Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

“Because he’s not a guest.”

“Oh.”

She seemed to sense something in this vaguely and repeated “Oh,” as if trying to convince herself.

Blessed with good weather that day, we lined up garden tables on the large east-west porch and covered them with white tablecloths. The Saegusa sisters were in high spirits, chattering away as they flitted around. While the elderly members of the two families sat talking in rattan chairs in the garden, Yayoi’s Masao went off alone to read in the shade of a birch tree and Harue’s husband, Hiroshi, also alone, practiced his golf swing as usual.

Mrs. Utagawa and Taro came onto the scene like two clouds over a sunny landscape.

I was on the porch with the Demon, Yayoi Shigemitsu, and the three sisters, and we were so busy that I never even noticed when the taxi pulled up at the back. Suddenly there they were, walking toward us between the two houses. Despite the blazing afternoon sunshine, the atmosphere they brought with them was chilling, almost as if they were shades from the world below. I couldn’t help a slight shudder myself, and I’m sure the others felt the same way. Only Masao kept on reading, oblivious. Hiroshi had raised his arms, on the point of taking a swing, but just let them drop.

Even Yoko, standing at a distance, seemed momentarily taken aback.

It was as if I was blushing inside, invisibly. I felt guilty, as though our life in Chitose Funabashi had been exposed, and something about it was shameful. With her drab kimono and her hair in a tight bun, Mrs. Utagawa had always seemed out of place in Karuizawa, but on that day, perhaps because she’d brought Taro with her, she looked like some old woman who had stumbled onto someone else’s property with a street urchin in tow.

Why did poverty stand out so much more back then? Taro was wearing a discolored, patched, short-sleeved shirt and black trousers that had become too short for him, so that between the cuffs and his canvas shoes his skinny bare ankles stuck out. That’s all there was to it, but he might as well have worn a sign around his neck marked POOR BOY.

What stood out more clearly still, however, was Taro’s own sense of inferiority. The moment everyone’s eyes turned his way, he seemed to read something in their gaze, and recognition that he was somewhere he didn’t belong, that he had no right to be here, was wretchedly apparent on his face. His discomfort was transmitted to Mrs. Utagawa, who must immediately have regretted bringing him along. On her old, strained face, a similar apprehension was no less apparent.

Harue and Fuyue, who were setting the tables on the porch, inclined their heads doubtfully and turned to Natsue for an explanation. Though surprised by the extra visitor, Natsue saw no need to take Taro’s inferiority personally and responded promptly, in a casual tone of voice.

“Oh, him? Well, you know about the old rickshaw man named Roku who lived behind our house? That’s his nephew. Or, no, it’s his nephew’s nephew. Complicated!”

While she was explaining that Taro was there to help Mrs. Utagawa in Oiwake, I watched Yoko leave the cluster of children and run over to the newcomers on her own. Then the Demon, who had been standing near the porch steps, went up to the pair with deliberate slowness, took the bundle Taro was carrying, and said something. Mrs. Utagawa looked more dismayed than ever.

“Oh really? How old is he?” Harue squinted at Taro from afar, appraising him. Told he was in the same grade as Yoko but a year or two her elder, she just repeated, “Oh really?”

The Demon shooed Yoko back into the garden and led Taro around to the service entrance. The sight of the shabby boy heading for the back door seemed to reassure everyone, and they all resumed what they had been doing. I went back into the kitchen from the porch just as he came in through the back door, led by the Demon.

There was a glassy, vacant look in his eyes, a look that I hadn’t seen for a long time. The poor child didn’t so much as glance at me.

That day, Taro was first made to wash his hands in the kitchen. Then, after waiting for a while on a chair in the servants’ hall , he had a Western-style meal with the rest of us staff. Apparently Mrs. Utagawa couldn’t bring herself to tell him that he might be eating separately from Yoko, a development that seemed to take him completely by surprise. Dining Western-style seemed to be equally surprising to him. The heavy china plates embossed with a design in burgundy red were a set the Shigemitsus had brought back from London for everyday use, and for Sunday lunch even we maids used them. The Demon saw at once that Taro, accustomed only to chopsticks, didn’t know how to handle a knife and fork. In a dry voice, not bothering to conceal her scorn, she gave him instructions: knife on the right, fork on the left, do as I do. Taro’s earlobes turned scarlet, but he meekly managed the knife and fork as told. The presence of a boy with a strained expression, who never uttered a word, put a damper on the lunchtime conversation.

Sometimes the silver bell would tinkle, and then Chizu or I hurried out to the porch. Depending on what was wanted, we might all get up and sit down again. A peaceful meal was never ours to enjoy anyway.

I knew that Taro was fighting the urge to run away, but I also knew that he had far greater self-control than most adults. Besides, it was unlikely that a boy like him would simply have come over here in high spirits, focused only on the prospect of seeing Yoko again. Having heard so much about Karuizawa from her, he was bound to arrive with worries and misgivings, full of imagined scenarios, wondering what that world was like and how he would be treated in it. But how could he ever have imagined the existence of something like this? The quiet fir-lined road, the imposing gateposts of dark stone, the two Western-style villas casting shadows on the moss garden—a world he had never seen or dreamed of, unfolding magically in front of him. And yet for his constant playmate, Yoko, this was a perfectly ordinary scene, one that she had known all her life. On top of the indignity of being made to eat elsewhere, that recognition must have tormented him. But because Yoko belonged to this world, he knew he would have to do exactly as the grown-ups told him if he wasn’t to be shut out altogether.

We ate in silence.

“Taro.” Yoko cautiously opened the door from the hallway. She must have escaped by pretending to go to the toilet or something. The Demon’s presence was intimidating, so she just stuck her head in the doorway without coming in. Her eyes were instantly drawn not to Taro’s face but to the food on the table. Only then did she seem to realize that we didn’t eat the same dishes as the family—that there was hardly any meat. The longer she stared, the redder she became.

“Come on out and play later, okay?” She shut the door behind her cautiously, as if she’d done something wrong.

Taro let nothing show on his face. The Demon had raised an eyebrow on hearing Yoko’s invitation, but since Taro made no response, there was nothing more to say.

Out in the garden after lunch, it was customary for the family to have some tea. The Demon and Chizu got up to prepare it while Taro and I began to clear our table. Neither of us spoke. Despite what Yoko had said, I didn’t feel comfortable about telling him to run along and play. I wondered what I should do with him as I stacked the dirty dishes.

Just then Harue came swooping in from the porch. “Hi! Mrs. Utagawa just told me I can borrow this boy of hers. He’s very handy, she says, and I can certainly use him. So many things need doing next door!” She signaled briskly for him to follow her, and opened the door to the hallway. Before I could catch the expression on his face, the heavy oak door closed behind them.