Manazuru

by Hiromi Kawakami

  We are sewing, the three of us. Momo is making a bag that will match her friend’s. Mother is embroidering dish-cloths. I am making a sock for plastic bags, from a design in a magazine.

  “That’s cute, huh, doing it with felt like that?” Momo says. When you fold plastic bags and put them in the drawer, pile them in feathery layers, down at the bottom, below the sheets of white, particles of dust accumulate. The almost invisible film of dust that clings to each bag gradually settles, gathers at the bottom, hardens.

  “I love it how the bags at supermarkets rustle.”

  Momo is talkative today. She moves her mouth correctly, before long there will be no trace, anymore, of the shades of her childhood, it is happening to her, too, I can see it.

  We have positioned our chairs at the points of an invisible triangle, and we sit facing each other, enclosing an empty space. Momo swings her legs. Mother kneels on the chair with her feet tucked under her butt. I draw light-purple embroidery thread through light-brown felt.

  “What do you want for your seventeenth birthday?” I ask.

  Hmm, she says, aloud, almost in a whisper, almost asking.

  These snaps sure are tricky. It’s hard to know where to put them, she grumbles, soon. Just then, she pricks her finger on the needle, frowns. She lifts it to her mouth, and sucks.

  “I’m having a hard time thinking what I want,” she tells me, speaking through her fingers, her soft lips still sucking.

  Make it something easy, Mother laughs. She knots the thread, cuts it. The dashes of thread, embroidered on the dishcloth, are a very deep indigo.

  The color shines against the faded white of the well-used strip of cloth.

  “REI HAS A mortuary tablet now. I’m thinking of going to pay my respects,” I inform Seiji.

  We made an appointment to meet, since I have completed a draft of the novel he requested. Shall I read it now? Or later, when we’re not together? Seiji asked, and I said, Now.

  From time to time, the rustle of a page being turned rose, like a bubble, through the hum of the café. Seiji’s eyes looked very calm. He read on, turning back, every so often, to reread a passage. He did not skip ahead, from the passage he reread, to the place he had reached, he kept going, reading it all again, at the same speed.

  “It’s an interesting story, the way it’s gradated,” Seiji said, coming to the end, after taking a sip from his drink.

  “You think so?”

  “It feels bright, but indistinct. You glimpse something, in the shadows.”

  “Is that a compliment? Or are you saying it’s bad?” I laugh.

  “I’m not sure.” Seiji laughs, too.

  It wasn’t important, how the novel was, now that I had finished writing it. What mattered, what agitated me, was being here, with Seiji.

  And so, at a loss for what to say, I tell him about the tablet. Seiji glances up. We are sitting across from each other, and yet, until this moment, I have been unable to look him in the face. He glanced up so quickly, our eyes met before I could look away.

  “Perhaps I’ll come along,” he says, all at once.

  “What?”

  “It’s that town, on the Inland Sea, right?”

  Come to think of it, he had said he wanted to visit it sometime. That town on the hillside, where the light is pale.

  “Together?” I ask.

  “You don’t want that?”

  Even though he has gone away? Seiji curls his slender fingers around the handle of his cup. Lifts it to his mouth. I gaze at his exposed neck. I want to touch it, but I can’t.

  “Okay. Let’s go, together,” I tell him.

  The cup settled into the saucer with a click.

  THE AIRPORT WAS wide and white.

  Planes took off, swanlike. Gliding slowly into the distance.

  Seiji carried a large bag.

  “That’s not much luggage,” he said.

  My black bag, even smaller than a briefcase, contains a change of underwear and a linen handkerchief. The handkerchief was one Rei had used. Hardly anything of his is left. I disposed of his belongings five years after he disappeared. After ten years, I let go of most of what I could not bear to throw away before. Now, there is only his diary and a few small mementos.

  As we slid into our seats, I caught a faint whiff of Seiji. Then it was gone.

  “It’s so cold,” I said, and he took a blanket down from the overhead bin, and gave it to me. I opened it, spread it across my lap. Still cold, I gathered it, put it around my shoulders.

  “Are you really that cold?” Seiji said, surprised.

  I shut my eyes, reeled my feelings down, inside, to keep the sense of his voice from fading. Before long we took off, leveled out. I returned the blanket to my lap, gazed up at Seiji’s face. He is right beside me, yet he is distant. Only, he is closer than when I cannot see him.

  “Do you have any plans, while we’re there?” I ask.

  “There’s a person I want to meet.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “I thought we could go out together.”

  Suddenly, the sounds in my ear were sucked out, opened outward.

  “My ears just popped.”

  “Mine did, too, a moment ago.”

  We smile at each other. Seiji sneezes quietly. To think we were together so long. It makes me sad. The feelings I have reeled in seep out. I touch Seiji’s hand.

  “Ah,” Seiji says, squeezing back, barely.

  Gradually, my cold hand warms. The flight attendant comes, offering drinks, asking what we would like. Coffee, Seiji says, letting go of my hand. Coffee, I say, the same.

  We finished our coffee, and then, until we landed, Seiji read.

  I GOT A little lost.

  You go up the narrow lane between the houses, go down a little, then go up a little higher, and you come to a shrine, I thought.

  Unable to find it, I retraced my steps, but I found myself on a different street. I went over a little, started climbing again, but the road never ended.

  I thought I had reached the end, but there was a stairway, I climbed that, and then, at last, I found myself in a small park.

  An old woman sat on the stairs. Her cane on the ground, she gazed at the park.

  “Do you live around here?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do,” the old woman replied.

  “Do you know the street numbers, in this area?”

  The street numbers, no, I can’t say I do. I wasn’t born here. I moved here five years ago, from Tokyo. My son was transferred, you see. I used to live by myself, but he said he would worry, my son. It’s awfully hilly here, though, this town, for an old woman.

  The ocean sparkles. The color of the ocean is different here, from Manazuru.

  For some time, I sat beside the old woman. Something came, very thin. I wasn’t sure if it was a woman or a man, or even an adult, or a child. The old woman took a small tin from her pocket, and opened it. Inside, there were white, powdery drops. Would you like one? she asked, holding it out, and I accepted one, in my palm. It tasted like mint.

  “Warm, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It will be April tomorrow, you know.”

  The old woman stood, brushed the dust from the seat of her pants. I picked up her cane and handed it to her. A cat strode out from a gap between two houses. A black cat. The old woman waved her cane, shooing it away. The cat lingered, unperturbed.

  Scat, the woman hissed. Spit flew. The cat leapt, ran down the hill.

  WHEN I FINALLY found Rei’s old house, the trees in the garden were rampant.

  It’s such trouble to have the gardener come, Rei’s father said slowly, following my gaze.

  It was a small altar. I lay the handkerchief beside Rei’s photograph, held a stick of incense to the candle Rei’s father had lit, fanned it gently with my hand until a line of smoke rose.

  I kneeled, my feet beneath me, praying earnestly, then slid slowly back, away from the altar. I had never seen the photograph of Rei. A picture, I thought,
from before we married, before his cheeks had completely lost the fullness of youth.

  In the room with the altar, in the opposite corner, was a low table. Three peach branches were arranged in a vase; dolls, the lord, the lady, their retainers, stood in a glass box.

  “Are they Saki’s?” I asked, calling Rei’s sister by her name.

  “No, they were my wife’s, from before we were married. They were packed away for a long time, but a few years ago I took them out, and it made the room, with the altar, seem a little brighter, like light, shining in. They used to say that when a family leaves its dolls out on display all year round, its daughters will never find a husband, but there are no women left in this house.”

  I went over, looked closely at them. The lord and lady were a size bigger than the various members of their retinue. Two of the three women attendants were standing, holding faded golden sake servers in their hands, one with a long handle, another with a handle shaped like a hook. Five musicians sat a step down on the stand, one played a flute, two held small hand drums. Another had a fan, the last held a stick, poised, ready to strike a larger drum. The two trees, orange and flowering cherry, stood at each end of the line formed by the three footmen. The footman in the middle held a platform with lacquered shoes on it. The dolls’ faces were all painted white, they had beads, set into the porcelain, for eyes.

  “They have such lovely features.”

  “They remind me, a little, of my wife.”

  A long time ago, they showed me a picture of Rei, as a child. I remembered that face, the plump cheeks, the hair cut straight across the front, hanging down on either side, like a girl’s. Yeah, people used to think I was a girl, Rei muttered.

  “Rei looked more like her, my wife, than Saki did.”

  What ever became of that album, of Rei’s pictures? Could he have taken it with him when he disappeared? Headed for some place I did not know, carrying old light?

  “I’m so sorry,” Rei’s father said, bowing until his head touched the tatami.

  Please, you don’t need to say that. I’m the one who should apologize, I told him, and he raised his face, looked me straight in the eye.

  Once again, for a second, something came, thin. It went away. There was a design painted in fine crimson lines on the paper panels of the lanterns flanking the lord and lady. Scattering blossoms, it seemed, but it was like the tiny fire that smolders, always, at the core of the things that come and follow, and in the dimness of the room, I could not tell for sure what it was.

  The footmen at either end, one with an umbrella, one with a rain hat, each item wrapped in cloth, affixed to a long pole, pursed their lips, their gazes fixed. All the dolls looked alike. The retainers, the lady, the lord, everyone tidily arranged in a single box, standing, or seated, in silence. I will never see Rei again. It is this knowledge that I need, this recognition. That is why I have come.

  When I closed my eyes, the dolls’ white faces were still there, deep inside.

  I RETURNED TO the hotel, not far from the station, removed my shoes, lay on the bed.

  I tried Seiji’s cell phone, but I couldn’t get through. I fell asleep. In a dream, I saw the old woman I had met earlier. She was sitting in the same posture, on the stairs.

  The landscape was not sketchy, as it is in dreams, the hill and the houses and the ocean, far below, were all distinct and clear, all in proper perspective.

  “Where are you going, now?” I asked.

  “I want to go back.”

  “Where?”

  “Back where I was.”

  “Is that where Rei went, back where he was?”

  “I can’t say, I’m afraid, not knowing him.”

  Nothing in our exchange was out of place, though it was a dream. It was clear. I am trying to make myself see what was clear already. I thought, knowing I was dreaming, in my dream.

  My cell phone rang. I reached for it, but it was too far. I was mired in my sleep.

  The phone rang a long time. The second it stopped, my eyes opened. Quickly, I retrieved the list of my missed calls. Seiji’s name did not appear. Home, it said.

  “Grandma has a fever,” Momo said, right away, when I called back.

  “How high?”

  “102.”

  “Is she very sick?”

  “No, she’s fine.”

  I heard Mother speaking in the background. Now, didn’t I tell you there’s no need to call? I’ve already been to the doctor. Yes, she sounds the same as always. I smiled, and Momo was angry. C’mon Mom, show some concern!

  Oh, Momo, still a child, after all, I almost said, but didn’t. Thank you for taking care of her, I said, gravely. I feel as if I have shaken completely free of Rei’s shadow. Odd, when the two of them look so much alike, like all the dolls. Rei and Momo are barely connected.

  “Take good care of her, okay? Call if you need me,” I said gently, and hung up. There is something here, following. It is soft. When my mood is gentle, they are gentle. Maybe, here, in this place, I will be able to let go of Seiji, too.

  No sooner had I relaxed, than the thing that had come changed, completely. It was cold, frightening. It is so hard to let go. Looking down, I dialed Seiji’s number again.

  I REACHED OUT with my chopsticks to take a bite of scallion salad, dressed in vinegar and miso, and all of a sudden the woman came.

  It was the first time since I left Manazuru.

  “The house was very quiet,” I told Seiji.

  “You seem, sort of, different,” Seiji said quietly, without looking at my face, his eyes fixed on the space where the woman stood.

  If I’m different, will you come back again? I wanted to ask. But there is no point in asking. Words are seldom a guarantee.

  Soon, this woman, who comes, will go away. I could sense it coming. Coming, not from what I knew, but from the woman herself, directly. It’s true, isn’t it, it really is, they all go.

  After dinner, we walked from the restaurant, my shoulder touching Seiji’s. Not because I missed him, but because it was a passing thing. This man I had been with, so long. Once you have let go, he is only passing. It was the same, I am sure, for Seiji.

  I invited him up to my room. It’s okay, my body doesn’t desire you, I said, and he laughed. But I desire your body, I think.

  “Chilly, isn’t it?” I said, and Seiji nodded.

  “I love you,” I said, and again he nodded.

  Even loving him, even if it is only passing, he has gone. Loving is not enough of a reason to be together. I let Seiji hold the weight of my body. He holds me. I hold him back. If only, just like that, the fracture between us would dissolve, disappear. But we can only be, the two of us, tied to the other.

  “Where will you go, when you go back?” I ask.

  “Back where I was.” He gives the same answer the old woman gave, in my dream.

  “Quiet, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s quiet.”

  It is the same quietness as in Rei’s house. The trees in the garden cast shadows on the paper-paneled walls in the room with the altar. The thin thing that came retreated, then came back. Finally, it was drawn into the glass box, with the dolls. The Ministers of the Right and Left carried quivers full of arrows on their backs, the feathers spread, lovely, like fans.

  I could hear the beating of Seiji’s heart. Or perhaps it was my own heart beating. Coming together, in this room, they were the same thing. Apart, separate, and yet the same.

  The sense of its passing grows. My fingertips look very white.

  WE FELL ASLEEP holding hands.

  Our bodies were not touching, only our hands were linked. If only Seiji had been my son. Or my father. A brother, older, or younger, I thought, as I fell asleep.

  When I awoke, the room was filled with light, and we were no longer holding hands. Seiji rolled over in his sleep. It is hard to be sad in the morning. Sadness disperses, purged by the light.

  “Good morning,” I say, poking Seiji’s nose.

  Groaning
softly, Seiji opens his eyes. I shift my body, displaying the valley between my breasts. Realize what a waste it is to leave me, I pray, showing him. He is groggy.

  “What time is it?” he asks.

  “Eight.”

  “Time for breakfast, huh?” Seiji says, like a child. He has not yet settled, fully, into Seiji.

  “Idiot,” I say, poking his nose again.

  “I’m not an idiot.” He is still childish.

  If only I could mold him, before he settles, into a form that is right for me.

  Seiji gets out of bed, goes into the bathroom. The gush of running water leads straight to the rush of the shower. When Seiji walks out the bathroom door, he is himself again. Glancing at me where I lie, he takes his clothes from the closet, and briskly dresses.

  “I’d like you to rewrite part of your novel,” Seiji says, leisurely, when he is fully dressed, having settled onto the sofa.

  “Which part?” I ask.

  “The middle, just a bit.”

  I had thought of him when I wrote. Sometimes, it was so sad I had to stop. I thought that when I finished it, I would have done, too, with the wavering of my feelings, but there was no relief. The scene with the love letter he faxes her, where she touches it with wet hands, and the writing blurs? Is that the part you mean, the little bit, in the middle?

  “No, that’s not it.”

  The blurred love letter, that was lovely, Seiji says, looking directly at me. I walk over and sit down beside him on the sofa. The woman follows. She is only a trace. Soon, I know, she will have gone away, completely.

  “Let’s get together, sometime, again?” I whisper into his ear.

  Seiji smiles.

  “Sometime, some, distant time,” I repeat.

  The woman vanished. She will never come again. Through the window of this hotel near the Inland Sea, I can see a small scrap of water. It glitters brilliantly.

  Sadness returns, a little. Even though it had dispersed, into the light.

  This, too, probably, is only a trace. I smile back at Seiji, close my eyes.