“Probably we’ll sell it, but Tetsuo’s going to give me half the money we make. There’ll be other money too.”
“How much?”
“Let’s see…all in all, just under thirty million yen. Twenty-nine million, to be exact. Although it’s hard to say for sure until we sell the condo and see how much that brings in.”
Having just been wandering in a watery underworld, she had trouble grasping the number’s reality. It might just as well be 290 million or 2.9 million. What difference did it make?
“He’ll give you that much?”
“Probably. He hasn’t got much choice. She’s dying to get him to divorce me. I’ll get a share of his pension too.”
“Oh really? You can get that too?” Natsuki sounded surprised. A pause, then: “But will that plus your inheritance be enough to live on?”
Mopping her face and hair with the towel, Mitsuki summoned up the half-forgotten calculations with effort and gave a brief explanation. With half her inheritance she would buy a small condominium. With the money from Tetsuo she would buy an annuity with a future value of 10 million yen. That gave her 18 million yen left over from her mother’s money and 19 million left from Tetsuo’s money, for a total of 37 million. Yes, that was the figure. Whether everything would go according to plan she had no idea, but at a hundred thousand yen a month, she would use up 1.2 million yen a year. Twelve million in ten years. She’d be set for the next thirty years.
“One hundred thousand yen a month? That’s how much we spend on parking and utilities! That’d never be enough for you to live on, no matter how you cut corners.”
“Well, sooner or later those annuities will start to kick in. Until then I’ll do more patent translations to make up for the teaching income. Actually I’m thinking of keeping up my patent translations even after that. What other work pays so well for a woman my age?”
“But you don’t enjoy it.”
“Work is work.”
Her sister wasn’t listening. “Anyway, you can’t buy a decent place with half of the money from Mother. You’d be farther from us, too.”
This was true. Nothing in the vicinity of Kamiyama-cho would be in her price range.
“I’ll look for someplace old and small.”
“You’re going to move into some dump and take on extra work you don’t even like? With your health the way it is?” The next moment, she cried out: “That’s really pitiful!” Her voice caught. She sobbed as she repeated the word, “Pitiful! Pitiful! Pitiful! After all this time, to move into some old, cramped, run-down place and make yourself go on doing work you hate—how will you stand it? You’re not young!”
Mitsuki was knocked momentarily speechless by the vehemence of her sister’s reaction—vehemence of an entirely different order from the other day when she’d called after quarreling with Jun. It was as if she’d returned to childhood, with a child’s divine right to dominate her surroundings.
Her sister was coming at her with all the things she had tried to avoid thinking about. She forced her foggy mind into gear and attempted to make a commonsense rebuttal. It was as if she were trying to convince herself.
“Listen, I’m unbelievably lucky for someone my age who’s about to get divorced. Besides all this money I’ll have coming in, I can earn my way too. All I have to do is be frugal and try not to pamper myself too much.”
Natsuki protested. “That’s not how Mother raised us, and you know it. She spoiled us and taught us to live and enjoy life, not pinch pennies. She said she didn’t want to live like some goody-goody in a three-hanky Japanese movie. I always thought that was one thing she got right.”
CROSSING THE RUBICON
Mitsuki’s head was still groggy.
Her mind, adrift at the bottom of a lake before her sister called, had trouble returning to the dry, material world. Thinking of a new life had always seemed to deepen her despondency. Perhaps an inability to imagine a satisfactory life for herself on her own was what had held her back, was what had made living seem more trouble than it was worth.
She let a few moments pass and started slowly, to gain time: “Well, depending on how you look at it, my life as a divorced woman won’t be so bad—it’s a life of luxury in its own way.”
“What kind of luxury could there possibly be!”
What kind, indeed. The windows in a shoebox apartment in some low-cost building would look out on an ugly scene devoid of anything green. Mitsuki banished the vision from her mind. The luxuries their mother had provided them as children depended largely on their father’s income, she thought. But instead she said, “Luxury depends on your state of mind, doesn’t it? And what you do with what you have? I already own lots of pretty things.”
Choosing her words, she began to paint a picture of her coming life—a castle in the air. If she hunted for an old one-bedroom place, she might well find a bargain somewhere not too far from her sister. She would surround herself there with the luxury of beauty. The entryway she could decorate with the dark-red faceted glass vase from Grandpa Yokohama (which she had wangled for her own when they divided their mother’s belongings), and that would lend a Meiji-era ambience. In a cozy living-dining room she could put up a little display shelf like the one she’d had installed in her mother’s room at Golden and set out only the choicest of items: things she had bought on her travels, the Turkish pot with silverwork or the box from Toledo with ivory inlays or the Korean folk dish; family treasures like the tiny antique sake cups and the heirloom incense burner. She would buy a little cabinet to hold her share of their mother’s fine china and get rid of her ordinary dishes once and for all. Including items from their mother—all silk, linen, or cashmere—she now had enough coats, scarves, and garments to last a lifetime.
And cloths of every description. She had already collected all kinds on her travels, but now that she was free of her mother, would be free of Tetsuo, she could travel as she pleased; as soon as her health recovered she could take advantage of today’s low airfares to visit far-flung places—Bhutan, say—to hunt for more choice fabrics to decorate her room.
She would be like Sara, the heroine of A Little Princess. After Sara becomes orphaned and is banished to the attic of her boarding school, while she is sleeping one night a gentleman across the street has the kindness to have the drab walls and ceiling hung with gorgeous cloths; Sara awakes to find herself in a chamber fit for a princess. Mitsuki had reread the book tirelessly just for the pleasure of coming to that scene. Now she could live it.
She would have different drapes for summer and winter. Her lace curtains would be French organdy, delicate as gossamer and thin as a butterfly’s wing. French curtains were gauzier than those made in Japan, and they came in subtle shades of color; that was one extravagance she would definitely allow herself. She loved the way they stirred in the wind, revealing the shape of each passing breeze. On the wall she would hang an Indian sari shot through with gold thread and sewn with tiny glass bits that reflected the light like spangles. On the floor she’d lay a woven ikat carpet from Indonesia. The bed she would cover with a wondrous cloth brought back from some remote, mystical region of Bhutan and scatter on it Ming-style embroidered cushions. And her Japanese heritage she would showcase with antique kimono textiles: jofu, chijimi, habutae, tsumugi, rinzu, sha, ro. Plain-woven or crinkled hemp cloth, heavy silk, silk pongee, silk crepe, silk gauze. And the Okinawan textile woven from fibers of a banana tree: bashofu. The lovely words themselves were richly redolent of times past.
A feast of fabrics from around the world, their textures as diverse as the world’s many cultures. She would create a rich harmony through the careful matching of colors and relish the challenge.
As Mitsuki went on talking, a small flame was lit in her heart and gradually grew stronger. On the other end of the line Natsuki, she could tell, was rapt, listening with bated breath, eyes shining like a little girl’s. With such an audience, she was further stirred by her own words.
“And from now on,
where I live will truly be my own space.”
Bulky men’s clothing (so symbolic of unwieldy men themselves) would vanish from the bedroom closet, men’s big shoes and heavy coats from the entryway. No more men’s long umbrellas. No more books that didn’t belong to her. Bookshelves with nothing but her books, top to bottom! A Little Princess and other beloved books long packed away in cardboard boxes could now be laid out boldly, side by side with the rest. And she would be free of shopping and cooking for two; of vacuuming except when she felt like it; of washing, drying, and folding funny-shaped men’s underpants. She’d relax as she pleased in a room all her own filled with all her own things.
Next to the window she would put a dainty table and a chair so delicate it might break if Tetsuo sat in it. In the evening she would sit there sipping fragrant lemon verbena tea from a pure, clear glass teacup and watch in meditative tranquillity as the sun’s rays slanted slowly to the west, weaving between diaphanous purple clouds before silently disappearing.
“Now I ask you, what could be more luxurious!”
Natsuki ended the conversation by saying dreamily, “You know, you’re right, that might be just about the most luxurious life imaginable.”
After she hung up, Mitsuki continued for a while to live the dream she had painted in words. In her imagination, the tiny one-bedroom condominium where she would live expanded until it was a palace of cloths, big enough to hold an elephant or two. And the more her vision expanded, the more intoxicating it became. The presence of a man was not all that would disappear. What would also disappear was his spirit—a spirit that had been confining. Her spirit, boxed up ever since the episode at the harbor in Calais, would at last be free to soar.
She would rid herself of all the junk she had accumulated over the years. As if cleansing her spirit of layers of grime, she would strip her life of everything extraneous and so find out what mattered to her. She would free herself from her own past self.
The raging rainstorm forgotten, her mind feverish, Mitsuki started up her laptop and opened Tetsuo’s email account. Determination to make the most of her remaining time—she didn’t quite have the courage to call it her future—spread through her, putting out roots. Automatically, without thought, she began forwarding Tetsuo’s and the woman’s emails to herself, one by one.
Click. Click. Click.
Was this what was meant by “crossing the Rubicon”? There was no going back. The moment he opened his email—whenever that might be—he would see that his entire correspondence with the woman had been forwarded to Mitsuki. He would know that she had broken into his email account, read everything, and more—she had secured it as evidence.
As she went on clicking, Mitsuki felt an increasing sense of guilt. Tetsuo didn’t think highly of his own character—in fact took a sardonic view of himself—and had always thought she was made of finer stuff than him. This humility touched her; it was an inner treasure he was unaware he had. Suddenly she felt close to him in a way she hadn’t done in years. He surely never dreamed that she would stoop to this. The screen blurred; to her surprise, she was moist-eyed. When the task finally was complete, she murmured an apology, her eyes shut as if in prayer.
After a moment she came to herself. Looking again at the screen, she was struck by the ingenuity of what she had just done. It was also a bit devious. A sign, perhaps, that she was her mother’s daughter after all. She gave a brief, rueful smile before starting a message to Tetsuo. “Dear Tetsuo,” she wrote, and changed to the familiar form of his name: “Dear Tetchan.” She wanted her farewell to be gentle. The message was so simple, it almost wrote itself.
I read your emails and then forwarded them to myself to keep as evidence. I’m sorry. So much of our marriage was pleasant. You never said a word of complaint all the time I was chasing around taking care of my parents, for which I can’t thank you enough. I am truly grateful.
On November 23 my mother passed away from aspiration pneumonia. Fortunately she left enough that I’ll be able to get along with the proposed distribution of assets (see the file attached to an email of September 9 last year). I’ll go visit your parents in Toride, and your brother and his wife, to say goodbye. Seeing you again might only weaken my resolve, and there is no real reason for us to communicate directly anymore, so from now on please write to Masako Aoki. Her email address is below. I’ll have her lawyer draw up the necessary papers and send them to you. You have nothing to apologize for. I now feel I’ve wronged you in many ways. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll be truly happy in your new life. We may meet again someday. Until then, stay well. Goodbye.
She reread what she’d written three times and decided there was no need to sleep on it. She typed in Tetsuo’s email address and added the woman’s address in the cc field.
What if she sent the email only to Tetsuo? If he’d been hesitating because he felt sorry for her, her words would come as a relief. He would realize he had escaped the most painful of hurdles. But if his hesitation was due to the lure of her mother’s money, what then? He might come flying back and, not realizing he was wasting his time, throw himself at her feet, clasp her by the legs, and press his face to her, weeping, as he apologized a hundred times over. For his sake and for her own as well, she had no desire to know that he was or could be capable of such groveling. If the email went also to the woman, then Tetsuo would be locked into his relationship with her. Though she might be looking out for herself in part, she seemed to sincerely love Tetsuo and look up to him. He belonged with her, not with Mitsuki. Sending the email to both of them at once would remove any possibility that he might make the wrong choice. What would he read into her doing so? Would he see it only as meanness on her part? Or would he see her true intent? She hoped the latter.
She tapped the Send button, her heart beating faster. When he might read the email she didn’t know, but whether it was tomorrow or a week from now, or even later, didn’t matter.
She opened Google Earth. The sight of the blue globe spinning in the center of the screen, coming closer and closer, never failed to give her a slight thrill. She zoomed in to Eurasia, then to the peninsula on the right, then to long, thin Vietnam, then Ho Chi Minh City. Somewhere in this city, Tetsuo and his woman would read the email she had just sent.
THE NEXT MORNING
“You still alive? You were supposed to call me!”
The next day, when she was awakened by Masako’s phone call, morning dazzle was pouring through the window. It was already past ten o’clock.
“I’m alive,” Mitsuki said. “I was sleeping.”
“Okay. As long as you’re alive. Talk to you later.”
A strange conversation. Thinking how like Masako it was, Mitsuki went over to the window and threw open the curtains. A wintry sky of the utmost brilliance spread before her. Last night’s storm seemed a dream. But in the garden below, one of the tall cedars in the distance was broken in two, she saw, and a phalanx of gardeners—including “garden conductors,” no doubt—was scurrying around assessing damage.
Last night, her eighth night here, she had slept well for the first time. Wondering what had become of the missing mother and daughter, she brushed her teeth, put on a hairband, and was washing her face when a knock came at the door.
“It’s me,” said Kaoru’s voice.
Mitsuki hastily patted her face dry and opened the door, and there stood Kaoru, fully dressed with her makeup on and a long scarf around her neck. A trace of the night’s exhaustion lingered around her eyes, but her expression was cheerful. After breakfast, everyone had gathered in the lounge and more or less waited for Mitsuki to appear; when she didn’t come down by ten, Mr. Matsubara had suggested that Kaoru go up to check on her.
“He was worried and thought I should peek in on you.”
Mitsuki explained a bit awkwardly that after staying up late she’d taken a sleeping pill and had only just now gotten up. “So, did they find the missing people?”
“My dear,” said Kaoru, “Takeru found them.”
She looked abashed yet unmistakably proud. The rest of the story came pouring out.
Last night, after she stepped out of the elevator on their floor, Takeru had told her he was going down again to join the search.
The hotel staff was out scouring the vicinity of the lake by car and on foot. When he heard this, instead of joining them Takeru drove directly up the winding road to Hakone Shrine. In less than five minutes, he was out of the car; he headed through the tunnel of red torii gates and, with the aid of a flashlight, soon found the two women huddled under the eaves of a shrine building, soaking wet. The daughter was even more dazed than usual, the mother nearly frantic. He reasoned with her, calmed her down, and got them both safely into the car, then called the hotel on his cell phone just as the manager was on the point of contacting the police.
The manager would have preferred that he bring them straight back, but since they’d been out in the rain for hours, Takeru convinced him it was better to err on the side of safety and took them to the closest emergency room. The hospital decided to keep them overnight for observation, not only because they were both chilled through but also because the daughter was clearly on a drug of some kind. The manager and assistant manager, who had rushed over to escort them back, accepted this decision and returned without them.
Was it divine guidance that made her come back last night instead of staying in the Hyatt with Takeru? This thought went through Mitsuki’s mind as she listened to the story, and then two figures appeared at the far end of the corridor—Mr. Matsubara and Takeru. When Kaoru failed to return, they must have grown impatient and decided to investigate. Observing that Mitsuki was still in pajamas, they halted a discreet distance from her door. She asked what everyone’s plans were. The elderly couple would be staying till the day after tomorrow, it seemed, but everyone else was leaving the next day. The four of them agreed to have dinner together that night and parted ways.
Inheritance from Mother Page 37
