by Asha Lemmie
And lastly, she prayed for her mother. She had no doubt that her mother would return, someday soon. She had to be patient. More importantly, she had to be deserving of her mother’s renewed interest. Somehow, she had to make herself more appealing than whatever it was her mother had left her for.
There were some days when she thought she knew how to do that, even days when she fancied herself on the right track. But most of the time, she felt utterly lost. She clung to a tenuous standard, left to her in a conversation that she didn’t understand. It was possible she didn’t even remember it correctly. That, like so much else, it could have been twisted to a point where its true meaning was lost entirely.
But Nori didn’t like to think about it like that. She preferred, as she did with most things in life, to simply have faith. It was considerably less complicated.
When she finally fell into bed, she was so tired that sleep came instantly. This night there was no faceless woman calling to her from a small blue car that sped up every time she got close to it, her bare feet covered in blisters from the hot asphalt.
It was a relief not to dream.
* * *
Akira was waiting for her in the music room the next morning, directly after breakfast, which he had been conspicuously absent from.
He wore a short-sleeved navy blue button-down shirt and white shorts. He eyed her up and down when she entered, and she could not help but blush. She’d chosen her bright yellow yukata and her butter yellow ribbon. Rather than braiding her hair, she’d chosen to allow it to fall free. She wore the ribbon tied around her neck.
She bowed and greeted him, offering up a shy grin, hoping that he would notice all the care she’d taken to look pretty for him. He was clearly unimpressed.
“We’ll be starting at nine o’clock in the morning from now on. If you’re late, I’m leaving. Understood?”
Nori was caught off guard by such a blunt statement, but she nodded. She was learning to expect bluntness from Akira.
He gestured to a music stand, which he had lowered considerably so that it was around her eye level. She positioned herself in front of it, placing a tentative hand on the cool metal.
“You’re slouching.”
Nori arched her back and tucked her butt in, which earned her nothing but a clucking sound from Akira.
“Stand up straight. Relax your shoulders—no, no. Not like that, Noriko.”
She felt two firm hands grip her lower back.
“If you stand locked up like this, you’ll drop like a corpse on stage. Loosen up.”
Nori did as she was told, melding into his touch. His skin was always so warm, almost uncomfortably so. But she did not even think of pulling away. “Stage?”
Though she couldn’t see him standing behind her, she could almost hear her brother rolling his eyes.
“That’s the objective, yes. Otherwise there’s no point.”
“Have you been onstage?”
He snorted. “Obviously.”
Akira withdrew his touch and moved so that he was standing in front of her once more. “Are you ready?”
Nori nodded despite her sweating palms. If she could do this and do it correctly, it would build a bridge between her world and his . . . somehow.
Over the next several hours, he taught her about notes. Notes made music, like puzzle pieces make a puzzle. He taught her some scales, which she struggled to remember, but he wrote them down for her. He tasked her with practicing them before bed each night.
He showed her the strings of the violin and explained how each string represented a note and how, with the bow and the motions of the fingers on the neck, one could create variations to make all sorts of different sounds.
He explained how the violin was a very subtle instrument and how the slightest motion could alter the sound. “It’s almost like a bird,” he told her. “If you squeeze it too tightly, the sound will suffocate. But hold too loosely and it will slip away. Balance is the key.”
Akira drilled her until her eyelids felt like lead and her stomach growls were audible. She could not suppress her yawns. He ignored them, pointing to a measure that she had been struggling with for hours. She’d only been allowed one bathroom break. Akira pointed at the passage on the sheet music yet again, as if this repetition would somehow make her any less oblivious to its meaning.
“Again.”
“Oniichan . . .”
“Again.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s simple. Use your brain.”
Nori was beginning to regret asking for violin lessons. She began to chew on the inside of her left cheek, hoping that the mild pain would stimulate something in her head.
For God’s sake, the one time Nori actually wanted Akiko to interrupt her time with Akira, and the woman was nowhere to be found.
“I don’t know what it says, I’m sorry. I only recognize the middle C.”
“There are four strings on the violin, Nori. At the beginner level, you’ll be limited to about six notes per string. There are four standard hand positions . . . Nori, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, I am! I just . . . don’t understand . . .”
Akira mumbled something and turned away for a moment. When he turned back, his eyes were kind. “It’s not your fault. I wasn’t made to teach. Never did have the patience.”
He patted her firmly on the head. “Study those notes. I’ll see if I can find you some introductory books. And you’ll be needing a half-hand violin, mine is too big for you.”
Despite not having the slightest clue what he was talking about, she made sure to nod and smile.
“Now, off with you. I need to practice my own pieces.”
Nori bowed at the waist and headed towards the door, hesitating slightly as she placed her hand on the knob. She would be pushing her luck here, but she couldn’t resist.
“Will you play me that song? The one from yesterday?”
Akira had already turned away from her and was fiddling with his violin case. He pulled out a waxy-looking block and inspected it thoroughly.
“I’ll play it for you tomorrow.”
Nori jutted out her bottom lip, disappointment coming like a sharp pain. She didn’t want to argue, and just a few short weeks ago, the thought would never have entered her head. The cracks in her obedience were beginning to spread.
“Onii . . . forgive me but . . . I’d like to hear it now, if I could. It comforts me.”
This much, at least, was entirely true.
Akira shot her a curt look from the side of his eye. She tried to keep herself from shuffling back and forth.
“Fine,” he responded, with next to no enthusiasm. “I have no idea what you see in this piece. I’ve never liked it myself. But fine.”
Nori sat where she had been standing, folding her legs underneath her and sitting up straight. She placed her hands in her lap and looked up at her brother dutifully, waiting for him to begin. He took the violin in his hands, and she closed her eyes, letting the sound wash over her like a soft tide. No, not over her—through her. So this was what it was like . . . a lullaby. When the song was done, she got up, bowed, and left the room without a word.
It seemed almost sacrilegious to spoil the silence that followed a perfect song.
* * *
The next few weeks followed in a similar manner. Right after breakfast, lessons would begin. The first two hours were spent learning to read music, the next two learning music history. Then there would be a short break for lunch, though one could hardly call it a break, as they used their lunch period to listen to records. Then it was on to what Nori liked to call “the copycat game.” Akira would play a simple melody and she was expected to copy it. The game was designed to hone her ear. They would do this until she managed to actually get one right (this normally took several hours, as Akira didn’t bot
her making it easy for her). Not too long into their daily lessons, Akira presented her with a violin that fit her size, as her hands were significantly smaller than his. When she asked where he’d gotten it, he remarked shortly, “I bought it. You can do that, you know.”
At the beginning of each week, she was assigned a piece to memorize and perfect. At the end of the week, she was supposed to perform it. She loathed this part. Her playing still sounded perilously close to the wailings of a dying animal. Akira sat there, sour-faced, through the entire performance. He never said anything. His pained expression was enough.
Though it seemed foolish in retrospect, she honestly hadn’t expected learning the violin to be so hard. It seemed she had to think about a hundred things at once—her posture, her hand positioning, the pressure she applied with her fingers, her bow arm. She did not understand how her brain was required to fire in various directions yet remain whole. It only made the way that her brother’s fingers flitted across the strings like nimble dancers all the more impressive to her.
One thing she had not been expecting was the pain. After running the same simple scale ten times, then fifty, then one hundred until she got it absolutely perfect, her delicate hands were covered in blisters. She could not help but pick at them, which caused them to split apart and bleed.
Akira ordered Akiko to bring a warm, damp cloth and some rubbing alcohol. He had Nori sit on the couch while he dipped the cloth in it. She whimpered when he pressed it against her hands.
He clucked his tongue at her. “Shush, now. They’re just little cuts. In time, your skin will toughen and it won’t hurt anymore.”
“How long will that take, Oniichan?”
“It depends. You have frail skin, it seems. Hold still.”
Nori did as she was told, though it took everything she had not to jerk her hands away. Her brother was certainly being liberal with the application of the alcohol. She hissed in pain, but Akira held her firmly in his grip.
“When I was your age, my teacher drilled me from dawn till dusk during the summers. My fingers used to bloody the strings and it didn’t matter to him one bit. Trust me, I go easy on you because you’re a child.”
“You were a child once too, Onii.”
Akira laughed. As usual, she hadn’t intended to say something funny.
“Not really. Not like you.”
He relinquished her hands. “There now, done. Go and have some sweets if you like. Then bed. You were yawning today.”
As she lay in bed that night, she listened to the crickets chirping outside her window.
They almost sounded as if they were calling to her. Once again, she felt the deep yearning to be set loose in the outside world. The pangs in her chest caused her to push such thoughts from her mind. They only served to cause her pain. There was no benefit to dwelling on what she couldn’t have.
When her mother returned, she could play outside as much as she liked. Akira didn’t seem like the type who played tag or hide-and-seek but perhaps she could convince him. In one of her children’s books, there were pictures of little boys and little girls chasing after a red ball. Perhaps, if she was very good in her lessons, Akira would agree to chase a red ball around with her.
Maybe.
As she sank into sleep, a memory struck her with painful clarity.
It was early winter, when the snow fell only in light flurries. The park near the apartment they rented was dormant. The fountain had a thin layer of ice coating it, and it glistened in the fading sunlight. The trees were bare and creaking in the wind. And a woman was walking through the midst of it, taking the shortcut home. Her slight frame was bent against the cold, and her long, graceful arms were laden with brown paper grocery bags. She wore a baby blue peacoat, beautiful but obviously worn past its wear. Her long silken hair blew freely in the winter wind, obscuring her face. She almost looked like a wraith, though a wraith of the benevolent kind.
Teetering along a few feet behind her was a child, no more than three or four, with warm honey skin and a wild mane of curls crudely crafted into a ponytail that was coming undone. Suddenly, the child let out a high-pitched squeak. She had noticed a swing set in the distance and was pointing at it in glee. She started towards it, only to be snatched backwards by the faceless woman.
“No time for games. We need to go home.”
“But I want to play, Okaasan! I never get to play.”
“Not now.”
“But the park is empty, Okaasan. No one will see me. No one will know.”
“Come along quietly and I’ll give you a sweet. Come, now.”
“But, Okaasan . . .”
“That’s enough.”
The child flung herself down and cried, with no regard for the cold ground beneath her. The woman before her said nothing, only waited for the tantrum to run its course. When it was done, the pair continued onwards, the cold wind freezing the child’s tears to her face. The red ribbon in her brown mane was coming loose and was precariously close to flying away from her.
The child turned and gave the swings one last forlorn look before mother and child both were swallowed by darkness.
* * *
Nori’s sleep that night was restless, and she woke abruptly—why, she did not know. It was early morning and still as death. Not even the birds were chirping. It didn’t bode well, and immediately she wanted to call out for Akira.
She struggled to sit upright. Her limbs failed her, filled with a sudden, overwhelming weakness. She tried to scream but could not find a voice. Her body felt as if it were filled with water that could not be contained and was certain to begin seeping through her pores.
She was quite sure that she was going to die.
* * *
AKIKO
I am not particularly surprised to find the little madam still in bed when I enter her attic. It is only eight thirty and she is not a morning person. This brother of hers must tell me the secret to getting her out of bed without a bullhorn. Lately, she’s been awake until three or four a.m. and up at seven sharp. She glows like a firefly despite the cuts on her hands and the sagging skin beneath her pretty eyes. I’ve never seen anyone so happy to receive such simple kindness.
One only needs to take a look around her room to see what she has been up to. There is sheet music strewn all across the table, along with two empty bowls. I suspect that her brother has been assisting her in smuggling ice cream up here. Yuko-sama does not like the little madam to eat sweets, for fear they will ruin her teeth and figure.
As for me, I think she is a child and should be allowed to eat as she pleases. But I am not Yuko Kamiza, cousin to His Imperial Majesty. I do not own half the land in Kyoto, with numerous estates scattered about the country. So what I think on the matter is truly irrelevant.
When Seiko-sama was a child, she was not allowed to have sweets either. And she grew up to be incredibly beautiful, with skin as clear as spring water and smooth as silk. So perhaps it is for the best.
I call out to the girl softly, to rouse her from her sleep. I know she would rather lose a limb than displease Akira-sama by being late to one of her lessons. Not that I have much to go on, but I am truly at a loss for why he is aiding her with her ridiculous notions. She is not very good. And even if she were, this little fancy of hers cannot possibly go anywhere. But then, she is still young. I suppose she hasn’t realized yet that any attempt she might make to bond herself to Akira-sama is futile. Both of their destinies are written in stone, and they are as different as day and night. Maybe he is humoring her out of pity. Or maybe he’s just bored. This isolated estate is a far cry from the bustling heart of Tokyo.
Of course, Akira-sama is exceptionally talented, which does not surprise me in the least. He is his mother’s child.
The girl isn’t responding. She needs to get up now if she has any hope of eating her breakfast before her lesson. I approach
the bed with a resigned sigh.
Immediately, I know that something is wrong. Her face is drained of all color, save for an unnaturally bright flush on her closed eyelids. She has kicked herself out of the covers and is sprawled out. I can see her white nightgown sticking to her sweat. There is vomit crusted onto her pillow, and I know even before I touch her forehead that she is burning with fever. I feel my pulse flutter with fear and I surprise myself. Have I truly come to care for her so much?
I run to the garden, where I know I will find my mistress tending her prized flowers. Though we have several gardeners, she still insists on coming out every morning to personally inspect her yard. I wait for her to see me standing there. She rises, somehow managing to look dignified even though the skirt of her dark green kimono is covered in dirt and flecks of damp grass. She wipes a stray strand of hair from her eye as she addresses me.
“Yes?”
“Something is wrong with Ojosama, madam. I believe she is ill.”
Yuko-sama purses her lips, a sign of her immense displeasure, likely as much by my referring to Nori as little madam as mentioning Nori at all. I know that she prefers to think about her granddaughter as little as possible. She was thrilled about Akira-sama, the legitimate male heir, coming to stay with us. She practically danced on her former son-in-law’s grave with joy. I can tell she is irritated that he has chosen to spend so much time (or any time at all) with Nori-sama. I think she is afraid they’ll contaminate each other. But she does not want to limit the boy. What she truly wants is his loyalty. The only Kamiza he has ever known was his mother, Seiko-sama, and well . . . I daresay that interaction didn’t leave him with a burning sense of family pride. Yuko-sama is smart. In the coming years, she will need him. If he wants to amuse himself with his bastard sister, let him amuse himself with his bastard sister. It is a small price to pay to ensure the family legacy.
