Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

“It’s a fried bun,” I said, offering him the package. “The lady at the house asked me to give it to you.”

He didn’t move, so I thought it best to encourage him. “It’s for you. You can eat it here if you want.”

He’d obviously never been given anything like an afternoon snack. I could see that he wanted it, but he just stood there as if chained to the ground. He may have found it insulting to be given something to eat like that, so I took a few steps toward the well and put the package on the tree stump. I felt as if I were putting out bait for a wild animal. He just glared, first at me and then the greasy brown bag, his face as blank as he could make it. Then, without saying a word, he whirled around, the shopping basket swinging from his arm, and ran off.

It was like a bat flying off into the darkening sky.

I left the bun on the stump, hoping he might take it when he came back, and went back to the kitchen to report to Mrs. Utagawa. She only said, “I see.” Five minutes later, she looked up from the cutting board to add, “Poor child.”

It rained that night. Before I went to bed, I went out into the yard and, helped by some light from the kitchen window, made my way toward the well. I stood there, umbrella in hand; the brown bag was still there.

That night, hearing the sound of rain on the roof, I kept dreaming of that brown bag with its fried bun inside. I may have felt more disturbed because the maid’s room faced Taro’s house. In my dream, the brown bag receded and the lone figure of the hungry-looking boy came forward, poised like an animal about to charge. And there were those eyes of his, like glass beads. As I lay there, only half asleep, listening to the rain, my heart was heavy, knowing that this child was living such a life.

The spring rain did not stop until morning.

When I opened the kitchen door to get the milk bottles, I could hear O-Tsune shouting, “You wet your futon again, you idiot!” Mr. Azuma had apparently left for work, as I could hear the awful sound of Taro’s brothers slapping and kicking him. Back in the kitchen, I looked out and there again saw a thin cushion drying on the veranda.

The grease-stained bag had half dissolved in the rain.

IT HAPPENED SOON after we returned from Karuizawa that summer.

Around that time, most people had stopped washing kimonos on their own, because it was so much work, but Mrs. Utagawa continued to take her everyday kimonos apart, wash the long strips of unstitched fabric at the well, stretch them on boards to dry, and later stitch them back together—something everyone used to do. She would choose a sunny day, as the season was changing. Yoko usually didn’t spend any time in the back yard, but on those days, she would come out as soon as she got home from school to help, as much as she could, and chat to her grandmother. Thinking about it later, I realized that that day Taro must have been watching Yoko.

Without making a sound, he appeared at the well. When Mrs. Utagawa noticed he was there, she beckoned to him gently. Yoko, for her part, hid behind her grandmother and then peeked out, her round face showing beneath Mrs. Utagawa’s rolled-up sleeves.

I was certain the boy would refuse to come, but he immediately approached.

In her kindest voice, Mrs. Utagawa said, “So you must be Taro.”

Taro gave her only a brief glance and instead fixed his eyes on Yoko, who stared back. Suddenly, he opened his clenched left fist and spread his fingers wide.

Something gleamed under the clear autumn sun.

On his palm lay three white pebbles. They were small, round, and smooth, with any sharp edges long since worn away; shades of green and blue and yellow ran through them. Yoko looked at the pebbles in wonder. Taro, for his part, taut with intensity, thrust his open palm toward her as if his life depended on her taking them. I hadn’t imagined that a child could be so determined. Collecting those three precious pebbles must have been the sum total of this boy’s summer holiday—that much I could tell from the way his fingers curved back with tension.

A nameless emotion welled up in me—a mixture of pity, scorn, and awe.

Mrs. Utagawa, just as surprised as I was, looked back and forth between the children.

O-Tsune’s sharp voice rang out. “Taro-o-o-o!”

Under that high autumn sky, the voice served as a reminder of how adults could ruin everything.

“Taro-o-o!” the voice came again. As if on cue, Yoko reached out and took the pebbles.

“Where’ve you gone to? Goofing off, are you?”

It was probably those words that inspired old Mrs. Utagawa to relieve Taro, even if only briefly, of the burden of O-Tsune. She bent her knees, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Yoko told me that you’re older than she is, is that right?”

Apparently too stunned by having the pebbles accepted, he just looked at her blankly; he seemed to hear none of what she said.

“If you’re older than Yoko, then you might be a good helper for us.”

Taro still did not reply. So Yoko opened her mouth. It was as if she knew all along that he would understand only if she said it.

“My grandma says you’re old enough to help out around our house.”

Taro came to his senses and looked up at Mrs. Utagawa. Cautiously, he nodded at her.

Naturally, it was my job to go and ask O-Tsune if we could borrow the boy for a while. Mrs. Utagawa hadn’t gone near Roku’s house since the Azumas moved in, and I can’t say I wanted to talk to O-Tsune either or see the awful conditions there. I had to force myself to go over. As I got near the veranda, I noticed that the sliding doors were open. The room, which was small to begin with, was filled with the most extraordinary clutter, all sorts of little things covered the tatami, some in small piles, some just scattered around. The moment I realized that these had to do with her piecework, I also realized why Taro hadn’t been out in the yard lately. He had to help her with this work.

O-Tsune, wearing a tired old smock, slid on her knees toward me. On hearing my request, she muttered something noncommittal, treating me with some disdain, the way I assume she thought servants should be treated. I had no idea what went on in her head, really.

Then I heard Roku’s voice. “Please—go ahead, use Taro as you like.” He sounded feeble, but I couldn’t see him, since he was lying on the other side of doors kept firmly shut.

We didn’t actually have any particular job in mind for Taro that day. Yoko caught colds easily, so we were about to put things away, go inside, and have something to eat. Like many households with children at the time, we made a habit of having an afternoon snack around three o’clock—tea and something sweet. When Mrs. Utagawa called Taro over earlier, she must merely have wanted to give him a bun or two; it was only after hearing O-Tsune’s voice and seeing Yoko and Taro together, probably, that she decided to take the boy away and let the children play indoors.

This turned out not to be so easy: Taro was just too dirty to take into Mrs. Utagawa’s room, where we liked to have our snack.

When Taro stepped up into the kitchen, Mrs. Utagawa gave him a good looking over. I remember her frowning and saying with a sigh, “We don’t want fleas in the house, do we?” She and Yoko waited in her room; it was up to me to wash Taro’s hair. Luckily there was still a full tub of bathwater from the night before. I took him over to the washing area next to the bathtub and began to wash his hair. Right away I realized that every corner of his body was covered in grime; I kept washing here and there until finally I just told him to take off all his clothes and scrubbed him head to foot. I tossed the rags he wore into the washtub. After he was clean, I had him put on a pair of sky-blue flannel pajamas that belonged to Yuko. I felt a little guilty but decided it would be all right if I washed them afterward. Taro apparently couldn’t tell they were girl’s pajamas, and he didn’t protest.