“If she allows it,” repeats Hanne, her voice heavy with cynicism.
He sighs again. “You know how it goes. I figured I could tell you this because someone else called me, not her.”
Brigitte continues to have sporadic contact with Tomas, as long as he doesn’t reveal their conversations to Hanne. Tomas says he has to go. He’ll discuss taking the trip to Monterey with Anne and be in touch.
After Hanne hangs up, she stares at the lone tree across the street, waving its spindly branches in the air as if trying to grab hold of something. So thin, so fragile, it looks at any moment like it might topple over. She steps into the kitchen, makes coffee, and eats half a piece of toast to try and settle her stomach. The best thing to do is to lose herself in something demanding. Something hard. Something that requires all of her.
She heads to her office, turns on Chopin’s Preludes Opus 28, and sits at her desk. Her mother’s desk, the only piece of furniture Hanne kept. Though why she did is baffling because when she looks at it, she sees her mother’s long, straight back. Her mother always sat facing a window. In Switzerland, a window that looked out at the garden of flowers. In Turkey, a window that looked out at a fig tree; in Norway, one overlooking the icy ocean; in Cairo, a farmer’s market. Always another place, another window. A litany of windows. Hanne sees herself standing in the doorway, staring at her mother’s rigid back, imagining the bumps of her vertebrae perfectly aligned, like a message written in Braille that she’d never understand, no matter how hard she tried.
Always her father was away at work or traveling, and then, when Hanne was ten, he was gone for good. So it would be her mother she’d tell, though she can’t remember what she was waiting to say. Whatever it was, it would never be uttered because her mother whipped around, her perpetual look of disappointment fully displayed: “Don’t interrupt me!”
What was the Muse whispering to her that was so important? Not great works of literature, or even mediocre ones. Would that have made it easier? She was poring over corporate documents. French, Swiss, German, anyone who would pay, her mother orchestrating the grand movement of goods, translating French to German, German to English, her Muse murmuring the languages of commerce, of moneymaking. At some point, her mother installed a lock for the door because, she said, “I need utter and complete silence, without even the itch of a thought that I could be disturbed.” The entire house enshrouded in silence, Hanne waiting for the Muse of commerce to shut up.
There is no more waiting for her mother, who died twenty years ago and has taken her place alongside her parents in a cemetery in Kiel. Just as her father, who remains a shadowy presence in her memory, had assumed his place with his family members in a cemetery in Delft years before. Where Hanne will end up is easily solved; she’ll not lie beside either one of them, but be cremated. But death isn’t looming—she has too many obligations—what is looming is her deadline.
She re-opens Kobayashi’s novel.
The next day, Jiro wakes. The house feels bigger, relieved of heaviness and gloom. There is no need to reach over and touch his fingers to her neck to find a pulse. No need to run downstairs to see if she’s plunged a knife into her heart. Or overdosed on pills or stepped outside and thrown herself in front of a car. He read somewhere that each culture has its preferred way of committing suicide. His wife, however, considered all ways. But now he can luxuriate in a pool of calmness and ease his way into the day.
Sunlight streams in through the bedroom window and he becomes aware of vast acreage in his mind that is wonderfully uninhabited. Where just yesterday it was populated by worry, anxiety, and vigilance, there is now a small country of nothingness. He wasn’t even conscious of how much of his mind was devoted to, no, obsessed with her well-being. He feels a funny little smile on his face. He is, finally, a free man.
Then Kobayashi writes, Heya ga uzuiteiru. The room is throbbing.
Throbbing with what? Uzuku is normally used for something negative—throbbing wounds or aching. But how can that be? He is not physically injured, he suffers no bodily pain. Figuratively, too, he suffers no aches or pains. In fact, Jiro has just regained a huge swath of his mind. A free man is what he just called himself. He is rid of shame and guilt, as much as a human can be. After many months, he’s done everything possible to save his wife, and with that comes the knowledge that he can do nothing more. What you’ve done is brave and admirable, she murmurs to Jiro. So you can’t be throbbing with pain, either physically or emotionally, can you? And the next sentence supports that: He picks up his violin and begins to play.
Hanne can’t remember the last time he played his violin of his own free will. In the past year, he’s been so depleted that he barely makes it to symphony rehearsals. So this playing of the violin must signal the re-entrance of joy into Jiro’s life. Or is he playing a lament to finally shutting the door on Aiko?
She translates the line: The room seems to throb. But she makes a note to come back to this section because she’s not entirely satisfied with how it reads.
After he finishes playing, he eats a quick breakfast and heads to his car. He’ll be early to rehearsal. When was the last time that happened? Perhaps Fumio will be there and they can practice together. Or Chikako, the flutist. Chikako, tall and lanky, with the sexy mole at the corner of her upper lip.
Chopin’s lyrical precision winds its way into Hanne’s consciousness. For a moment she closes her eyes and listens. How can anything be so beautiful? This, she reminds herself, is what her translation should rise to. It must sing the human condition.
She works steadily, carefully. Translation is an art, she’s said countless times, requiring all the skill of a writer and then some, because the story, written in one language, one as different as Japanese, must be made as meaningful in another language. It is no small undertaking: each human language maps the world differently. Each language fosters a different way of thinking. She’s always told herself that in between her paid translation projects, she’ll begin work on something of her own. In the past few years, she’s toyed with the idea of writing something about the ninth-century Japanese poet Ono no Komachi. At first she had thought she’d translate Komachi’s poems from Japanese to English, but too many people already have come before her: all her poems have been unearthed and translated. She is, in fact, relieved. What she really wants to write is a play. She is enamored not only of the written but also the spoken word, and a play, her play, will allow her to work in both forms. Besides, the spoken word affects her differently than the written. Days after seeing a play, lines from the performance still bounce around in her head. It’s as if her brain recorded the play and watches it again and again.
Indeed Chikako is there. They talk. Jiro tells her what happened, and she displays the requisite amount of sympathy, assuring him he did the right thing. For years she watched her mother care for her grandmother and by the end of her life, her mother was bone tired. The prolonging of one life drastically depleted the other. Symphony rehearsal goes extremely well and Jiro is congratulated by his fellow violinists for mastering so quickly a difficult section.
Then Kobayashi writes: Jiro wa isoide uchi e kaeri, toko ni tsuku. He hurries home and goes to bed. He is not fleeing or running away from anything. Jiro is not shirking responsibilities. He is weary from an eventful day. She translates it: He heads home and goes to bed.
But then she stumbles: He weeps uncontrollably.
Hanne looks up as if a stranger has just entered the room. Even in the darkest moments of caring for his wife, as her condition deteriorated, Jiro displayed the fine qualities of composure and restraint. It’s out of character. And it isn’t at all believable. After a long string of dismal months, he finally and most deservedly had an extraordinary day. Why cry now?
For a solid year, ever since Aiko confined herself to the darkened house, limiting herself to the bed or the overstuffed armchair, occasionally shuffling through the house, he has shopped for groceries, picked up the dry-cleaning, cleaned, and
, when he could, left the symphony early to cook dinner, though she rarely ate more than a couple of bites. Thank god they didn’t have children, thinks Hanne, or he’d have had to assume the child-rearing as well. Upon the advice of one of her doctors, who said she suffered from a weak kidney, Jiro spent money he didn’t have on a vacation to Hawaii, hoping a change of scenery might help. Her trip in the car was the result of three weeks of coaxing by her newest doctor—let her drive and perhaps she will gain her konjo, or willpower.
She translates: He weeps uncontrollably, feeling a serenity he didn’t know he was missing.
For several minutes she stares at what she’s written. Does it feel right? Is it right? So much of this is intuition and insight gained through living a life. There is the life of words and there is the life of the translator—her life. She paces her study, running the sentence through her mind again. It is right. He’s earned his freedom and this peace. He no longer has to be in such tight control. The catharsis of weeping is part of his new freedom. She moves to the next section. Jiro calls Aiko’s doctor to find out how she’s doing. The doctor says not to worry, she’s in good hands. They even have her eating three meals a day. In a week, she’ll look so much better. After the call, Jiro plays a piece by Antonio Bazzini, one of his favorite composers. He plays it over and over until he is infused with delight. When he’s done, he feels like celebrating. He calls Chikako and asks her out to dinner.
Hanne translates a chapter at the restaurant, where Jiro has a wonderful time. They make plans to see each other again. On Friday night, he goes to Fumio’s party, knowing she’ll be there. He spots Chikako across the room and feels his hand move as if it might find its way across the expanse and explore her spine. She is talking to a man who has a sly smile and startlingly shiny shoes. Occasionally she glances over at Jiro, as if to measure the lust in his eyes. His eyes fix on her, the body that is unknown to him but feels so necessary.
Then Hanne comes to a long section that occurs nearly a year later. There are scenes of weeping, staring at random objects, talk of a lost, lonely soul wandering the earth alone. Kobayashi didn’t use a subject or personal pronouns. That’s not unusual in Japanese, but it doesn’t help her. And the verbs don’t lend much direction either—standard form and sometimes informal in present tense. It could be anyone, anyone but Jiro. Because in the next chapter he and Chikako are a steady couple. He can’t stop thinking about Chikako’s heart-shaped face, her easy smile, how quick she is to laugh.
Maybe Kobayashi has moved into Aiko’s point of view. There is the image of a sterile stretch of corridor. That has to be a hospital, decides Hanne. But does that make sense? The doctor has repeatedly assured Jiro that Aiko is doing better. But is she? Who can this mystery narrator be? And who is muttering “Don’t go,” like a mindless mantra? Maybe Jiro’s music. Maybe Kobayashi took a risk and personified it, let it roam from hospital room to hospital room like a ghost.
Hanne had noticed this problem when she read the novel the first time, but she thought Kobayashi would be available to clarify. Kobayashi’s last missive was months ago: “I’m not the translator, you are!” written in Japanese. What should she do? She just can’t see Jiro carrying on like this. It’s too emotional. Too melodramatic. She looks out her study window at the brick siding of the building next door. A small alley separates the two apartment buildings, and during the day only a bit of light funnels through. She puts this dreary section in Aiko’s point of view.
She keeps working, writing words on the board, erasing them, rearranging them. When she glances at the clock, she sees it’s nearly midnight. She has forgotten to call David. Will he forgive her? Tomorrow, she’ll do it tomorrow. Besides, working until she is exhausted is one of the few ways she manages her insomnia. She has her faults, but discipline is not one of them.
She realizes her stomach is still upset. She heads down the hallway and stops in the living room. Her big window offers her a sweeping view of the Golden Gate Bridge. For a moment, the dense winter fog has cleared. The black swath of sky provides the perfect backdrop for the red-orange of the bridge. She stands at the window, watching the red taillights of the cars as they speed across to the other side. It’s been years since she’s hiked the headlands. Not that she’s yearning to go. She has plenty to do here, and besides, she’s hiked those trails enough times. She already knows what’s over there.
Chapter Two
At the university, Hanne finds David in his office grading papers.
“There you are. I’ve been impatiently waiting for you to reemerge,” he says, smiling.
She kisses him on the cheek.
They head to Café Grandissimo, their usual spot across from Colbert University. He’s finished teaching for the day, and she doesn’t have to be in the classroom until Friday. The last chapters of the translation have been sent to the publisher, who’ll send the manuscript to Kobayashi, who lives in Tokyo. The translation required a Herculean effort sustained over twelve months to transform the novel into something worth publishing. Before seeking out David, she called Tomas and left a message that she finally had sent off the beast. Good riddance. She hoped to never see the likes of Kobayashi again. She was being ironic, of course. She loved every minute of it. After months of being steeped in it, she can’t get Jiro out of her mind. She keeps thinking she’s going to run into him on the street, at a restaurant, anywhere.
In the coffee shop, a couple of students wave at David. He teaches composition and Classical Greek; she, Japanese. He loves it and the students reciprocate, showering him each semester with outstanding evaluations. She, on the other hand, is lukewarm. Most of her students sign up for Japanese because of their interest in manga and anime, and they couldn’t care less about learning the standard form of Japanese. Though she started out enthusiastic, Hanne now sees the job as just another source of income because her first love, translation, is hardly lucrative.
David sits beside her and holds her hand. Ever since his divorce two years ago, they’ve had a casual relationship. It’s an arrangement that suits them both, since David has three children, two of whom are in middle school, and he’s stretched in all directions.
“So is the world ready for Hanne Schubert?” he says, smiling.
She’s explained that Kobayashi is positioned by the publisher as the new Japanese writer with worldwide appeal. And the publication in English of Trojan Horse Trips is his big debut. In the world of translation, this is Hanne’s big break. It will, most likely, lead to accolades and a slew of work, so much that she’ll have to turn projects down. After twenty-five years of translating, with the publication of Kobayashi’s book she finally will reach the lofty heights of her profession. To say she’s been waiting for this for a long time is an understatement. While staring at the menu, she turns the fantasy over again in her mind.
The waitress brings them two coffees. The shop is efficient and Hanne approves, though she wishes it was farther from school, away from the students who keep interrupting, saying hello to David and fawning all over him, and tossing only a cursory nod to her, as if she’s someone who must be recognized solely because of her proximity to him.
“I’ve something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. A gift to mark this moment, he says. “Few people become recognized masters of their field.”
A turquoise bracelet that, when she tries it on, hangs too loosely around her wrist. “It’s lovely.”
“I can have it properly fitted.”
“No. It’s perfect,” she says. “I love it.”
She’s always amazed when someone gives her a gift. She never expects it, and so the present, whatever it is, gives off a glow. And the gift-giver? She immediately assigns him the attribute of generosity. She’s always been attracted to David, his extensive vocabulary, which he uses to make the ordinary shimmer. Having grown up in London, David is proof that the English educational system is superior to the American, at least when it comes to language. It also helps that he ha
s a handsome face, with dark liquid eyes and long lashes, and chestnut hair cut short. There’s something tidy and clean about him, an attention to detail that she finds necessary as one ages.
“So, what will you do with your newly earned freedom?” he says.
She tells him she’s been invited to Japan to speak at a conference about language and translation. She turned it down, though, because she doesn’t really enjoy traveling anymore. And before she’s buried under a mountain of new translation projects, she wants to try her hand at writing. For years she’s wanted to write about Ono no Komachi, the premier poet of her time. “Maybe a play. I’m interested in her early days in the court when she was wooed by every man.”
“Sounds like the perfect time.”
She smiles. “With all this free time, how about we go away? This weekend?”
“I wish I could.” There’s the older boy’s baseball practice and the younger one’s soccer, and a spaghetti fundraiser. On and on. “Why don’t we steal an hour away,” he says, “right now.”
This is another reason she appreciates him. She’s not by nature an impulsive woman, but sometimes he manages to coax it out in her. For these occasions she gets to believe that there may be more to her than what she already knows, that her life isn’t going to be a humdrum steady beat of what’s come before. And for that, she is grateful.
By now they know to head to her apartment, not his. Though he’s a fastidious dresser, he has no standards when it comes to housekeeping. When she’s there, she can’t resist washing the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, wiping down the counters, picking up clothes, and anything else she can find until he grabs her and tells her to stop, my dear, please stop.
In her apartment, he stands in her living room. “I love it up here. It’s like you’re on top of the world. Not bombarded by images and sounds and people. Only the grandeur of that stunning bridge.”
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