Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

Yusuke tried to picture what Fumiko might have looked like as a “presentable” young woman. He imagined her in a white blouse with a collar tight around her neck and a plain navy-blue skirt.

After turning the record over, Fuyue came back and asked, “By the way, do you remember that woman who lived with us when we were little, the one who was so ashamed of her accent that she wouldn’t talk at all?”

“I do. Her accent was horrendous, but then so was her face.”

“Not just her face, her figure too. She was so short that her legs were only about as long as our arms.”

“And remember how she used to accompany Grammy on shopping trips? They became famous around the Seijo neighborhood because they made such an odd-looking pair. What was her name?”

“Shige. Grammy used to sing out ‘Shi-GE,’ remember?”

“That’s right. Now, where did she come from?”

“Sado Island, wasn’t it?”

“No, no, no. The one from Sado was Chiyo—who got so excited when she was given some sugar that she put it on her noodles! She’d hardly ever tasted it before.”

“She really did that?”

“I remember her! Chiyo was the one who slept without any clothes on, and the other maids got upset and told Grammy. Chiyo said that back at home the family all got under the covers naked together to keep warm at night. What a peculiar custom! That girl was very pretty, though, with a perfect little doll’s face.”

“I have a very distinct memory of when she left us to get married. Our family provided almost everything for her.”

“So Shige may have been from Gunma, then.”

“No, we never had anyone from Gunma. Most of them were from Niigata because of Grammy’s family connections.”

“Then where was she from?”

“Maybe from ghastly Saitama?”

“No, Saitama’s not right either. Hisa was the one from Saitama, but she worked for us much later. Remember? She’s the one who paid a visit to us after the war, and she’d had plastic surgery, which made her eyes look like a foreigner’s. All of a sudden she’d become so modern, with her high heels and whatnot. We were all flabbergasted!”

“Yes, that’s right!”

“It was so-o hilarious we went nearly out of our minds!”

All three burst into ringing laughter.

For a while, the old ladies chattered on about where the maid Shige might have been from. But then, as if suddenly remembering his presence, Harue, with less haughtiness than before, asked Yusuke, “How about you? You must be from Tokyo.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Kyoto, then?”

“No.”

Discomfort was written on their faces. Yusuke felt it inadvisable to remain silent. “I’m from Matsue,” he volunteered.

“Matsue?” Natsue took over, smiling with her dimple. “Oh, yes, a place famous for the tea ceremony. Very respectable, very nice.”

Her comment sounded so forced that it made the other two start giggling. Yet the moment she stopped laughing, Harue announced, as if she were challenging some invisible enemy: “What’s wrong with talking about the maids we used to have when we were young? We’re not on national television, for heaven’s sake, where everything is so sanitized! While I’m still alive, I want to be able to speak my mind freely, at least when I’m with my own family. I’m tired of always worrying about what other people think.”

“Since when have you cared what other people think?” said Fuyue.

Harue turned to their guest. “In any case, the world has changed completely. Women don’t work as maids anymore. Why, even the word ‘maid’ has become taboo. It’s not allowed now on television or even in the newspapers.” She continued with a look of utter scorn, “Were you aware of that? I just cannot believe something like this is going on!”

Before Yusuke could reply, Fuyue interjected, “Yes, it’s ridiculous. Even if you’re talking about the old days, you have to say ‘housekeepers’ instead.”

“But they were maids, in every sense of the term, not housekeepers,” Harue stated categorically. “Democracy is a good thing. I have nothing against it. I just don’t see why we should have to censor our own language—especially if we’re talking about the past.”

Her already indignant eyes practically gave out sparks.

“In the old days, every family had maids. So by not using the word, are we meant to pretend they didn’t exist?”

“That’s the Japanese way,” replied Fuyue. “If you don’t use the word for it, then it never existed. The fact that there used to be all those women in service is something they think we should just blot out.”

“Which is so maddening!” Harue said heatedly, not even attempting to mask her irritation. “All those young girls worked their hearts out. Are we supposed to just forget about them?”

After a brief silence, Fuyue spoke up again.

“But you know, Harue, dear,” she said. Her voice was soft, as if trying to mollify a child, and deep, as if trying to understand it herself. “These people who want to suppress the past—a lot of them honestly believe they’re doing it out of kindness. They think those women would rather not remember what their lot in life was.”

Harue pressed her lips tightly together.

Fuyue continued in the same tone, “If that’s the case, people like us are really in no position to protest, are we?”

Harue glared at her as if her irritation prevented her from speaking. After a moment she sighed and said: “I suppose you’re right,” and, sighing again, repeated, “I suppose you’re right.” But apparently not convinced, she added, “Even so, if the Japanese people go on like that, we’ll end up knowing nothing about our own past.”

Then she turned toward the house.

“Fumi still calls herself a maid, and she seems fine with it.”

Fuyue said, in a whisper, “That’s because she’s proud.”

“Yes, of course. That’s it,” Harue nodded heartily, able to agree with this, at least.

“Such a competent maid too,” Natsue added irrelevantly. The others looked at her, in mild surprise, and smiled wryly. Realizing her blunder, she put on the same wry smile herself, embarrassed.

“What were we talking about?” Harue asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“We started out saying how much Karuizawa has changed.”

“That’s right,” said Harue, the agitation fading from her eyes. She looked over at Yusuke. “I do hope you will forgive us for these digressions.”

“Old people are so easily distracted,” added Fuyue apologetically. In tacit agreement to focus on their guest, the sisters then assailed Yusuke with inconsequential questions—How old were his parents? What did his father do for a living? Where did he live in Kyoto when he was a student? Unfortunately, never good at talking about himself, he gave only brief replies, so the conversation lost the momentum it had had and the meal drew toward an end without it reviving.

As in Oiwake, red dragonflies danced through the air, though autumn was still weeks away. It was very quiet. Just as Yusuke noticed this, Fuyue seemed to realize that the record had ended. She tossed her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back.

“What else would anyone like to listen to?”

“Too early for Callas. I only listen to opera at night.”

“I’ve had enough of piano music. But I don’t feel like a full orchestra, either.”

“Yes, your highnesses. We are demanding, aren’t we? How about some chamber music, then?” said Fuyue, moving toward the parlor.

Harue, her eyes following her movements, exclaimed as if she had just remembered something: “I know! Put on that record—you know the one I mean?”

“But are you sure?”