Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

On the wall next to the fireplace, he noted a group of black-and-white photographs framed in silver. The pictures showed some beautiful young women hiking in the mountains, sitting and chatting in a shaded garden, dancing in the parlor. One had them walking down the main street, with its many signs in English, holding white parasols. In another they were riding horses down a lane lined with tall larch trees. Repeatedly, the same young, noble-looking man appeared in those pictures. There was even a profile of him with some sort of wind instrument, seated among some foreigners playing violins and a cello. Even when smiling, there was a melancholy about him which made his already handsome face almost painful in its beauty.

This was the man who had died, Yusuke thought. But then he realized that, while the black-and-white photos on the wall were from half a century ago, turned sepia and beige, the person in the color portrait did not look fifty years older than the one in the faded pictures. Struck again by that odd sense of being caught in a time warp, Yusuke took another look at the group of old photographs.

The eldest sister’s voice rang out: “When we were young and gay. Lovely, weren’t we?”

She had turned around in her chair, apparently watching him as he looked at the pictures.

“Yes,” Yusuke replied, with a little smile. Though well aware that he was expected to offer some gallant compliment, he lacked the experience to deliver one.

“Natsue, would you mind putting some music on?” she said, not forcing further praise from him.

The middle sister, apparently named Natsue, was checking her reflection in her compact. She closed it and turned to look directly at Yusuke. “I wonder if you’d care to tell us what kind of music you’d like to listen to.” Yusuke, meanwhile, was remembering with amusement that the woman on the telephone, the youngest, was called Fuyue. With Natsu meaning summer and Fuyu winter, they had already covered half the four seasons.

“Anything is fine with me,” he answered.

“Really?”

“Anything but Maria Callas,” the eldest cried out from her armchair and continued: “Not while we’re eating—save Callas for later.”

“Then how about some Mozart, Harue? Last year we listened to Mozart the day we arrived here, didn’t we?” said Natsue, who was slowly making her way toward the other corner of the room.

Now that he had learned what the eldest sister’s name was—Harue—he silently went over them in order: Harue (Spring), Natsue (Summer), and Fuyue (Winter). He tried not to smile at the seasonal progression of their names, albeit without Fall, and wondered what Chinese character they used to write the final syllable e in each name. Only later did he learn from Fumiko that it was the character for “picture.”

The three sisters who had looked so similar to him were beginning to separate into individuals.

As he returned to his armchair, middle-sister Natsue pulled a record album off a shelf and, reading from the cover, called out, “How about this one? It’s the Piano Concerto number 14.”

Harue, the eldest, turned in her chair and looked back at her.

“I don’t know that one. Who is the pianist?”

“Serkin.”

“Rudolf Serkin?”

“Yes, Rudolf.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“But we might have this on one of the CDs that Fuyue brought with her.”

“I’d rather listen to the record. I prefer the sound.”

Taking the record out of its paper sleeve, Natsue grimaced. “Look at all this dust,” she said, and reached for a felt dust cloth. Her glossy scarlet nails stood out against her white fingers as she cleaned the disc. Yusuke, who only had CDs, hadn’t seen this done for years.

“What happened to his son Peter Serkin? Is he still playing? Do you know?” asked Harue, directing the last question at Yusuke.

Just then, Fuyue, the youngest, called in from the porch, “You’re pronouncing the name as if he was German. You have to say it the American way. He’s American, you know.”

Although this didn’t answer Harue’s question, no one chose to take the conversation any further, and Yusuke was released from having to expose his ignorance on the subject. Before long, he could hear the sound of a piano mingling with an orchestra. Only half listening, he sat and thought how strange it was to be in an old Western-style house, waiting to share a midday meal with these elderly ladies. Never in his life could he have imagined being part of this scene himself. He felt as though his real self was watching all this wide-eyed from outside, while someone who had taken his form was sitting in the armchair.

Perhaps because the music had begun, everyone grew quiet. To Yusuke their silence seemed a luxurious indulgence, something from a different age. While the sound of the piano filled the high-ceilinged room, summer light and summer breezes came through the lace curtains. Imperious Harue was keeping time, tapping the armrest with her fingertips. Back on the couch, Natsue was curled up with her eyes half closed.

Yusuke took a deep breath in this unaccustomed atmosphere and then plucked up the courage to ask something he’d been itching to bring up.

“Is Mr. Azuma a relation of yours?”

Abruptly ceasing to tap time, Harue frowned, not having any idea at first whom he was talking about. Natsue opened her eyes and said, “He means Taro.”

“Taro? Why didn’t you say so? We never call him by his family name!” After a sardonic laugh, she snapped: “We most certainly are not related to him. Why, he is the nephew of a rickshaw man who worked for my younger sister’s husband’s family.”

Natsue promptly corrected her. “No, no, no. He is the son of the nephew of the rickshaw man.”

“You’re both wrong! He is the nephew of the nephew of the rickshaw man,” Fuyue informed them, pausing to stick her head through the arch as she walked toward the porch, salad bowl in her hands. They all let out a peal of laughter.

“I’m so confused!” Harue exclaimed, theatrically bringing both hands to her head of white hair. “But you’re right—he is the nephew of the nephew of the rickshaw man.”

Fuyue shook her head in exasperation and disappeared onto the porch.

Lowering her hands, Harue looked up and said to Yusuke, “We lived in New York for some time because of my husband’s job. This was many years ago, before every Japanese started traveling abroad. And who should arrive in New York just when we were about to come back but Taro! As if it were his turn, you see.”

“Really?”

With an arch smile on her face, she said, “What’s more, he got a job as a chauffeur for an American family. So the descendant of a rickshaw-puller becomes—a driver! Rather amusing, don’t you think? When I first heard about it, I thought there must be something in the blood!”

“Harue! The things you say!” Her sister wriggled on the sofa.

Yusuke asked, “Is he really all that wealthy?”

“Well, he started out without a penny to his name, of course, but over the years he did become very successful. I’m sure that it wasn’t all aboveboard, either, knowing him.”

Picking up on his skeptical expression, Harue, her eyes sparkling, drew in her chin and said gleefully, “He doesn’t look like a millionaire, does he?

“No, he doesn’t. And the Oiwake cottage is pretty modest too.”

Her chin still tucked in, she looked at her younger sister, and they shared an odd little giggle together.

“Somehow, he doesn’t really look very Japanese either,” Yusuke went on, remembering the man’s dark, luminous face, and its intensity.

“You think so too? See, see!” Harue exclaimed victoriously, and then, raising her voice, cried out to her youngest sister, “Fuyue, this young man …” Apparently unable to remember his name, she turned to him. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”