Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

NEAR THE SAKU INTERCHANGE

The woman glanced at him, then turned back toward the yard.

“I’ve been around for a long time, but all this just makes my head spin.” Her eyes were focused on the garden. “The farmers who own land there are becoming rich overnight. I’m happy for them,” she continued without emotion.

Out beyond the porch was a small area of sunlight; yellow, white, and scarlet wildflowers mingled under the bright summer sun. Tall trees shaded most of the yard, so the pool of light was the only spot where summer colors displayed their full radiance.

Just then, Yusuke spotted a group of three or four youths with blond hair passing on a path. Talking as they went, they moved like deer through the shimmering woods.

“Are they American?”

“No, German. A little farther down the road is a group of cottages for rent where German missionaries still stay.”

“I see.” He remembered something his friend had told him. “I heard that Westerners don’t come to Karuizawa much anymore now that so many Japanese come here for the holidays. They go to Lake Nojiri instead.”

“I suppose that’s true. One hardly ever sees them around here. Some may have moved to Nojiri, but with airline tickets so affordable now, I imagine most of them go back to their own country in the summer.” With a faint smile she added, “Anyhow, everything’s so different from how it used to be.”

They were quiet again. After a while, Yusuke finally mustered the courage to bring up a question he’d been wanting to ask. He tried to make it sound spontaneous.

“What does Mr. Azuma do for a living?”

“He’s in business, I guess you’d call it.” She was still looking at the yard, not at him.

“Business?”

“Yes, he’s always flying all over the world. He’s in the venture capital business.”

The unexpected English expression nearly made him choke on the wedge of tomato he had just put in his mouth. So, the things he’d been surprised by—the English-language magazines of last night as well as the laptop computer and other electronic devices this morning—were all part of this venture capital business. Yet just as these objects seemed out of place in this half-ruined cottage, so too seemed the phrase venture capital .

“Does he own this house?”

The woman nodded.

“Does he come here every year?”

“Usually twice a year or so. But this time, it was a while since I’d last seen him.” Her eyes were still fixed on the yard.

Just above the cluster of small sunlit wildflowers, a pair of white butterflies were chasing each other in circles.

“Mr. Azuma—his full name is Taro Azuma—lives in America.”

“He does?”

At long last, she had said something that shed some light on the man. Her answer explained part of what had puzzled him. Indeed, there was something about the way the man looked and behaved that struck him as exotic. Not that he seemed like an American, but he didn’t quite seem Japanese either. Yusuke recalled his nasal way of speaking.

“Has he lived there long?”

“Yes, for ages,” she replied rather brusquely and, after a moment, added, “Now that I think about it, he moved there before you could have even been born. Way back when.”

She said these last words to herself.

“Is he over forty, then?”

“Yes, he’s forty-eight.”

“I was sure he was in his late thirties.”

“He does look young,” she said, pursing her lips. Then, for the first time in a while, she turned and looked at him. “He says that everyone in America goes to the gym to exercise on machines. And every day too. That seems like quite a lot of work to me.”

There was a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

“He hardly ever eats meat,” she continued, looking away again, “and he doesn’t drink at all.” She then corrected herself: “Or didn’t until last night.”

Something about her tone of voice made Yusuke refrain from asking more questions.

The woman said nothing else.

In harmony with their silence, the scene before them, already enveloped in clear sunlight, grew even brighter. The foliage was radiant.

The butterflies continued to circle in their little dance.

Perhaps there was a light breeze, for the leaves high on the branches rustled softly, their murmur mingling with the birdsong. The sunlight worked its way through them to reach the porch; as the leaves stirred, their shadows lapped across the floor. It was as if the rays of sunshine were whispering to each other.

ROAD IN OIWAKE

When he came out of this reverie, he saw that the woman’s shoulders, right beside him, were trembling slightly. Yusuke took a breath and held himself still. Before long, she planted both her elbows on the table, buried her face in her hands, and began to weep silently. The two stayed this way for whole minutes on end.

Who would have thought that things would turn out like this? Yet Yusuke felt he had actually anticipated this scene from the moment they sat down for breakfast. The tears she shed were probably ones she had hidden for years from people she knew, tears that could only surface in front of a stranger. He felt as though the burden of this woman’s life had been thrust in his face. Momentarily, the idea staggered him, and yet he was in no way put off.

So as not to disrupt her, Yusuke stayed completely still. The fluttering of the leaves and the dance of light shining through them flooded his senses. Nature was gloriously alive in that moment—so much so that, were ever a state of real bliss to be allowed on earth, this, he felt, would be it. But, unaware of her magical surroundings, the woman kept crying—for what reason he couldn’t even begin to guess.

After a while, she raised her face from her palms and said in a cracked voice, “I hope you’ll forgive me. Lately, I haven’t been myself … Why, I haven’t cried in front of another person since I was a child, and now look at me.”

She had picked up the napkin from her lap and was dabbing her eyes.

Yusuke simply sat there, not knowing what he ought to say. When she lowered the napkin and turned toward him, he gently met her eyes, red with tears. He wanted her to know at least that he didn’t mind in any way.

The woman returned his gaze and, without saying a word, pulled herself together enough for a weak smile.

YUSUKE STAYED TO help her wash the dishes.

“I see that you’re used to working in the kitchen,” she said, her eyes even puffier now.

“I’ve been cooking for myself since I was in college.”

Just before he left, he told her his full name, Yusuke Kato. The woman told him that hers was Fumiko Tsuchiya, adding that Tsuchiya was a common family name in this area. His own, he didn’t need to say, was one of the most common surnames in all of Japan. Fumiko refused when he offered to pay for the telephone calls to Tokyo.

He dragged his bent and useless bicycle with him as far as the gate and then, pausing, asked her, “Why do they play the ‘Tokyo Ballad’ up here in Karuizawa?”

Fumiko tipped her head to one side as a sign that she didn’t know. When she spoke, it was not to answer his question but to ask one of her own.

“How much longer will you be here?”

“Through next weekend.”

“I see.”

She said nothing more. Lowering her eyes, she pointed to the base of one of the gateposts. There were two dark pink thistles there.