Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa

by Benjamin Constable

  ‘I think you’re right,’ I said. ‘What kind of number is forty-four and a half anyway?’

  ‘People do that here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Maybe we should check East Eighth Street while we’re in the neighbourhood,’ she suggested.

  ‘May as well, while we’re here.’

  ‘Tally-ho!’ she said.

  I looked at her in amazement. ‘Did you just say tally-ho?’

  ‘You’re very English.’

  ‘I know. But English people don’t say tally-ho.’

  ‘Who does then?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Of course they do. It’s English. It comes from your people.’

  ‘Maybe people said it in the twenties, but it was probably already antiquated by the war.’

  ‘Shut up, you’re ruining my image of your country.’

  * * *

  East Eighth Street was called St Mark’s Place and Beatrice said, ‘Oh, of course,’ like she must have been stupid not to have remembered. Number 441/2 existed. It had a red door and four buzzers at the side of it.

  ‘Which one do you think it is?’

  ‘The top one,’ she said, as though it were obvious.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The clue said it was the top floor.’

  ‘But what if the numbers go downwards from one and the top floor is the bottom bell?’

  ‘Have you got some kind of specially overcomplicated brain?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Look, it’s the top one. No doubt.’

  I waited and looked at the button. Suddenly faced with the task of pushing it, I didn’t want to. It crossed my mind to wait for Cat, but thought better of it. Then I remembered something far more important to save me from the buzzer.

  ‘French wine. I need to take wine,’ I said.

  ‘Have you got any?’

  I patted my bag as though there might have been a bottle there I’d forgotten about. ‘No.’

  ‘We need a shop,’ she said.

  ‘We need a wine merchant,’ I said.

  ‘This way.’

  Ten minutes later we were standing back outside 441/2 St Mark’s Place with a bottle of wine in my bag. I looked at Beatrice, decided to stop being a coward and rang the bell.

  There was a click and a buzzing sound. Beatrice pushed the door open and held it for me to walk through. I gave her a look that meant ‘What?’ and she gestured with her eyes for me to get on with it.

  ‘Which way?’ We all become stupid when we think that somebody else is better qualified than we are to make a decision, even when it’s easy.

  ‘Up.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  We wound our way to the top floor and I knocked.

  A woman answered and said ‘Oh, hi,’ like she was expecting someone else, but gave a kind of functional smile.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but you may be able to help me with something.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s a little bit complicated to explain but—’

  ‘If you’re selling something we could all save ourselves some time here; I’m not interested.’

  ‘No, I’m not selling anything, I’m trying to find something which has been hidden here.’

  ‘Are you Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

  ‘No. At least I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘I’m an atheist,’ Beatrice threw in.

  ‘Are you a Jehovah’s Witness?’ I asked the woman, keeping an open mind.

  ‘I’m Jewish,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, if I was religious, I’d be Jewish,’ Beatrice said, as if she’d known the answer to a question in a quiz.

  And if I’d ever had a plan of how to address the difficult situation of explaining my treasure hunt to a stranger on a doorstep, it was now derailed.

  ‘Oh wow,’ I said, melting into the absurdity of the situation. ‘Look at this.’ I pulled the visa-waiver form I’d taken from the airport out of my pocket. ‘You’ll both be pleased to know that all Nazi war criminals who don’t already have citizenship or a visa are required to confess upon entering the United States.’ I held out the card for them to follow as I read aloud, ‘ “Between 1933 and 1945 were (you) involved, in any way, in the persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies?”’

  ‘What is this?’ asked the woman.

  ‘It’s the form that you have to fill in for US Border Control. Look at these amazing questions.’ I pointed.

  ‘ “Do you have a communicable disease?”’ read Beatrice.

  ‘ “Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage?”’ said the woman dryly.

  ‘Yes, that’s me, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I thought I’d get away with it, but now you’ve posed the question directly, I can’t lie—I’m a spy. I guess that’s my cover blown.’

  The woman looked perplexed and amused at the same time.

  ‘And look.’ I knew I should shut up, but the words kept coming. ‘ “Have you ever been arrested or convicted for an offence or crime involving moral turpitude?” What the hell is turpitude?’

  ‘Depravity, or baseness,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘How would you know a thing like that?’ I asked.

  ‘I know a lot of things,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘Yeah, I’m pretty busy actually,’ said the woman, backing into her apartment, although some kind of curiosity had stopped her from closing the door completely. ‘What do you actually want?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I think you may have something for me, or somebody may have given you something to pass on to me.’

  ‘Nobody’s given me anything for you.’

  ‘Or maybe they’ve hidden something in your apartment.’

  The woman paused, kind of amazed. ‘I can assure you that nobody’s hidden anything in my apartment,’ she said, and she gently (maybe even reluctantly) started to close the door.

  ‘He’s got a clue telling him to come here and bring wine for you,’ blurted Beatrice.

  ‘What?’

  I looked in my bag. ‘Here, this is for you.’ I held out the bottle and the woman looked at it and kept her hands firmly on the door.

  ‘It’s French,’ Beatrice added.

  ‘What makes you think I like French wine?’

  ‘The clue suggested it ought to be French.’

  ‘What clue?’

  ‘Do you know someone called Tomomi Ishikawa?’ I asked.

  ‘Tommy who?’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘She’s a her,’ I said.

  ‘Remind me to tell you about that name later,’ said Beatrice.

  I stopped and looked at her, but her expression just said ‘Get on with it’ so I did. ‘Tomomi Ishikawa was a friend of mine,’ I said. ‘She died, but she left me a series of clues leading to things she’d hidden. It’s a kind of treasure hunt.’

  The woman scowled. ‘What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘Show her what you found in Bryant Park,’ said Beatrice. I took out the envelope and handed it over.

  As the woman read the clue and then the small square of paper, Beatrice and I stared hard at each other with nonverbal communication that was slightly above my level of understanding. The woman turned the papers over, looked in the envelope and frowned hard, thinking.

  ‘You found this in Bryant Park?’

  ‘Yeah. I know it’s for me because it’s got my name on the envelope.’

  ‘Is that your name?’ The woman frowned. ‘It’s like something from a Dickens novel.’

  Beatrice choked on her laughter and the woman seemed pleased at the unanticipated success of her wit.

  Now I was the one scowling. ‘Of course, it’s actually Hebrew,’ I said, as though taking the intellectual high ground (but vaguely aware of knowing the precise origin of my name).

  ‘Look, I really don’t know if I can help you,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t be bothered to do the math but
it seems like this is the right address and I do have a piano and I love French wine. I love France in fact.’

  ‘Oh, I live in Paris,’ I said.

  ‘I used to live there as well,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘Really?’ I was stunned.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

  The woman looked back and forth between us and nearly asked something, but gave up.

  ‘Would it be possible for me to have a look at your piano?’

  She shook her head in amazement. ‘No. Look, there’s nothing in my piano. Nobody has hidden anything for you here. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It could have been a long time ago,’ I said. ‘How long have you had the piano?’

  ‘About seven years,’ said the woman. ‘I bought it from a girl in the West Village, Charles Street, maybe. She was selling everything.’

  Beatrice changed position as if she was uncomfortable.

  ‘Was she a smallish girl with long, straight, dark hair and kind of ambiguously Asian features?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘I remember her. She was funny. We talked for ages about stuff that had nothing to do with the piano; about France in fact.’

  ‘That’s my dead friend,’ I said.

  ‘I kind of really want to tell you to go away and never come back. But you’ve just made a normal afternoon interesting and I’m starting to want to know if you’re right or not.’

  I only smiled a little bit, but Beatrice grinned without restraint.

  ‘Look, I’m expecting somebody,’ said the woman. ‘I thought you would be them. But hey, it’s probably already early evening in France. Maybe we should have a glass of that wine and take a quick look at the piano.’

  ‘Excellente idée!’ said Beatrice without a trace of an accent, and I laughed.

  ‘I’ve got ten minutes maximum,’ warned the woman.

  I looked at Beatrice and she congratulated me telepathically for having got through the door. I let her walk first as though I were a gentleman.

  ‘I’ve got a corkscrew here somewhere,’ said the woman, holding out her hand for the bottle, which she opened proficiently, and then pulled three glasses from a shelf. ‘Shall we go through to the other room?’

  She led the way into a living room with many books and an upright piano. She placed the glasses on a low table and sat in an armchair and served the wine. Beatrice and I sat on the sofa.

  ‘So, are you a musician?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a piano teacher,’ said the woman, ‘but I play for myself as well.’

  I picked up my glass. ‘Cheers.’ Beatrice and the woman reached for theirs.

  ‘Mmm. Good choice,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘That’s great,’ said the woman sincerely.

  ‘He bought it at the wine merchant around the corner,’ said Beatrice, and I scowled at her.

  ‘So you didn’t bring it from France then.’ The woman laughed and I gave Beatrice a look telling her that she’d ruined everything.

  ‘I only found the clue an hour ago. I didn’t know I needed to come equipped with wine for all occasions. Besides, my luggage was lost anyway.’

  ‘You lost your luggage?’

  ‘Well, the airline did,’ I said. ‘May I look at the piano?’

  ‘OK,’ said the woman, and came over and lifted the lid.

  I played a couple of notes as though I knew what I was doing.

  ‘I think I may need to take the panel off the front,’ I said. ‘Would that be all right?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d be careful, but I’d rather I did it,’ said the woman.

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  She folded back the top and then lifted out the upper panel and we both peered in, then Beatrice came and joined us.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The piano tuner’s never mentioned finding anything. What are we looking for?’

  ‘Probably a brown envelope.’

  ‘Let’s take the bottom panel off,’ said the woman.

  There was nothing in the front half of the casing.

  ‘Behind the soundboard?’ said the woman, and I was relieved because I didn’t want to be the one to suggest pulling the piano out and taking the back off. ‘We’ll have to pull it out from the wall,’ she said.

  ‘Wait,’ said Beatrice, and knelt down and pushed her hand up at the bottom of the piano, behind the light-coloured soundboard. We stepped back as she moved along the length from right to left on her hands and knees, then went back to the middle and pushed hard to get her hand right through the tiny gap. I could hear her fingers scratching around. ‘Call the fire department. I’m stuck!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nope.’ And she pulled her hand out and stood up triumphant and presented me with a large unmarked brown envelope; I took it from her, sat down and opened it. Inside was a notebook. On the front was written the word ‘Komori’ in large letters. I finished my wine in one go and the woman and Beatrice politely took sips from theirs, watching.

  I flicked through the pages of Butterfly’s writing in blue pen, and then closed the book.

  ‘Well?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘This is it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I opened the book to the first page and put the clue next to it. ‘It’s her handwriting.’

  Beatrice and the woman both leaned over. I let them look for a couple of seconds and then quickly closed the book. ‘I think I should read it first,’ I said. And they both stood back, suddenly conscious of seeming nosey. The woman poured more wine and I opened the book again and read a line from the first page:

  Ever since I was a child, Komori had been preparing me for her death . . .

  I closed it again, put it back in the envelope and breathed out a long breath.

  14

  Komori

  As we were leaving, the buzzer sounded and we passed a man on the stairs coming up.

  Beatrice floated along the street, laughing to herself about what had just happened. ‘We were funny,’ she said.

  I had too many thoughts to get them in any kind of order. We crossed First Avenue and carried along St Mark’s Place into a café on the left. I knew this place. It’s where I’d had breakfast.

  We got a table near the front and didn’t speak for a moment, as though there was some kind of telepathic communication going on that I didn’t understand. It was nice. A waitress came over (maybe she served me this morning) and smiled as if she recognised me, which made Beatrice double take.

  ‘We should carry on drinking now that we’ve started,’ she said, ‘otherwise we’ll just get sleepy.’

  I smiled. ‘Bon plan.’

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘I’ll get the list,’ the waitress said, and came back with a menu.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said. ‘I need to eat.’

  We ordered a bottle and I ordered an entrée (which thankfully Beatrice told me is the American word for main course, otherwise I would have thought it was a starter and taken two). She ordered some olives ‘to pick at’. When the wine was served and the waitress gone she said ‘Ben’ and I looked at her. ‘That’s what you’re called, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, Ben, Benjamin, I don’t mind.’

  ‘I know something about your friend Tomomi Ishikawa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I see her name written every day.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In my apartment.’

  ‘How? Where? On what?’

  ‘On an envelope that came to my address. There have been others too, but they were just junk mail so I just threw them away. This one looked as though it might be important, though, so I kept it. It sits in my kitchen on the side propped up by the pepper grinder. She used to live in my apartment.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘There’s another thing as well.’

  ‘What?’

  She took a deep bre
ath before she spoke. ‘She’s my landlady.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘She owns the apartment where I live.’

  ‘She owns an apartment?’

  ‘Maybe more than one. I don’t know.’

  ‘So you know her?’

  ‘No,’ she said with determination. ‘It’s done through someone else, but it’s her apartment.’

  ‘That’s too weird.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s just too weird. It’s too much of a coincidence. Fuck.’

  She looked at me wide-eyed and scrunched her mouth to the side for a second.

  ‘Where is the apartment?’ I asked.

  ‘New York.’

  ‘Er, yes. Where?’

  ‘Williamsburg.’ She scratched her nose.

  ‘I’ve never been there.’

  ‘It’s nice.’

  I considered Williamsburg’s niceness for a second. My brain was saturating.

  ‘Let’s go and smoke?’ I said.

  When we got outside she held out a lighter and lit my cigarette before lighting her own.

  ‘This is all too strange to be possible,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d lived in Paris?’

  ‘We only just met.’

  ‘Yeah, but I told you I lived in France and you never said, “Oh that’s interesting—me too,” or anything.’

  ‘It didn’t seem important, or relevant. And if it’s OK with you, I’ll make the decisions about what I tell strangers about myself.’

  ‘All right, of course you shouldn’t tell people stuff you don’t want to; I’m just surprised, that’s all. And then you mentioned it like it was just a casual fact.’

  ‘Well, it is just a casual fact, an interesting one, I admit, but I know lots of people from Paris. It doesn’t get me excited anymore.’

  ‘Yeah, but you lived in Paris and Tomomi Ishikawa is your landlady and you just met me randomly on the steps of the New York Public Library and now you just came with me to find treasure in an apartment and you just took me to the café where I had breakfast.’

  ‘Really?’ Finally something had impressed her.

  ‘I don’t know, but that seems like a hell of a lot of coincidences to me all in one afternoon.’

  ‘It’s true, that’s a lot of coincidences. But coincidences are completely normal. What would be abnormal is if there were no coincidences. It would mean that there was some kind of force keeping similar things apart. Now that would be weird.’