Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

So I sat and ate at the same table with them. I was so nervous that I couldn’t offer more than the briefest answers to questions. At one point, when I referred to the elder daughter as “Miss Yuko,” both girls started giggling.

“Just call them Yuko and Yoko,” their father said, and, turning to his daughters: “All of the nannies have called you by your names, right, girls?”

The girls nodded in unison. Seeing them next to each other, I saw that they did look like sisters.

“My sister Harue is so very conservative in some things,” Natsue commented. “She was terribly upset when one of her nannies didn’t address her daughter with a ‘Miss.’ They’re like that in Seijo.”

“That was the old way, but times have changed,” was her husband’s opinion—he said it without any pomposity or self-importance. His straightforwardness impressed me, along with his calm eyes, looking through thick lenses. He might not be rich, but his turn of mind seemed to more than compensate for it. Later he told me that one of his most vivid memories from childhood was of the maids having to sit on the floor of the kitchen in his parents’ house when they ate. The kitchen floor was one step lower than the rest of the house, so it was freezing cold as well as hard; they always ate in stony silence. He told himself that when he grew up, he would never allow anything like that in his own home.

Sitting with this lively group at the table, the shock began to wear off and I decided that this might, after all, do for a while: I had no idea, of course, how long I’d actually stay with them.

I knew I was a bit stubborn—in my own way. Now that I know better, I realize I was lucky to have joined the Utagawa household in Chitose Funabashi. If I’d started at the Saegusas’ place in Seijo, I doubt I would have lasted two years. Being such a big family, the Saegusas worked their staff hard, even getting their Primavera pupils to pitch in. But it wouldn’t have been hard work that drove me away. In the Utagawa household, Natsue was just a pretty wife whose gaiety brightened everything around her, but back home among the Saegusas, she became one of them. And the Saegusas were a family it was best to keep at a certain distance: a month or two a year with them in Karuizawa was just about right for me. The difference between the two families showed up in little things—like how they addressed me. While Yuko and Yoko called me “big sister” or just Fumiko, the Saegusa girls Mari and Eri, imitating their mother, would refer to me as Fumi, the way people used to address maids in the old days. Also, the Saegusas made their maid eat in the kitchen, naturally. I hadn’t expected to be called “big sister” or to eat with the family, but, once I got used to it, it made me feel better. Little things, perhaps, but I feel I was lucky, though it took me years to really appreciate it.

I WAS TOLD I had a day off every two weeks. So, on the Sunday of my second week there, I left the house early and went to visit Uncle Genji. When I walked in, I was startled to find the woman who called him “boss,” wearing a kerchief around her head, cleaning the house and acting as if the two of them were an old married couple. She greeted me in her familiar husky voice. I went out onto the veranda and there was my uncle, puffing on a cigarette and reading the morning paper. Looking not in the least embarrassed about his new companion, he gave me a warm hello and asked about the Utagawas. He seemed a little surprised when I reported that their house was pretty ordinary—nothing like the Andos’ place in Koishikawa or the two houses we’d seen in Seijo. But when I told him I was getting a thorough training in housekeeping from Mrs. Utagawa, he was reassured. “While you’re at it, you’d better have her teach you how to speak properly. If you don’t, you’ll end up like her,” he said, tipping his head in the woman’s direction, “and you’ll never find a husband.” His girlfriend, though, seemed a good sort at heart. She busied herself making lunch, and, while we were sitting on the tatami at a round table, my uncle told me he was planning to set her up to run a restaurant in someplace like Tamachi or Shinbashi, and that he was going to quit the base as soon as they found a suitable place. He invited me to stay for dinner, but I said no. Instead I decided to navigate the train system and go back to Ueno station by myself.

It had been two years since I’d arrived at Ueno. It wasn’t that I was feeling homesick; I just wanted to revisit the place where I’d first set foot on Tokyo soil. After taking a look at the station, I walked over to Ueno Park and stood like a tourist at the foot of the famous statue of Saigo Takamori. In the afternoon light, there were various other young people drifting around; they looked as alone and at sea in the big city as I felt. The sad, thin figures reminded me of classmates of mine who, after coming to Tokyo, were probably working in textile mills, or a rubber factory, or maybe a soba or an udon noodle shop. I imagined the din of the factory floor, the greasy kitchens, the workers’ dormitories lined with hard, thin futons. I didn’t envy them . I envied the ones who had gone on to high school, which was less than half the class.

It was only then that I wondered why Uncle Genji hadn’t thought of sending me to high school. To a girl new to Tokyo he seemed rather prosperous. He could have afforded my tuition, or at least lent me the money. I didn’t know in what way my life might have been different, but a high school diploma would surely have allowed me more independence—let me stand on my own two feet. It was already my third year since graduating from middle school, and now with that woman installed in his house, I had no real thought of changing my life around. Yet just then, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to truly regret what I’d done—or, rather, hadn’t done. Why hadn’t it occurred to me to ask him to send me to high school when I first saw how well off he was? How could I have been so stupid? I felt wretched. And on top of everything was my disappointment that my uncle hadn’t thought of it himself.

After walking around the park for I don’t know how long, I finally sat down on an empty bench and watched the darkness encroach on the afternoon sunlight.

I had once had complete trust in my uncle Genji, but, sitting there, I realized it had faded. I could see that he didn’t know everything, and also that he was part of the old world. It became all too clear to me that because he didn’t have much schooling himself, he couldn’t imagine that a girl like me would want a proper education.

I remained lost in thought, regretting this and imagining that. I didn’t make a drama of it. I just felt bitter. For a girl the age I was, I was realistic—perhaps too realistic. And because I was realistic, I saw only too cruelly that given how limited my options were, there wasn’t much I could expect.

That evening was the only time I ever cried about not getting a higher education.

I got back to Chitose Funabashi later in the evening. Having never so much as entered a restaurant or cafe by myself, I walked past the soba shop in front of the station several times before I found the courage to actually walk in and order a meal.

It was nearly eight o’clock by the time I got back to the Utagawas’. They’d left the front light on for me. I opened the door, whispered “I’m back,” and slipped quietly into the main room, where Natsue, an apron tied around her waist like the badge of good wifehood, was clearing the dinner table. She said a friendly hello in her cheerful voice. From the children’s playroom, an extension of the main room, Yuko and Yoko, who were lying down on cushions and playing a game of some sort, stopped what they were doing to welcome their “big sister” back. Their father, Takero, was working in his study upstairs. Their grandmother was taking a bath. As Natsue dried the dishes, she asked after Uncle Genji, of whom she had fond memories. After a while, the older Mrs. Utagawa, having finished her bath, came in, a smile on her face. Everything was peaceful. I was suddenly filled with a sense of well-being, as if I’d found my way back to somewhere I was meant to be. The bitterness I’d felt as I sat in Ueno Park seemed remote. I think it was then that I made up my mind to settle down with the Utagawa family.