The Character of Rain

by Amélie Nothomb

  "How do you know that’s his name?"

  "Because I gave it to him.”

  “You can’t do that. He isn’t yours.”

  "He is too mine.”

  "How do you know he doesn’t belong to someone else?"

  "He told me.”

  "Liar! Donkey’s don’t talk.”

  Rats. I had forgotten about that little detail. I pressed on nonetheless.

  "He’s a magic donkey who can talk.”

  "I don’t believe you.”

  "Well too bad for you,” I said haughtily.

  I told myself that the next time I made up a story I would remember that animals don’t talk.

  I tried a new tack:

  "I have a pet cockroach.”

  For reasons that escaped me, this lie didn’t have any effect on my sister. I therefore decided to try telling the truth.

  "I know how to read.”

  "Yeah, sure.”

  "But it’s true.”

  "No it’s not.”

  Okay, so the truth didn’t work either. I continued my search for credibility:

  "I’m three years old.”

  "Why are you always making things up?"

  "I’m not lying. I am three.”

  “In ten days!"

  "Okay, so I’m almost three years old.”

  “ ‘Almost’ isn’t the same. You’re always telling lies.”

  I had to get used to the idea that I was not believable. Deep down, I didn’t care whether or not I was believed.

  I started telling stories. At least I believed them.

  THE KITCHEN WAS EMPTY. It was not an occasion to be missed. I climbed up on the table and started to scale the north face of the pantry. Placing one foot on a box of tea, another on a packet of cookies, my hand gripping the cupboard handle, I neared the object I sought: the white metal container in which my mother hid the candy.

  My goal was within reach. My heart started to race. My left foot braced on a sack of rice and my right on dried seaweed, I worked the lock and opened the container. Inside was treasure: chocolate doubloons, sugar pearls, chewing gum banknotes, liquorice diadems, and marshmallow bracelets. I was preparing to plant my flag and enjoy the view from atop this Everest of glucose when I heard footsteps.

  Leaving my precious find at the top of the cup-board, I scrambled down and hid under the table. The feet arrived. I recognized Nishio-san’s slippers and Kashima-san’s geta.

  The older woman sat down while the younger heated water for tea. Kashima-san, as usual, ordered Nishio-san around. Not content with that, she also told her horrible things.

  "They despise you. That much is clear.”

  "That isn’t true.”

  "Oh it’s so obvious. The Belgian woman speaks to you as if you were her inferior.”

  "Only one person speaks to me as if I were an inferior. And that’s you.”

  "Well, of course. That’s because you are inferior. At least I’m not a hypocrite.”

  "Madame is not a hypocrite.”

  "You know, it’s ridiculous the way you call her ‘madame.’ “

  "She calls me Nishio-san, and in her language the equivalent is ‘madame.’ “

  "When your back is turned, you can’t be sure that she doesn’t call you a maid.”

  "How would you know? You don’t speak French.”

  "The whites have always despised the Japanese.”

  "These don’t.”

  "Of course they do.”

  “Monsieur sings Noh!"

  “ ‘Monsieur!9Can’t you see he does it to make fun of us?"

  "He gets up every morning before dawn and goes to his lesson.”

  "It’s normal that a soldier would get up early to defend his country’s interests.”

  "He’s a diplomat, not a soldier.”

  "And we saw what they did in nineteen forty-five, those ‘diplomats.’ “

  "This is nineteen seventy.”

  "So what? Nothing has changed.”

  "If they are your enemies, why are you working for them?"

  "I’m not working. Haven’t you noticed?"

  "I have noticed. Yet you take their money.”

  "It’s nothing compared to what they owe us.”

  "They don’t owe us anything.”

  "They took the most beautiful country in the world, and in nineteen forty-five they destroyed it.”

  "But we won in the end. Our country is richer than theirs now.”

  "Our country is not rich compared to what it was before the war. You didn’t know what it was like then. There was reason to feel proud to be Japanese.”

  "You say that because you were young then. You’re nostalgic.”

  "You don’t have to talk about youth for something

  to be beautiful. If you talked about yours it would be miserable.”

  "Yes, it would. That’s because I was poor. My family was poor before the war as well.”

  "Before the war there was enough beauty for everyone, for poor people as well as rich.”

  "How would you know?"

  "Today there’s no beauty for anyone, rich or poor.”

  "Beauty is not hard to find.”

  "It is a fraction of what there once was. They have condemned it to disappear. That is Japan’s decadence.”

  "I’ve heard this before.”

  "I know what you think. Even if you don’t agree with me, you have good reason to be worried. You’re not as loved here as much as you think. You’re so naïve that you don’t see the hate behind their smiles. That’s as it should be. People of your sort are so used to being treated like dirt they don’t even notice anymore. But I am an aristocrat, and I feel that they don’t show me enough respect.”

  "You do get enough respect.”

  "Me they respect. I let them know that they shouldn’t confuse me with you.”

  "And the result is that I’m part of the family and you are not.”

  "You’re an idiot to think that.”

  “The children adore me, especially the little one.”

  "Well, of course she does! At that age they’re like puppies. Give a puppy something to eat and it will love you.”

  "I love puppies.”

  "Listen, if you want to be a member of a family of dogs, that’s your affair. But just don’t be surprised to find if one day they start treating you like one.”

  "What are you saying?"

  "You’ll see,” replied Kashima-san ominously, putting her bowl of tea down on the table, signaling the end of the discussion.

  THE NEXT DAY Nishio-san told my father that she was leaving.

  "I have too much work and I’m tired. I need to spend more time at home to take care of the twins. My daughters are ten, and they need me.”

  My parents were forced to accept her decision.

  I wrapped my arms around Nishio-san’s neck.

  "Please don’t go! Please!"

  She wept but wouldn’t change her mind. I saw Kashima-san smiling quietly.

  I ran to my parents and managed to communicate what I had heard while hiding under the kitchen table. My father was furious with Kashima-san. He asked

  Nishio-san to speak with him in private. I stayed in my mother’s arms, sobbing and repeating over and over:

  "Nishio-san has to stay with me! Nishio-san has to stay with me!"

  Mama gently explained that, whatever happened, one day I would leave Nishio-san.

  "Your father won’t stay in Japan forever. In a year or two, or three, we will leave, and Nishio-san won’t be coming with us. Maybe this is a good time for this to happen.”

  The universe was coming apart. I was being told so many abominations at once that I couldn’t take any one of them in. My mother did not seem to understand that she was announcing the Apocalypse.

  I struggled to formulate questions.

  "We won’t always stay here?"

  "No. Your father will be posted somewhere else.”

  "Where?"

  "We don’t know.”


  "When?"

  "We don’t know that either.”

  "I’m not leaving here. I can’t leave!"

  "You don’t want to live with us anymore?"

  "Yes, I do, but you have to stay here too.”

  "We won’t be allowed to stay.”

  "Why?"

  “Because your father is a diplomat. That’s his job.”

  "So what?"

  "It means he has to do what Belgium tells him to do.”

  "Belgium is far away. It won’t be able to punish him if he doesn’t do what it says.”

  My mother laughed at this. I cried harder.

  "You were teasing me! We’re never going to leave, are we?"

  "I wasn’t teasing you. One day we will leave Japan.”

  "I can’t leave! I have to live here! This is my country—and this is my house!"

  "This isn’t your country.”

  "Yes it is! If I leave I’ll die!"

  I began shaking my head like a lunatic. I was lost at sea and the waters were rising all around me. I fought against them, trying to gain a foothold, but there didn’t seem to be one in sight. The world was finished with me.

  "No, my darling, of course you won’t die.”

  In a way I already had. I had just been told what at some point everyone learns: that eventually we lose what we love. That which is given you will be taken back. That was how I formulated the theme of my childhood, of my adolescence, and of all the years that followed. That which is given you will be taken back. Life will be punctuated by mourning—mourning for the country you

  love, for the mountain, the flowers, the house, Nishio-san, and the language. This is only the beginning of an endless series of losses. You will get none of them back, and find nothing to replace them, though there will be those who will try to console you, the way God consoles fob by “giving” him another wife, another home, other children. But you will be too smart to befooled by this.

  "What did I do wrong?” I said, sobbing.

  "You did nothing wrong. It is the way things are.”

  If only it had been my fault! Then at least this tragedy would be punishment. But this wasn’t the case. It was the way things were. Being naughty or sweet didn’t matter. That which is given you will be taken back. That is the rule.

  At three we know we will someday die. Knowing that doesn’t really mean anything. Dying is so far off that it is as if it will never happen. But learning at mat age that in one, or two, or three years you will be thrown out of the garden, and without having disobeyed anyone, is the cruelest knowledge—the first of an infinite number of torments.

  That which is given you will be taken back. If you only knew that someday someone will have the impudence to take you back.

  I began howling.

  At that moment my father and Nishio-san reappeared. She ran to me and swept me up in her arms.

  “Don’t worry, I’m staying! I’m not going to leave you!"

  Had she told me this only a quarter of an hour earlier I would have exploded with joy. Now I knew this was only a reprieve. The tragedy would happen later.

  Knowing what will happen in the future, we are faced with a simple choice: either we resolve not to become attached to people and things, or we decide to love them even more fiercely.

  Because we don’t have much time together, I will give you as much love in a year as I could give you in a lifetime.

  That was my choice. I hugged Nishio-san tightly, with all the strength I had.

  Kashima-san passed by and saw us—me in Nishio-san’s arms, and Nishio-san looking contented and peaceful. She didn’t know that I had overheard their conversation, but she sensed I had played some role in Nishio-san’s decision to stay.

  She pursed her lips and stared at me balefully.

  MY FATHER TOLD ME that we wouldn’t leave Japan for another two or three years. Even though that was an eternity to me, I would spend another lifetime in the land of my birth, this was bittersweet news, like medicine that eases the pain but doesn’t cure the illness. I told my honorable father that perhaps he should change jobs.

  He replied that he didn’t think he wanted to work in the sewers.

  From then on I became more solemn. The afternoon following the tragic revelation, Nishio-san took me to the playground. I spent an entire hour jumping madly on and off the edge of the sandbox repeating these words:

  "You must remember! You must remember!"

  However it was formulated in my child’s imagination, what I meant was this:

  You must remember because you will not always live in Japan, because you will be thrown out of the garden, because you will lose Nishio-san and the mountain, because that which is given you will be taken back. Memory has the same power as writing. When you see the word “cat” in a book, it looks very different from the neighbor’s cat with the beautiful eyes. Yet to see the word written gives you a pleasure like the one the cat gave you when its golden gaze was fixed upon you.

  Memory is like this. Your grandmother is dead but the memory of her makes her live. If you could write of the marvels of the paradise in your head, you would forever carry in your mind, if not their miraculous nature, then at least something of their power.

  From now on you will lead a holy life. The moments will be draped in silks and crowned in the temple of your mind. Your emotions will be dynasties.

  THE DAY OF MY THIRD BIRTHDAY came at last. This was the first birthday I could remember, and therefore the event seemed to me of cosmic importance. That morning I woke up believing that the entire village of Shukugawa had to be on holiday.

  I jumped onto the bed of my sister, who was still asleep, and shook her.

  “I want you to be the first to wish me happy birthday.”

  I thought she would think this a tremendous honor. “Happy birthday,” she mumbled, and rolled over grumpily.

  I left this ingrate and went down to the kitchen. Nishio-san was perfect. She knelt before the lord child that I was and congratulated me on my accomplishment. She was right. Not just anyone could turn three years. I felt an intense satisfaction.

  I asked her if the people from the village would be coming to offer acclaim, or whether I needed to go out into the streets. The question confused Nishio-san for a moment, but she found a reply.

  "It’s summer,” she said, “and almost everyone has left on vacation. Otherwise they would have organized a festival for you.”

  I told myself that perhaps this was for the best. The festivities would probably have been too much. My triumph would be best celebrated among my closest followers. The day’s crowning moment would come when I was given the stuffed toy elephant.

  My parents told me I would be given my present at teatime. Hugo and Andre informed me that they would refrain from teasing me for an entire day. Kashima-san said nothing.

  I spent the hours in almost hallucinogenic impatience. The stuffed elephant would be the most fabulous present I would ever get. I wondered how long its trunk would be, and how heavy it would feel in my arms.

  At four in the afternoon I was summoned to the table. I arrived with my heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t see any packages. They must have hidden them somewhere, I thought.

  There were the formalities, then cake—three candles that I quickly dispatched. We sang.

  “Where is my present?"

  My parents smiled slyly.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  That worried me.

  "It isn’t what I asked for?"

  "It’s better!"

  Better than a velvety stuffed elephant? Impossible. Now I expected the worst.

  "What is it?"

  They led me out to the pool in the garden.

  "Look in the water.”

  Three live carp were swimming around.

  "We noticed that you love fish, and especially carp, so we bought you three. One for each year. Isn’t that a wonderful idea?"

  "Yes,” I replied with determined politeness.

&nb
sp; "One is orange, one is green, and one is silver. Aren’t they beautiful?"

  "Yes,” I replied.

  "You will take care of them. We bought lots of puffed rice cakes, and what you do is break them into pieces and throw them in the water—like that. Are you happy?"

  "Yes.”

  I would rather have gotten nothing at all.

  I WASN’T BEING POLITE to spare my parents’ feelings. It was because no words could have expressed the intensity of my disappointment.

  To the endless list of unanswerable questions must be added the following: why is it that well-intentioned parents, not content merely to foist an idea onto their child, also convince themselves that it was the child’s idea in the first place?

  People are often asked what, as children, they wanted to be when they grew up. In my case it would be better to ask my parents. Their replies would provide an idea of precisely what I didn’t want to be when I grew up.

  When I was three they announced “my” passion for fish. When I was seven they announced “my” decision to enter the Foreign Service. When I was twelve they were convinced I wanted to become a politician. And when I was seventeen, they declared that I would become the family lawyer.

  I once asked them how they had arrived at their determinations about my future. They replied, with their usual aplomb, that “it was obvious,” and that “everyone thought that.” And when I asked them who “everyone” was, they said,

  "Well, you know, everyone. For goodness sakes!"

  There’s no sense in fighting such conviction.

  But back to my third birthday. As my mother and father had decided I would become a marine biologist, out of filial devotion I would do my best to mimic all the outward signs.

  I started drawing fish with my crayons in my notebook—thousands of them: fish with big fins, little fins, multiple fins, green scales, red scales, blue scales with yellow polka dots, orange fish with purple stripes.

  "What a good idea it was to give her those carp,” said my parents, pleased with themselves.

  THIS WHOLE STORY might have been comic had I not had to feed my new charges.

  Every day, before lunch, I went into the pantry and took several cakes of puffed rice. Then, standing at the edge of the pool, I broke off sticky pieces about the size of popcorn and threw them into the water.