A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Such an expanse of blue sky could no longer be seen anywhere in Tokyo.
After resting awhile in bed, Mitsuki had returned to the armchair. She looked absently out the window. The sun lighting ripples on the lake was tilting west, and before long the air would be touched with the nighttime chill from the wintry mountains.
She put on her coat and hat, wrapped a shawl around herself, and pulled on warm gloves. Bundled up as if for a trip to Siberia, she set out.
The hotel garden descended gently toward the lake. Countless azalea shrubs grew along the way, their leaves now drearily fading or withered. The stone path wound down among them, near the lake, from where she could enjoy a distant view of the hotel.
“Not too great, I must say.” She remembered her mother passing this tart verdict as she leaned on her cane and looked up at the hotel from the front garden. True enough, by no stretch of the imagination could anyone believe that the hotel was supposed to evoke the image of a centuries-old French château. Its sheer size gave it a kind of grandeur—but the poor imitation only increased the sense that this place was not France and the building was only a late-twentieth-century structure after all. Still, the weathered exterior contained reminders of a time when the Japanese imagination had been gripped by all things European. Viewed as representing a page from modern Japanese history, the architecture had a peculiar charm that set it apart from the kind of international hotels springing up across Japan—antiseptic places much alike, devoid of local flavor.
The spaciousness of the garden had pleased her mother and her. The place would be flocked with tourists in early summer, when the azaleas were in bloom, but their visit had been in winter, like Mitsuki’s now, and even though it was a mere two-hour journey from Tokyo, the setting had felt appealingly remote—a sense reinforced by the flat expanse of the lake, set against the gray desolation of the ridge beyond. The only blemish, they had agreed, was the pair of brightly painted pirate ships that crisscrossed the water like apparitions from Disneyland.
Now, walking to the end of the garden and then crossing a road, Mitsuki came to a stone path that went along the lakeshore. Only bushes stood between her and the lake; beyond lay the smooth surface of the water. After hesitating over which way to turn on the encircling path, she chose to go left, enticed by the twists and turns ahead.
Unlike the smaller, standardized stones in the path through the hotel garden, here the path was set with large, rough stones that a big man could hardly carry. Had the baron arranged to have them brought in? She pictured men of long ago toting the heavy stones, muscles bulging, and laying them in the ground.
As she walked over the stones, inhaling the cold air, her mind felt calmer. Then she heard the sound of waves lapping the shore, a sound she hadn’t heard in years. It was almost funny how perfect the sound was, as if created as a special effect.
Mitsuki paused to watch the waves roll in and asked herself why she had come so far. To decide what to do about Tetsuo was only a partial answer. She felt that she needed to go back further in time, to probe the layers of events that had led her to this point.
The waves beat against the shore with their familiar monotony, yet each time with subtle variations in shape, culminating in a burst of white froth and that sound, a sound like none other, the sound of waves.
She walked on for an indeterminate length of time, until arrested by the appearance on her right of a huge vermilion concrete torii gate. There must be a Shinto shrine nearby. The torii was built out in the lake, with a small pier leading up to it. She went out on the pier and stood watching for a while as the waves lapped at the torii rising before her and the pier underfoot; then she turned back. With the same sound of waves in her ears and her feet treading the same stone path, the hotel came into view sooner than she had expected. This time she walked up the road to the hotel entrance without going through the garden, but the thought of her laptop discouraged her from returning straight to her room. She decided to take one more stroll through the garden before dark and redirected her steps, going through the little gate beside the front entrance and on around back.
As she walked a circuitous route over the paved stones, watching the sky in the west turn shades of gold, purple, and orange, she saw in the distance a figure in a dark suit heading toward her. There was no side path she could take to step out of his way. She would have preferred not to speak with anyone, but the encounter seemed unavoidable.
When she saw his face, Mitsuki drew in a breath. The name “Wakako Matsubara” flashed in her mind. He didn’t appear to recognize her, but he could tell from her reaction that she knew him. A quizzical look crossed his face.
The words came naturally to her. “Last winter, at the hospital.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was in the library.”
He thought, then let out a small “Oh!” of recollection.
“Yes, that was me,” she said.
“You have a good memory.” He was wide-eyed in surprise.
Mitsuki explained that she had seen him around the hospital a few times.
“I see.” He swept back his slightly graying hair in a gesture of embarrassment. At the same time he looked her full in the face, a bit shyly. The rays of the setting sun, stronger now as the sun sank in the sky, would be merciless in lighting up her face, the face of a woman defeated by life. What had become of his wife? she wondered, but the words she spoke were innocuous.
“When did you get here?”
“Before noon today.”
Was he here for long? Alone or with someone?
Silence ensued. This man had seen her crying in the hospital. He must have assumed she was shedding tears of grief. Perhaps he would think her face now an extension of those tears. Prompted by the thought, she said, “My mother was in the hospital then. She died, and I came here for some R & R.”
He seemed to realize he had been under a false impression. “I thought it was your husband.”
“Heavens no.” Her own words startled her with their coldness.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said courteously, “but if I may say so, I’m glad you didn’t lose your husband after all.”
She said nothing.
A colorful pirate ship came into view, masts and all, and simultaneously they heard the tape-recorded voice of a female guide. In the distance the other pirate ship paraded across the water. As they took in the jarring sight and sound, he blurted out, “I lost my wife.”
This man wasn’t the type to make such an admission casually, she knew from her observations of his private sorrow in the hospital. The words must have slipped out, as if he felt awkward hearing of her loss while saying nothing of his own. She sensed that he would rather have left those words unsaid. She could not make some casual reply. After another short silence, she said quietly, “I see,” and left it at that. She offered no words of sympathy, nor did she tell him she knew his late wife’s name.
After a pause she said in a different tone of voice, “You’ll be staying here for a while?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.” She paused again. “Did the assistant manager take you aside when you checked in, by any chance?”
“Yes! I couldn’t imagine what was happening. And then it was just about the menus.”
“I know! Wasn’t that strange?”
They laughed. That cleared the air, and they walked back to the hotel side by side.
After the long walk she was chilled through.
The chance encounter had broken through her shell of loneliness. She finally decided to go for a soak in the hot spring.
It was shortly before the dinner hour, and the spa was fairly crowded. Women’s pale naked bodies moved hazily in waves of steam. According to the explanation posted on the wall, there was a legend that hot springs couldn’t be found within sight of Mount Fuji, but the hotel had taken on the challenge and found hot water one thousand meters down. Supposedly the waters were good
for neuralgia, muscle pain, joint pain, and chills. The sound of bathers’ plastic buckets slapping against the tile floor echoed through the room, evoking—with the help of the mysterious fantasy world created by the roiling steam—the sound of old-fashioned cedar buckets. She felt as if she had slipped back in time.
The hotel was built on a mountainside with the spa on the third floor. At one end was an outdoor hot spring, separated from the indoor bathing area by a glass partition, where bathers could gaze on the rocky face of the mountain up close. After first warming herself in the indoor bath, she worked up her courage and stepped outside. The cold air felt good. It was almost dark out, but she heard birds singing.
She stayed there a long time, immersed in the steaming water, eyes closed.
For dinner she went back to the French restaurant, and then, as on the night before, descended to the lounge, lured by the fire in the fireplace, and sat again on the sofa facing it. She still felt too weary and languid to think about Tetsuo. Tonight at dinner she had indulged in a glass each of white wine and red, and now as the waiter drew near she ordered a glass of calvados. Her inheritance allowed her to splurge, and besides, there’d been that chance encounter in the garden. The thought that her life might yet have a few surprises in store, like developments in a novel, pleased her and soothed her bruised spirit. She felt like drinking a toast in solitary celebration.
Holding a glass of amber liquid in her hand, she idly scanned the room. No dark suit in sight. No one paid any attention to a middle-aged woman looking around the room. Inevitably, the older a woman became, the less she attracted people’s eyes; now that she could go virtually unseen, it was her turn to observe others. This was the law of a woman’s life.
As the thought brought a faint smile to her lips, she saw the white-haired old lady from the night before come slowly down the lobby staircase, heading this way with the gorgeous young man again in tow. The old lady commanded attention; some women were able to ignore the laws of life. There was no facial resemblance, but perhaps because of the strong ego that showed through her makeup, or perhaps because of the elegant scarf around her neck, Mitsuki felt once again as if her mother had emerged from her urn. Once again, she stiffened.
AN EVENING OF LONG-TERM GUESTS
She’d had enough of old ladies, thank you. The moment she thought this, the old lady came tottering straight toward her.
“May we join you?” With one hand on the back of the chair as support, she was getting ready to sit down. The gorgeous young man waited politely for Mitsuki’s response. Only when she motioned for them to be seated did he smile and do so.
“I do beg your pardon. Now what is that, pray tell?” the old lady asked, pointing to the amber liquid in Mitsuki’s hand. When Mitsuki told her, she whispered to the young man, “Very well, I shall have a calva, too.” For whatever reason—perhaps some constriction of the throat?—her voice was weak, but unlike Mitsuki’s mother she did not seem hard of hearing.
She returned her attention to Mitsuki. “You’re here for a few days, are you?” As Mitsuki replied, she spoke over her: “So am I.” Gesturing at the young man with a slight movement of her chin, she added, “And I am sick unto death of spending all my time with this uncultured boor.”
At a loss for a reply, Mitsuki only gave a slight smile.
“But you, my dear, are reading Madame Bovary!” Her French pronunciation was impeccable.
Apparently they had been in the same restaurant and she had noticed as Mitsuki, sitting alone with time on her hands, opened her book with some compunction while waiting for the hors d’oeuvres.
“You have studied French?” There was a touch of condescension in her tone.
“A little.”
“And you have been to France?”
“I spent a year in Paris.”
“Did you?” Not in the least dotty, clearly the old lady was taking Mitsuki’s measure. “Now, when would that have been?”
Mitsuki told her, and she nodded. “I was in Paris then, too. I went in my mid-twenties and stayed nearly thirty years.”
Surprised, Mitsuki took a look at her companion, who, unperturbed by this reaction, kept one hand on the long scarf around her neck to keep it just so as she gazed around the lounge.
“After coming back to Japan, I always meant to visit this hotel, but it took years and years before I made it here…and you know, I had no idea it would be like this.”
Unsure what this might mean, Mitsuki waited for the mysterious old lady to explain. She had turned back and was watching Mitsuki’s reaction through gold-rimmed glasses, though when she spoke, her manner was deliberately offhand. “When I was a girl, my parents often brought me here.”
Mitsuki looked at the old lady’s face again in astonishment.
“You do know, don’t you, my dear, that this was once a private villa?”
Her eyes still wide, Mitsuki nodded. Now it was her turn to take the measure of the other woman—the powdered face, the white silk scarf with a scattered design of large flowers, the purple cashmere dress shot with silver thread, the low-heeled black pumps. Typically for an older person, all the things she wore could have been purchased in almost any era, but the materials were high quality and the workmanship exquisite. They hadn’t come from just anywhere. Her apparel bolstered her story of having hobnobbed with wealth and nobility years ago, while her tone and manner of speaking seemed to transcend the bounds of present-day Japan.
The hotel corridors displayed sepia photographs along with explanations, so the history of the hotel was evident even without a pamphlet from the front desk. Still, the past was not of universal interest. Seeing how Mitsuki perked up, the old lady appeared pleased. “The baron and baroness were kind to my parents, and so we children were invited along as well.” She looked out the window into the night sky.
Mitsuki was lost in wonderment. She had no intention of confiding that her grandmother too had come here in days long past. This old lady plainly had had the proper pedigree, enabling her to come and go here in childhood. The world she came from was far removed from that of Mitsuki’s grandmother, who’d been invited here as a wife, but who everyone must have known was a former concubine. Conversations took unexpected turns; if she brought up her grandmother now, she might well end up explaining the woman’s silly, sad obsession—this was more than she wished or felt proper to tell someone on such brief acquaintance. Yet the startling knowledge that this old lady’s parents and “O-Miya” could have attended the very same banquets made her feel a renewed bond with the past. Spirits inhabiting this land seemed to awaken and rise from the quiet of the sleeping mountains.
“My brothers used to come too,” the old lady said. “I had an older brother and a younger one, and the older one was this boy’s grandfather. We would go boating on the lake.”
The young man bowed once more in acknowledgment.
So that was it. This attractive young man was her great-nephew. Nothing particularly interesting there, and yet the sight of a young man like him acting as companion to a woman so much older was, even if they were related, a bit unusual.
“How long will you be staying, my dear?”
“I’ll be going back to Tokyo before Christmas.” From Christmas Eve on, the hotel would no doubt be crowded. She had come early to avoid the Christmas rush.
“That’s my plan as well. Do you know any of the other guests who’ll be staying on awhile?” She let her gaze wander again around the sparsely populated lounge.
Thus prompted, Mitsuki too looked around—and there on the staircase where the old lady had been, as if conjured by Mitsuki’s movement, was a familiar figure in a dark suit. All at once the room seemed warmer, friendlier somehow, as if an old acquaintance had materialized. Emboldened perhaps by the fearless old woman beside her, she lifted her hand before she quite realized what she was doing and waved slightly in his direction.
Now it was the old lady’s turn to widen her eyes.
“That gentleman—he’s also
staying here awhile,” Mitsuki explained.
The old lady slid her glasses down and gave him a frank appraisal before concluding, “Now there’s someone worth inviting over.”
Indeed, Mr. Matsubara’s quiet refinement stood out all the more from a distance. He inclined his head in acknowledgment of Mitsuki’s greeting as he descended the stairs.
“Oh yes, he’ll do nicely,” murmured the old lady, half to herself, and she too waved. “Invite him to join us. He and you would make a charming couple.”
Mitsuki pretended not to hear this. As Mr. Matsubara drew near, she stood up and said hello. He looked a bit uncertain. As she hesitated, the old lady spoke up.
“I understand you too will be staying here for several days?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It might be tiresome for you, but would you care to join us at least for this evening? My great-nephew and I also plan to be guests here for a fortnight or so.”
With the hand holding her brandy glass, she gestured to her companion.
“Thank you, I’d like that.” He inclined his head again and sat down with unexpected good grace. After he had ordered a whiskey and water, the conventional choice among men of his generation, the next question came—“And how long do you plan on staying?”—to which he responded, “Until just before Christmas.”
“What about your work?” she pressed, nosily.
“I’m taking some time off.”
“And what do you do?”
Mr. Matsubara responded amiably even to this rather blunt question. “I’m a biologist in my company’s research institute. I do pathogenic research.”
It took a moment for the unfamiliar word to register. “Yes, I see. Pathogens, carriers of disease. Oh dear, it sounds terribly difficult, not in the least charming.”
He was laughing. Even the young man wore a smile. Mitsuki couldn’t help joining in, but at the same time she was musing about Mr. Matsubara’s married life. Had he gone off to work every morning in a dark suit? When he was going to be late, had he telephoned his wife to let her know?
Inheritance from Mother Page 23
