by Susan Barker
After breakfast I changed into my tracksuit and set to work. The grey, morning drizzle scuppered my plans to trim the hedge bordering the Tanaka property, so I mopped the stairs and polished the banister. Then I took up the broom and ventured into the spare room. In daylight it was hard to understand what had caused my fear and my subsequent flight to the hostess bar the night before. And as I swept I had to concede that the floorboards were remarkably squeaky. It wouldn’t surprise me, I thought, if they were capable of squeaking of their own accord. Reassured thus, I moved on to the master bedroom.
As always, I left the upkeep of the Sato family shrine until I was satisfied that order had been restored within the rest of the house. Kneeling before the shrine, I dusted the ancestral memorial tablets and swept the fallen pellets of incense ash from the platform. You observed me from within the confines of your gold lacquered frame, expressionless in your high-collared dress. I would much rather have used the photograph I took of you on the ferry to Kyushu – the one of you leaning against the ferry railings and smiling fit to burst, your hair in flight in the wind. However, common sense dictated I select a sober photograph that wouldn’t rouse the disapproval of our respective mothers, sternly flanking you in their own gilded frames. I squirted everyone with Windex and polished the glass until it gleamed.
The sky had all drizzled out by noon. I set off for a stroll about our sun-brightened neighbourhood, the earth springy with moisture beneath my feet.
As I passed the paddy-field backing the Hideyoshi property my thoughts turned, with some mortification, to the night before. I hoped Mariko had not been upset by my silent departure. After all, it is Murakami-san I am cross with, not her. It is troubling that a girl barely out of high school is working until the early hours in a smoky hostess bar. And deplorable to think that she may be corrupted by the alcohol and men typical of these establishments. I must have been in a very aberrant mood to go there. I will never go back. Not now I know that we have been the subject of idle gossip.
My wanderings about the neighbourhood had inspired a considerable thirst. When I reached the Circle K on Tomo-Oka lane, I stopped to purchase a bottle of grapefruit juice. As I stood outside the convenience store drinking my beverage (loath to adopt the ill-mannered trend of drinking while walking), two boys sharing a bicycle came wobbling across the parking lot towards me. One boy clutched the handlebars and pedalled, while the other stood on the back-wheel pivot, gripping the shoulders of his friend. They wore T-shirts and trousers in desperate want of belts (for each boy exhibited the waistband of his boxer shorts). They stopped a metre short of me, and the boy who had hitched a ride on the back wheel jumped down. He extracted some coins from a baggy pocket.
‘Hey, mister. Can you get us a pack of Kools? We’ll let you keep the change.’
The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve, his companion younger still. He held the coins out in his palm, confident I would perform his illegal request.
‘Smoking is very bad for you,’ I said. ‘It is best never to start. It may seem like fun when you are young, but it is highly addictive and causes all manner of diseases . . .’
The boy pulled an ugly face, not unlike that of a gargoyle.
‘Put a lid on it, granddad,’ he said with a sneer. ‘C’mon . . . We don’t need a lecture from this old man, we’ll get them from the vending machine down the road.’
‘Yeah. Go screw yourself,’ added his recalcitrant young friend.
The boy remounted the bicycle.
For a moment their outburst of expletives robbed me of my tongue. But then, in a surge of indignation, I cried out: ‘I know who your mothers are and I shall tell them of this!’
Of course, I haven’t a clue who their mothers are, but my threat bared an Achilles heel. Gone was their bravado. Fearfully, they glanced back, before pedalling quickly away.
On my way home I stopped at the flower stall next door to the Nakayama funeral parlour to purchase the pink roses Mrs Tanaka had requested. However, upon arriving home I realized that the bouquet was not freshly cut and the petals were wilted and browning at the edges. I fretted over this as I selected a tie and cufflinks for the dinner party.
I was standing on Mrs Tanaka’s doorstep, my finger poised to ring the bell, when the door flew wide open as if assailed by an almighty gust of wind.
‘Mr Sato!’ Mrs Tanaka exclaimed. ‘What a pleasant surprise! Don’t you look dapper in your suit.’
Mrs Tanaka had forfeited her housecoat for a stylish purple dress. On the front pocket of the dress an embroidered cat chased a ball of yarn – no doubt Mrs Tanaka’s own nifty handiwork. Her soft grey hair had been stiffly waved and set with hairspray.
‘Good evening, Mrs Tanaka. I hope I am not late,’ I said.
‘By a minute and a half,’ she replied. ‘But never mind, you’re here, that is the main thing. Well, what are you waiting for? Come in, then.’
I removed my shoes in the reception area and slipped on a pair of peach guest slippers. A pair of spike-heeled leather boots caught my attention. As Mrs Tanaka’s age and rheumatism ruled out such aggressive footwear, I could only infer they belonged to Naoko.
In a tizzy of excitement Mrs Tanaka pushed me towards the living room. ‘Naoko, Naoko!’ she cried. ‘Mr Sato from next door is here!’
Naoko, sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion, was watching the seven o’clock news bulletin. She rose to her feet as I entered. Mr Tanaka snoozed in his wicker rocking chair, his mouth agape.
‘Good evening, Mr Sato,’ Naoko said, with a bow.
‘Good evening, Miss Tanaka,’ I replied, returning the bow.
‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’ Naoko said. ‘You look very well.’
‘So do you, Miss Tanaka.’
‘Please, call me Naoko.’
Naoko’s voice was as rich and commanding as I remembered. Her appearance was also faithful to memory: her face pale and angular, her auburn-dyed hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. Streamlined in a black shirt and trousers, Naoko looked every inch the modern career woman – most out of place in Mrs Tanaka’s cosy den of crocheted seat covers and winsome cherub figurines.
I presented her with the roses, abashed by their tattered petals.
‘Oh! You remembered I like roses! How sweet of you, Mr Sato.’
Mrs Tanaka winked, as discreet as a herd of pink elephants. ‘Mr Sato has a masterful memory. Don’t you, Mr Sato? He couldn’t have worked his way up through the ranks of Daiwa Trading without it.’
‘Is that so?’ Naoko said with a quirk of the eyebrow.
Really! Such fibs Mrs Tanaka can tell.
‘No, not at all. My memory is average at best.’
‘Such modesty!’ Mrs Tanaka marvelled. ‘Well now, shall we adjourn to the table?’
Bending over her husband, Mrs Tanaka administered a sharp prod to his shoulder, launching his chair into a jerky rocking motion.
‘Mr Tanaka. Dinner!’ she shouted in his ear.
We sat upon the floor cushions positioned around the dining-room table. Steaming bowls of rice and miso soup were placed before us, along with dishes of grilled vegetables and tofu drenched in soya. The centrepiece of the table was a ceramic plate in the shape of a four-leaved clover, each leaf flaunting a glistening slab of steak.
The meal was beyond reproach. The steak was succulent and the vegetables mouth-watering. Naoko and I chorused an endless round of compliments, which Mrs Tanaka swatted away like pesky midges. Mr Tanaka, indifferent to his wife’s culinary gifts, muttered under his breath as she used a knife and fork to cut his steak into manageable pieces.
‘Mr Tanaka,’ she scolded, ‘your arthritis wouldn’t be this bad if you did your physiotherapy every morning, like the doctor instructed . . . No! You cannot have any beer, you are only allowed orange squash.’
For one so lean and wraithlike Naoko had a vigorous appetite. She helped herself to a second bowl of rice, and piled her plate with asparagus as if she had just heard the vegetable
was soon to be extinct.
‘Naoko-chan,’ I said, ‘how are you settling into your new job?’
‘Wonderfully, thank you. I have so much more freedom to experiment here than at the Tokyo office. I have picked up three new clients already, and I have barely been in Osaka a month.’
Naoko’s dark eyes shone with enthusiasm. She obviously likes her job as an interior designer very much indeed.
‘I am happy to hear it. It does one good to take pride in one’s job.’
‘How wise of you, Mr Sato,’ Mrs Tanaka praised. ‘Of course Naoko’s artistic streak wasn’t always the source of such pride. When she was a girl she’d scribble all over my walls with her crayons! Oh, she was so naughty!’
We all laughed at this, except for Mr Tanaka, who chewed his steak and grimaced.
‘And you, Mr Sato? How is Daiwa Trading?’ Naoko enquired.
‘Each day has its challenges,’ I said. ‘Each day has its rewards.’
Naoko smiled at this. ‘I guess when your job stops being a challenge then it’s time for a new job.’
Well. This struck me as a rather slipshod attitude. If everybody abandoned their jobs simply because they are unexciting, then who would occupy the small yet essential niches society so depends upon?
‘But to remain in a career that one finds unchallenging is a challenge in itself,’ I retorted.
Naoko smiled again. ‘Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it . . .’
‘More rice, Mr Sato?’ Mrs Tanaka interjected, depositing a ladleful into my bowl. ‘Did I mention that Naoko and her friend Tomomi recently completed a walking tour of Hokkaido?’
‘Tomoko,’ Naoko corrected.
‘What, dear?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Auntie? Her name is Tomoko.’
‘Yes, of course it is. Anyway, I am always advising Mr Sato to take a holiday. He hasn’t had one in years. A walking tour would do him the world of good.’
‘Tomoko works in a travel agents’,’ Naoko said. ‘It’s really handy for finding cheap flights. I can give you her card if you like.’
I crunched on some daikon pickle. What could be more extraneous to my needs than a travel agent? I swallowed my pickle, and in the spirit of polite conversation said: ‘I want to visit China one day. My wife always wanted to visit China.’ But no sooner had the words left my mouth than I experienced the queer, inward revelation that, just as I will never sprout wings and fly to the moon, I will never visit China.
There was a silence as Mrs Tanaka twisted her napkin awkwardly. Then, ‘Well, Naoko,’ she said, ‘you’ve always wanted to visit China, haven’t you? And Golden week is coming up soon, isn’t it? Why don’t you two go together!’
This all came out of Mrs Tanaka in a breathless flurry. Perhaps she thought that if she got her suggestion out fast enough, we would agree before realizing how ludicrous it was.
Naoko laid down her chopsticks. Though she had been in good humour all evening, she now looked sharply at her aunt. ‘Auntie,’ she said crossly, ‘Tomoko and I have already made plans for Golden week. You know this already.’ Then she turned to speak to me, her voice softening. ‘But, Mr Sato, if you should require assistance finding inexpensive flights to China, then I will do my utmost to help.’
I thanked Naoko and Mrs Tanaka began to clatter together the dinner plates, clucking over Mr Tanaka’s leftover steak. She shooed us away when we offered to help with the washing-up and went to the kitchen, noticeably smarting from Naoko’s reproach.
Mr Tanaka rose from the table and limped back to his rocking chair. Soon the rumble of satiated snores drifted from the living room. Naoko and I remained at the table for a while, chatting though we have scant in common. I had never heard of any of the strange, arty films she had seen, and thought her plans to go jungle-trekking in Burma foolish. Naoko’s eyes glazed over as I told her of my plans to re-tile the bathroom next weekend – a topic of conversation I was certain would appeal to an interior designer. We sat together until nine o’clock, by which time I decided we had bored each other quite enough.
Upon returning home I brushed my teeth and changed into my pyjamas. Then I sat at the kitchen table and listened to a radio programme on Renaissance art while trimming my nails with the nail scissors. It is odd how time spent in the company of others can magnify one’s solitude rather than alleviate it. It probably wouldn’t have occurred to me to feel lonely if the evening had been spent in my own company. Above the radio I heard Mrs Tanaka call goodbye to her niece, then the slam of a car door and the growl of an ignition. I swept my nail cuttings into my hand and scattered them in the kitchen bin. Perhaps now Mrs Tanaka has been discouraged from further romantic intervention. One can only hope.
II
I had planned to take some time off work to consult a doctor about the strange anxiety attack I suffered on Saturday night, but arriving at work on Monday morning I saw that this was just not feasible. Mr Takahara, Assistant Section Chief, had left on a business trip to Hawaii, and Mrs Kawanoue had just begun her maternity leave (about time too; though her deft secretarial skills will be sorely missed, I was beginning to find the sight of her ever-swelling belly quite disagreeable in the office environment). If I were to step out of the office for an hour or two, Taro, the graduate trainee, would be left at the helm. Anxious to avert this catastrophe, I took great care to remain at my desk. Even trips to the bathroom and water fountain were conducted with haste.
Anyway, perhaps now a visit to the doctor’s is unnecessary. I am pleased to report that my nights thus far have been undisturbed. All week I have been returning home from work at midnight, and tumbling exhausted into bed. The next thing I am aware of is the piercing shrill of my 6 a.m. alarm, rousing me in time for the morning callisthenics broadcast.
I left for work in good time this morning. The sky was pastel blue and delicately frothed with clouds. Two doors down, Mrs Ue’s cherry blossoms were in joyous flower. The air hummed with regeneration, as spring dug its heels into our quiet suburb. I was quite relieved when I saw Mrs Tanaka standing sentinel at our mailbox, her quilted housecoat buttoned up to the collar. She had remained indoors Monday and Tuesday morning, causing me to worry that she had taken to heart her dashed romantic hopes for her niece and me. She waved a Tupperware container at my approach.
‘Mochi cakes, Mr Sato,’ she announced. ‘I made them myself yesterday. Lovely weather, isn’t it? I might take Mr Tanaka for a stroll around the carp pond later.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Tanaka,’ I said, accepting the cakes. ‘I shall have these on my tea break.’
‘Good. It is important to eat regularly, especially with the long hours you have been keeping of late. Five past midnight you got home last night!’
‘My office has been very short-staffed lately.’
Mrs Tanaka tutted and shook her head. ‘Then, you should tell them to employ more people.’
I nodded compliantly. Mrs Tanaka knows nothing of administrative organization and it is best not to quarrel with her about it.
‘By the way, thank you again for dinner on Sunday,’ I said. ‘It was the most wonderful meal I have had in a long time.’
‘I only hope my niece’s bad manners did not spoil it for you,’ Mrs Tanaka said. She was as bitter as a coffee bean.
‘Bad manners?’ I said. ‘Naoko-chan is a thoroughly charming, uh . . . modern young woman.’
Mrs Tanaka lifted her eyes to the heavens and sighed. ‘Modern, yes. But charming and young? She will be thirty-five next birthday. Thirty-five and not a squeak of a boyfriend. I only hope her biological clock will outlast her stubbornness. Oh, her poor mother—’
‘Yes, well . . .’ I interrupted, not wanting to be drawn into this intimate topic of conversation, ‘I must be off, Mrs Tanaka: the seven forty-five won’t wait. Thank you for the cakes.’ I unlatched the front gate.
‘Wait,’ Mrs Tanaka said. Her fingers, marbled by poor circulation, clutched at the gate. ‘How have you been sleeping these
days?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘I heard you pacing about your house at about four this morning.’
Impossible, I thought. She must have heard the Korean family on the other side of the Tanaka residence, and in her drowsy state confused the origin of the noise.
‘Are you quite sure, Mrs Tanaka?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t the Koreans? I was in bed.’
‘Well . . .’ Mrs Tanaka said, bristling in offence, ‘I suppose one cannot be a hundred per cent certain that the Jeungs didn’t break into your house to tramp on your floorboards and play your old cello . . .’
‘Cello?’ A curious nausea swept over me. I tasted my morning coffee as my gorge rose. ‘But I was in bed until six this morning,’ I insisted.
‘I was sitting up knitting when I heard it,’ Mrs Tanaka said. ‘I thought: Why is Mr Sato playing the cello at this hour?’
‘I don’t recall any of this,’ I said.
‘Then you were sleepwalking,’ Mrs Tanaka decided.
Is this possible? Have you ever known me to sleepwalk? You would have mentioned it, surely. Could I have been playing your cello in my sleep?
Mrs Tanaka’s gaze veered towards our empty house, towards the darkened upstairs windows. ‘You make sure that you don’t work too hard, Mr Sato,’ she said, her usual abruptness dimmed by concern. ‘We don’t want your health to suffer now, do we?’
The idea of my having been sleepwalking, unbeknownst to myself, frightened me. As the 7.45 pulled out of Osakako station I decided that I was long overdue for a medical check-up after all.
However, as I walked into the office this morning I was confronted by the sight of Taro, the graduate trainee, with his head lodged beneath the cover of the photocopier. Fluorescent light flashed as the machine spat out sheet after sheet of the deviant boy’s flattened profile.
‘Taro!’ I cried. ‘What are you doing?’
Taro extracted his head, blinking woozily, bedazzled from prolonged exposure to the flash. ‘Morning, Mr Sato. Heavy night at Karaoke last night. Thought this would wake me up.’
