A Pale View of Hills (6 page)

“How about playing just the next few moves. We may well finish it off.”

“Really, I’d rather not. I’m feeling very tired now.”

“Of course”

I packed away the sewing I had been doing earlier in the evening and sat waiting for the others to retire. Jim, however, picked up a newspaper and started to read the back page. Then he took the last remaining cake from the plate and began to eat nonchalantly. After several moments, Ogata-San said:

“Perhaps we ought to just finish it off now. It’ll only take a more moves."

“Father, I really am too tired now. I have work to go to in the morning.”

“Yes, of course."

Jim went back to his newspapers. He continued to eat the cake and I watched several crumbs drop on to the tatami. Ogata-San continued to gaze at the chess-board for some time.

“Quite extraordinary”, he said, eventually, “what your friend was saying.”

“Oh? What was that?” Jim did not look up from his

newspaper.

“About him and his wife voting for different parties. A few years ago that would have been unthinkable.”

“No doubt.”

“Quite extraordinary the things that happen now. But that’s what’s meant by deogacy, I suppose.” Ogata-San gave a sigh. “These things we’ve learnt so eagerly from the Americans,y aren’t always to the good.” 

“No, indeed they’re not."

“Look what happens. Husband and wife voting for different parties. It’s a sad state of affairs when a wife can’t be relied on in such matters any more.”

Jiro continued to mad his newspaper. “Yes, it’s regrettable,” he said.

“A wife these days feels no sense of loyalty towards the household. She just does what she pleases, votes for a different party if the whim takes her. That’s so typical of the way things have gone in Japan. All in the name of democracy people abandon obligations.”

Jiro looked up at his father for a brief moment, then turned his eyes back to his paper. “No doubt you’re very right,” he said. “But surely the Americans didn’t bring all bad.”

“The Americans, they never understood the way things were in Japan. Not for one moment have they understood. Their ways may be fine for Americans, but in Japan things are different, very different.” Ogata-San sighed again. “Discipline, loyalty, such things held Japan together once. That may sound fanciful, but it’s true. People were bound by a sense of duly. Towards one’s family, towards superiors, towards the country. But now instead there’s all this talk of democracy. You hear it whenever people want to be selfish, whenever they want to forget obligations.”

“Yes, no doubt you’re right.” Jiro yawned and scratched the side of his face.

“Take what happened in my profession, for instance. Here was a system we’d nurtured and cherished for years.

The Americans came and stripped it, tore it down without a thought. They decided our schools would be like American schools, the children should learn what American children learn. And the Japanese welcomed it all. Welcomed it with a lot of talk about democracy"—he shook his head—“Many fine things were destroyed in our schools."

Yes, I’m sure that’s very true.” Jiro glanced up once more. “But surely there were some faults in the old system, in schools as much as anywhere.”

“Jim, what is this? Something you read somewhere?”

“It’s just my opinion.”

“Did you read that in your newspaper? I devoted my life to the teaching gi the young. And then I watched the Americans tear it all down. Quite extraordinary what goes on in schools now, the way children are taught to behave. Extraordinary. And so much just isn’t taught any more. Do you know, children leave school today knowing nothing about the history of their own country?”

“That may be a pity, admittedly. But then I remember some odd things from my schooldays. I remember being taught all about how Japan was created by the gods, for instance. How we as a nation were divine and supreme. We had to memorize the text book word for word. Some things aren’t such a loss, perhaps."

“But Jim, things aren’t as simple as that. You clearly don’t understand how such things worked. Things aren’t nearly as simple as you presume. We devoted ourselves to ensuring that proper qualities were handed down, that children grew up with the correct attitude to their country, to their fellows. There was a spirit in Japan once, it bound us all together. Just imagine what it must be like being a young boy today. He’s taught no values at school—except perhaps that he should selfishly demand whatever he wants out of life. He goes home and finds his parents fighting because his mother refuses to vote for his father’s party. What a state of affairs."

“Yes, I see your point. Now, Father, I’m sorry, I must go to bed.”

“We did our best, men like Endo and I, we did our best to nurture what was good in the country. A lot of good has been destroyed.

“It’s most regrettable.” My husband got to his feet. “Excuse me, Father, but I must sleep. I have another busy day tomorrow.”

Ogata-San looked up at his son, a somewhat surprised expression on his face. “Why, of course. How inconsiderate of me to have kept you so late.” He gave a small bow.

“Not at all. I’m sorry we can’t talk longer, but I really ought to get some sleep now.”

“Why, of course.”

Jim wished his father a good night’s sleep and left the room. For a few seconds, Ogata-San gazed at the door through which Jiro had disappeared as if he expected his son to return at any moment. Then he turned to me with a troubled look.

“I didn’t realize how late it was,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep Jim up.”

“Gone? And had he left you no message at his hotel?”

Sachiko laughed. “You look so astonished, Etsuko,” she said. ‘No, he’d left nothing. He’d gone yesterday morning, that’s all they knew. To tell you the truth, I half expected this.”

I realized I was still holding the fray. I laid it down carefully then seated myself on a cushion opposite Sachiko. There was a pleasant breeze blowing through the apartment that morning.

“But how terrible for you,” I said. “And you were waiting with everything packed and ready.”

“This is nothing flew to me, Etsuko. Back in Tokyo—that’s where I first met him, you see—back in Tokyo, it was just the same thing. Oh no, this is nothing new to me. I’ve learnt to expect such things.’

“And you say you’re going back into town tonight? On your own?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Etsuko. After Tokyo, Nagasaki seems a tame little town. If he’s still in Nagasaki, I’ll find him tonight. He may change his hotel, but he won’t have changed his habits.”

“But this is all so distressing. If you wish, I’d be glad to come and sit with Mariko until you get back.”

“Why, how kind of you. Mariko’s quite capable of being left on her own, but if you’re prepared to spend a couple of hours with her tonight, that would be most kind. But I’m sure this whole thing will sort itself out, Etsuko. You see, when you’ve come through some of the things I have, you learn not to let small set-backs like this worry you.”

“But what if he’s … I mean, what if he’s left Nagasaki altogether?”

“Oh, he hasn’t gone far, Etsuko. Besides, if he really meant to leave me, he would have left a note of some kind, wouldn’t he? You see, he hasn’t gone far. He knows I’ll come and find him.”

Sachiko looked at me and smiled. I found myself at a loss for any reply.

“Besides, Etsuko,” she went on, “he did come all the way down here. He came down all this way to Nagasaki to find me at my uncle’s house, all that way from Tokyo. Now why would he have done that if he didn’t mean everything he’s promised? You see, Etsuko, what he wants most is to take me to America. That’s what he wants. Nothing’s changed really, this is just a slight delay.” She gave a quick laugh. “Sometimes, you see, he’s like a little child.”

“But what do you think your friend means by going off like this? I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand, Etsuko, it hardly matters. What he really wants is to take me to America and lead a steady respectable life there. That’s what he really wants. Otherwise why would he have come all that way and found me at my uncle’s house? You see, Etsuko, this isn’t anything to be so worried about.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t.”

Sachiko seemed about to speak again, but then appeared to stop herself. She stared down at the tea things on the tray. “Well then, Etsuko,” she said, with a smile, “let’s pour the tea.”

She watched in silence as I poured. Once when I glanced quickly towards her, she smiled as if to encourage me. I finished pouring the tea and for a moment or two we sat there quietly.

“Incidentally, Etsuko,” Sachiko said, “I take it you’ve spoken to Mrs Fujiwara and explained my position to her.’

“Yes. I saw her the day before yesterday.”

“I suppose she’d been wondering what had become of me.”

“I explained to her that you’d been called away to America. She was perfectly understanding about it”

“You see, Etsuko,” said Sachiko, “I find myself in a difficult situation now.”

“Yes, I can appreciate that.”

“As regards finances, as well as everything else.”

“Yes, I see,” I said, with a small bow. “If you wish, I could certainly talk to Mrs Fujiwara. I’m sure under the circumstances she’d be happy to."

“No, no, Etsuko”—Sachiko gave a laugh—“I’ve no desire to return to her little noodle shop. I fully expect to be leaving for America in the near future. It’s merely a case of things being delayed a little, that’s all. But in the meantime, you see, I’ll need a little money. And I was just remembering, Etsuko, how you once offered to assist me in that respect.”

She was looking at me with a kindly smile. I looked back at her for a few moments. Then I bowed and said: “I have some savings of my own. Not a great deal, but I’d be glad to do what I can.”

Sachiko bowed gracefully, then lifted her teacup. “I won’t embarrass you”, she said, “by naming any particular sum. That, of course, is entirely up to you. I’ll gratefully accept whatever you feel is appropriate. Of course, the loan will be returned in due course, you can rest assured of that, Etsuko.”

“Naturally,” I said, quietly. “I had no doubts on that.”

Sachiko continued to regard me with her kindly smile. I excused myself and left the room.

In the bedroom, the sun was streaming in, revealing all the dust in the air. I knelt beside a set of small drawers at the foot of our cupboard. From the lowest drawer I removed various items—photograph albums, greeting cards, a folder of water-colours my mother had painted—laying them carefully on the floor beside me. At the bottom of the drawer was the black lacquer gift-box. Lifting the lid, I found the several letters I had preserved—unknown to my husband—together with two or three small photographs. From beneath these, I took out the envelope containing my money. I carefully put back everything as it had been and closed the drawer. Before leaving the room, I opened the wardrobe, chose a silk scarf of a suitably discreet pattern, and wrapped it around the envelope.

When I returned to the living room, Sachiko was refilling her teacup. She did not look up at me, and when I laid the folded scarf on the floor beside her, she carried on pouring the tea without glancing at it. She gave me a nod as I sat down, then began to sip from her cup. Only once, as she was lowering her teacup, did she cast a quick sideways glance at the bundle beside her cushion.

“There’s something you don’t seem to understand, Etsuko,” she said. “You see, I’m not ashamed or embarrassed about anything I’ve done. You can feel free to ask whatever you like.”

“Yes, of course.”

“For instance, Etsuko, why is it you never ask me anything about 'my friend’, as you insist on calling him? There really isn’t anything to get embarrassed about. Why, Etsuko, you’re beginning to blush already.’

“I assure you I’m not getting embarrassed.”

“But you are, Etsuko, I can see you are.” Sachiko gave a laugh and clapped her hands together. “But why cant you understand I’ve nothing to hide, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of? Why are you blushing like this? Just because I mentioned Frank?”

“But I’m not embarrassed. And I assure you I’ve never assumed anything.”

“Why do you never ask me about him, Etsuko? There must be all sorts of questions you’d like to ask. So why don’t you ask them? After all, everybody else in the neighbourhood seems interested enough, you must be too, Etsuko. So please feel free, ask me anything you like.”

“But really. I…”

“Come on, Etsuko, I insist. Ask me about him. I dà want you to. Ask me about him, Etsuko.”

“Very well then.”

“Well? Go on, Etsuko, ask.”

“Very well. What does he look like, your friend?”

“What does he look like?” Sachiko laughed again. “Is that all you wish to know? Well, he’s tall like most of these foreigners, and his hair’s going a little thin. He’s not old, you understand. Foreigners go bald more easily, did you know that, Etsuko? Now ask me something else about him. There must be other things you want to know.”

“Well, quite honestly …”

“Come on, Etsuko, ask. I want you to ask.”

“But really, there’s nothing I wish to …”

“But there must be, why won’t you ask? Ask me about him, Etsuko, ask me.”

“Well, in fact,” I said, “I did wonder about one thing.”

Sachiko seemed to suddenly freeze. She had been holding her hands together in front of her, but now she lowered them and placed them back on her lap.

“I did wonder”, I said, “if he spoke Japanese at all.”

For a moment, Sachiko said nothing. Then she smiled and her manner seemed to relax. She lifted her teacup again and took several sips. Then when she spoke again, her voice sounded almost dreamy.

“Foreigners have so much trouble with our language,” she said. She paused and smiled to herself. “Frank’s Japanese is quite terrible, so we converse in English. Do you know English at all, Etsuko? Not at all? You see, my father used to speak good English. He had connections in Europe and he always used to encourage me to study the language. But then of course, when I married, I stopped learning. My husband forbade it. He took away all my English books. But I didn’t forget it. When I met foreigners in Tokyo, it came back to me.”

We sat in silence for a little while. Then Sachiko gave a tired sigh.

“I suppose I’d better get back fairly soon,” she said. She reached down and picked up the folded scarf. Then without inspecting it, she dropped it into her handbag.

“You won’t have a little more tea?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Just a little more perhaps.”

I refilled the cups. Sachiko watched me, then said: “If it’s inconvenient about tonight, I mean—it wouldn’t matter at all. Mariko should be capable of being left on her own by now.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m sure my husband won’t object.”

“You’re very kind, Etsuko,” Sachiko said, in a flat tone. Then she said: “I should warn you, perhaps. My daughter has been in a somewhat difficult mood these past few days.”

“That’s all right,” I said, smiling. “I’ll need to get used to children in every kind of mood.”

Sachiko went on drinking her tea slowly. She seemed in no hurry to be returning. Then she put down her teacup and for some moments sat examining the back of her hands. “I know it was a terrible thing that happened here in Nagasaki,” she said, finally. “But it was bad in Tokyo too. Week after week it went on, it was very bad. Towards the end we were all living in tunnels and derelict buildings and there was nothing but rubble. Everyone who lived in Tokyo saw unpleasant things. And Mariko did too.” She continued to gaze at the back of her hands.

“Yes,” I said. “It must have been a very difficult time.”

“This woman. This woman you’ve heard Mariko talk about. That was something Mariko saw in Tokyo. She saw other things in Tokyo, some terrible things, but she’s always remembered that woman.” She turned over her hands and looked at the palms looking from one to the other as if to compare them.

“And this woman,” I said. “She was killed in an air- raid?”

“She killed herself. They said she cut her throat. I never knew her. You see, Mariko went running off one morning. I can’t remember why, perhaps she was upset about something. Anyway she went running off out into the streets, so I went chasing after her. It was very early, there was nobody about. Mariko ran down an alleyway, and I followed after her. There was a canal at the end and the woman was kneeling there, up to her elbows ifljer. A young woman, very thin. I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw her. You see, Etsuko, she turned round and smiled at Mariko. I knew something was wrong and Mariko must have done too because she stopped running. At first I thought the woman was blind, she had that kind of look, her eyes didn’t seem to actually see anything. Well, she brought her arms out of the canal and showed us what she’d been holding under the water. It was a baby. I took hold of Mariko then and we came out of the alley.”

I remained silent, waiting for her to continue. Sachiko helped herself to more tea from the pot.

“As I say,” she said, “I heard the woman killed herself. That was a few days afterwards.”

“How old was Mariko then?”

“Fjye, almost six. She saw other things in Tokyo. But she always remembers that woman.”

“She saw everything? She saw the baby?’

“Yes. Actually, for a long time I thought she hadn’t understood what she’d seen. She didn’t talk about it afterwards. She didn’t even seem particularly upset at the time. She didn’t start talking about it until a month or so later. We were sleeping in this old building then. I woke up in the night and saw Mariko sitting up, staring at the doorway. There wasn’t a door, it was just this doorway, and Mariko was sitting up looking at it. I was quite alarmed. You see, there was nothing to stop anyone walking into the building. I asked Mariko what was wrong and she said a woman had been standing there watching us. I asked what sort of woman and Mariko said it was the one we’d seen that morning. Watching us from the doorway. I got up and looked around but there wasn’t anyone there. It’s quite possible, of course, that some woman was standing there. There was nothing to stop anyone stepping inside.”

“I see. And Mariko mistook her for the woman you’d seen.”

“I expect that’s what happened. In any case, that’s when it started, Mariko’s obsession with that woman. I thought she’d grown out of it, but just recently it’s started again. If she starts to talk about it tonight, please don’t pay her any attention.”

“Yes, I see.”

“You know how it is with children,” said Sachiko. “They play at make-believe and they get confused where their fantasies begin arid end.’

“Yes, I suppose it’s nothing unusual really.”

“You see, Etsuko, things were very difficult when Mariko was born.”

“Yes, they must have been,” I said. “I’m very fortunate, I know.”

“Things were very difficult. Perhaps it was foolish t9 have married when I did. After all, everyone could see a war was coming. But then again. Etsuko, no one knew what a war was really like, not in those days. I married into a highly respected family. I never thought a war could change things so much.”

Sachiko put down her teacup and passed a hand through her hair. Then she smiled quickly. “As regards tonight, Etsuko,’ she said, “my daughter is quite capable of amusing herself. So please don’t bother too much with her.”

Mrs Fujiwara’s face often grew weary when she talked about her son.

“He’s becoming an old man,” she was saying. “Soon he’ll have only the old maids to choose from.’

We were sitting in the forecourt of her noodle shop. Several tables were occupied by office-workers having their lunch.

“Poor Kazuo-San,” Isaid, with a laugh. “But Ican understand how he feels. It was so sad about Miss Michiko. And they were engaged for a long time, weren’t they?”