Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

“Kato.”

“Yes, yes. I do apologize. So, Fuyue, Mr. Kato here says that he doesn’t think that Taro looks Japanese either.”

She was speaking loudly enough to be heard on the porch, but there was no answer. Fuyue seemed to have gone elsewhere. Harue now turned and repeated the same thing to her other sister. The latter leaned forward and said to Yusuke in a low voice, perhaps to prevent Fumiko from overhearing, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Taro isn’t Japanese.”

“Really?”

“His father wasn’t Japanese.”

“So he’s from a mixed marriage?”

“A mixed marriage?” Harue repeated incredulously and then burst out laughing as if he’d said something quite ridiculous. “My dear, it’s nothing as proper as that! He was repatriated from Manchuria after the war and his father was—how shall I put it?—one of those Chinese aboriginals.”

“Chinese aboriginals?” Yusuke asked, puzzled.

Natsue edged in. “You know, like the Takasago tribe. But I suppose young people nowadays have never heard of them.”

“You two are both way off the mark. You’re just confusing him,” said Fuyue as she walked in from the porch, a reproving look on her face. Just back from the garden, she held a bunch of lavender in one hand and garden clippers in the other. “ ‘Takasago’ is what we used to call the aboriginal people of Taiwan,” she remonstrated. Turning to Yusuke, she explained, “Taro’s father is thought to be from an ethnic minority in mainland China. It’s just an old rumor, though.”

“I see,” he replied, adding, “Now I understand,” in an effort to convince himself.

Just then, a strange, deep clanging sound echoed through the house. Yusuke started, but the old women were apparently anticipating it. They all stood up at once and declared, “Finally!” “I’m starving!” “I could eat a horse!” Only later did he find out that there was a bronze gong hanging from the eaves, which Fumiko had struck.

AS THEY MOVED out to the porch, Yusuke was preoccupied by the words he had just heard: “rickshaw man,” “Manchurian repatriates,” “Chinese aboriginal.” These ghosts from socially divided, prewar imperial Japan swirled around in his head; terms that the copy editors in his firm would have marked as potentially “offensive” to present-day readers, so eager had Japanese society become to purge and bury their recent past, so averse had the culture become to the idea that life as we live it never has been and never will be altogether fair. Behind these words the image of Taro Azuma’s face came and went. He felt something vaguely taking shape from among the bits and pieces he had heard, and would have liked to bring it further into focus, but the three sisters, suspecting nothing of his thoughts, went about their business, pouring tea, passing around a basket of bread, serving salad, and persistently trying to draw him into their chatter.

Eventually, he left off his musings and took to just observing them, politely giving almost monosyllabic answers when needed.

It was strange to think that they were the same generation as his own two grandmothers. It wasn’t only that his grandmothers were more conventional. It somehow seemed extraordinary that they all grew up around the same time, breathing the same air, in the same country. Both his grandmothers now wore Western clothes, except on special occasions such as weddings and funerals, yet their clothes were quite different from any worn here. His mother’s mother also had bread for breakfast rather than rice, but the meal was nothing like this one. What’s more, even if they happened to have dressed in exactly the same way or sat down to exactly the same food, they would still be as far removed from these people as they had always been: their backgrounds were so very different.

At the center of the table, a blue cut-glass vase held the lavender that Fuyue had picked, casually arranged. The food itself was like what he had seen served at the Oiwake cottage, but here everything looked more lavish, no doubt because of the elegant tableware. The teapot and teacups were so fragile he felt they might shatter in his hands. The handle of the silver spoon in the sugar bowl was so thin it could easily have snapped in two. He spread the starched linen napkin with a delicate lace border on his lap, but couldn’t bring himself to use it.

Though not far from the Karuizawa Ginza, the place was peaceful, as if they were several hillsides away. Now and then there was a brief shower, filling the air with its sparkle; the maple leaves above the porch glistened in response.

After passing him a jar filled with a jam made of something called rhubarb , Harue, the eldest, asked, “Do you often visit your friend’s summer house?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“Is it your first time in Karuizawa as well?”

“Yes, it is.”

“How do you find it so far?”

The question had no agenda, being as neutral as a question about the weather, but it was posed in the haughty tone peculiar to her. Once again he felt he was being interrogated.

“Well …,” he stammered as he was spreading the unusual brown jam on a slice of bread. All three of them stared, teacups in midair. He knew he ought to say something.

“It’s very nice and cool. And I like all the trees too.”

Harue chuckled. “Since it is your hostess demanding an opinion, you have no choice but to praise it, do you?” With a shade more seriousness, she added, “Karuizawa has changed quite a lot. Everything’s become so convenient, though convenience is not what places like this are supposed to provide, is it? And the resort area just keeps expanding. You never used to see houses with chain-link fences around them, but now you do. So vulgar … Things have changed.”

Yusuke nodded periodically to show he was listening with interest. He knew that he was not holding up his end of the conversation, but the old lady probably didn’t expect much from someone his age in any case.

When Harue was finished, Natsue, the middle one, chimed in. “Also, you see the name Karuizawa being used even way past Oiwake. Can you believe it, that far away?” She made it sound as if Oiwake were at the other end of the world.

“Is that so?”

“And you must have noticed how full of tourists this area is?”

“Yes, indeed,” he agreed, though he was one himself.

“Did you by any chance walk down the main street?”

“Yes.”

“And wasn’t it dreadfully crowded?”

“Yes, it was pretty bad.”

“They come swarming in,” Harue declared with disgust.

With a dimple in her plump cheek, Natsue continued, “This week especially—one can hardly walk, it gets so very crowded. I have no idea what kind of sightseeing they think they can do here, do you?”

Fuyue, the youngest, explained: “These days they mostly come to shop, not to sightsee. They drive here in their cars, buy a few things, and then go home. They don’t even stay the night.”

“Exactly,” said Harue in her imperious way. “That’s why you see so many Gunma license plates. From Gunma, it’s only a day trip. And the way those people speak! Such a heavy accent!”

Fuyue let out a little laugh. “Harue, you must be imagining things. Everyone speaks standard Japanese nowadays.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right about the younger ones.”

“Young people have changed, haven’t they though?” said Natsue. Being the most feminine of the three, she also spoke in the most genteel manner. “They are now much prettier too, no matter where they are from.”

“That may be so,” Harue took over again, “but I’m sorry to say that when they come with the older generation in tow, that’s the end of it. They can give themselves airs, but just look at their grandparents. Their faces tell you that they speak in that horrid dialect.”