Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

Though her features were regular and not unattractive, she was the kind of person whose outward appearance was so unassuming that you wouldn’t remember her even if she sat directly across from you on a train from one terminal to the other. That she owned an old country cottage, however decrepit, suggested she came from a good family. Yet Yusuke detected none of the self-satisfaction that he thought characterized women of the privileged class. What seemed strangest of all was the way this reserved woman seemed to feel free to impose her will on the other person in the house. It was as if she possessed some absolute authority over him.

What was their connection?

When she next looked up from her sewing, she peered over her glasses to say, “Help yourself to the newspaper.” Small scissors still in her hand, she gestured toward the low, carved wooden table. Whether because she was preoccupied or because she was not a talkative person, she no longer seemed a willing partner in the conversation. After all, he was only an accidental visitor. Yusuke obliged and stood up from his chair.

That day’s Japan Economic Times , folded neatly in half, lay on top of the pile of papers. As he picked it up, he was surprised to see two English-language magazines underneath, The Economist and Science . Both were current issues.

The discovery, once he was back in his chair with the Japanese newspaper, made him wonder again about the man. The possibility that he might be a college teacher or a novelist had vanished the moment he set eyes on that fierce, energetic figure. It seemed equally unlikely that he was a regular company employee. After all, someone like that would have been conditioned to show at least a modicum of politeness. The man had displayed none—or had perhaps decided to display none to a youngster like him.

The headline read “Fifty Years After the End of World War II,” but his eyes glided over the words, his thoughts drifting toward the room at the rear of the house. What was the man doing in there? He recalled the look in his eyes as he stood silently in the doorway. It was a look of refusal—not just of Yusuke but of everything and everyone, it seemed.

The woman, her fingers moving mechanically, suddenly paused and looked up as if she had remembered something. She threw a glance at Yusuke, put the kimono and scissors on the table, and stood up.

“I’m going out to the shed. I’ll be back in a minute.”

With the big red Chinese flashlight in her hand, she left the room.

Alone, Yusuke was finally able to relax and take a look around at his leisure. The stucco walls not only had cracks running along them but also had stains of dark green mold near the floor. The yellow curtains were so worn and faded that the original plaid pattern was barely visible. Just as the blackened ceiling boards were warped from years of humidity, the tatami floors in the adjoining rooms had turned a reddish brown from long exposure to the sun. Yet the owner was far from letting the place completely fall apart: careful mending had been done, and the rooms were clean and neat.

The contrast was puzzling.

Just when Yusuke noticed that the telephone next to the stack of magazines was also new, it began to ring. He looked over toward the screen door, hoping the woman would come back, but there was no sign of her. The man in the back room obviously had no intention of answering. The telephone continued to ring, the volume, to Yusuke’s ears, increasing with each ring. He let it go on a little longer, then reluctantly picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

The person on the other end said nothing. Yusuke once again said hello. A woman’s voice—poised, neither old nor young—returned the same greeting. After saying hello once more, she asked dubiously, “Is that Taro? This is Fuyue.”

She sounded hesitant. At the same time, a bit comically, her intonation reminded him of the voices used in dubbed foreign movies, the Japanese version of the way Westerners speak. Just then, he caught sight of someone hurrying toward the house. He said into the receiver, “Just a moment, please.”

Coming back inside, the woman quickly closed the screen door and ran to take the phone.

“Hello?” She seemed to be expecting the call. “Oh, Fuyue, hello. Yes, this is Fumiko.”

As she switched off the flashlight and put it down on top of the magazines, she glanced briefly in Yusuke’s direction, but it was clear she hardly registered his presence.

“No, not at all. I imagine you must all be absolutely exhausted.” Her speech was formal, stilted again. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help to you. It happened so suddenly. Oh, really? You are bringing the bones and ashes with you? And Yoko’s too? Oh, my goodness. I see …”

Yusuke, who had returned to his seat and had the newspaper spread out before him, flinched when he heard the words “bones and ashes.”

“Indeed. That would be rather frightening.” She frowned as she spoke. For a while, she just stood nodding her head and responding as she listened—“I see … I see … I see.” Then she said: “Of course. Yes, most certainly. Would you hold on a moment, please?”

She went down the corridor, where Yusuke heard her announce, “It’s Fuyue on the telephone.” What an unusual name, he thought. It must be her first name, but why would anyone call their daughter Fuyu —Winter? He thought he might have misheard the name until he heard it the second time. Now he also knew that the woman here was called Fumiko.

“She says they got things more or less settled and will arrive in Old Karuizawa the day after tomorrow. And she asked me to help open up the house as usual, and to bring Ami along. That is, if it’s all right with you.”

She came back and picked up the receiver again.

“Hello? So the day after tomorrow, in the morning, is that correct? Oh, yes? Well, certainly, if that’s what you’d prefer … Then I will try to be there tomorrow afternoon as well.”

After she hung up, she went straight back to the man’s room, without even a glance at Yusuke.

“So they’re coming at last.”

Yusuke heard the man’s low voice, but couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“Apparently, Fuyue will be here tomorrow to air the house and wants me to come over in the afternoon. I suspect what she really wants is to talk.”

The man did not respond.

“She sounded rather sad on the phone. This may well be their last summer here.” After a brief pause, she continued, “The remains—the part they’ve saved for a separate burial—they plan to bring here by themselves. She says it wouldn’t be proper to have a courier service deliver something like that. I suppose she’s right.”

The woman let out a soft laugh. She seemed to expect the man to say something, but, again, there was only silence. After another pause, she went on, in a slightly awkward tone: “They’ll be bringing some of Yoko’s remains too, which were also saved in a separate urn. The three old ladies are all in a tizzy because his will said something about scattering the ashes together in the garden. That means they would first have to crush the bones up into ash—which is pretty gruesome, isn’t it?”

Yusuke then heard her go into detail about the arrangements with the temple for the forty-ninth-day memorial service, who would be coming when, and from where, but he was still gripped by the words “bones and ashes.” The words had never sounded so macabre as they did here in the night air of this tumbledown cottage, away from any city lights.

“She said the lawyer is coming too. What happens after he arrives is none of my concern, though.”

Closing with these words, she walked back into the front room, her eyes widening when she caught sight of Yusuke. She had apparently forgotten about this unexpected visitor. “There’s so much to do after someone dies,” she commented before reaching for the flashlight on the magazines to put it back near the window. Yusuke asked if he could use it again.