The Hole

by Hiroko Oyamada

  THE HOLE

  also by Hiroko Oyamada

  The Factory

  Copyright © 2014 by Hiroko Oyamada

  Translation copyright © 2020 by David Boyd

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, tele­vision, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  The Hole was originally published in 2014 as Ana by Shinchosha Publishing Co., Tokyo. This English edition is published by arrangement with Shinchosha Publishing Co. in care of Tuttle-Mori Agency, Inc., Tokyo.

  The translator would like to thank Rebekah Chacko for her generous assistance.

  First published as New Directions Paperbook 1487 in 2020

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Design by Erik Rieselbach

  New Directions gratefully acknowledges the support of .

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Oyamada, Hiroko, 1983– author. | Boyd, David, translator.

  Title: The hole / Hiroko Oyamada ;translated from the Japanese by David Boyd.

  Other titles: Ana. English

  Description: English language edition. |New York : New Directions Publishing, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020021695 | ISBN 9780811228879 (paperback) |ISBN 9780811228886 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PL874.Y36 A6513 2020 | DDC 895.63/6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020021695

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

  by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

  THE HOLE

  I moved out here with my husband. At the end of May, we found out about the transfer. His new office was going to be in the same prefecture, but far from where he’d been working. A local branch office out in the country. It was the same area my husband was originally from, so he called his mother to see if she had any ideas about where we could live. “What about next door?” “Next door?” “The other house — the one we’ve been renting out. It just opened up.” Her voice carried so well that I could hear every syllable from where I was sitting. The other house? Why hadn’t I ever heard of this house before?

  “A family of four had been living there, but they moved out in April. The Katos. They were so nice. When they left, they came by with a box of the most beautiful sumo mandarins. You met the Katos, right? They had a little boy with curly hair . . .” “No, I don’t think so . . .”

  On the memo pad on the table, I wrote SEPARATE HOUSE? I turned the pad toward my husband and he nodded. He grabbed the pen and wrote YES. TWO STORIES. His mother kept talking. “Anyway, they’re gone now. We asked the realtor to find somebody new, but I guess they haven’t gotten any bites. If you want it, I can call tomorrow and ask them to take the ad down. Sound good?” “How’s the rent?” “Well, the Katos were paying 52,000 yen . . . But what do you think? Should I call the agent?” My husband looked at me as if it was my decision. The timing couldn’t have been better. We had to take it. I nodded. The rent was a lot less than our tiny apartment in the city — and we’d have an entire house to ourselves. “Sounds good. We can definitely afford 52,000.” “What are you talking about? You won’t need to pay anything.” “Wait, what?” “Keep your money. Save it, for the future. I mean, we should probably think about taxes. We’ll need to put something in writing, as a formality. Still, I don’t want you paying us rent. We’re family. The loan for that place is paid off now anyway. You know it’s not the newest house, right?” My husband shot me the same look. I didn’t have any issue with that. How could we be anything but grateful? Still, it was strange how I couldn’t seem to picture this house — how big it was, what color it was, what the yard was like . . . I must have seen it while visiting my husband’s parents, but I was drawing a blank. I told myself that my inability to conjure any memory of the place probably meant it couldn’t have been remarkably large or small. For whatever reason, I couldn’t even recall what my husband’s family home looked like. All I could remember were fragments — solar panels on the roof, a handful of trees out front. That was it.

  “There’s a parking space, right?” “One. You’re going to need it, too. You know you’ll need a car to live here, right? Otherwise you can’t get around.” “If I drive from there, I can probably make it to the office in under half an hour . . . That should work. But, Mom, are you sure about the rent?” “Well, like I said, we’ll have to sit down and do some paperwork, but really, don’t worry about the money. Alright, it’s settled. I’ll call the agent first thing in the morning, okay?” “Sounds good, thanks. Asahi’s going to need to quit her job, so anything we can save on rent will really help.” “Asa’s quitting?” his mother asked. Her voice was lower now, but just as audible. “Of course. That commute would never work.” “Oh, I know, but what if she stayed there and you moved out here on your own? I mean, this is her job we’re talking about.” My husband looked at me again; I shook my head. If he’s moving, I’m moving. End of story. I’m not even a permanent employee. It’s not the kind of job that’s worth holding on to. My husband nodded at me, then said, “We’ll make the move together.” His mother laughed a little and said, “You two are still young, aren’t you?” It wasn’t like we were newlyweds or anything. Did she really believe my work was that important? I was almost jealous. She’d held on to the same job for most of her adult life and was only a year or two away from retirement. When she gave birth to her son, she only took six months off. And it’s not like they needed the money. She could’ve spent more time at home, but that’s how much she loved her job. I didn’t feel the same way about mine. Although it wasn’t the worst position out there, I’d hardly call it rewarding. I didn’t hate it, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be there, either. To be honest, the job was a little too demanding, considering how little I was paid. Sure, it was the sort of work anyone could do, but I wasn’t so young or naïve to let that bother me.

  My husband placed the receiver in the cradle and smiled. “You heard that, right? What do you think? Too close?” “To what? Your family?” “Well, your mother-in-law.” When he said the word, I almost laughed out loud. I guess I hadn’t thought of her that way. She was better than that. Of course, she wasn’t perfect, but her virtues easily outnumbered her faults. She was warm, caring, and hardworking. I’d probably feel differently about her if we had to live under the same roof, but I could handle being neighbors. “I don’t mind. It sounds like a good situation for us. Besides, who knows how long it’ll take me to find a job up there? If we can get by without paying rent . . .” “Yeah, you’re right about that.” My husband grinned, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and ran his fingers across the screen. “But what about you?” I asked. “Are you okay being that close to home?” We weren’t very far away from his parents as things were, but he’d never seemed too excited about going home for the holidays. My own parents were a bit farther away, which made it relatively easy to get out of family gatherings. Some years, I had to come up with excuses, telling them we were traveling or something like that. “Not at all. At this age, it actually feels right.” “Feels right?” My husband smiled at something on his phone, then glanced up at me. Unlike me, my husband had a lot of friends. I watched his fingers glide over the surface of his phone. He was probably telling some friend about the move. I’m moving into the house next to my parents . . . No rent! “I don’t know. My parents aren’t that young anymore. Who knows how long Grandpa’s going to be around?
It’ll be good to be closer to them.” “Yeah . . .” I unmuted the TV and laughter filled the room. I brought the volume down as quickly as I could. On the screen, a group of half-naked people with brown skin were running in a field, chasing after a large animal. I had no idea where they were, but it wasn’t Japan. They had white and yellow markings on their faces and chests. It could’ve been paint — or maybe tattoos. Apparently, the animal belonged to them. It was dragging around some kind of rope tied to its leg. Among the people — all of them in shorts — stood a chubby, pasty-faced Japanese comedian in a grass skirt. “And of course you’re coming with me. Of course you are.” “Does your mom think I’m a permanent employee or something?” “No, she knows you’re not.” His fingers were sliding over his phone with even greater speed. He was probably writing an email. There was a time when I would have wanted to know what he was up to, but not anymore. As long as he wasn’t doing anything sexual or criminal, there was no need for me to get involved.

  “By the way, did you tell them you’re quitting?” “Work? Yeah, today.” “What’d they say?” “Nothing,” I said with a wry smile. He tilted his head to the side, eyes still fixed on his phone. “After everything you’ve done for them?” “Well, yeah. It’s not like I was doing anything that important. After we move, I hope I can find something better. It’s probably going to be part-time, right? I wish I could find a permanent position . . . Then again, I’m turning thirty this year, so . . .” “But we won’t have to worry about rent up there, so what’s the rush?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Just then, on the TV, the comedian lunged at the wayward animal but fell short, landing face-first in a puddle of mud. Glancing up at the screen, my husband muttered “idiot” and laughed. I laughed, too. We moved into our new home two weeks later.

  “Quitting? Are you serious?” I was in the bathroom with my only friend from work. A sheet of blotting paper pressed against her forehead, she widened her eyes in disbelief when I broke the news. “My husband’s getting transferred to another branch. We’re moving . . .” “You serious? Where to?” “Not far. North of here, but too far to commute . . . I know, right? It’s kind of sudden . . .” “No, I’m happy for you . . . Is it okay to say that?” She tossed the used sheet in the trash and let out an exaggerated sigh. It was the busiest part of the year, but a good portion of the permanent staff was nowhere to be seen. One had just had a child, another was sick, and two others simply couldn’t face coming in. The extra work had to be done — by us, the nonpermanent employees. We were both putting in overtime, even though it wasn’t in our contracts. We were even handling tasks outside of our job descriptions — receiving orders, interacting with clients — but our base pay remained the same. The only appreciation our employers ever showed us came when the permanent employees got their winter bonuses. Instead of bonuses, we got envelopes with A SMALL TOKEN OF OUR GRATITUDE printed on the front in a cursive script. It really wasn’t much. From what I’d heard, the permanent employee bonus was three months’ pay — at a minimum — but I only got 30,000 yen, in cash. I did the math. Permanent employees likely got somewhere between 600,000 and 700,000. My envelope had maybe a twentieth of that. It’s always nice to feel appreciated, right? I dropped the envelope into my bag, where it’s been ever since. I never felt the urge to spend or even deposit it. Who knows — if I were sticking around, maybe I’d get 50,000 next year. Maybe.

  “I wish I could leave . . . I wish I could quit,” she said. She was two or three years older than me and lived with a guy she wanted to marry. He had a permanent position somewhere, but still wasn’t making much money. She didn’t like her job, but didn’t know what else she could do. It was horrible being worked to the bone, but there was no guarantee that she’d find anything better elsewhere. “Really, what are the chances I’d find something permanent out there? At least I’m full-time here. And if we keep working overtime like this, I’ll end up making more than my boyfriend. Not that there’s any hope of ever getting promoted to a permanent position here . . .” When she first started working, she was a permanent employee at a major corporation, but her boss was an evil scumbag who made her life hell. She resigned and came here. “I’d give my right arm to never come back to this place. I wish someone would ask my boyfriend to transfer . . . But what are you going to do? Look for something new up there?” “Well, it’s way out in the country. I’ll try to find something, but who knows. Either way, we should be all right. We’re going to live in a house that my husband’s family owns.” “Wait, seriously? You mean you’re going to be a housewife?” Her eyes opened even wider. “Look at you!” “Look at what?” “You, Matsuura-san. Living the dream. You won’t have to work. You’ll be free to look after the house, bake, do a little gardening . . . That’s the life.” She shook her head as she tugged at the bottom of her vest, smoothing it with both hands. Then she held her nails up to her face, inspecting them closely. Once a month, she went to the salon to have them done — and it looked like she was almost due for her next trip. These were the kind of nails you had to go to the salon to remove. It probably wasn’t conscious, but she had a habit of picking at them. They were dark purple and studded with tiny, clear rhinestones, but at this point only one-third of her nails had any color left. It looked a little punk rock. She told me it was 6,000 yen for both hands (rhinestones cost extra), but she knew somebody at the salon, so she didn’t have to pay full price. I’d done my own nails before, but didn’t take good care of my cuticles, so they never looked very good. Still, I never felt the need to spend that kind of cash to have somebody glue little stones to my fingernails.

  “What I wouldn’t give to be a housewife . . . Wait, no way. Are you pregnant?” I shook my head. She was basically the only person I ever spoke to at the office. I had no idea how to interact with the permanent staff, and it didn’t help that I was shy. Even though she was my closest work friend, that didn’t mean that we were actually close. She was always telling me about the things that were worrying her — how she and her boyfriend kept putting off marriage and how she was scared that she was going to miss her window to have a baby. I wasn’t pregnant — not that I would tell her if I were. She washed her hands, then wiped her fingers with extra care, as if polishing the stones. The color on her nails never seemed to last, but those little gemstones stayed put no matter what. “Okay, not yet. But once you move and you have some time on your hands, I bet you’ll get pregnant in no time. You have to tell me, okay? Seriously, I don’t care how far away you live. I’ll come visit.”

  I don’t know why, but she’d always been under the impression that I wanted a child as badly as she did. I’m pretty sure she thought I’d been trying to get pregnant ever since I got married but wasn’t having any luck. I suppose I could’ve said something to set the record straight, but I just went along with it. The truth was I wasn’t trying to have children — not that I was bitterly opposed to the idea. I always figured, if it happens, it happens. “If you’re going to have a baby, you’re better off working. That way you get support from the government.” “Support?” “Well, you wouldn’t get all the benefits you’d receive if you were permanent, but still . . .” She leaned in to get a better look at her eyebrows in the mirror. For someone who spent as much money as she did on her nails, I thought it was strange how little makeup she wore. Then again, she had such strong features that it was probably best not to overdo it. She had wide double eyelids, long eyelashes that cast shadows over her cheeks, a giant mole by her temple, and skin far better than most, but she had so many fillings that you couldn’t help but notice all the metal when she smiled. “It’s definitely best if you’re both permanent. I mean, socially and personally.” “So if you had another shot at a permanent position, you’d take it?” “Me? In a heartbeat!” She nodded aggressively. During lunch, all the permanent women go outside to eat. Meanwhile, the rest of us eat at our desks. It’s an unspoken rule. Permanents would only eat at their desks when they were exceptionally busy or if something was going on
with their usual lunch partner. It’s not like the permanents and nonpermanents despised each other. Some permanents were actually nice. We simply lived in different worlds. They were taking home 600,000-yen bonuses, while our envelopes contained only a fraction of that. What could we possibly talk about? The bathroom was quiet. Just the two of us. In another fifteen minutes, the permanent employees would flock to the sinks to brush their teeth before getting started on the afternoon work.

  “I mean, it’s not fair,” she said, her voice echoing. “We’re doing the same work as them, right? So what’s the deal with these stupid envelopes? I want a bonus, a real bonus. Yeah, I’d take a permanent position. And I’d go to all the lunch meetings, do all the business trips. At least I’d get maternity leave. What do I have now? Think about it: What if I got pregnant and they let me go right before I had the baby? Then what if there was an opening a year or so later and they took me back? They’d hire me as a part-timer, right? That’d be the best I could hope for. And if there was no opening, I’d get nothing, obviously. But what if I was permanent? I could take a year off, work limited hours for the next three after that, collect every bonus and paycheck — even if it’s not the full amount — and even get financial support from the government. Come on! Are we even human? I’d definitely do it. You really wouldn’t take a permanent spot if they offered you one?” “I don’t know. I guess I don’t like the idea of being any busier than I already am . . .” “By the way, what did you get for overtime last month?” She turned her head toward me. I could smell her minty toothpaste — mintier than mine. “About what I was expecting.” “I got maybe 70,000.” “Same here.” We were only paid for what we reported in thirty-minute blocks. Whatever didn’t fit in those blocks was lost. I reported everything I could last time, and the amount was larger than what I was used to seeing, but it didn’t bring me any joy. The figure under “base pay” was exactly what it had been. “It’s crazy if you think about what we usually make. Compared to a month without overtime, we’re making almost fifty percent more, right? But they’re having us do a lot more work, right? Let’s face it. We’re corporate slaves. I mean, we’re not even permanent.” “But the overtime definitely helps.” “Oh, I know. My boyfriend doesn’t get paid for overtime. The grass is never greener, right? But I don’t have time to make us dinner anymore. I think my boyfriend’s about to snap. Nothing but premade dinners from the supermarket every night . . . Hey, what have you been eating?” “Curry — four nights in a row. I guess I’ve been making a lot of soups and stews. That’s it, though . . .” “Ha, you deserve an award. I mean, you’re still cooking. Can I tell you something? Sometimes, just sometimes, when my boyfriend gets home before me, I wish that he’d have dinner waiting for me. Does your husband ever make you dinner?” “Not really. I mean, he would, if I asked . . . But, how can I put it . . .” While I searched for the words, she faced the mirror, glared at herself, and said, “Oh, I get it. Believe me. I never say anything either. I think it — but I never say it. Like, ‘Come on. It’s your turn.’ Sometimes I wonder what’s stopping me. Maybe I’d feel better about it if I had a permanent position. Maybe not. I don’t know . . .”