farewell. But what really surprised me was that Mother had the courage to take her own life.
How are you? The three of us are well. How are you getting along with your grandfather? He’s much more decisive than me, so I suspect the two of you are hitting it off. I wanted to let you know, though, that you don’t have to give Grandfather a single yen more than the ¥40,000 that we’ve promised to pay each month. You have to take care of things at your end and can’t rely on us. But I’m transferring a small sum to your bank account. This is to be your own spending money, so keep it secret from your grandfather. And if he manages to wheedle a loan out of you, be sure to get him to write out a promissory note. These are your father’s instructions that I’m passing along.
By the way, how’s your schoolwork? I can’t believe you made it into such an elite high school! I brag about you whenever I run into another Japanese person here. And although Yuriko has yet to say anything, I’m sure she is furious with jealousy. Please keep up your studies; it’s great incentive for Yuriko! You can always better her with your brains.
I suppose the cherry blossoms have all but fallen in Japan. I miss the Yoshino cherries. They must have been so beautiful when the blossoms were at their peak. I’ve not seen any cherry trees in Bern. I’m sure they must be blooming somewhere, so the next chance I get, I’m going to ask a member of the Japanese Citizens Association. Though your father isn’t really keen on my joining the Japanese Citizens Association—or the Japanese Women’s Group, for that matter.
It’s still cold here: you can’t go out without a coat. The wind off the Aare River is chilly, and the cold so bitter it makes me lonely. I’m wearing the beige coat that we bought on sale at the Odaky Department Store. I’m sure you remember. It’s really too light for this weather, but I’m constantly getting compliments on it. Some people even ask me where I bought it. The people here really dress well. They carry themselves properly and always seem dignified.
Bern is as pretty as a fairy tale but it’s much smaller than I had imagined, and this really surprised me at first. I was also surprised to find people from so many different countries living here. When we first arrived I walked through the streets amazed at everything I saw, but lately I’ve grown a little tired of it. Most of our money is going toward your allowance and school fees, so we can’t really buy anything and have to live as frugally as possible. Yuriko is angry and claims it’s all because you got to stay behind in Japan. But don’t worry about it. You’ve got to rely on your brains to get ahead.
Our house is in a new area of the city. Karl’s hosiery factory is one building over. Across from us is a building with tiny apartments, and alongside that is an empty lot. Your father’s pleased because we are within the city limits, but it feels like we’re on the outskirts to me. If I bring it up, however, it makes your father furious. Wherever you go in Bern the streets are orderly, and all you find are tall people speaking an incomprehensible language. Moreover, everyone is really aggressive. This has been quite a lesson for me.
Just the other day I had this experience. I’m always c
areful to obey the traffic signals when I cross the street, but still you have to watch for turning vehicles. As I was crossing, a car came so close to hitting me that the hem of my coat was caught on the bumper and the lining tore slightly. The woman who was driving stopped and got out of the car. I thought she was coming to apologize but she started yelling at me instead. I didn’t understand what she was saying, but she kept pointing at my coat and railing on and on. Maybe she was saying it was my fault for trying to cross the street with my coat flapping open! I told her I was sorry for the trouble I had caused and went home. When I told your father about it that night he was furious with me. “You should never admit to being in the wrong!” he said. “The minute you do, you’ve lost the battle. You should have at least gotten money to mend your coat!” That’s when it dawned on me that your father’s refusal to accept blame comes from living in this country, and so this too has been a lesson.
Three months have passed since we got here. All the furniture we shipped has finally arrived, and this has offered me a bit of relief. But the furnishings don’t really suit the modern apartment we have. Your father is out of sorts about it. “We ought to have just bought furniture here!” he complains. “This Japanese furniture is worthless.” I tell him there’s no way he can get money for new furniture, so he should just stop going on about it. But then he gets even angrier and says we ought to have discussed it beforehand. I think your father’s gradually reverting to his old self. He’s always angry. Now that he’s back in his own country, he’s even more concerned about doing things the right way, and he gets aggravated by all the mistakes I make.
Recently he and Yuriko have been going out together a lot without me. This seems to make Yuriko very happy. She gets along well with Karl’s oldest son (he also works in your uncle’s factory) and they spend a lot of time together.
I was really surprised to find how expensive everything is here. Much higher than I expected. If we eat out it costs more than ¥2,000 a person, and the food isn’t even that good. Something as basic as natt, the fermented soybeans that I like, costs as much as ¥650! Can you believe it? Your father says it’s due to tariffs. But it seems the people here all have very good salaries.
On another note, your father’s new job does not seem to have taken off quite as he hoped. I don’t know if it’s because he’s not getting along with the other employees or if your uncle Karl’s business isn’t very sound at the moment, or what. But he sulks around the house as soon as he gets home, and when I ask him about his work he won’t answer. If you were here with us I suspect the two of you would be fighting all the time. So it’s good that you are where you are. Yuriko pretends that she doesn’t notice anything.
The other day we went to your uncle Karl’s for a visit. I made a plate of chirashi-zushi, a chilled rice dish, to take along. Karl’s wife, Yvonne, is French. They have two children. There’s the son who works in the factory. He’s twenty, and his name is Henri. Then they have a daughter in high school. They told me her name, but I’ve forgotten it. She looks just like Yvonne. She has light blond hair and a beakish nose. She’s fat and not pretty at all. When Yvonne and Karl saw Yuriko, they were shocked. Karl said something like, “So, if you marry an Oriental you can have pretty daughters like this?” Yvonne just looked sulky.
That reminds me. Whenever your father and I go out for walks with Yuriko, we get strange reactions. The people we meet in the park stare at us with curiosity, every one of them. Finally someone asked us what country we adopted Yuriko from. There are people here from all kinds of other countries, and apparently adoption is quite popular. When I tell them that Yuriko is my own child, they don’t seem to believe me. I guess they can’t accept that a shabby-looking Oriental like me could ever produce a beauty like Yuriko, and the thought makes them very angry. “You’re overreacting!” your father will tell me. But I can’t help it. That’s what I believe. I think they just can’t accept that a member of the yellow race could give birth to something so perfect. It gives me some satisfaction to be able to say, No, Yuriko is not adopted. I gave birth to her myself.
Please write and tell me how you are. Your father needs to send you an update as well. Please give my best to Grandfather.
TWO • A CLUSTER OF NAKED SEED PLANTS
• 1 •
TOKYO DAILY, MORNING EDITION
Tokyo, April 20, 2000—On April 19 shortly after 6 p.m., the body of a woman was discovered in unit 103 of the Green Villa Apartments, Maruyama-ch, Shibuya Ward. The apartment superintendent who found the body called 911.
The Investigations Bureau of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, in cooperation with the Shibuya Ward Police Precinct, launched an inquiry and determined that the deceased was Kazue Sat, 39, a resident of the Kita-Toriyama area of Setagaya Ward and an employee with G Architecture and Engineering Corporation.
Judging from the marks on her neck, the Investigations Bureau has cited strangulation as the cause of death and ruled it a homicide. An investigation is now under way.
According to initial reports, the victim was last seen leaving her house on April 8 around 4 p.m., destination unknown.
Her body was discovered in a six-mat room that had been vacant since August of the previous year. The door to the vacant apartment was unlocked and Sat’s body was found faceup on the floor in the center of the room. Her handbag was recovered at the site, and though she was believed to have been carrying approximately ¥40,000, her wallet was empty. She was dressed in the same clothes that she had been seen wearing earlier that day.
Ms. Sat entered G Architecture and Engineering Firm after graduating from Q University in 1984. She was assigned to the General Research Department, where she was assistant manager of the research office. Single, she lived with her mother and a younger sister.
When I read this article in the Tokyo Daily, I knew immediately that it was the same Kazue Sat I had known in school. Of course, a name like Kazue Sat is not uncommon, and conceivably I was mistaken. But I was convinced. There could be no mistake. How could I be so certain? Because almost two years earlier, shortly after Yuriko died, Kazue had called me. It was the last phone call I ever received from her.
“It’s me,” she had said. “Kazue Sat. Hey, I heard Yuriko-chan’s been murdered.”
I’d not heard one word from Kazue since university, yet this was the first thing out of her mouth.
“It’s such a shock!”
I was shocked too, not by Yuriko’s death and not even by the fact that Kazue had called me out of the blue. Rather, I was unsettled by the fact that Kazue was laughing on the other end of the line. Her low, whispery laugh lingered like the buzzing of a bee. Maybe she intended the laugh to seem consoling, but I felt it seep into my hand as I clung to the telephone receiver. I’ve said, haven’t I, that Yuriko’s death didn’t particularly surprise me? But at that moment, and that moment only, I felt a chill shoot down my spine.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Nothing.” Kazue’s response was overly casual. “Well, I suppose you’re sad, aren’t you?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Kazue’s tone indicated that she had always been perfectly aware of how I felt. “You and Yuriko-chan weren’t particularly close, as I recall. It was as if you two weren’t even related. Others might not have realized you were sisters, but I picked up on it right away.”
“So what are you up to?”
“Guess.”
“I heard you’d gotten a job with an engineering firm after university.”
“Would you be surprised if I told you Yuriko-chan and I were in the same line of work?”
Detecting the note of triumph in her voice, I was at a loss for words. I had a hard time associating Kazue’s present life with words like men, prostitution, and sex. From what I had heard, she worked for a very reputable firm and was making her way as an elite career woman. When I didn’t respond immediately, Kazue offered the following parting shot and then hung up: “Well, I in
tend to be careful!”
I stood there for some time looking down at the telephone, wondering whether the person I’d just spoken to was really Kazue. Could it have been someone else claiming to be her? The Kazue I knew had not been so cryptic. She always spoke with arrogant conclusiveness—all the while staring nervously into the face of her audience, terrified of being caught in a mistake. She was incredibly haughty when she spoke about an academic subject. But if the conversation shifted to the latest trends in fashions, restaurants, or boyfriends, she clammed up, relinquished her superiority, and sank into the background. That was the Kazue I knew. The discrepancy between her confidence and her insecurity was so great, I had almost felt sorry for her. If Kazue had changed, it meant she’d found a new means of doing battle with the world.
This is what you want me to talk about, isn’t it? Of course, I fully intend to return to Kazue and Yuriko in due course, but I seem to continue getting sidetracked. I’m sorry. All these digressions about myself really have nothing to do with the topic at hand. I imagine I’ve bored you to tears by now, as I am sure you would much rather hear about Yuriko and Kazue.
But what is it about those two that interests you, if I may ask? I know I’ve asked this earlier. It’s just that I can’t quite understand the fascination. Is it because the man accused of the crime—Zhang’s his name, a Chinese national—was in the country illegally? Is it because of the rumors that Zhang was falsely accused?
Are you suggesting that Kazue, Yuriko, and that man as well each had their own different dark infatuations? I myself do not think so. But I am convinced that both Kazue and Yuriko enjoyed what they were doing, and that Zhang did too. No, no, I’m not saying he enjoyed killing. In fact, I don’t even know if he was the murderer—and I don’t particularly want to know, either.