Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

At that point the oval-faced waiter came back and with a gesture toward Yusuke’s empty glass offered to bring him another cocktail.

Yusuke shook his head. Although he could hold his liquor fairly well, he wasn’t a heavy drinker, by choice.

“No more for me, either.” Fuyue, after downing the first whiskey in a quick series of gulps, had become so engrossed in her story that she had forgotten her second drink. The glass was still half full.

It was as if the waiter in passing had stirred the air around the table. Brought back to present reality, Fuyue looked at Yusuke again, and he returned her gaze. The dim light gave him the illusion that he was sitting across from a youngish woman. As he studied her face, pale and luminous against the black leather armchair, he thought he had been hasty in deciding that her two sisters were better looking.

She may have sensed something in his eyes, for a touch of bashfulness showed in her face. She changed her position, leaning back in the armchair so as to regain her adult poise before speaking.

“The one I feel sorry for is Taro.” She was looking at, or rather through, Yusuke, perhaps seeing in him the young Taro Azuma. “After all, when it happened, he would have been … what, nineteen. Only nineteen! Fumiko was nearly thirty and had experienced married life, so I would imagine it was she who seduced him. He, of course, would not have been able to resist. He then got in deeper and deeper until he was in over his head … But being who he is, he probably doesn’t see it that way. He probably blames himself, and Fumiko’s being in love with him only makes it worse.” She paused for breath, then murmured, “Poor kid.” A moment later she added, “Poor Fumiko too.”

Her thoughts then touched on the events surrounding Yoko’s death. “She could easily have resented Yoko—wished her dead—but instead she was so good to her, she put me to shame. And when she realized Yoko wasn’t going to pull through, she looked deathly pale herself.”

He found this painful to listen to.

“Not being loved is agony.”

Fuyue seemed to be engaged in an internal debate, still leaning back and staring into space. Yusuke waited for what might come next, but nothing did. He watched as a middle-aged couple, probably married, came in and sat down on the sofa by the piano, facing the counter. After placing their orders they sat without talking. But it wasn’t a companionable silence. There was nothing the least bit cheerful in their mood. Each was looking in a different direction. The age-old question asked by the young passed through his mind: Why do people bother to get married?

“But it’s fine.” Fuyue’s voice broke in on his thoughts. She was looking straight at him. “The way things turned out, I mean. Coming into all that property might not make Fumiko happier. It might make her sadder in a way, but in another way it’s fine.” Her lips curved in a lovely smile. “After all, making a man like Taro feel guilty for the rest of his life over the way he treated her ages ago is quite an achievement for any woman, wouldn’t you say?”

Yusuke smiled despite himself.

Fuyue leaned forward and picked up her glass, gently sloshing the whiskey around. “The more I think about Fumiko,” she confessed, “the more confused I get. On the one hand, I feel wretched for her, but, then, you know what? I often envy her.”

As Yusuke looked at the pale face opposite him, he wondered just what sort of life this woman had led. Back when Noriyuki Shigemitsu died in the war, she was barely twenty. She must have made an attractive sight as she sat playing the piano for hours on end. Over the next fifty years, hers had surely been an enviable life, in ways her nosy sisters knew nothing about—far better than that of most Japanese women—and yet she often felt envious of Fumiko, she said.

Fuyue’s second glass of whiskey remained half full. She ordered a glass of water and then needed another to help clear her mind. She said with a laugh, “Isn’t this ridiculous!” then excused herself to go to the powder room, settling the bill on her way back.

“Do you drive?” she asked him.

“Not much. But I do have a license.”

“Then you drive yourself home first, will you? Better to lessen the risk.”

She had reverted to the businesslike manner she maintained when her sisters were around. She rummaged in her purse and handed Yusuke the car keys. They were on a silver holder the shape of a tiny harp.

BACK AT THE summer house in Mitsui Woods he found a note from Kubo on the kitchen counter. He was “zonked” from an afternoon of tennis, it said, and was turning in early. Looking at the slip of paper in the bright fluorescent light, Yusuke felt relieved that he wouldn’t have to attempt conversation with Kubo that evening. Relief was quickly followed by a pang of guilt. Some friend he was, taking advantage of Kubo’s hospitality while spending almost no time with him. True, Kubo was rapidly getting involved with the younger sister of his brother’s wife and probably didn’t care, but Yusuke still couldn’t help feeling bad about being so unsociable, his mind elsewhere even when he was with him. Tomorrow he would go back to Oiwake just to pick up the bicycle, and spend the rest of the day with Kubo. Making this promise to himself, he switched off the light. In any case, Fumiko’s story was now finished—and to top it off he’d even been made to listen to a story about Fumiko too. More tired than he’d ever felt before in his life, he clung to the railing like an old man as he quietly mounted the stairs in the semidarkness.

He got into bed, turned off the lamp, and lay staring up at the ceiling, feeling the nocturnal quiet of the mountain weigh on him, body and soul. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he got up, threw open a window, and let the cool air pour in against his face. Outside, the quiet deepened. Yet as he listened hard, after a while, as if by magic, a faint sound came to him through the dark. It was the sound of misty rain on leaves.

That night he slept even more lightly than he had the past few days. His senses were tormented by dreams of two naked, sweating bodies intertwined. Sleek, pale flesh and glistening, brown, sinewy flesh vigorously pulled and pushed, opened and closed, pressed and was pressed in return. Hot breath seemed to brush against his ear. When he awoke in the night to an airless room, the back of his neck was coated with sweat.

IN THE MORNING Yusuke went downstairs before Kubo. Inspecting the contents of the still half-full refrigerator, he decided to cook something rather than let things go to waste, starting with the more expensive stuff, and took out some frozen beef fillets. The previous night he’d had nothing to eat but cold somen noodles, so a hearty meal in the morning posed no problem. He didn’t know Kubo’s plans but felt sure his friend would at least be eating breakfast at home.

By the time Kubo came down stairs, yawning, the salad and side dish of hot vegetables were ready, the bread was neatly sliced, and all there was left to do was pan-fry the meat he’d already defrosted in the microwave.

“Pretty fancy for breakfast.” After surveying the table, Kubo headed for the bathroom.

Yusuke called after him, “How do you like your steak?”

“Medium rare.” Kubo looked back and asked over his shoulder, “You?”

“Rare.”

“Really rare?”

“Yup.”

“Figures.”

What that might mean Yusuke had no idea. Kubo yawned again and disappeared into the bathroom.

Over the meal they discussed plans for the day. Apparently in the evening there was going to be a barbecue, using all the refrigerator leftovers, with Kubo’s brother and sister-in-law at her parents’ cottage.