When I said this, my two daughters both stopped eating and looked at me with surprise.
‘But we didn’t talk about anything significant,’ I said, with a small laugh. ‘Really. We just exchanged pleasantries, that’s all.’
My daughters seemed unconvinced, but they began to eat again. Noriko glanced over to her elder sister, then Setsuko said: ‘Dr Saito was well?’
‘He appeared to be.’
We ate on quietly for a while. Perhaps Ichiro began to talk about the movie again. In any case, it was a little later in the meal that I said:
‘An odd thing. It turns out Dr Saito met a former pupil of mine. Kuroda, in fact. It seems Kuroda’s taking up a post at the new college.’
I looked up from my bowl and saw my daughters had again stopped eating. It was clear they had just exchanged glances, and it was one of those instances last month when I got a distinct impression they had at some point been discussing certain things about me.
That night, my two daughters and I were sitting around the table again, reading our newspapers and magazines, when we were disturbed by a dull thudding noise coming rhythmically from somewhere within the house. Noriko looked up in alarm, but Setsuko said:
‘It’s just Ichiro. He does that when he can’t fall asleep.’
‘Poor Ichiro,’ Noriko said. ‘I expect he keeps dreaming of the monster. It was so wicked of Father to take him to see a film like that.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘He enjoyed it.’
‘I think Father just wanted to see it himself,’ Noriko said to her sister with a grin. ‘Poor Ichiro. Being dragged along to a nasty film like that.’
Setsuko turned towards me with an embarrassed look. ‘It was so kind of Father to take Ichiro,’ she murmured.
‘But now he can’t sleep,’ Noriko said. ‘Ridiculous to take him to a film like that. No, you stay, Setsuko. I’ll go.’
Setsuko watched her sister leave the room, then said:
‘Noriko is so good with children. Ichiro will miss her when we go home.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘She was always good with children. Do you remember, Father, how she used to play those games with the Kino-shitas’ little children?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said, with a laugh. Then I added: ‘The Kinoshita boys are far too big these days to want to come around here.’
‘She’s always been so good with children,’ Setsuko repeated. ‘How sad to see her reach this age and still unmarried.’
‘Indeed. The war came at a bad time for her.’
For a few moments we continued with our reading. Then Setsuko said:
‘It was fortuitous to have met Dr Saito on the tram this afternoon. He sounds an admirable gentleman.’
‘He is indeed. And from all accounts, the son is well worthy of his father.’
‘Is that so?’ Setsuko said, thoughtfully.
We returned to our reading for a few more moments. Then my daughter again broke the silence.
‘And Dr Saito is acquainted with Mr Kuroda?’
‘Only slightly,’ I said, not looking up from my paper. ‘It seems they met somewhere.’
‘I wonder how Mr Kuroda is these days. I can remember how he used to come here, and you would talk together for hours in the reception room.’
‘I’ve no idea about Kuroda these days.’
‘Forgive me, but I wonder if it may not be wise if Father were to visit Mr Kuroda soon.’
‘Visit him?’
‘Mr Kuroda. And perhaps certain other such acquaintances from the past.’
‘I’m not sure I follow what you’re saying, Setsuko.’
‘Forgive me, I simply meant to suggest that Father may wish to speak to certain acquaintances from his past. That is to say, before the Saitos’ detective does. After all, we do not wish any unnecessary misunderstandings to arise.’
‘No, I suppose we don’t,’ I said, returning to my paper.
I believe we did not discuss the matter further after that. Neither did Setsuko raise it again for the remainder of her stay last month.
Yesterday, as I took the tram down to Arakawa, the carriage was filled with bright autumn sunshine. I had not made the journey to Arakawa for a little while – in fact, not since the end of the war – and as I gazed out of my window, I noticed many changes in what had once been familiar scenery. Passing through Tozaka-cho and Sakaemachi, I could see brick apartment blocks looming above the small wooden houses I remembered from before. Then, as we passed the backs of the factories in Minamimachi, I saw how abandoned many of them had become; one factory yard went by after another, untidily stacked with broken timber, old sheets of corrugated metal, and often what looked to be plain rubble.
But then, after the tramline crosses the river at the THK Corporation Bridge, the atmosphere changes dramatically. You are travelling amidst fields and trees, and before long, the suburb of Arakawa will become visible at the bottom of the long steep hill where the tramline ends. The tram will move very slowly down the hill, then brake to a halt, and as you step out on to those cleanly swept pavements, you will be overcome by the distinct feeling you have left the city behind.
Arakawa, I have heard, completely escaped the bombings; and indeed, yesterday the place looked just as it had always done. A short walk up a hill, pleasantly shaded by cherry trees, brought me to Chishu Matsuda’s house and that too was quite unchanged.
Matsuda’s house, not as large or full of eccentricity as my own, is typical of the sort of solid, respectable house to be found in Arakawa. It stands on its own grounds, circled by a board fence, at a reasonable distance from the neighbouring properties: at the gateway, there is a bush of azaleas and a thick post sunk in the ground giving the family inscriptions. I pulled the bell and was answered by a woman of around forty whom I did not recognize. She showed me into the reception room, where she slid back the screen to the veranda, allowing the sun to enter and giving me a glimpse of the garden outside. Then she left me, saying: ‘Mr Matsuda will not be a moment.’
I had first met Matsuda while living at Seiji Moriyama’s villa, where the Tortoise and I had gone after leaving the Takeda firm. In fact, when Matsuda first came to the villa that day, I must already have been living there for some six years. It had been raining throughout the morning, and a group of us had been passing the time drinking and playing cards in one of the rooms. Then shortly after lunch, just as we had opened another large bottle, we heard a stranger’s voice calling out in the yard.
The voice was strong and assured, and we all of us fell silent and looked at each other in panic. For the fact was we had all leapt to the same thought – that the police had come to reprimand us. This was of course an utterly irrational idea, for we had not committed any sort of crime. And had, say, someone challenged our lifestyle during a conversation in a bar, any one of us would have been able to put up a spirited defence on its behalf. But that firm voice calling ‘Anyone home?’ had caught us unawares, causing us to betray our sense of guilt concerning our late nights of drinking, the way we slept through many of our mornings, the way we lived a life without routine in a decaying villa.
It was some moments then before one of my companions nearest the screen opened it, exchanged a few words with the caller, then turned and said: ‘Ono, a gentleman wishes to speak with you.’
I went out on to the veranda to find a lean-featured young man of around my own age standing in the middle of the large square yard. I have retained a vivid picture of that first time I saw Matsuda. The rain had stopped and the sun was out. All around him were puddles of water and wet leaves fallen from the cedar trees overlooking the villa. He was dressed too dandyishly to be a policeman; his overcoat was sharply tailored with a high upturned collar, and he wore his hat slanted down over his eyes in a somewhat mocking manner. As I emerged, he was glancing around with interest at his surroundings, and something in the way he did this immediately suggested to me, that first time I saw him, Matsuda’s arrogant nature. He saw me and ca
me unhurriedly towards the veranda.
‘Mr Ono?’
I asked what I could do for him. He turned, cast his eyes around the grounds again, then smiled up at me.
‘An interesting place. This must have been a grand building once. Owned by a lord of some sort.’
‘Indeed,’
‘Mr Ono, my name is Chishu Matsuda. We have, in fact, been in correspondence. I work for the Okada-Shingen Society.’
The Okada-Shingen Society no longer exists today – one of many such victims of the occupying forces – but quite possibly you will have heard of it, or at least of the exhibition it held each year until the war. The Okada-Shingen exhibition was for a time the principal means in this city by which artists emerging in painting and printmaking came to win public acclaim. Indeed, such was its reputation that in its latter years, most of the city’s leading artists were displaying their latest works there alongside those of the newer talents. It was in connection with this same exhibition that the Okada-Shingen Society had written to me a few weeks prior to the afternoon of Matsuda’s visit.
‘I was made a little curious by your reply, Mr Ono,’ Matsuda said. ‘So I thought I’d call by and discover what it was all about.’
I looked at him coldly and said: ‘I believe I made all the necessary points in my letter of reply. It was, however, most kind of you to have approached me.’
A slight smile appeared around his eyes. ‘Mr Ono,’ he said, ‘it seems to me you are forgoing an important opportunity to enhance your reputation. So please tell me, when you insist you wish to have nothing to do with us, is that your own personal opinion? Or is it what your teacher happened to decree?’
‘Naturally, I sought my teacher’s advice. I am perfectly confident that the decision conveyed in my recent letter is the correct one. It was very good of you to come out here, but unfortunately I am occupied at this moment and cannot ask you to step up. I’ll therefore bid you a good day.’
‘One moment please, Mr Ono,’ Matsuda said, his smile looking ever more mocking. He took a few more steps, coming right up to the veranda, and looked up at me. ‘To be frank, I am not bothered about the exhibition. There are many others worthy of it. I came here, Mr Ono, because I wished to meet you.’
‘Really? How good of you.’
‘Indeed. I wished to say I am very struck by what I have seen of your work. I believe you have much talent.’
‘You’re most kind. No doubt I owe much to the excellence of my teacher’s guidance.’
‘No doubt. Now, Mr Ono, let us forget this exhibition. You must appreciate I do not merely work for the Okada-Shingen as a kind of clerk. I am a true lover of art. I have my beliefs and passions. And when every once in a while I come across a talent that truly excites me, then I feel I must do something about it. I would very much like to discuss certain ideas with you, Mr Ono. Ideas which may never have occurred to you before, but which I modestly suggest will be of benefit to your development as an artist. But I’ll keep you no longer for the moment. Let me at least leave my calling card.’
He took his card from his wallet, placed it on the edge of the veranda, then with a quick bow, took his leave. But before he was half-way across the yard, he turned and called to me: ‘Please consider my request carefully, Mr Ono. I merely wish to discuss certain ideas with you, that’s all.’
That was almost thirty years ago, when we were both young and ambitious. Yesterday, Matsuda looked a very different man. His body has become broken down by ill-health, and his once handsome, arrogant face has become distorted by a lower jaw that seems no longer able to align itself with the upper. The woman who had answered the door to me helped him into the room and assisted him to sit down. When we were alone, Matsuda looked at me and said:
‘You seem to have preserved your health well. As for myself, you can see I’ve deteriorated even further since our last meeting.’
I expressed sympathy, but stated he did not look as bad as all that.
‘Don’t try and fool me, Ono,’ he said with a smile. ‘I know exactly how feeble I’m growing. There’s little to be done, apparently. I have to just wait and see if my body recovers or else goes on getting worse. Still, enough about such cheerless matters. This is something of a surprise, to have you visit me again. I suppose we didn’t part on the easiest of terms.’
‘Really? But I wasn’t aware we’d quarrelled.’
‘Of course not. Why would we quarrel? I’m glad you’ve come to see me again. It must be three years since we last saw each other.’
‘I believe so. It wasn’t my intention to avoid you. I’d been meaning for some time to come out and pay a visit. But what with one thing and another …’
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘You had a lot to attend to. You must forgive me, of course, for failing to attend Michiko-san’s funeral. I’d meant to write and express my apologies. The fact of the matter is, I didn’t hear what had occurred until several days later. And then, of course, my own health …’
‘Naturally, naturally. Indeed, I’m sure she would have been embarrassed by a large ostentatious ceremony. In any case, she would have known your thoughts would have been with her.’
‘I can remember when you and Michiko-san were brought together.’ He gave a laugh, nodding to himself. ‘I was very happy for you that day, Ono.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, also laughing. ‘You were to all intents our go-between. That uncle of yours just couldn’t cope with the job.’
‘That’s right,’ Matsuda said, smiling, ‘you’re bringing it all back to me. He’d get so embarrassed, he couldn’t say or do anything without flushing scarlet. You remember that marriage meeting at the Yanagimachi Hotel?’
We both laughed. Then I said:
‘You did a lot on our behalf. I doubt if it would have been brought off without you. Michiko always thought of you with gratitude.’
‘A cruel thing,’ Matsuda said, sighing. ‘And with the warall but over. I heard it was something of a freak raid.’
‘Indeed. Hardly anyone else was hurt. It was as you say, a cruel thing.’
‘But I’m bringing back terrible thoughts, I’m sorry.’
‘Not at all. It’s something of a comfort to remember her with you. I remember her back in the old days then.’
‘Indeed,’
The woman brought in the tea. As she was laying down the tray, Matsuda said to her: ‘Miss Suzuki, this is an old colleague of mine. We were very close once.’
She turned to me and bowed.
‘Miss Suzuki doubles as my housekeeper and nurse,’ Matsuda said. ‘She’s responsible for the fact that I’m still breathing.’
Miss Suzuki gave a laugh, bowed again and took her leave.
For a few moments after she had gone, Matsuda and I sat quietly, both gazing out between the screens Miss Suzuki had opened earlier. From where I sat, a pair of straw sandals were visible, left out on the veranda in the sun. But I could not see much of the garden itself, and for a moment felt tempted to rise to my feet and go out on the veranda. But realizing Matsuda would wish to accompany me and find difficulty doing so, I remained seated, wondering to myself if the garden was as it had been. As I remembered it, Mat-suda’s garden, though small, was arranged with much taste: a floor of smooth moss, a few small shapely trees and a deep pond. While sitting with Matsuda, I had caught an occasional splashing sound coming from outside and I was about to ask him if he still kept carp, when he said:
‘I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you Miss Suzuki was responsible for my life. She’s been quite crucial on more than one occasion. You see, Ono, despite everything, I managed to hold on to some savings and assets. As a result, I’m able to employ her. Not so lucky for some others. I’m not exactly wealthy, but then, if I knew an old colleague was in difficulties, I’d do what I could to assist. After all, I have no children to leave money to.’
I gave a laugh. ‘Same old Matsuda. Very forthright. It’s kind of you, but that’s not what brought me here. I too managed to hol
d on to my assets.’
‘Ah, I’m pleased to hear that. You remember Nakane, the principal at Minami Imperial College? I see him from time to time. These days he’s little better than a beggar. Of course, he tries to keep up appearances, but he lives entirely off borrowed money.’
‘How terrible.’
‘Some very unjust things have occurred,’ Matsuda said. ‘Still, we both managed to hold on to our assets. And you have more reason to be thankful, Ono. You appear to have held on to your health.’
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘I have much to be thankful for.’
Again, a splashing sound came from the pond outside, and it occurred to me it could be birds bathing at the water’s edge.
‘Your garden sounds distinctly different to mine,’ I remarked. ‘I can tell just listening to it that we’re out of the city.’
‘Is that so? I hardly remember what the city sounds like. This has been the extent of my world for the past few years. This house and this garden.’
‘As a matter of fact, I did come to ask your help. But not in the way you implied earlier.’
‘I see you’ve taken offence,’ he said, nodding. ‘Much the same as ever.’
We both laughed. Then he said: ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘The fact is,’ I said, ‘Noriko, my younger daughter, is at this moment involved in marriage talks.’
‘Is that so?’
‘To be frank, I’m a little concerned for her. She’s already twenty-six. The war made things difficult for her. Otherwise, there’s no doubting she’d have been married by now.’
‘I believe I recall Miss Noriko. But she was just a little girl. Twenty-six already. As you say, the war has made things difficult, even for the best prospects.’
‘She was almost married last year,’ I said, ‘but the talks fell through at the last moment. I wonder, while we’re on the subject, did anyone approach you last year concerning Noriko? I don’t mean to be impertinent, but …’