The Snow Kimono (24 page)

Your father, Miss Sachiko, is a truly valued customer.

They are in an unfurnished room. Against the walls, hanging on horizontal bars, are
bolts of cloth. They are arranged to mirror the changing day, from dawn to noon,
late afternoon to dusk. And, finally, night.

Beside each array stands a young woman dressed in a kimono made from one of the samples.
Seven girls. Seven kimono. All different. All exquisite.

Each of the girls is painstakingly made-up, her face powdered, her hair tied up,
pinned. Each arrangement coded. Each face porcelain-perfect. Their lacquer rosebud
lips glistening, as though, just now, they had sipped from a water cup, the memory
of which still clings to their lips.

To one side, two women tend a brazier on a wheeled cabinet. An ancient iron kettle,
two squat cups, a bamboo whisk. Rows of small stoppered jars arrayed on shelves.
They are preparing tea for her father and Mr Ishiguro. She can smell the faintly
perfumed burning coals.

Negotiations, she knows, will not begin until this ritual is complete. She will not
be allowed to stay.

A girl not much older than her comes in. She bows to Mr Ishiguro, goes to stand inside
the door. She too is meticulously made-up.

As though Mr Ishiguro has read Sachiko’s thoughts, he nods to the new girl.

The girl comes over to Sachiko, takes her arm. Mr Ishiguro has asked me to show you
the mills, she says, sliding the door closed behind her. I am Misako. And you are
Sachiko, are you not?

Misako leads her down a long corridor. There is a wooden door
at its far end. She pushes it open. When they step through the opening, Sachiko is
momentarily disoriented.

I know, Misako says. I had the same feeling when I first stepped out here. The corridor
is so long, you think you’re walking the building’s length, but you’re not, you’re
walking through it.

They have emerged along one side of an enclosed square, parts of which are open,
designed to trap the light. Other parts are shaded, with carefully tended gardens,
oases of tranquillity where Sachiko imagines one might sit and read. Or think. Or
meet at night. In the centre of the square there is a lotus pond, so large she cannot
see its outer limits.

What a beautiful garden, she says.

Yes, it is, isn’t it.

Misako too stands there for a moment surveying the gardens, the lotus pool, the trees,
the discrete areas of sun-filled light, as though for the first time. Then she breaks
free of her reverie.

They walk across to the shaded verge of the pond. Leading away from the edge, into
the water, is a pathway of flat stones.

I know, it looks like they’re floating, Misako says. But they’re not. See. And she
steps impossibly out onto the first stone.

The stepping stones did not lead directly across the pond. Instead, at certain points,
they branched off. As Sachiko and Misako made their way across the water, a brightly
coloured comet’s tail of red and gold and silver koi trailed after them.

When they stepped off the last stone onto the edge at the far side of the pool, they
stood facing the building opposite. There was a door in the wall in front of them,
the mirror image of the door through which they had just come. Misako opened it to
a deafening clatter and they both stepped inside.

In the semi-darkness, rows of women sit at looms. Each loom is lit by a narrow, overhead
light. From each, cloth spills into wooden troughs below. The cloth looks like brilliantly
coloured, viscous liquid.

Some of the women glance up when they enter the room. None of them stops what they
are doing. There are a number of girls her own age sitting at the tables with the
older women. They too look up.

She sees the unasked question: Is this the new girl who will soon be joining them?

A luminous white cloth catches Sachiko’s eye. In the overhead light, it is as if
the cloth has been spun from newly sunlit snow. She recognises the fabric instantly,
its pattern—tall thin stems of still-budding orchids pushing up through freshly fallen
snow.

Oh, she says, leaning into Misako, her voice alive with surprise. This fabric was
one of my grandmother’s favourites. I remember helping her lay the kimono she made
from it out in the snow, so that the cold could fix its colours.

Yes, it’s beautiful, Misako says. We’ve only just begun making it again.

So, Sachiko says, is this where I will be working?

Misako takes a step back, frowns, then looks into the vast room again; at the rows
of women working there, the young girls, the looms, the shuttles, the bolts of freshly
woven cloth.

She turns to Sachiko. Says something. But Sachiko cannot hear what it is over the
noise of the machines. Misako points to the door.

They went to sit in the sunlit courtyard.

You know, Sachiko, Mr Ishiguro was right, Misako said eventually.

What do you mean?

Mr Ishiguro told us all you were coming. He said you were beautiful. And he was right.
You are very, very beautiful, Sachiko.

Sachiko felt the heat rise to her face.

You don’t believe me?

I don’t know, she said. You are beautiful yourself, Misako. And besides, Mr Ishiguro
does not know me. He has never met me before.

Misako laughed, a short, soft, not unfriendly laugh.

Oh, Mr Ishiguro knows a great many things about you, Sachiko. A great many things.
And you are mistaken. He
has
met you before.

When? she said.

Years ago. When you were young. And a number of times since.

She wanted to ask Misako what she meant. But Misako was now sitting on the stone
wall, leaning back on her arms, swinging her legs, warming her face in the sun. Her
eyes were closed.

How do you bear it? Sachiko said.

What? Misako asked.

That, in there, being tied to it all day.

Misako’s laugh seemed to well up from within her again. She was shaking her head,
smiling.

Oh no, Sachiko, she said. I don’t think you understand.

And she laughed her strange, full-bodied laugh once again.

Chapter 23

SO, Hideo, Mr Ishiguro said, the car will come for you at nine.

Sachiko and Misako were still sitting in the courtyard. Mr Ishiguro and her father
were standing in the open doorway behind them.

Agreed? he asked.

Sachiko’s father looked across to her, then back to Mr Ishiguro. He nodded.

Agreed, he said.

Nine o’clock then, Mr Ishiguro repeated. Don’t look so worried, Hideo. I assure you,
everything will work out for the best. You will see.

Mr Ishiguro turned to glance at Sachiko across the stone expanse that separated them.

What had Misako said?
Mr Ishiguro knows a great many things about you, Sachiko.

The two men bowed to each other. Mr Ishiguro turned
again and bowed to Sachiko. His
hand was resting on her father’s shoulder.

Are you ready to go, daughter? her father called to her.

Yes, she said.

Thank you, Misako, for showing me the looms, she said. I hope that one day we will
meet again.

I am sure we will, Sachiko, Misako said.

Sachiko stood up.

Mr Ishiguro was now walking alongside her father, guiding him towards the stone archway
at the far end of the courtyard. They both stopped to wait for her.

Miss Sachiko, Mr Ishiguro said.

Mr Ishiguro.

I hope Misako has looked after you, he said.

Yes, she said. She was extremely…She searched for a word. Kind, she said, when what she really meant was free.

The archway led down to the stone terrace overlooking the forecourt. At the far end
of the driveway, the car sat half-hidden in the shadows of the trees.

The three of them—Mr Ishiguro, her father and Sachiko—walked down the steps onto
the driveway. She could hear the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel.

I have arranged a car to take you to Ikeda’s, Mr Ishiguro was saying to her father.

Sachiko saw that the car had already begun to glide silently out from its shadows
towards them.

The same car will pick you up tonight at nine, Hideo. Remember, at nine. Not eight
as usual. Miss Sachiko can make herself at home. Ikeda-san will be there. Everything
has been arranged. Ume will take care of her.

The car came to a stop beside them.

Mr Ishiguro turned back to her father. Don’t
worry
, Hideo, he was saying. You will
see. You have made the right choice. He grasped her father high on his shoulder once
again. I promise you. A man like Ikeda comes along only once in a lifetime.

A uniformed driver got out of the car. He stood waiting. Mr Ishiguro bowed to her
father.

He turned to Sachiko. Reached out, took her fingers lightly between his, bowed.

You are a beautiful young woman, Miss Sachiko, he said. Your father must be very
proud of you.

Sachiko thought again of what Misako had told her:
Mr Ishiguro said you were beautiful.

It has been a pleasure to meet you, he said.

Then the uniformed driver was opening the door.

Miss, he said.

As they pulled away, Sachiko looked out the side window. Mr Ishiguro had gone to
stand at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met for an instant as the big car wheeled
around to face the gates through which they had come. Then the car swept
him from
view. She felt sure, however, that if she turned to look out the rear window he would
still be there, immutable, silent, his long shadow spilling down the dark stairs
towards them, as if he was a stone custodian positioned there to see who came, and
who went.

Chapter 24

THE journey took them half an hour. With them slumped back in the car’s plush interior,
the world passed by outside as though they were in a high-sided boat.

They began the slow climb up the mountainside. Sachiko could hear the dull sound
of the engine effortlessly rising and falling as the great black machine pulled itself
up and around each bend. Trees floated past them outside. It was late afternoon.
The light was already beginning to fall.