Milena Flašar - I Called Him Necktie

82

Good News! Kyōko ran towards me.

The best thing about working…

… is coming home. She pulled me by the arm, through the hall and into the living room. Our house. She had furnished it, had gone through the rooms right after we bought it and took measurements. The couch would go here, the television over there. The snow globes and the musical clocks on the sideboard. The dancing ballerina on the side table. The naked lady with her feet in the sand would hang on this wall, on the other one the sailor with the droopy eyes. Our home. All the furniture and objects and photos. But most important of all were Kyōko’s books. Every year she would declare: We need a new bookcase.

You have to guess. She pulled me close to her on the couch. I pretended to be stupid. There must be cabbage and peppers for dinner. She laughed. My hand on her stomach. Aha, I know! Strawberries and peaches! Her stomach, shaking with laughter. I heard happiness in it. Expectation. A little fear. And happiness again. Sh, sh, she went at last, you’ll wake it up. She, almost whispering. Soon we’ll be a family. The word was soft and melted in my mouth. A family, I repeated and melted at the same time as the word: A f-a-m-i-l-y.

83

I had a vision of the child, as yet incomplete, as yet not there, as yet nameless, growing in our midst. I had a vision of a person, in this world, growing up in it, who would in some way make it a better place. It was a typical image. Typical in its particularities. My child, our child, would be capable of it, no question. It would live up to this, would surpass this where possible, beyond expectations, would surpass this vision. One way or another, it would be the continuation of what I and my father before me had begun. I bore this vision, as Kyōko bore the child, in my heart. And even little Kei could not damage my faith in it.

It was late at night, shortly before the birth, when I heard Kyōko padding through the house. I found her, round bellied, in front of the wardrobe in the baby’s room, surrounded by colorful little hats and jackets and bootees.

Can’t you sleep? I walked towards her.

No. She turned away. The moon behind her. I was dreaming. She spoke as if she were still dreaming. I dreamed of little Kei.

Who is little Kei?

The girl with the birthmark. They said her face was half covered with a red mark, red as fire, from forehead to neck. They said it under their breath. Her parents were well aware of the talk and kept her hidden during the day. They would only take her outside after dark. Her father would carry her on his shoulders and show her the streets we played in. Her mother would sing as she trotted along beside them. They talked of it in hushed voices. The three would walk through the night, avoiding the glare of the street lights. And if anyone came towards them, they would plunge into the bushes, stand still against a wall, or hurry away with their heads down. When I still lived in the neighborhood, I was seven, perhaps eight years old, I quite often went past their house. Blank windows. Sometimes the curtains moved. I imagined little Kei was waving to me. How lonely she must be. I wished I had the courage to wave back. Strange. To dream of her after all these years. I haven’t thought about her for a long time. In the dream she was the one who asked me: Are you lonely? I said: Very. Without you I am very lonely.

Only a dream. You were dreaming. I crouched beside Kyōko on the cold floor and folded one of the tiny jackets, no bigger than my hand.

Is that right? Kyōko was suddenly wide awake. We would love our child, even if –

— What nonsense! I didn’t let her finish.

And when we were lying in bed: It’s a boy. The doctor told me it’s a boy.

I was already half asleep: He will be called Tsuyoshi.

84

The birth was apparently easy. I wasn’t there. I bought flowers on the way to the hospital. Their gentle scent in my nostrils mingled with the slightly sour smell I recognized from the teacher’s house. I thought of him as I ran up the steps, a song on my lips, I pushed open the door. I thought of him as I walked along corridors, past rooms and beds and countless name plates, at last read Ohara Kyōko, entered and on entering felt again that my life had reached a definitive point. It was a feeling of triumph. With one blow it was a feeling of defeat. They won’t bring him in to me. Kyōko’s first sentence after I walked in. I don’t know why. But they won’t bring him to me. Something’s not right. I don’t know why. Her hand grasped mine. Tetsu, please. I want them to bring him to me. Even if he has no eyes and no mouth. It doesn’t matter. I must see him. The flowers seemed withered, seemed dead, something hardened within me. I freed myself from Kyōko’s grasp, her hand fell back on the bedcover. What are you talking about? Everything is alright. I have a plan. Do you hear? I have thousands of plans. I screamed: Thousands! Do you hear? Thousands! We’re playing baseball together, Tsuyoshi and I. He’s the batter, I’m the catcher. You’re sewing a uniform for him, black and yellow, like the Giants. He’s interested in history. No. In geography. I buy him a globe and with our fingers we travel around the world. We fight. For fun, of course. We fight like in the movies we watch together at night, when you’re already asleep. He’s stronger than me. He has a strong punch. He hits me in the belly and I think: He’ll be a strong man. He studies medicine. No. Technology. No. Business. He’s the best in his class, and I’m proud of him. I don’t say it but I am proud. I deny it. I am so proud that I deny it. My pride is such that I behave as if it were nothing: That he is the best not only in his class, the best son, altogether, the best man I have ever met in my life.

The doctor.

Smoothly shaven.

Small eyes behind thick glasses.

There is no doubt. We are sure. Your son is handicapped. A heart problem, as well. No, it can’t be corrected. It’s not something that can be corrected. You must understand. He will be like that. It can’t be operated on. Do you understand? Ohara-san? It is important that you understand. Your son will never be like the others.

I did not understand a word he was saying. When he asked me if I was ready to see him now, I shook my head and went out, without saying goodbye. I think I was afraid he might look like me.

85

A week later they came home. They, I mean Kyōko and Tsuyoshi. I didn’t count myself as one of them. The word family, which once had so mellowed me, now stuck in my craw in a hard lump. I chewed on it, it choked me. The taste of it made me sick. I stood in the hall with a hand in front of my mouth and couldn’t bring myself to go across to them in the baby’s room.

Tsuyoshi didn’t cry. In my heart I had the image of a crying baby. The image of a mother rocking it to and fro, laying it to rest. The image of myself looking down, gently smiling on them both. That’s good, I had wanted to say, that’s good, to pat him on the back, and her on the arm. But I held myself apart. The silence allowed me that. In those days our house was silent. All sounds seemed muffled, suffocated by the silence. Hardly bearable. I longed for an earsplitting bang. For a door to slam shut, a pane of glass to shatter, for any sound similar to the crying of a baby as I had imagined it. The longing drove me away. I got up earlier than I needed to, left the house earlier than I needed to, sat at my desk in the office earlier than I needed to. The desk chair squeaked, the typewriter clicked. I did enough overtime for two. Close to dropping dead from exhaustion. Went drinking afterwards in a karaoke bar, stammered songs of sadness and beauty, the microphone close to my mouth. Stumbled out. Past rowdy streets. Obsessed beyond help by a person who had never been born.