by Yoko Ogawa
“You’re the girl from the hotel, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, not daring to look directly at him.
“You were sitting at the front desk that night. I recognized you right away.”
A group of elementary school children filed into the waiting room, pushing us back against the windows. I wondered uneasily what the man intended to do with me. I’d never planned to speak to him, but now I didn’t know how to get away.
“Did you have something you wanted to say? Perhaps you were going to scold me?”
“Oh no! Not at all …”
“Still, I apologize for the other day. It must have been unpleasant for you.” His tone was polite, quite unlike the man who had shouted in the lobby of the Iris, and this somehow made me even more nervous.
“Please don’t worry about what my mother said. You were very generous when you paid the bill.”
“But it was a terrible night.”
“That awful rain …”
“Yes, but I mean I’m still not sure how things ended up the way they did. …”
I remembered that I had found a bra wadded up on the landing after they left that night. It was lavender, with gaudy lace, and I had gathered it up like the carcass of a dead animal and tossed it in the trash bin in the kitchen.
The children were running wildly around the waiting room. The sun was still high in the sky, sparkling on the sea outside the window. The island in the distance, as everyone in town seemed to agree, was shaped like a human ear. The excursion boat had just rounded the lobe of the island and was heading back toward us. A gull rested on each post of the pier.
Now that I was standing next to him, the man seemed smaller than I had imagined. He was about my height, but his chest and shoulders were thin and frail. His hair was even more neatly combed now, but I could see a bald spot in back.
We stood quietly for a moment, looking out at the sea. There was nothing else to do. The man grimaced in the bright sunlight, as though he’d felt a sudden pain.
“Are you taking the boat?” I asked at last, suffocated by the silence.
“I am,” he said.
“People who live here don’t usually ride it. I did it only once, when I was little.”
“But I live on the island.”
“I didn’t know anyone actually lived there.”
“There are a few of us. This is how we get home.” There was a diving shop on the island and a sanatarium for employees of a steel company, but I hadn’t known about any houses. The man rolled and twisted his tie as he spoke, creasing the tip. The boat was getting closer, and the children had begun lining up impatiently by the gate. “The other passengers have cameras or fishing poles or snorkels—I’m the only one with a shopping bag.”
“But why would you want to live in such an inconvenient place?”
“I’m comfortable there, and I work at home.”
“What kind of work?”
“I’m a translator—from Russian.”
“Translator … ,” I repeated slowly to myself.
“Does that seem odd?”
“No, it’s just that I’ve never met a translator before.”
“It’s a simple sort of job, really. You sit at a desk all day long, looking up words in a dictionary. And you? Are you in high school?”
“No, I tried it for a few months, but I dropped out.”
“I see. And how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen … ,” he repeated, savoring each syllable.
“There’s something wonderful about taking a boat to get home,” I said.
“I have a small place. It was built a long time ago, a cottage on the far side from where the boat docks. Just about here on the ear,” he said, tilting his head toward me and pointing at his own earlobe. As I bent forward to look at the spot, our bodies nearly touched for a moment. He pulled back immediately, and I looked away. That was the first time I realized that the shape of an ear changes with age. His was no more than a limp sliver of dark flesh.
The excursion boat blew its horn as it pulled up to the dock, scattering the gulls in a cloud. The loudspeaker in the waiting room announced the departure, and someone unhooked the chain at the entrance.
“I have to be going,” the translator muttered.
“Good-bye,” I said.
“Good-bye.” I felt as though we were saying something far more important than a simple farewell.
I could see him from the window as he joined the line of passengers and made his way along the pier. He was short, but there was no mistaking his suit in the crowd of tourists. Suddenly, he turned to look back and I waved to him, though it seemed absurd to be waving to a stranger whose name I didn’t even know. I thought he was about to wave back, but then he thrust his hand in his pocket, as if embarrassed.
The boat blew its horn and pulled away from the dock.
———
Mother was furious when I got home. It was past five o’clock, and I had forgotten to pick up her dress at the dry cleaner’s.
“How could you forget?” she said. “You knew I was planning to wear it to the exhibition tonight.” Someone was ringing the bell at the front desk. “It’s the only dancing dress I have, and I can’t go without it. You know that. The exhibition starts at five thirty. I’ll never make it now. I’ve been waiting all this time. You’ve spoiled everything.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I met an old woman in town who was feeling ill. She was pale and shaking all over, so I took her to the clinic. I couldn’t just leave her there. … That’s why I’m late.” This was the lie I’d come up with on my way home. The bell rang again, enraging Mother.
“Go get it!” she screamed.
The “exhibition” was nothing more than a humdrum little function where shopkeepers’ wives, cannery workers, and a few retirees could dance. It was a miserable thing, really, and if I had remembered the dress, she would probably have decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble to go.
I have never seen my mother dance. But it makes me a little queasy to imagine her calves shaking, her feet spilling out of her shoes, her makeup running with sweat, a strange man’s hand at her waist. …
Since I was a little girl, Mother has praised my appearance to anyone who would listen. Her favorite customers are the big tippers, but the ones who tell her I’m beautiful run a close second, even when they aren’t particularly sincere.
“Have you ever seen such transparent skin? It’s almost scary the way you can see right through it. She has the same big, dark eyes and long lashes she did when she was a baby. When I took her out, people were constantly stopping me to tell me how cute she was. And there was even a sculptor who made a statue of her—it won first prize in some show.” Mother has a thousand ways to brag about my looks, but half of them are lies. The sculptor was a pedophile who nearly raped me.
If Mother is so intent on paying me compliments, it might be because she doesn’t really love me very much. In fact, the more she tells me how pretty I am, the uglier I feel. To be honest, I have never once thought of myself as pretty.
She still does my hair every morning. She sits me down at the dressing table and takes hold of my ponytail, forcing me to keep very still. When she starts in with the brush, I can barely stand it, but if I move my head even the least bit, she tightens her grip.
She combs in camellia oil, making sure every hair is lacquered in place. I hate the smell. Sometimes she pins it up with a cheap barrette.
“There,” she says, with deep satisfaction in her voice, “all done.” I feel as though she’s hurt me in a way that will never heal.
I was sent to bed without any dinner that night—the usual punishment since I was little. Nights when my stomach is empty have always seemed darker, but as I lay there I found myself tracing the shape of the man’s back and ear over and over in my mind.
Mother took extra care with my hair the next morning, using more oil than usual. And she made an even bigger fuss about ho
w pretty I am.
The Iris came into being when my great-grandfather fixed up an old inn and turned it into a hotel. That was more than a hundred years ago. In that part of town, a restaurant or hotel was either supposed to have an ocean view or to be right on the beach. The Iris didn’t qualify on either count: it took more than half an hour to walk to the sea, and only two of the rooms had views. The rest looked out over the fish-processing factory.
After Grandfather died, Mother made me quit school to help at the hotel. My day begins in the kitchen, getting ready for breakfast. I wash fruit, cut up ham and cheese, and arrange tubs of yogurt in a bowl of ice. As soon as I hear the first guests coming down, I grind the coffee beans and warm the bread. Then, at checkout time, I total the bills. I do all of this while saying as little as possible. Some of the guests try to make small talk, but I just smile back. I find it painful to speak to people I don’t know, and besides, Mother scolds me if I make a mistake with the cash register and the receipts are off.
The woman who works for us as a maid comes just before noon, and she and Mother begin cleaning the guest rooms. In the meantime, I straighten the kitchen and the dining room. I also answer the phone to take reservations, or to talk to the linen company or the tourist board. When Mother finishes the cleaning, she comes to check on me. If she finds even one hair out of place, she immediately combs it down. Then we get ready to welcome the new guests.
Most of my day is spent at the front desk. The space behind the desk is so small and cramped you can reach just about anything you need without moving—the bell, the old-fashioned cash register, the guest book, the pen, the phone, the tourist pamphlets. The counter itself is scarred and dark from all the hands that have touched it.
As I sit slumped behind the desk, the smell of raw fish drifts in from the factory across the way, and I can see the steam from the machines that make fish paste seeping through gaps in the factory windows. Stray cats are always gathered under the delivery trucks, waiting for something to spill from the flatbeds.
My senses seem sharpest when the guests are all checked in, settled in their rooms getting ready for bed. From my stool behind the desk, I can hear and smell and feel everything happening in the hotel. I can’t say I have much experience or even any real desires of my own, but just by shutting myself up behind the desk, I can imagine every scene being played out by the people spending the night at the Iris. Then I erase them one by one and find a quiet place to lie down and sleep.
———
A letter from the translator arrived on Friday morning. The handwriting was very beautiful. Taking refuge in the corner behind the desk, I read it as discreetly as I could.
My Dear Mari,
Please forgive me for writing to you like this, but it was such a great and unexpected pleasure to speak with you on Sunday afternoon in the waiting room at the dock. At my age, few things are unexpected, and one spends considerable effort avoiding shocks and disappointments. I don’t suppose you would understand, but it is the sort of mental habit you develop when you reach old age.
But this past Sunday was different. Time seemed to have stopped, and I found myself being led to a place I had never even imagined.
It would be only natural that you despise me for the disgusting incident I provoked at the hotel, and I had been hoping even before we met to make a proper apology. But the open and completely unguarded way you looked at me left me so bewildered that I was unable to say anything to the point. Thus, I wish to offer you my apologies in this letter.
I have lived alone for a long time now, and I spend my days locked away on the island with my translations. I have very few friends, and I have never known a beautiful girl like you. It has been decades since anyone waved good-bye to me the way you did. I have walked along that dock countless times, but always alone, never once having cause to turn back to look for anyone.
You waved to me as if I were an old friend, and that gesture—insignificant to you—was enormously important to me. I want to thank you … and thank you again.
I come into town every Sunday to do my shopping, and I will be in front of the flower clock in the plaza about two o’clock in the afternoon. I wonder whether I shall have the good fortune to see you there again. I have no intention of trying to extract a promise from you—think of my request as simply an old man’s ramblings. Don’t give it a second thought.
The days seem to grow steadily warmer, and I suspect you will be busier at the hotel. Please take care of yourself.
P.S. I know it was rude of me, but I took the liberty of finding out your name. By coincidence, the heroine of the novel I am translating now is named Marie.
T W O
“How good of you to come,” he said as soon as he saw me.
“No, not at all,” I said.
Then he stared at his feet, seeming more confused than pleased. He fiddled nervously with the end of his necktie, searching for something else to say.
We stood for a while, listening to the accordion. The boy was playing, just as he had last week. I don’t know whether the songs were the same, but they had the same low, ragged sound. Only a few coins had been tossed into his case. The long hand of the flower clock pointed to the five, which was made out of salvias.
“Shall we walk a bit?” said the translator, taking a coin from his pocket. He dropped it with a clatter in the case as we set off.
The shore road was in the full bloom of summer. The bars and restaurants had opened their terraces, ice cream stands had sprung up here and there, and the workmen had begun assembling the bathhouses on the beach. The sea was covered with boats, the sunlight glittering on their sails. And yet all the brilliance of the season did not touch the translator. He wore his usual dark suit and plain tie. His clothes were neat and tidy but somehow tired.
We walked away from the dock, wandering along the road.
“Is the hotel full today?”
“No, we have just three rooms booked. That’s disappointing for a Sunday, but it’s because the high tide will be covering up the seawall. …”
“I suppose that’s right.”
“How long have you lived on the island?”
“More than twenty years now.”
“Always by yourself?”
“Yes …”
We spoke little to one another, but I was acutely conscious of the translator’s body next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I followed his smallest movements—swerving to avoid a lamppost, brushing a thread from his suit, or coughing quietly as he looked down at the pavement.
I suppose I was watching him so carefully because I had never really walked next to anyone before. My father had died while I was quite young, and my mother always walked ahead of me. I’d never had a boyfriend, or even girlfriends, to walk with in town. I was confused and a bit embarrassed to have another body next to mine.
“I doubted you’d come,” he said. We had reached the end of the cape and sat down on a bench.
“Why?”
“Why would a seventeen-year-old girl want to spend her Sunday with an old man like me?”
“But if I stayed home, I would just have to work. And who wouldn’t want to go for a walk with someone who’s so pleased by a little wave good-bye?”
The truth was I couldn’t bear to think about the translator standing there at the flower clock all by himself. If I had ignored his letter and sat behind the front desk as two o’clock passed, I wouldn’t have been able to think of anything else. I had seen him left standing alone at the Iris, exposed to the curious stares of the other guests, and I didn’t want that scene repeated in the park on my account.
“The Marie in your Russian novel,” I said. “What’s she like?”
“She’s a beautiful and intelligent woman. She rides well and makes intricate lace. Somewhere in the novel it says that she is ‘as lovely as a flower petal touched by the morning dew.’ ”
“Then only our names are similar.”
“This Marie falls in love with her ridin
g master, and their love is the most sublime and intense in all the world.”
“She sounds less and less like me.”
“The moment I saw you at the hotel, I thought of that other Marie. You were so much like how I see her, as I’m translating the novel. You can only imagine how shocked I was when I learned that your name is Mari.”
“My father gave me that name.”
“It’s lovely. And it suits you perfectly.” He crossed his legs and squinted out at the sea. I felt as though my father had paid me a compliment.
Few tourists came out to the end of the cape, and the benches nearby were empty. The wildflowers blooming on the hillside arched in the breeze. A fenced path led up the hill behind us, offering views of the sea all the way to the top.
The shore road stretched on into the distance. The high tide lapped at the seawall, and the translator’s island was dimly visible in the distance.
“I’ve never read a Russian novel,” I said.
“When my translation is finished, you’ll be the first to see it.”
“But I won’t understand it.”
“I’m sure you will. It’s straightforward enough.”
“Could I find other books you’ve translated at the library?”
“No, I’m afraid not. You see, I’m not a real translator, the sort a publisher would commission to do a novel.” I had never thought about what it meant to be a “real” translator, but he seemed so sad as he made this confession. “I translate guidebooks and commercial pamphlets and a column for a magazine. Sometimes I do advertisements for medicines, manuals for electronic devices, business correspondence, even Russian recipes. It’s quite dull. As for Marie’s novel, no one asked me to translate it—it’s for my own amusement.”
“But I think it’s wonderful—helping people understand things they could never know otherwise!”
“No one has ever put it that way.”
The awkwardness between us had begun to ebb, and from time to time I glanced over at him as I asked him questions. He had stopped fidgeting with his tie, but he remained as timid as ever. I thought at first that he was still embarrassed by what had happened that night at the hotel, but it slowly dawned on me that he was simply afraid an errant word or look would cause the girl sitting next to him to dissolve into thin air. It seemed strange to me that he could be so fearful at his age.
