by Susan Barker
Taro winked and gave me a thumbs-up. ‘Nice,’ he complimented. ‘The Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor doesn’t let that kind of detail get in the way either.’
‘Quite,’ I said.
Taro bounded down the stairs two at a time, then waited for me at the bottom. Together we turned into the lobby. Behind the reception desk, talking into her phone headset, was Miss Kano, looking very weary and bruised around the eyes, her bump clearly visible beneath the maternity pleats in her blouse. Taro sniggered to himself.
‘Well, Taro,’ I said, ‘I have to go and remind Miss Kano that we are expecting a visitor from Kyoto bank on Monday. I hope you and your friend Ace have a pleasant evening.’
‘Heheheheh,’ Taro said, stroking his chin. ‘Won’t be as pleasant as yours, I bet.’ He turned and dived into the revolving doors. ‘You’d better watch out, Section Chief Sato,’ he heckled over his shoulder as the doors revolved him mercifully away from me. ‘Michiko might be the jealous type.’
After briefing Miss Kano on the Monday-morning inspection I rushed down to the station in time for the five fifteen. Shortly after six I turned onto our street. A half-circle of Okamura children were standing in the early dusk, conducting a spinning-top tournament. The tops they used were not the wooden type of our childhood but streamlined, hi-tech aluminium-looking things. They respectfully interrupted their game as I went by, removing the spinning contraptions from my path. Just outside our house the two youngest Okamura children were crouched down, making two naked plastic dolls swim in the gutter dirt. They both had pageboy haircuts and wore dungarees, leaving me clueless as to their gender.
‘You shouldn’t play there,’ I told them. ‘It’s not clean.’
They looked at me with blank eyes, which made me wonder if they had yet been taught to talk. They were both very young.
A movement to the right of our house caught my eye. It was Mrs Tanaka, peering out at me from her bedroom window. Beneath the turquoise turban her face was stern and forbidding. As I waved to her she began to close her bedroom curtains in a deliberate snub. The message was loud and clear: she did not approve of Mariko. A terrible sadness welled up inside me. Not for me, or even for Mariko, but for our good friend and next-door neighbour. As we both know, Mrs Tanaka can be pushy, tactless, nosy and indiscreet. But never cruel. And to be more concerned about the tone of the neighbourhood than poor Mariko’s orphaned plight is very cruel of her indeed. I started towards the front door, disappointment bearing down on my heart.
As I inserted the key in the lock something felt different. I twisted the key and pushed the door open.
‘I’m back!’ I called.
I kicked off my shoes and unbuttoned my overcoat, intending to go and put the kettle on for tea. But I did not make it as far as the kitchen. Instead I froze at the foot of the stairs, clutching the banister rail, my chest drawn tight as a drum.
The mournful bray of the cello filled the house. Note followed note, bringing on an ache in my bones. I climbed the stairs as though I were sleepwalking. The cello was out of tune, and the bow so in need of rosin that each note rasped like an old man on a ventilator. Yet the music touched me with its nameless, unspeakable beauty.
Through the open door of the spare room I saw that the cellist was Mariko. She sat on a stool in the middle of the room, the cello between her parted knees. Staring intently at the yellowed sheets spread out on the music stand, Mariko did not notice me standing in the doorway two metres away. She wore an expression of fierce concentration as she manipulated fingers and bow to match the sequence of notes on the score. Mariko’s execution was shaky, her performance all elbows and clenched determination: almost the opposite of how you used to be mid-recital – so fluid and passionate, the sway of your head mirroring the pull of the bow. Mariko had selected the Elgar you performed at the end-of-term concert at college. We had only been courting for six weeks back then and were still quite shy of each other. Up on stage that night, in your black velvet dress, you played with such beauty that the entire auditorium held its breath.
I cleared my throat.
The melody ended mid-note as the bow came to a chafing halt. Mariko lifted her head and blushed hotly. ‘Mr Sato, I . . .’ She scrambled to her feet, one hand holding the neck of the cello, the other hiding the bow behind her back. ‘I . . . I didn’t expect you back until six,’ she stammered. ‘I will put this away at once!’
Mariko quickly turned and leant the cello back against the bookcase, knocking the scroll in her haste. She began to tidy away the sheet music.
‘I am so very sorry, Mr Sato. This is so terrible of me! You probably think I have no respect for your privacy . . .’ Her voice was fraught. ‘. . . It’s just that I thought, well . . . I heard something, some footsteps, coming from this room earlier today. It was nothing, of course, nothing but my silly imagination . . . but when I came to have a look I saw the cello. I played it in high school, you see, and it has been almost two years since I . . . Anyway, all day I was itching to play it, but I wanted to do the proper thing and wait until you returned to ask your permission.’ Mariko sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid my will-power gave out.’
I smiled limply. The sight of Mariko’s young fingers dancing up and down the neck of the cello had left me rather dazed. Years had passed since notes had been drawn from its ageing strings.
‘Your face is so pale, Mr Sato . . . I have upset you, haven’t I?’ Mariko’s chin quivered. ‘I am sorry. I promise never to touch the cello again.’
She plucked at the skirt of the yellow dress she had changed into. The headscarf was gone and she had tied her hair in two simple plaits. It made her face seem rounder, sweeter.
My tongue stumbled out of hibernation. ‘I am not upset,’ I told Mariko. This was true. The word ‘upset’ did not correspond to how I felt. ‘You are welcome to play the cello. It is important you practise every day or you will forget what you learnt in high school. I would prefer it, though . . .’ I paused and Mariko waited on tenterhooks ‘. . . if you did not play while I am here.’
As I said this I knew that you would disapprove of this irrational request. I am not sure I approve myself. All I know is that hearing the cello is not good for me, just as the sound of siren song is not good for a sailor at sea. Mariko nodded and did not ask why. She gathered the sheet music and put the stand away.
For dinner Mariko made a very flavoursome lamb stew, followed by an apricot pie baked in accordance with your secret family recipe. After the washing-up was done we played Monopoly, which I won three times in a row. Lacking in general knowledge and uncompetitive by nature, Mariko was a very weak opponent. But she laughed a lot and enjoyed herself nonetheless. After her third loss she congratulated me and declared me to be the cleverest person that she knows. I told her if that was the case then she really ought to widen her social circle. Mariko laughed at this and said: ‘Mr Sato, you are my social circle!’ She was very happy when I told her about the job vacancy I had found that lunch-time. One of her elder brothers was a fishmonger, she said, and as a schoolgirl she used to enjoy watching him at his shop.
Ah! I have stumbled on the stream at last, or rather my newly soaked feet have! It trickles over rounded pebbles and sand, silvery with the glint of the moon. It is very late now, and I really should make my way back. Even though tomorrow is a Saturday I want to be up bright and early to assist Mariko with her job hunting. I am optimistic that under my careful supervision things will turn out well for her. For the time being she is happy pottering about our home. She has unearthed all your old cookery books and has been trying out your family recipes. As you once said yourself, recipes ought to be passed down from generation to generation, to keep them alive . . .
How chill the forest air has turned. Such a sharp drop in temperature! I shall have to walk fast to keep myself warm. It shouldn’t take me long, though. Not when I have the stars to guide me. See how they twinkle, like Cat’s-eyes for wandering insomniacs.
II
I
awoke this morning to the sizzle of bacon. The time was nine o’clock, which meant I had overslept by two and a half hours and missed the morning callisthenics broadcast. I picked up my clock in confusion, as one would have to be stone deaf to sleep through the shrill of my alarm. The alarm had been switched off – I must have done it by accident. I threw back my quilt, went to the window and opened the curtains. The morning light revealed that much of the bamboo forest had accompanied me home, in the form of twigs and stray leaves clinging to my pyjama bottoms. I stood at the window for a moment and watched as Mr and Mrs Ue went by in their matching tracksuits, dragged along by their yappy fleet of dachshunds.
I washed and shaved, and changed into my shirt, tank-top and corduroy slacks. Downstairs in the kitchen a pitcher of orange juice and a rack of toast sat on the table. Mariko was at the stove, spatula in hand, transferring bacon from the frying pan onto a plate. She wore a floral dress, long socks and a beige cardigan. When she saw me her cheeks dimpled in a smile.
‘Good morning!’ she said. ‘I hope you like bacon.’
Well, as you know, I like bacon very much and I ended up polishing off seven strips, as well as plenty of toast and marmalade. Mariko had a glass of hot water and half a grapefruit. Afterwards I patted my stomach and joked that my cholesterol level was now so high I would fail my yearly medical examination.
Mariko shook her head at me and said: ‘Really, Mr Sato, you are as fit and trim as a man half your age. I am sure you have nothing to worry about.’
Over coffee I told Mariko that we should take full advantage of the day ahead and see about the position in the fishmonger’s. Mariko was very enthusiastic about this and suggested we type out a resumé to distribute among local shops and restaurants. I thought this was an excellent idea and went upstairs to fetch the typewriter. I put it on the kitchen table as Mariko finished the washing-up.
‘Why don’t you leave that now, Mariko?’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come and make a start on your resumé? I will put the dishes away for you.’
‘But I do not know how to type,’ Mariko said.
It was decided that Mariko should dictate her details and I would type them. We did not get very far – one line, to be precise: Name: Mariko Wada. Date of birth: 20 May 1986.
As the typewriter keys clattered out her date of birth I looked up at Mariko in surprise. ‘Why, Mariko,’ I said, ‘that’s today.’
As you know, my own birthdays in recent years have passed very quietly. I seldom mention the day to my colleagues, so the only person who ever remembers is Mrs Tanaka, who always bakes a king-size cake and wheels it round in Mr Tanaka’s wheelchair. Do you remember the cake she made me last year? How she decorated it with so many candles it took nearly a dozen attempts to put out the blaze? At my age the whole business of birthdays is rather embarrassing. But Mariko is too young to be as jaded as I. After her loss and hardship I thought a birthday celebration might be just the thing to cheer her up. I pushed the typewriter aside and told her that we would spend the day doing whatever she wanted.
At this proposal Mariko grew very shy: ‘Really . . . I don’t want to do anything special – I mean, not this year . . .’
‘It doesn’t have to be special,’ I said. ‘Just whatever you feel like doing.’
Mariko tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, turned to the window and examined the clear blue sky. ‘Well, we could go for a picnic,’ she said.
So together we prepared a hamper of seaweed rice balls and a flask of oolong tea. Then we set off to the train station to buy two day returns to Arashiyama.
How many times have you and I been to Arashiyama? It must be a hundred or more! I can think of no better place to admire the cherry blossom and maple leaves, and the other beautiful effects of seasonal change, than Arashiyama. However, I think that you will be disappointed by the district’s decline in recent years. The vending machines and tourists have quadrupled, and one cannot turn a corner without running into a stall selling green-tea ice cream or tacky souvenirs. Yet despite this, Arashiyama still manages to cling to some of its rustic charm. It was Mariko’s first ever visit and the mountain forests and glistening lake had her in transports of delight. Before lunch we trekked up Monkey Mountain to visit the monkeys that live there. What a mean and savage bunch they were! At the top we went inside the feeding cage and passed them pumpkin slices through the chicken wire. They snatched violently, red-eyed and Einstein coiffed, manhandling and swiping at each other to get at the food. The children enjoyed the full-scale monkey riot very much indeed, taunting them further with potato crisps. But Mariko shuddered and emptied out her bag of pumpkin slices all at once, just to get it over with.
After lunch we hired a small boat and took it in turns to row ourselves about the lake. For someone with such thin arms Mariko proved to be a competent little rower. Above the mountains encircling the lake the sky shone forget-me-not blue, and the tranquil waters shimmered, made iridescent by the touch of the sun. Laughter drifted from nearby boats as children and couples frolicked. Tourist rickshaws drawn along by sturdy young men rattled over the bridge in the distance. After a while we gave the oars a rest and let ourselves drift. Not much was said as the boat gently rocked; only a few words of praise for the idyllic scenery, or the occasional accolade to the fine weather.
That evening when we returned to Osakako station I gave Mariko the house keys and sent her home ahead of me with strict orders not to do any cooking. Holding the empty picnic hamper, Mariko shook her head and smiled, insisting that I was not to go to any trouble. After she left I hurried into the supermarket before it closed and bought a birthday cake, a gourmet box of sushi and a large, expensive bottle of sake. As I picked out the sake I wondered if it was necessary, as I am a teetotaller, and I had yet to hear Mariko profess a liking for alcohol. But I decided the occasion called for it. After all, Mariko had just reached the legal drinking age of twenty.
When I got back, shopping bags hanging at my side, I was surprised to see the front door wide open and Mariko standing on the lawn, hugging herself against the chilly night air. It struck me as very odd that she should be standing by herself in the dark.
‘Mariko?’ I said. ‘What are you doing out here? Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I am fine . . .’ She wore a perplexed expression. ‘I heard a noise, like someone was scraping the wall at the side of the house. I came out to have a look. But there is no one there.’
I peered down the narrow gully between the Tanaka residence and mine. It was dark and empty. All the lights in the Tanaka residence were out, suggesting that they had already left for their Saturday night mahjong at the community centre.
‘It must have been the Murasaki cat,’ I said, hungry and unconcerned. ‘It often goes on the prowl after dark. Why don’t we go inside now. I have a treat for you.’
To mark the festive occasion I covered the kitchen table with a white cloth and took out our best china and sake cups. Then I folded some red napkins into swans. The sushi was ready made, so all I had to do was remove the lid of the box to reveal the mouthwatering platter of yellowtail, octopus and cod roe beneath. Once prepared, I sat and waited for Mariko to finish her bath.
She was very swift, and before long the excited patter of bare feet came down the stairs. She slowed with ladylike restraint before she entered the kitchen, the damp patches on the shoulders of her dress indicating she had been too impatient to towel-dry her hair properly.
‘Mr Sato! I thought I told you not to go to any trouble.’
Her face was vivid with delight. How little it takes to make her happy! I pulled out her chair and she sat, reaching out to admire one of the swan napkins. We put our hands together and said thanks, then began to eat, dipping our sushi in soya, and squeezing pickled ginger from the sachets. Mariko poured us both sake and did a funny impersonation of Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor Murakami when he is drunk. It really made me chuckle. She has a very sharp wit for a girl so young.
When we had had our fill of
sushi I threw the box away and made Mariko cover her eyes while I took out the birthday cake and decorated it with twenty candles. I lit the candles and turned out the light. I think I might have already been a little tipsy from the sake, for I began to sing, ‘Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you . . .’ in very bad English. Mariko opened her eyes, and laughed and clapped her hands. When I asked her to make a wish she closed her eyes tightly and blew at the candles with all her might.
Later we sat at the kitchen table with the gooey, chocolatey remains of our cake, joking that our stomachs were ready to burst at the seams. A third of the sake was already gone, for working in a hostess bar had taught Mariko to keep the drinks replenished. I tuned the radio into a golden oldies station, with lots of lovely tunes by the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel and suchlike. As we sat drinking I told Mariko about the folk clubs we used to go to in Tokyo, the sweet clouds of patchouli incense, and the cosy nooks lit by candles in Chianti bottles. I told Mariko about the faded bell-bottoms I once wore, and the waistcoat embroidered with a rainbow. At this Mariko giggled until she nearly fell sideways off her chair.
‘I bet your university days were really fun. I wish I could have been there in the Sixties.’
‘The Seventies, Mariko. I was just a schoolboy in the Sixties.’
Later, when the level of the sake bottle had sunk even further down, Mariko said: ‘Thank you, Mr Sato.’
‘Really, Mariko, you keep on saying that! There is no need. Once is enough.’
‘I could thank you until the end of time and it still wouldn’t be enough.’
‘If you thanked me until the end of time I would sorely regret ever having helped you.’
Mariko’s laughter tinkled like a bell above a shop door. Sensing the onset of a headache I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, my elbows on the table like a sloppy teenager. Owing to my alcohol intolerance my face had grown unbearably hot. I was relieved when Mariko brought in a small table lamp from the living room to use in place of the harsh kitchen light. I was sure that my cheeks had turned an unsightly shade of red.
