by Mark Henshaw
They began the slow climb up the mountainside. Sachiko could hear the dull sound of the engine effortlessly rising and falling as the great black machine pulled itself up and around each bend. Trees floated past them outside. It was late afternoon. The light was already beginning to fall.
Eventually, the car turned into a small side road. They pulled up in front of two wrought-iron gates set into a high stone wall. The gates began to open. They entered a tall, winding hedgerow.
A minute later, without warning, the car emerged onto an open forecourt. Mr Ikeda’s house loomed over them. Against the afternoon light, the house appeared as though it had been made from an enormous transparent ledge hammered into the side of the mountain. The light seemed to pass directly through it to illuminate the forecourt below. She saw now that this ledge was, in fact, a huge terrace. The house itself was set further back.
Then the driver was standing by her door.
Miss, he said, reaching in for her hand.
When she and her father alighted, Sachiko stood looking up to the house. It was even more imposing than she had at first thought. The terrace now seemed to soar out into the air above them, at once both impossibly light and impossibly heavy, as if it was only the tension between the two that held it there.
The shadow of the mountain had already begun to spill down towards them. The interior lights of the house were on. A long seamless wall of glass looked out onto the terrace. Sachiko thought she could see someone standing against the window. It was no more than a shadow on the glass. And then it was gone.
Her father, too, was gazing up at the house.
Mr Yamaguchi. Miss.
The driver had their bags in his hands. He turned towards the house.
They followed him up the stairs. When they reached the portico, the driver pressed the button beside the door. They waited. The door opened and an old woman appeared. She was small, her face thin, her sallow skin crumpled like paper. She had a smattering of small dark sunspots on her cheeks and forehead.
Miss Sachiko, the old woman said. Welcome. We have been waiting for you. Mr Yamaguchi. Please, come in.
She bowed a number of times, stepped aside, held her arm out.
My name is Ume, she said to Sachiko. But you can call me Ume-san. I will be attending to you and your father.
She turned to the driver.
Did Mr Ishiguro tell you? she said.
Tell me what, Ume-san? the driver said.
That the Master has been called away unexpectedly. He will not be back until later this evening.
Ume turned to Sachiko and her father.
I am so sorry, Mr Yamaguchi, Miss Sachiko, she said. Unfortunately, Master Ikeda is not here to welcome you himself. He was called away at the last minute. He has asked me to give you his apologies. I have prepared your rooms for you. If you would follow me.
They followed the old woman through the long rectangular room that ran the length of the terrace. Sachiko glanced across to where the figure she thought she had seen earlier had been standing. But there was no one there.
In the middle of the room an island of armchairs floated silently on the polished floorboards. Sachiko stopped to look out through the glass onto the terrace outside. It was impossible to see the city below. Instead, in the muted afternoon light, beyond the half-shadowed edge of the terrace, all she could distinguish, stretching endlessly along the horizon, was a narrow band of sea, a band so dark and still it could have been made of stone. Beyond this was the sky, vast and pale and empty.
She heard her father’s voice calling her from the far end of the room.
Sachiko? he was saying.
And she turned to follow him.
This is your room, Miss Sachiko, Ume said.
Ume switched on a lamp. A soft light revealed the room’s sparse furnishings. The bedding had already been laid out. On each side of it were two old side tables. On one, a shaded lamp. A low cabinet against the wall adjacent to the bed. White orchids on a stone plinth.
Ume walked over to two screen doors opposite the bed. She slid these open.
Here, unexpectedly, was the garden. It stretched up the mountainside, the ragged edge of which towered above them. The sky had turned a deep late-afternoon blue. In the evening breeze, against the darkening silhouette of the mountain, the canopies of the trees looked like masses of cloud drifting through the garden. She could hear frogs calling. Near, then far. Running water. Somewhere, the repeated hollow tock-tock-tock of a water clock.
It’s beautiful, Sachiko said.
Ume was watching her. Their eyes met. The old woman bowed, acknowledging what Sachiko had said.
Do you have any questions for me, Miss Sachiko? Ume said.
No, I don’t think so, Ume-san, she said.
If you want anything, do not hesitate to call me, the old woman said. All you need do is press the buzzer. She indicated a bone-coloured button set into the wall beside the door.
Thank you, Ume-san, she said.
I will leave you to recover from your journey, she said.
Then Ume turned to her father. Mr Yamaguchi, she said, if you would be so kind, I will show you to your room.
Her father was still standing in the doorway to the garden. He seemed nervous, uncomfortable. His suit seemed shabbier now, older than Sachiko remembered it.
When Ume went to the door and slid it open, her father followed her. He did not say goodbye.
She heard their footsteps retreating on the polished floorboards. She heard another door open, then close. Then she was alone, in the silence of her room, looking into the darkening garden outside.
The long, slow sound of a foghorn, a sound so solid, so thick, that she seemed to be suspended in it, reached out to Sachiko in her sleep.
Then she was awake, disoriented, confused.
She found herself sitting in a wicker chair on a stone terrace. It took her a moment to recall where she was. Fragments from her day began to resurface. Ume-san. Being shown her room. The car door opening. Standing on the gravel driveway looking up at the house. The figure at the window. She and her father floating through the trees in Mr Ishiguro’s plush, unhurried car.
She must have gone out onto the terrace. Fallen asleep. The sky was a deep indigo now. Beyond the balustrade, she could see the reflected sky-glow bloom of the invisible city below. The distant growl of evening traffic washed intermittently up over the balcony to her. She could hear the burred rumble of a truck braking; car horns sounding; the quick gear-changing gulps of a departing lorry, like a swimmer swimming.
The sound of the foghorn returned to fill the air. The terrace reverberated beneath her feet. She sat watching the light changing, feeling the air grow colder. She pulled her cotton kimono more tightly around her.
She stood up. Walked to the balustrade. She looked out over the bay. In that strange crepuscular light, the horizon line, so darkly distinct when she and her father had walked through the long room, had disappeared. The sea and the sky had fused, were now one. Looking down, she felt as though she was peering over the broken edge of the world. Tiny toy boats hung suspen
ded in the void. The vast white bow of a freighter hovered impossibly above them. She watched it ascending into the sky. All at once, the terrace, the house, and the mountain behind her seemed to pitch forward. She had the dizzying impression that the world was about to topple over the balcony into the abyss below. She reached out for the cold stone balustrade. The long, mournful call of a foghorn reached up to her again.
Then came another sound, a voice, calling her name.
Sachiko…Sachiko?
She turned back to the house. In the long empty room, the lamps were already lit. It took her a moment to locate her father standing at the far end. He was searching for her.
Sachiko, he called again. There was a note of urgency in his voice.
I’m here, Father, she called.
He looked about as if her voice had come to him out of the air itself.
Here! she said again.
She stepped away from the balcony and ran to open the sliding glass door to the sitting room.
Father, I’m here. I was out on the terrace.
I thought you’d gone, her father said.
But where would I go, Father?
He did not answer. He just stood there looking at her.
I went out onto the terrace, she said. I must have fallen asleep. I’m sorry.
She wanted to tell him about the changing light, about the horizon line disappearing, about the boats floating in the sky. But the sun had moved on. The dark horizon line had returned. The world had been cantilevered back into place.
Ume is looking for you, her father said. To prepare you for this evening.
Has Mr Ikeda returned? she asked.
I don’t know, he said. But it doesn’t matter. You must still get ready. Ume will help you.
She found Ume waiting for her in her room.
I’m sorry, Ume. I did not mean to inconvenience you.
Do not concern yourself, Miss Sachiko, she said. I understand. Everything is so new, so different. You will get used to it.
There was warmth now in the old woman’s voice. She was carrying a simple white bathrobe on one arm.
The Master asked me to prepare your bath, she said.
Ume went to a column of drawers set into the wall. She pulled one open and lifted out a dazzling white kimono. She laid it on the bed. Light undulated across its surface as though it was a thing alive.
Sachiko recognised the material at once. It was the snow fabric she had seen at Ishiguro’s, the one with the budding orchids poking through. She went over to the bed, picked up one of the kimono’s sleeves. Felt its richness between her fingers.
Ume watched her turn back one of the cuffs.
Is this the kimono I’ll be wearing? she said.
Yes, Ume replied.
How strange, she said. My grandmother made this. She raised a sleeve to her face. I remember this material from when I was a little girl. My grandmother loved it. I can still see us spreading it out in the snow above our house. And then I saw it again this afternoon, at Mr Ishiguro’s. They have only just started making it again.
She ran her fingers down the inner lining, across its perfect close stitching.
I don’t understand, Ume-san, she said. How did you…how did Mr Ikeda come to have this? This particular kimono? You see, I’m sure this is a snow kimono my grandmother made. Years ago. I would recognise her stitching anywhere, she said. Look at this. Only my grandmother closes off like this. It is her signature.
You are right, Miss Sachiko, the old woman said. Your grandmother did make this. Katsuo-san, Mr Ikeda, bought it a long time ago. When you were still young. He has kept it in this drawer for you ever since.
What do you mean, Ume-san? Sachiko said. He kept it for me?
But now the old woman would not look at her.
Ume-san? What do you mean—he kept it for me?
The old woman still did not answer her. Instead, she bent and refolded the garment on the bed.
Ume-san?
I cannot say, she said. Master Katsuo will explain. But you must promise me you will never tell him what I just told you.
Ume looked up at her. Sachiko saw the anguish on the old woman’s face.
I won’t, Ume-san. I promise you, I will never betray you. Never.
Ume, who had been expecting her, who had greeted her and her father at the top of the stairs, who had shown them to their rooms. How subtly their relationship had changed in a matter of hours. It was as though, Sachiko thought, she had emerged from a chrysalis, had left its empty husk behind.
Chapter 25
IT was not Ume who saw the scar first. It was Mizuki, her assistant. She was towelling Sachiko’s wet hair, drying the last thin rills of water from her neck and shoulders. She had eased the bath wrap away from Sachiko’s back with her fingertips and reached into the crevice with the cloth to dry the last drops of water stranded there.
Oh, she said, pulling away.
Ume saw Mizuki recoil, her hand to her mouth.
What is it? she said.
Mizuki leaned tentatively closer.
It’s a scar, she said. On Sachiko’s shoulder. It’s like a…
But she hesitated, glanced at Ume.
Ume stepped forward to see what Mizuki had seen.
Sachiko thought of that day in the blazing snow, how she had lain hidden, watching the two horses. How the boys had turned on her. Her dull legs trapped in the nightmare snow. The sudden piercing pain. Her falling. Afterwards, when she stood, the circle of blood so distinct, so red, she could have picked it up.
Ume leaned down. Pulled back the collar of Sachiko’s bath wrap. Sachiko felt her trace the curled outline of the scar with her fingertip.
How curious, Ume said. It’s like a small scorpion.
Hearing what Ume had said, Sachiko flinched. Ume’s nail caught briefly in her flesh. Instantly, Sachiko felt the echo of that stinging pain she had felt years ago. She cried out. She stood so abruptly her bathrobe fell to the floor.
The thought that there was a scorpion crawling in her flesh filled her with horror. She pictured the scrabbling crescent claws, the upturned tail, the tiny, beaded eyes. Watching. Waiting. Ready to strike.
Oh, she said, trying to look over her shoulder.
Ume was already at the basin, moistening the twisted tip of the towel with cold water.
Sit down, Sachiko, she said. You’re bleeding.
Ume faced her away from the mirror so that she could moisten the towel with ease. Sachiko felt the cold, wet cloth on her shoulder blade. She sat hunched over, her arms clasped about her breasts. She was sobbing quietly. Now she understood why her parents, her mother, had been so angry when she had returned that day, dishevelled and bleeding, from the upper fields.
She recalled her parent’s conversation on the verandah when she and her father had set out. When was that? Could it have been just yesterday? She could still hear her mother’s voice coming to her from within the house: But it’s nothing, Hideo. You can barely see it. You must convince him.
Seen from another vantage point, in the muted light, with her bent over like this, Katsuo thought Sachiko’s back looked pale and vulnerable. And extraordinarily beautiful.
How many times had he gazed upon her like this since? How many times, with her bent before him, had he seen her scar? Only to feel the same longing in his heart. It was as though, in Sachiko, Mariko had returned to him.
He saw, high on her arched shoulder blade, where Ume’s nail had pierced her skin, a tiny blood-red drop begin to pearl. It seemed to issue precisely from the tip of the scorpion’s tail. He watched its sudden breaching, saw the thin trail of blood spill down Sachiko’s back.
Later, Sachiko remembered Ume stepping away from the mirror, remembered her waiting, then dabbing again at the blood with her wetted towel. Its coldness had made her flinch again. She imagined the scorpion tensing its body, tightening its claws, as though it would not be willingly plucked from her skin.
Is it gone? she said. Ume?
Ume pressed the cool cloth to Sachiko’s back, waited to see if any more blood would surface.
There, Ume said. The bleeding’s stopped. I’m so sorry, Sachiko. I did not mean to hurt you.
I know, Sachiko said. She took two deep breaths, clenched and unclenched her fists, sat up.
I want to see it, she said. I want to see what it looks like.
She twisted her head to look back over her shoulder. It took her a few moments to locate the scar. It was higher up than she had imagined, right on the ridge of her shoulder blade. A pale silhouette against her paler skin.
Ume and Mizuki were right. It did look like a scorpion. Sitting there. Still. Vigilant. Her shoulder blade its permanent lair. As she pulled her arm around in front of her the better to see it, the scorpion seemed to scuttle up her shoulder a short distance, and stop. Sachiko shivered. A faint arc of blood appeared again where Ume’s nail had broken her skin. When she relaxed, let her arm go, the scorpion moved again.
