Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

“I thought the son was a family man.”

“No, I meant the younger boy, the one still in college.”

“Oh, him, the one with lots of freckles but not much else?” My mother got a faraway look, as if trying to visualize the various members of that family. “Well, I’m sure Azuma has to put up with a lot, but at least he gets to live in that gorgeous house.”

“Right.”

“Not everyone gets that kind of experience.”

“Exactly what I told him.”

It was unusual to see my parents in such complete agreement.

LESS THAN A month after we first arrived in the States, the Atwoods had invited us to dinner. That day, for the first time, my mother let my sister and me wear our kimonos, the ones she had packed in Japan “for those special occasions when we’re invited to visit American homes.” I remember how excited I was by the scent and feel of silk even before we left. My excitement only grew on our arrival at the Atwood residence. Visiting other people’s homes as a child was like traveling to a foreign land; in this case, doubly so, since we were now abroad. And this was the first time I saw with my own eyes the lifestyle of wealthy Americans.

My first surprise was the garage. As Mr. Atwood drove us through his gate, we saw a large white Colonial-style house ahead of us, and to one side a building in the same style, but wide and low: the garage. It stood like a humble servant to the main house but was still much larger than our place, also a white Colonial. He was eager to show us around inside, where there were four or five cars neatly lined up, mostly classic models like you see in old movies, their curves reminiscent of horse-drawn coaches. All of them were freshly buffed, their brass parts dimly shining like faded gold. Why own so many cars? Why own so many old cars and have them polished? The uselessness of it all boggled my mind.

As for the main house, I can see with hindsight how the simple, plain interior was considered good taste in the States, where the Puritan tradition still held strong. Furniture that looked quite ordinary to me was positioned in ordinary ways in room after room. That’s not to say I was unamazed by our tour. There was more than one living room. There was also a library. There was even a large screening room for the eight-millimeter films that his sons shot as a hobby. But what astonished me most of all was a room filled with rifles. As I entered, I took in the Stars and Stripes hanging on the wall facing the door and, at the same instant, rifles of all shapes and sizes displayed in every corner—on desks, walls, and even inside glass cases, as if in a museum. I had no idea they were antiques. They were simply the first firearms I had ever encountered, and they were all within arm’s reach. What would happen if I got nervous, lost my balance, and fell on one of them? The possibility that they weren’t loaded never occurred to me: I wanted to turn right around and go home. Collecting old cars and polishing them was odd enough, but collecting old guns seemed even more bizarre. Atwood didn’t look like a violent man to me, but while he went on showing us his house, his back as I followed him acquired an air of menace.

As I came to understand in later years, the Atwoods took pride in being not only white Anglo-Saxon Protestants but in having ancestors who were among the earliest Europeans to settle in the New World. Atwood’s own forebears had arrived about two hundred years ago, and his wife belonged to the Daughters of the American Revolution. Descendants of early settlers like the Atwoods were the America’s aristocrats. Their pride in their families’ having fought in all of America’s glorious wars—the War of Independence, the Civil War, and World Wars I and II—was reflected in the array of firearms and medals with colorful ribbons.

I WONDERED WHERE Taro Azuma slept. In the attic of the main house? Or in an apartment above that large garage? (I had recently seen a chauffeur living this way in the movie Sabrina , at a rescreening in one of the theaters near the station.) Wherever his room was, it would have to be more spacious, or at least better decorated, than any of the rooms in our house. Having seen Azuma in person, I conveniently forgot my indignation on first hearing the expression private chauffeur ; I felt there was something unusual—something romantic—in his everyday life. Even the term private chauffeur seemed to have left the banal world of “retail,” “customer service,” and “head office” for a storybook realm.

“ANYONE FOR RAMEN?” my mother asked, reaching for the apron on the back of the chair.

“Me!” My father raised his hand like a first grader.

“How about you, Minae?”

“Just a small bowl,” I answered. Luckily, she was always the one who got these late-night cravings for ramen, so I was excused from helping her.

While she was tying her apron, my father told us again, “Americans treat us well enough when there’s a profit to be made, but it’s worth keeping in mind that, deep down, they often look down on us.” I nodded in agreement, as I’d had my own small share of awkward moments at school.

“But at least the Atwoods aren’t as bad as the Goldbergs. Oh, yes, by the way, Miss Sone’s mother wrote us a thank-you note.” My mother seemed suddenly to have remembered this, holding a pot under the faucet.

“Did she?” There was interest in his voice. “That’s decent of her.”

“After all, we did take good care of her daughter.”

“That we did.”

“It seems rather unfair that it’s the parents who go to all the trouble, but it’s the children who get the thank-you gifts.” She was referring to the kimono Miss Sone had left for my sister and me. “Minae, would you run upstairs and get her note from my dresser?”

I brought down the airmail envelope and handed it to my father. Stirring the ramen in the pot, my mother watched as he pulled out the letter and opened it.

“Nice handwriting, don’t you think?”

“Very. Too good for the likes of me. I can’t even read it.” He put down the delicate sheets of handmade Japanese paper covered with elegantly flowing brushstrokes. I wasn’t happy. Why did I end up with parents who were so unappreciative of the art of calligraphy, whose history went all the way back to the Heian court of a thousand years ago?

“Don’t ask me how, but I did make out the part where she says she sent us some Senryo rice crackers,” my mother said, laughing. Senryo was her favorite brand. My father joined in her laughter; they were both in a good mood.

My mother had mentioned the Goldbergs because of a series of events that we referred to as the affair of the Goldbergs’ maid.

One weekend several weeks earlier, my mother had gotten a phone call from a Miss Sone. It took her a little while to figure out that this was the daughter of someone my father knew through an American named Goldberg. Having arrived in the States a week before, Miss Sone was staying with the Goldbergs but had become desperate to move into a hotel and had no idea how to go about it. She rattled on and on at high speed. Though my mother couldn’t catch the details of the matter, she understood that this woman at the other end of the line wanted at all costs to get away from where she was, so she told her she would be right over to pick her up. As soon as she was off the phone, the two of us hopped in the car and headed over to the Goldbergs’ house.

“House” wasn’t the word to describe it. “Mansion” or “manor” would be more appropriate. As we approached, we could see two large suitcases sitting outside the front door. Mrs. Goldberg came out, all smiles, and greeted my mother with a handshake. A young Japanese woman in her twenties was standing behind her, wearing a well-tailored suit and a frozen expression on her face. She hardly said a word, and her goodbye to Mrs. Goldberg involved making an even stiffer face. But as soon as we were in the car and on our way, out poured a torrent of words describing the misfortunes that had befallen her in the past week.