Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

It was around then that I learned of the death of Taro’s guardian, Mr. Azuma. Taro had sometimes talked about sending the Azumas a substantial amount of money, mumbling about it in such a way that I was never sure if he was talking to himself or consulting me. I’m sure it wasn’t gratitude that motivated him, but rather the desire to pay off a debt. Still, there’s no denying that amid all the hardships of leaving Manchuria, they did share their meager food supply with him and bring him up. I suspect that the older Taro became, the more that weighed on him. But because of O-Tsune, he was hesitant about doing anything that would mean reviving his connection with her. Then, about a year after Yoko’s death, he called me from New York and asked me to track them down. I took it as a sign that he was preparing to cut his ties with Japan, so I felt uneasy—even alarmed—but all I said was “I’ll get right on it,” and hung up.

They might still have been living in Kamata, so I checked the telephone book, but there was no listing for either Mr. Azuma or his eldest son. Just to be sure, I took the train out there, curious to have a look around and see for myself how much the area had changed in all the years since I’d seen it. The street I once walked along trying to escape the din of machinery and the sparks from acetylene torches had been completely revamped. The old backstreet factories were no doubt still there if you sought them out, but the main street was lined with the sort of low buildings you found anywhere in Tokyo. The wooden house where the Azuma family had lived was gone, as was the coffee shop where Yoko and Taro sat and glared at each other. I’d never heard of any relatives on the Azuma side, and I had no idea where old Roku might be buried. In the end I called Taro back and got the old address he had for O-Tsune’s family down south. That’s how I was able to track them down at their current location, which was surprisingly close to Kamata. It turned out that twenty years earlier, their eldest boy was in a car accident and changed his name on the advice of a fortune-teller. That explained why I couldn’t find him in the telephone book. His father had been dead for three years, I was told.

My staying out of it would mean fewer complications down the road. All the arrangements were done in the name of Nakada Associates, and one of the firm’s lawyers met directly with O-Tsune and her son. After Taro took off, the Azumas, I learned, were eventually able to hire another two or three workers and then move to Shimomaruko, where they had their own factory instead of a rented one, with a little more space. They survived the steep rise in the yen exchange rate, and for a while were doing quite well. However, to remain competitive, they’d bought a large and very expensive computer-controlled milling machine, only to have the economy collapse and business dry up, leaving them drowning in debt. The little boy O-Tsune was holding in her arms that time I visited them left the family business and became a truck driver; fortunately he was earning enough for them to live on, but with no hope of paying back their debts, they were on the point of selling their costly machine for next to nothing. Coming at such a time, Taro’s gift of cash—which I suspect was in the tens of millions of yen—was more than welcome. The lawyer apparently explained to them in words of one syllable that Taro’s assets were all overseas; that he had specified this was a one-time gift to his family; and that, on his death, none of the rest of his estate would go to them. I think he succeeded in getting the point across that the Azumas should not look for any future windfalls.

The lawyer told me O-Tsune was a “timid-looking, tiny old woman.” The “tiny” part I could understand, since she had always been short and had probably shrunk further in old age, but hearing her described as “timid-looking” was rather a surprise. Her eldest boy was apparently dressed in a dark blue suit, without a trace of his old wildness, and looked as if he had gone through some pretty hard times. The subject of the second son never came up, so what became of him I don’t know.

FROM THE MOMENT Taro asked me to track down the Azumas, I knew he was getting ready to sever his connection with Japan. At the same time, I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that he would actually do it. But I was forced to do so a month ago, when Masayuki died of liver cancer.

Now that I think of it, his parents weren’t the only members of the Shigemitsu family to succumb to cancer. Yayoi’s mother lived a long life, but she died of cancer too, and it could well be that Masayuki inherited a predisposition to the disease. He also inherited his father’s tendency—call it devotion, or perversity—to relate to the world through a single woman only, so that once that woman died he lost the will to live.

After my work as Taro’s assistant dropped off, I went back to helping out in Karuizawa for a full month during the summers of 1993 and ’94, and Masayuki’s manner was so strangely subdued that I used to check up on him quite often, out of concern. He seemed to feel committed to go on living for his daughter’s sake, and in front of others he behaved normally enough, but when he retreated to the study in his villa, there was such an air of bleak loneliness about him one might have thought his spirit had already left him. I suspect it wasn’t solely Miki’s desire to be with Nimbo that made her go to the Saegusas’, but that she couldn’t bear the sight of her father like that. She was used to spending most of her time over at their house anyway, and soon she was eating her meals there too, going home only to sleep. It would have been peculiar if Masayuki had cooked for himself and eaten alone at home, so, except for breakfast, he started joining the others around the Saegusa table. But not always. As often as not, just before they rang the gong for a meal, he would call to say he was sorry but he was in the middle of something and couldn’t leave and would just eat on his own. Then either Miki or I would carry a tray across to the other house.

Harue never said a word about it, but when Masayuki did not join them for a meal, her relief was obvious. He too, not surprisingly, seemed to find her presence a strain after what had happened. Still, once he was with the others he behaved as naturally as he could, presumably for his daughter’s sake. Even in her seventies, Harue was the head of the Saegusa family, and there was a good chance that Miki would marry her grandson Nimbo one day. I believe Masayuki was determined to endure Harue’s presence with that possibility in mind.

The only time he allowed his discomfort to show openly was when Harue and Natsue went on and on enthusiastically about the Dutchman Peter Jansen, speculating that it was he who had bought the property.

One day when I took Masayuki his lunch tray, he looked up from his desk in the study and turned toward me. “Fumiko …,” he said. His computer screen glowed blue, with a scattering of drawings and papers around it, yet there was no sign that he had been doing any work at all. I knew he’d just been sitting staring out the window.

In full bloom just outside it were some white lilies that Yoko, the little flower thief, had once stolen from the woods.

“I’ve been meaning to say this for some time …” He looked at me, pale. “With Yoko gone, it’s not right for us to go on using the property here like this. So tell him he can sell it anytime, would you, please?”

As usual, he avoided saying Taro’s name.

“Certainly,” I said. Then, to make him feel easier I added, “But land prices are falling, you know. He would only lose money if he sold now, so I doubt if he has any immediate plans to sell.”

“I see. In that case, it’s all right.”