“Or so it would seem from watching them. But wait and see. They will decide not to move.”
“Can they really have changed so just from moving to Tokyo?”
“I suspect Yukiko is right,” said Teinosuke. “And why should anyone object? Tatsuo has his opportunity to stop worrying about appearances and to concentrate instead on building up a little capital. The house may be cramped, but they can stand it if they decide to.”
“They should come out in the open, then. Why do they go on apologizing because I have no room of my own?”
“That is how people are. You should not expect them to change overnight. They still have to keep up a few forms.”
“And will I have to move into that little house too?” Taeko finally asked the question that was most important to her.
“I have no idea where you would sleep.”
“You think I am safe for the time being, then?”
“They seem to have forgotten all about you.”
“We have to get some sleep.” Teinosuke looked up in astonishment as the clock on the mantle struck half past two. “I imagine Yukiko will be tired.”
“We ought to talk about the mini, but that I suppose can wait until tomorrow.”
Yukiko did not answer. She went upstairs ahead of the others. Etsuko was asleep with all the presents, even the box the sandals had come in, carefully lined up by her pillow. Looking down at the quiet face in the soft light of the night lamp, Yukiko felt again the pleasure of being back in Ashiya. O-haru lay sprawled on the floor between Etsuko’s bed and Yukiko’s.
Yukiko shook the maid two or three times and sent her down-stain.
27
THE OCCASION for calling Yukiko back from Tokyo had been a letter from Mrs. Jimba informing them that, although the hour an place could be determined later, she would like to have the miai on the eighth, a lucky day; but they had to postpone it again because of a quite unexpected development on the night of the fifth. Sachiko had that morning crossed the Rōkko mountains by bus—she could as well have taken a train—with two or three friends to visit a woman convalescing at Arima Springs. They took a train back, but that night after she went to bed she was taken with pain and hemorrhage, and Dr. Kushida gave them the startling news that it seemed to be the beginning of a miscarriage. They immediately called a specialist, who confirmed Dr. Kushida’s diagnosis. The next morning Sachiko had her miscarriage.
Teinosuke sat up all night, and in the morning, though he left for a time to see to the disposition of the foetus, he was with Sachiko as the pain receded. He decided not to go to work. All day he sat looking into the charcoal brazier, his hands resting on the poker, and sometimes, as he felt Sachiko’s tear-filled eyes turn toward him, he would look up.
“It makes no difference. And there is nothing to be done now.”
“You forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For being careless.”
“Oh, that. No, as a matter of fact this makes me more hopeful.”
A tear spilled down over Sachiko’s cheek. “But it is such a shame.”
“Say no more about it. We will have another chance.”
Time after time during the day the conversation was repeated. Teinosuke, looking into his wife’s blanched face, found it hard to hide his own disappointment.
It had occurred to Sachiko that she might just possibly be pregnant. But nearly ten years had passed since Etsuko’s birth, and doctors had even told her that surgery might be necessary before she could have another child. And so she had been careless. She knew that her husband wanted a son. She herself, even though she did not hope to be as prolific as her sister, found it too lonely with but one daughter. To be very sure, and indeed as a sort of petition to the gods, she had meant to see a doctor if this menstrual irregularity continued a third month. The thought had crossed her mind the day before that she would do well to take care of herself. But what foolishness—this second thought was strong enough to cancel out the caution. She could not bring herself to object to an outing that seemed to give her friend such pleasure. She had had her reasons, then, and she need not apologize. But as Dr. Kushida chided her for the blunder, she could not keep back tears of regret. Why had she made that promise in the first place? And why, having made it, had she been so careless as to take a bus? Teinosuke tried to console her. He had become resigned to the fact that she would have no more children, he said, and, far from being saddened, he found that this unexpected pregnancy filled him with new hope. Sachiko could see nonetheless that he was deeply disappointed. His gentleness only made her reprove herself the more for what had been a serious blunder, not just a trifling misstep.
By the second day Teinosuke’s spirits had recovered. He set out for work at the usual hour. Sachiko, alone in her bedroom, could only turn the tragedy over and over in her mind. Since, with the miai, it should have been a time for rejoicing, she wanted to hide her sorrow from Yukiko and the rest. But when she was alone the tears would come, however much she tried to hold them back. Had she not been so careless, the child would have been born in November. By this time next year it would have been old enough to laugh when you tickled it. And she was sure it would have been a boy, a great delight to Teinosuke, and to Etsuko too. Sachiko could perhaps have consoled herself had she really suspected nothing, but in her heart she had known that she was pregnant. And why, then, had she not refused to take that bus ride? It was true that she had not been able on the spur of the moment to think of a polite way to refuse. But if she had tried, she could have hit upon an acceptable excuse for following by train.
She could never have regrets enough. Possibly, as Teinosuke hoped, she would have another child; but if she did not, the regret would be with her the rest of her life. No matter how many years passed, she would be telling herself that the child would now be this age, and now this age. She felt tears coming to her eyes again.
In view of the repeated delays, someone should have gone in person to apologize to Mrs. Jimba; but Teinosuke had never met her, and Mr. Jimba had not yet put in an appearance. Teinosuke finally wrote a note for Sachiko on the evening of the sixth. It was difficult to ask yet another postponement, he said, but Sachiko had taken cold, and was running a fever. Selfish though it was of them, might they have the miai put off beyond the eighth? He wanted to make it quite clear that Sachiko’s illness was absolutely their only reason for asking more time. The cold was not particularly serious, and he was sure she would be over it in a week. He sent the letter special delivery.
Whatever meaning she might have read into it, Mrs. Jimba appeared on the afternoon of the seventh, and asked if she might see Sachiko, only for a moment, to inquire how she was. Thinking it might be well to demonstrate that she really was ill, Sachiko had Mrs. Jimba shown upstairs. At the sight of the face she knew so well, she felt a wave of affection. She must tell everything. A miai being so happy an occasion, she said, she had not wanted to write of her illness, but she knew that she could hide the truth no longer. Telling briefly what had happened on the night of the fifth and adding a remark or two about her sorrow, she emphasized that, although what she said was meant only for Mrs. Jimba, and that the latter should make whatever excuses seemed appropriate, she was telling the whole truth. She was sure Mrs. Jimba would not be annoyed, and she hoped Mrs. Jimba would again choose an auspicious date—she herself would be up and around in another week, the doctor had assured her.
What a pity, said Mrs. Jimba. Teinosuke must be terribly disappointed. Seeing the tears in Sachiko’s eyes, she hastily changed the subject. If Sachiko would be well in a week, how would the fifteenth do? When she received the special-delivery letter that morning, she had immediately discussed the matter with Mr. Hamada and had been told that, the week of the vernal equinox being of course taboo, the only appropriate day was the fifteenth, unless they meant to wait until the following month. The fifteenth was exactly a week off. Might Mrs. Jimba set the miai for that day? She had as a matter of fact been asked by Mr. Hama
da to see if the fifteenth would be satisfactory. Sachiko felt that she could plead ill health no longer. The doctor having given her assurances, it was not impossible, if she made the effort, that she could go out in a week. Without consulting Teinosuke, she agreed in a general way to Mrs. Jimba’s proposal.
But though her progress seemed satisfactory, she was still in and out of bed on the fourteenth, and still troubled by light hemorrhages.
“Do you think you should have made that promise?”
Teinosuke had had misgivings from the start. It was a very important occasion, and, since Mrs. Jimba knew the true story, they might arrange to have Teinosuke alone go with Yukiko, rather than risk having Sachiko ruin the party. The only difficulty was that without Sachiko there would be no one to introduce them. Yukiko said that she did not want Sachiko to strain herself. They should ask for another postponement, she said, and if that meant the end of the negotiations, it meant the end of the negotiations. Probably they would not be successful anyway—the fact that such difficulty should have arisen at such a time augured ill. Sachiko felt the old sympathy for Yukiko, forgotten in her own sorrows, come surging back. It would be foolish perhaps to say that past experience had led them to expect the worse when Yukiko was having a miai. Still, just as they were praying that all would go well, there had come first the illness of the niece in the main house, and then a miscarriage, surely a bad omen; and Sachiko could not help feeling a little frightened at the way in which they all seemed pulled into a conspiracy to ruin Yukiko’s future. Yukiko, on the other hand, was strangely undisturbed. Even to look at her touched Sachiko deeply.
When he left for work on the fourteenth, Teinosuke tended to feel that Sachiko should stay at home. Sachiko for her part was determined to appear at the miai. With matters thus undecided, a telephone call came at about three from Mrs. Jimba. She wanted to know how Sachiko was. Very well for the most part, said Sachiko, quite involuntarily. Mrs. Jimba followed her advantage. The fifteenth would be acceptable, then. Mr. Nomura had decided that they should meet at five in the lobby of the Oriental Hotel, and she hoped the Makiokas had no objection. The Oriental Hotel was only a convenient place to meet. After a cup of tea, they would go on to a restaurant somewhere—what restaurant had not yet been decided. Though the meeting was of course a miai, it was to be no more than an informal little dinner party, and they could discuss the matter of the restaurant when they met in the hotel. There would be six in the party: Mr. and Mrs. Jimba, representing Mr. Hamada, would be with Mr. Nomura, and she supposed there would be three Makiokas. Sachiko had fairly well made up her mind to go, but as Mrs. Jimba pressed her to agree to all the arrangements, she made one special request: since she was still having light hemorrhages and since this would be her first day out, she would be most grateful, much though it pained her to have to ask the favor, if Mrs. Jimba would arrange the miai with as little moving about as possible. She hoped they might take cabs, even to go a very short distance. That being understood, she said, she saw no reason why she should not go out.
Yukiko was at Itani’s having her hair dressed when Mrs. Jimba called, and on her return she objected to only one detail: that they were to meet in the Oriental Hotel. She did not consider it a bad omen, she said, that they had met Segoshi for the last miai at the same place, but she hated to have the maids and the waiters recognize her, and look knowingly at each other as if to say that the old maid was already back for another try. Sachiko had not been entirely unprepared for this objection. Sure that once Yukiko had spoken she would not be easy to move, Sachiko went out to the study and telephoned Mrs. Jimba to ask if they might consider meeting elsewhere. Two hours later Mrs. Jimba called back. She had discussed the matter with Mr. Nomura, and they could not at the moment think of a better place than the Oriental Hotel. They could of course go directly to the restaurant, but she had been afraid that if she and Mr. Nomura arbitrarily decided on a restaurant that too might upset the Makiokas. She wondered if Sachiko had anything to suggest. The truth was that, though they hated to seem selfish, they hoped Sachiko might try to change Yukiko’s mind. The Oriental Hotel would be so convenient for all of them, and it was after all only a place to meet— and there was no cause at all for these misgivings of Yukiko’s. Sachiko talked the matter over with Teinosuke, who was just back from work. They concluded that it would be best to respect Yukiko’s wishes. Much though she hated to force the issue, said Sachiko, might she not hope that Mrs. Jimba would concede that one point? Mrs. Jimba said that she would ponder the problem and call back the next morning. On the morning of the fifteenth she called back to ask whether the Tor Hotel would be more suitable. So the question was settled.
28
THE SPRING FESTIVAL in Nara was over, and yet the day appointed for the miai was chilly. The air was still, but the sky was a dull gray, as though they might have snow. The first thing Teinosuke asked when he got up was whether the hemorrhages had stopped. Home from work early in the afternoon, he asked again. If Sachiko was not feeling well, they could still refuse for her. Sachiko answered that she was losing less and less blood. As a result of those trips to the telephone the afternoon before, however, the bleeding had in fact increased. She sponged her face and neck (she had not been able to take a bath for some days) and sat down before the mirror. The loss of blood had clearly had its effect. But then she had once been ordered by Itani to make herself as old and unobtrusive as possible, and she thought perhaps she had wasted away to just the proper point.
Mrs. Jimba, who was waiting at the hotel entrance, hurried up to them.
“Introduce me to your husband, Sachiko.” She beckoned to a gentleman who waited deferentially a step or two behind her. “This is mine.”
“I am very glad to meet you. My wife seems to have caused you a great deal of trouble.”
“On the contrary, we’ve been very selfish about the arrangements for this evening.”
“Sachiko.” Mrs. Jimba turned to Sachiko and lowered her voice once the formalities were over. “I shall introduce you to Mr. Nomura—that is he over there—but as a matter of fact we have only met two or three times at Mr. Hamada’s, and are not especially friendly. I really know very little about him, and possibly you should ask directly if you want to know anything.”
Mr. Jimba waited in silence through this hushed conference. Then, with a bow, he motioned them toward Mr. Nomura.
Sachiko and Teinosuke had noticed, sitting in the lobby, a gentleman they recognized. He nervously put out his half-smoked cigarette and stood up to meet them. Though he was better built than they had expected, he did indeed look older than the photograph. His face was covered with small wrinkles, and his hair—they had not been able to tell from the photograph—was gray and thin, and yet somehow bushy, shaggy, and generally untidy. One would have said at first sight that he was in his mid-fifties. Two years older than Teinosuke, he looked at least ten years older. Since Yukiko, on the other hand, looked seven or eight years younger than she really was, they could have been taken for father and daughter. Sachiko felt apologetic for even having brought her sister.
After the introductions they gathered around a tea table. The conversation did not go well. There was something unapproachable about the man Nomura, and Mr. and Mrs. Jimba, who should have been helping fill in the pauses, were stiff and hesitant before him. Even granting that Jimba ought to behave with respect toward the cousin of an old benefactor, to Teinosuke this deference seemed to approach obseqiousness. He and Sachiko would ordinarily have had the tact to keep a conversation going, but tonight Sachiko quite lacked spirit, and only succeeded in passing something of her apathy on to her husband.
“And what sort of work do you do, Mr. Nomura?”
There followed a brief exchange in which they learned that Nomura was in charge of restocking trout streams, that his principal work was supervising and inspecting, and that the trout at Tatsuno and Takino were especially good.
Meanwhile Mrs. Jimba bustled about. She called Sachiko aside and talked
to her for a time. She then talked to Nomura, went out to a telephone booth, and called Sachiko for another conference. Finally she was back at her seat, and it was Sachiko’s turn: Sachiko called Teinosuke aside for a conference.
“The question is where we are to have dinner. Do you know a Chinese restaurant called the Peking, up in the hills?”
“I have never heard of it.”
“Mr. Nomura goes there often, and says he would like to have dinner there. I told Mrs. Jimba I had no objection to Chinese food, but I simply could not sit in a foreign chair this evening. Most of the customers are Chinese, she says, but there are one or two Japanese rooms. She called to reserve one. Is it all right?”
“If it is all right with you. But try not to move around quite so much.”
“She keeps calling me.”
The Makioka Sisters Page 16
