Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

What would her parents say? That thought must have been uppermost in Mrs. Utagawa’s mind. She was pale and speechless.

The air was so thick with dust from the cloth and paper, floating in shafts of afternoon sunlight, that my throat felt scratchy. I didn’t know if it was because Roku lay sick in bed in the next room or because so many people lived together at close quarters without bathing frequently, but even with the sliding doors open the room stank of urine and sweat. Yoko had been sitting there a good half hour without so much as a cushion under her, but fortunately the day was warm, with lingering summer heat.

Realizing from Mrs. Utagawa’s reaction that the situation was more serious than she had supposed, O-Tsune probably regretted taking this risk. Yet a certain condescension in her manner suggested that she had heard from Mr. Azuma (who used to do odd jobs for the senior Dr. Utagawa) that the old lady standing in front of her was once a geisha. Her usual insolence showed through the lame excuse she offered with an artificial smile: “She said she wanted to have a try too …”

Taro sat gripping a doll by its rubber leg, his face burning with rage and humiliation as he looked back and forth between the two women. He must have wanted from the start to chase Yoko out of the house but held back in case she never wanted to play with him again. Whatever else was churning inside him, I don’t know. All I could suppose was that he’d been trying to finish up as quickly as possible. Yoko, for whom playing, helping, and working were much the same, must have chattered on, but I suspect he barely answered her.

Mrs. Utagawa was looking at O-Tsune in disgust.

Just then a sound came from the adjoining room, and the door slid open to reveal Roku, standing there in his night yukata like a ghost. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and the neck of his robe hung open, showing his bony ribcage. How much he understood of what was happening, I’m not sure, but in the toneless, frenzied way of the faint-hearted, his voice froggy with phlegm, he gave O-Tsune hell. For her part Mrs. Utagawa was so startled by how much he had wasted away since the summer that she couldn’t stop staring at this ghostly figure. Finally she said, “Roku, have you seen a doctor? You must have a proper checkup.” Then she swung her attention back to Yoko. Pulling the little girl up by both hands, she set her on her feet, saw that she put her sandals on, and led her home firmly by the hand.

This little episode had two results. For one thing, it was obvious that Roku’s remaining time was short. At Mrs. Utagawa’s request I spoke to Dr. Matsumiya, the doctor across from the station who always came to examine Yoko, and arranged for him to come over the very next day. He did some tests and found that Roku had pulmonary edema and his lungs were already filled with fluid, a bad sign. In fact the poor man only lasted till January. It was as if he lived just long enough to help the Azuma family settle in as the Utagawas’ tenants.

The other result was that Mrs. Utagawa made up her mind to take Taro under her wing. I believe she lay awake the whole night. For one thing, realizing how lonely Yoko had been all this time was acutely distressing to her. For another, seeing with her own eyes how badly the boy was treated must have come as a shock. Her late husband had lived a self-indulgent life, but he also did whatever he could for other people. After nearly thirty years at his side, she probably felt the same sense of responsibility that close contact with human misery had given him.

In the morning, everything was as usual until we had seen the others off. When I went into the sitting room, broom in hand to do the sweeping, I found Mrs. Utagawa leaning against the hibachi brazier she kept out all year round, smoking a thin kiseru pipe and looking preoccupied. Her sewing was nowhere in sight. Even when she saw me, her expression did not change.

That afternoon, when Dr. Matsumiya finished examining Roku, he came by to report to Mrs. Utagawa. Afterward she saw him out, and no sooner had the front door closed behind him than she turned to me with a severe look and said I was to bring O-Tsune to the service entrance. Before the doctor’s arrival she had changed her kimono and put on a more formal sash. I had been surprised that she would bother to do this for someone who was always dropping by to see Yoko, but then I understood: the change of clothes was for O-Tsune’s benefit.

When I ushered O-Tsune in, her eyes darted around as she took in her first sight of the Utagawa kitchen. Mr. Azuma was always the one who brought over the monthly rent. I announced her arrival, and Mrs. Utagawa emerged with slow dignity and stood looking down at her visitor in the concrete-floored entrance, not inviting her up into the house proper.

“I have just had word from Dr. Matsumiya,” she said. “He doesn’t yet know exactly what the trouble is, but apparently Roku is in a bad way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered O-Tsune, pretending to look humble and shrinking her shoulders.

Mrs. Utagawa kept her eyes trained on her as she continued: O-Tsune and her family owed their present circumstances to Roku and were to look after him with all due care until the end. From now on, she would be sending over her maid to check on Roku’s condition from time to time, and if there was any change, O-Tsune was to let her know. She spoke in her usual low, raspy voice, but there was something new in the tone, an unaccustomed forcefulness.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I could sense O-Tsune actually succumbing to this.

“And if the worst happens to Roku, and you and your family wish to go on living in that house, you may do so for the time being.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“At the same rent, for the time being.”

She said this with studied casualness, the effect being to impress upon her listener that the property was hers to dispose of, however and whenever she liked. Where she had been hiding this strength till then, I don’t know. Maybe it was a quality that anyone who has ever been a geisha acquires, or maybe I was reading too much into it, but I thought I detected in her the toughness of someone who had seen a great deal in life. O-Tsune was by then so tense that her shoulders were hunched, making her even smaller. Looking down on her from a step higher, the old lady spoke with such blunt force that even to me she seemed completely different from the familiar Grandma who always sat bent over her sewing.

Was it calculation on her part, pausing at that moment as if she had finished speaking? O-Tsune bowed. As she was preparing to go, Mrs. Utagawa caught her eye and held it a moment before adding, “One other thing. This concerns your youngest boy. From now on, when he gets home from school, send him over here to me. He can help around the house instead of Roku.” She paused again. “Besides that, I hear he is rather an unfortunate child, and for the time being I plan to oversee his schoolwork. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am, of course.” O-Tsune’s face was slightly flushed. She must have been aware that her abuse of her stepchild was common knowledge in the neighborhood, but since his father was Chinese, I suspect she thought the neighbors were on her side, sticking up for her. Realizing that she had just received an indirect rebuke seemed to leave her in a tangle of resentment and embarrassment.

Mrs. Utagawa let her eyes confirm the accusation, saying nothing to rub it in. Before letting O-Tsune go, she even offered a word of support. “Things aren’t easy for you either, I know … Anyway, that will be all.”

When she returned to her room, she sat there again for a long time, leaning against the hibachi and smoking her pipe. Acting tough went against her nature. The performance had clearly left her exhausted, and something in the slump of her shoulders made her look older than ever. She soon complained of a headache, and when Yoko came home she was lying down, her head on a folded cushion.