“Beautiful—like a department store moving off.” Taeko who had on a thin summer blouse, shivered in the autumn breeze from the harbor. For some time they could pick out Mrs. Stolz and the children on deck; and when it was no longer possible to distinguish one from another, they could still hear Rosemarie’s voice, shrill and determined: “Etsuko, Etsuko!”
22
Manila
September 30,1938
DEAR MRS. MAKIOKA:
This is the month for typhoons in Japan, and I am much worried about you. You have had too many misfortunes these last few months. I hope you have no more. 1 suppose that all the boulders and the sand and mud on the national highway and in Ashiya have been cleared away. And I suppose that everything is back to normal, and that people are enjoying life once more. Perhaps you have good neighbors in the house we lived in. I often think of our pretty garden, and of the quiet streets where the children rode their bicycles. They had many pleasant times. How good you were at keeping them entertained! I must thank you again for all your kindness. They often speak of you, and sometimes they feel very homesick for you and Etsuko. Peter wrote from the ship to tell us what a pleasant time they had in Tokyo with your sister and Etsuko. It was very good of your sister. We are most grateful. The other day I had a cable from Hamburg. Peter and his father arrived safely and are staying with my sister, who has three children of her own. I suppose Peter has become the fourth.
We are an enormous family here too. There are eight children, and I am the only hen in the coop. Sometimes the children quarrel, but for the most part they get along well. Rosemarie is the oldest of all, and knows it. Every afternoon we go out on our bicycles through the beautiful streets and stop for ice cream.
Take care of yourselves. And please give my very best regards to your husband, your sisters, and dear Etsuko. You are to come to Europe when everything is quiet again. All we can hear now is the rattle of swords, but I do not think we will have war. No one wants it. I am sure Hitler will take care of the Czech problem.
Sincerely,
HILDA STOLZ
P.S. I am sending a little piece of embroidery. I hope you like it.
Mrs. Stolz’s letter, written in English, reached Sachiko on about the tenth of October, and a delicate hand-embroidered tablecloth arrived two or three days later. Sachiko put off writing her thanks—it seemed such a chore, and besides, who would translate for her? Teinosuke asked to be excused. One evening, strolling along the Ashiya River, she met the Japanese wife of a German named Hening, a lady to whom Mrs. Stolz had introduced her. Mrs. Hening said the translation would be no problem. Although she did not write German well herself, she could ask her daughter, who wrote both German and English. But even then Sachiko had trouble collecting herself for a letter to a foreign country. It was some time later that she finally sat down at her desk and had Etsuko sit down at hers, and sent the letters off to Mrs. Hening.
Soon afterwards Etsuko received a package from New York— the shoes Peter had promised to buy in the United States. In spite of the care with which he had taken the measurements, they were too small. Elegant patent-leather party shoes, they were a great sorrow to Etsuko, who tried in spite of the pinch to force her feet into them.
“What a shame. If only they had been too large instead of too small.”
“But how could he have made such a mistake? Did he measure too close?”
“Maybe your feet have grown. We should have told him to allow a little room. I am sure his mother would have thought of that if she had been here.”
“What a shame, though.”
“Oh, give it up, Etsuko. You are not going to wear them, no matter how you try.” Sachiko did not know what to say of the well-meant present, and in the end she did not write to thank Peter.
Taeko was almost never around the house in the daytime: she was off at her studio, hoping to fill all the orders for dolls before she went abroad, Mrs. Tamaki had arranged for her to take French lessons at the especially low price of ten yen a month for three lessons a week, from the wife of an artist who had studied in Paris for six years. Back from school each day, Etsuko would look through the net-wire fence at the Stolz house and listen to the autumn insects in the weed-choked yard. With a companion so near at hand, she had seen very little of her school mates and had rather grown away from them. Eager though she might be now to make new friends, it was not easy to find friends who suited her. The Makiokas thought another family with a daughter like Rumi might move into the Stolz house, but the house was designed for foreigners, and most foreigners had left the Far East. Sachiko too was bored. She practiced her calligraphy and gave koto lessons to O-haru. One day she remarked in a letter to Yukiko: “Etsuko is not the only one who is lonely. Everything seems sad this autumn. I wonder if it is a sign of age—I have always liked the spring, and this is the first time I have understood the autumn.”
It had been an eventful year: Yukiko’s miai in the spring, the dance recital in June, the flood and Taeko’s narrow escape, the death of the dancing teacher, the departure of the Stolz family, the trip to Tokyo, the typhoon, the dark shadow cast by that letter from Okubata—and now, with everything quiet, it was as if a gap had opened in her life. She could not help thinking how close she was to her younger sisters. Since she got along well with her husband, and since Etsuko was an only child, albeit a rather difficult child, Sachiko’s life was if anything too peaceful, too lacking in storms and trials. The unsettling agents had always been her sisters. Not that they were a bother to her: she was delighted at the color they gave the life of the family. Sachiko among the four sisters had in largest measure inherited her father’s love of excitement. She disliked too quiet a house. Out of deference to her married sister and her brother-in-law she could not purposely lure her younger sisters away. Still she rejoiced in the fact that they preferred her house to the main house, and it seemed natural that they should be where there was more room and where children were less of a problem. Though he kept a worried eye on the main house, Teinosuke understood his wife’s feelings and always welcomed Yukiko and Taeko. Everything considered, then, her feelings for the two had not been what one usually understands by the affection of sister for sister. She was sometimes startled at the thought that she spent more time worrying about her sisters than about her husband and daughter, but they were like daughters—they were on a level with Etsuko in her affections, and at the same time they were her only friends. Left alone, she was surprised to note that she had no friends worthy of the name. Her relations with other housewives had for the most part been cool and formal. Because of her sisters she had not needed friends. She knew that she was as sad to lose Yukiko and Koi-san as Etsuko was to lose Rosemarie.
Teinosuke was quick to sense this gloom. “Kikugoro is coming to Osaka next month,” he said, looking up from the entertainment column of his newspaper.
Suppose they go on the fifth. And might Koi-san not want to go too? Kikugorō was dancing one of her favorite roles. Taeko, however, said that since she would be especially busy the first part of the month, she would choose another day. Teinosuke and Sachiko took Etsuko instead.
Sachiko was thus able to make up for the September failure and to show Etsuko the Kikugorō Kabuki; but in the lobby between plays Teinosuke noticed what must have escaped Etsuko, that Sachiko’s eyes were filled with tears. Though he knew how quick she was to weep, he found this too strange.
“What is the matter?” He led her quietly into a comer. The tears were streaming over her face.
“Have you forgotten? It was in March, on exactly this day. Today might have been its birthday.” Sachiko pressed her fingers to her eyes.
23
MRS. TAMAKI was leaving in January, and it was already mid-November. More and more nervous, Taeko asked when Teinosuke might be going again to Tokyo. Although he usually made a business trip once every two months or so, he had not had occasion to go for some time. Shortly after the Kikugorō performance he left for two or three days in Tokyo,
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His trips always being on short notice, Sachiko heard of this one only the afternoon before, when he telephoned from Osaka. She immediately summoned Taeko home from the studio to consider how Teinosuke might best present her case. The real reason—or one reason—for her desire to go to France and become a true modiste was the possibility that she might have to support Okubata. Permission to go to France on such grounds, however, presupposed permission to marry Okubata, and the troublesome question of her marriage was not likely to be solved in such a short time. And Teinosuke did not relish becoming a marriage go-between. Since Taeko wanted only to go to France and hoped to avoid needless complications, might it not be better for her to set aside the problem of her relations with Okubata, at least for the time being? What pretext should they give, then? Sachiko suggested this: although Taeko did not consider her life ruined by the incident, still her name had once been in the newspapers; it did not seem likely that she would make a really good marriage, therefore, and she wanted to be able to support herself. She would not refuse a good proposal if one came along, they might add, and indeed she thought that returning from France with a degree of some sort might improve her prospects—people who had dismissed her as a juvenile delinquent would have cause to reconsider. Suppose she asked permission on these grounds, with the understanding that the main house need not pay for her wedding?
Taeko had no objections. She wanted Sachiko to do as she thought best.
Sachiko suggested another possible argument when she talked to Teinosuke that evening. Wanting to keep Taeko from both Okubata and Itakura, she had her own reasons for favoring a trip abroad; but since she had discussed the Itakura affair with no one, not even her husband, she could ask Teinosuke only to speak of Okubata—to mention the fact that Okubata had appeared at the Ashiya house two or three times recently; that although he had appeared sincere, he could no longer be considered a clean, wholesome youth; and that Teinosuke had learned of his fondness for the teahouses, and thought him, a not very promising person. Teinosuke could then point out that it might be well to let Taeko have her way and go abroad, her interests happily having turned to sewing, and that, though undeniably at the age of discretion, she had made a mistake once and ought for a time to be kept where Okubata could not reach her. The money was after all Taeko’s, thought Sachiko, and surrendering it could bring no hardship to the people in the main house. Still, they were old-fashioned. They were not likely to approve of a woman’s going abroad, and it might be well to frighten them a little, to hint that Taeko was about to elope again.
Teinosuke stayed in Tokyo a day longer than he had planned. Feeling that Tsuruko would be more approachable than her husband, he chose two o’clock on the afternoon of the third day for his visit to Shibuya. Tsuruko said that she could not give him an answer until she had talked to Tatsuo. She would have to write to Sachiko, and, seeing that Koi-san was in such a hurry, she would write as soon as possible. She was sorry they had to bother Teinosuke so often with family matters.
Sachiko did not expect a quick answer. She knew how slow her sister was, and she knew too that Tatsuo needed time for his decisions. Ten days passed, and the end of November drew near. Suppose Teinosuke raise the question again—but Teinosuke was not enthusiastic. He had opened the discussions, he said, and they were no longer an affair of his. Finally Sachiko herself wrote to ask what had been decided about Koi-san, and to point out that if she was to go at all it would have to be in January. The silence continued. Possibly Taeko should go to Tokyo—she might hurry them a little. Taeko was ready to leave for Tokyo in two or three days when, on November 30, a letter came.
November 28
DEAR SACHIKO,
Forgive me for not having written sooner. I hope you are well. I was much relieved to learn from Teinosuke that Etsuko’s troubles are over. Soon it will be the New Year, my second New Year in Tokyo; and how I dread the winter! Tatsuo’s sister-in-law says it takes three years to get used to the Tokyo winter. Through her own first three winters she had nothing but colds. 1 envy you, being able to live in Ashiya.
Teinosuke must be very busy, and it was good of him to explain Koi-san s problems to us in such detail. 1 always feel
guilty about having to bother him. I should of course have answered sooner, but as always I have been so busy with the children that I have not been able to collect myself for a decent letter; and then the fact that Tatsuo’s opinion is the opposite of your own has made it difficult for me to write, and 1 have been putting the letter off from day to day. 1 hope you will forgive me.
In a word, Tatsuo sees no reason for Koi-san to be so touchy about the newspaper affair. It happened eight or nine years ago, and no one even remembers. If she really thinks she cannot marry and will have to support herself, then she is simply being too sensitive. It may sound strange from a relative, but Tatsuo says that with her looks, training, and talent he can guarantee her a very good marriage indeed, and that she is absolutely not to worry. We find it odd, then, to be asked to give her money. I am told that there is no money specifically in Koi-san’s name. We have thought about her wedding, but there is no money that we have to turn over on demand. Tatsuo is moreover quite opposed to her becoming in any way a working woman. He hopes that she will always have it as her goal to make a good marriage when the time comes, and to become a good wife and mother. If she must have a hobby, doll-making will do. Dressmaking is quite out of the question.
This is not the time for a decision on Okubata. We would like to have the question left open. Koi-san is a grown woman, and we have no intention of being as strict as we once were. If you will quietly keep watch over her, there is no reason why she should not see him from time to time. We are far more upset at the idea that she thinks of making a career as a seamstress.
I hate to ask it after all the trouble Teinosuke has gone to, but could you pass this on to Koi-san? I cannot help thinking that all of her troubles come down to her being so long unmarried. It seems more urgent than ever to find someone for Yukiko, and as soon as we possibly can. Are there to be no more proposals this year?
I have left a great deal unsaid, I am sure, but I shall stop here. My best regards to Teinosuke, Etsuko, and Koi-san.
TSURUKO
“What do you think of it?” Sachiko showed the letter to Tei-nosuke that evening. She had not yet spoken to Taeko.
“There seems to be a difference of opinion about the money.”
“That is the point.”
“What have you heard yourself?” Teinosuke asked.
“I am not really sure who is right. But I do remember hearing that Father left money with Tatsuo. It might be better not to say anything to Koi-san.”
“There is too much at stake. Tell her as soon as possible, and be sure she understands.”
“What about Kei-boy?” Sachiko asked. “What did you say about him? You made it very clear that he is not as nice as he once was?”
“I said in general what I thought. But I had a feeling she would rather not talk about him. I did say that for the time being they ought not to see too much of each other. I meant to say if she asked me that we were opposed to the marriage, but she changed the subject.”
“ ‘We would like to have the question left open.’ Do you suppose they want her to marry him?”
“I suspect so. I thought so when I talked to her,” Teinosuke answered.
“You might have done better to bring up the question of the marriage first, then.”
“I wonder. They would probably have said that there was even less reason to go abroad.”
“You are probably right.”
“In any case, it is more than I can manage. Let Koi-san talk to them herself. No more for me,” Teinosuke said.
Sachiko was reluctant to transmit Tatsuo’s views unmodified, since Taeko was even more hostile to the main house than Yukiko; but Teinosuke thought it best to hide nothing. When she showed the letter to Taeko the next day, the results were exactly as she had expected. Taeko said that
she was no longer a child, that she did not need the guidance of any Tatsuo, that she understood her affairs better than anyone else. And what was so wrong with a woman who worked? The people in Toyko still worried about family and position, and it seemed to them a disgrace that the Makioka family should produce a seamstress. But was that not ridiculously old-fashioned? She would go herself and explain everything, she would make them see how wrong they were. And she was furious about the money.
Always before, when she attacked Tatsuo, she had refrained from criticizing Tsuruko, but this time her anger was aimed rather at Tsuruko: Tsuruko was wrong to let Tatsuo say what he did. It was true that the money was not in Taeko’s name, but had she not heard from Aunt Tominaga, and any number of times from Tsuruko herself, that Tatsuo had money in trust for her? And now they chose to cloud the issue. They kept having children and needing more money, and no doubt Tatsuo had changed his plans, but how could Tsuruko support him? Very well, Taeko knew what to do. She would have her money. She wept and stormed, and Sachiko was in a real sweat to calm her. Sachiko understood well enough, but should Koi-san lose control of herself? Maybe Tei-nosuke had explained badly. And in any case she should try to understand their own position. Although it would be very fine indeed for her to have everything out in Toyko, could she not proceed more cautiously? Sachiko and her husband would be most embarrassed if Koi-san went picking a fight—it was not to find themselves in a fight that they had sided with her.
In a few days, Taeko was her old placid self again. It became clear that she had only given vent to the rage of the moment, and that she did not have courage to carry out her threats. Even so, Sachiko was uneasy.
Then one afternoon, possibly around the middle of December, Taeko came home from her studio earlier than usual.
“I have stopped my French lessons.”
“Oh?” Sachiko tried not to seem interested.
The Makioka Sisters Page 30
