The Snow Kimono (39 page)

Etsuko, he said.

Katsuo nodded, exhaled.

Very good, Tadashi, he said. He leaned forward again. But what does that prove?

From a legal point of view, it proves that you were there. Don’t you see that? And
if you meant him no harm, why buy a bus ticket in Etsuko’s name?

From a legal point of view? Katsuo said. My God, Tadashi, has
nothing
changed?

Omura ignored the slight. It was just another ploy.

Why Etsuko? he asked after some time. Weren’t you worried someone might check?

Some lives are full of risk, Tadashi. What is it people say about tempting fate?
Besides, who can remember back then? Etsuko Kaida? The name is meaningless. Just
like the millions of anonymous people who have existed but who have never left
a
mark on the world. Meaningless. Except perhaps to you. And who else? Professor Todo?
I heard he committed suicide. So clearly, not to him. And yes, you’re right. I resurrected
Etsuko! Maybe life is just a game, after all. Maybe I wanted to see who was the stronger,
me or…

He hesitated, as if to say: Well, now I know.

…or fate? Katsuo said.

Some game, Omura said. You killed a man.

Yes, he said. I did. I killed a man.

Katsuo seemed to reflect for a moment on what he had said.

On the other hand, he went on, I’ve always known that, one way or another, I would
never escape myself. That I would
always
have to pay. I think I just got tired of
waiting.

And what about Hideo?

What do you mean? He drew on his cigarette. My God, Tadashi, don’t you think Hideo
got tired of waiting too? You know, he came to me, wanting to buy Sachiko back. He
said to me he could not live with himself. He said he wanted to undo what he had
done. But you can’t do that, can you, Tadashi? You can’t undo what you’ve done. Nobody
can.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the bowl on the table again, waved the
smoke away.

And how do you know, Tadashi, he went on, how do you know that Hideo was ever going
to make it back across the bridge in any case? Back to the twinkling sanctuary of
the inn? There
was
no sanctuary. Not anymore. The empty room was
no longer empty.
He could no longer keep his thoughts at bay. They were always there, waiting for
him.

He got up and went to stand by the window.

No, he said. Hideo was finally cornered. Halfway across the bridge. And he knew it.
And cornered not by me. But by himself. His thoughts. Thoughts that had tormented
him for years, for what he had done. How could
any
father sell his own child?

Katsuo stood looking out into the growing darkness.

How many times had I imagined him, after every trip, walking up to the railing of
the bridge. How many times do you think I actually followed him? I used to see him
stop there on his evening walk. He’d stand at the railing, for five, ten minutes,
peering over the side. Listening to the sound of the water swirling below, over which
he could
still
hear the voices raging in his head. Knowing that, perhaps, this was
the moment, the moment to atone for the ghastliness of what he had done. But he could
never bring himself to do it. Even after he’d surrendered her. He always walked on.

Katsuo took the cigarette from his mouth, stubbed it out on the glass. He came over
to the table. Picked up the pack, but finding it empty threw it back onto the table.
He went to stand by the window again.

Don’t you see what I did, Tadashi? I put myself in his skin. And
I
could not live
with myself. I did not kill Hideo. I merely released him from his torment.

They went out onto the terrace. The evening shadows had already spilled down the
mountain, inundating the city, rubbing the edges off things. They talked on like
this into the night.

It soon became clear to Omura that Katsuo had thought he was merely there because
he had discovered the truth about Hideo’s death. That, in a way, Katsuo was relieved
now that this truth was out. He seemed strangely happy to chat. To fill him in on
what had happened to him over the years since they had last seen each other.

He told him what it had been like after Mariko left. What a mistake he had made letting
her go. How desolate he had felt. How empty. He told him of his self-imposed exile,
and of his return. Of how cruel the chance discovery of Mariko’s death so soon after
his return had seemed.

And then he told him about Sachiko. How he had found her. How he had sent her books.
Anonymously. Including his own. How having Sachiko around was like having Mariko
back. As though he had been forgiven.

He told Tadashi how they used to talk to each other. How she had never tired of answering
his questions.

And, after a long while, he told him of that fateful night, the night Sachiko died.
They had gone to Ume’s village in the mountains, he said. For a break. The week before,
Sachiko had received a letter telling her that her friend Kimiko had been found floating
in the pool at Takaragawa. She had drowned inexplicably during the night. Sachiko
took the news to be an omen. She said she felt trapped. She needed to get away.
Get
some air. So they decided to escape to the mountains. Just for a short time. Sachiko
was not due to give birth for another six weeks. They would come back to Osaka when
she was ready.

On the second afternoon we were there, he said, Ume took us up the mountain to see
its famous temple. It was cold. Snow from the previous night blanketed the hills.
I was worried, he said. But Sachiko insisted we go.

The sun is shining, she said.

She wore the snow kimono, the one her grandmother had made, the one she had worn
that first night, under her coat. We followed one of the many paths up through the
forest to the temple.

The shrine was beautiful, tranquil. The woods indescribably quiet. We were the only
ones there. Each of us had felt the peacefulness that only newly fallen snow brings.
Amid the stillness, the leafless trees, the snow, the mountains rising above them,
we had felt blessed.

On the way down the mountain, however, the weather suddenly turned. It began to snow
again, lightly at first, then more heavily. We were still within sight of the shrine
when Sachiko said that she felt unwell. With me supporting her on one side, and Ume
on the other, we tried to walk on, but Sachiko became more and more distressed with
every step we took. All at once, she cried out: Oh, Katsuo. I need to stop. I think
the baby’s coming!

Ume and I lay Sachiko down on her coat. Ume felt her stomach. It was snowing heavily
now. And the baby
was
coming.

We could not stay where we were. It was far too cold now. We tried getting Sachiko
to her feet again, but she cried out again in pain.

It was then, Katsuo said, that I had a terrifying presentiment, a kind of falling
into place. I felt suddenly, he said, as if we had been lured there.

Where are we? I asked Ume.

We’re about a kilometre from the village, she said. It’s not far.

Being so close only seemed to make it worse.

Sachiko had started whimpering. I could hear the fear in her voice.

Oh Katsuo, Katsuo. Help me, she said. Please, please help me.

It was late afternoon.
The snow was falling. The trees, and the mountain, were already beginning to disappear.
And there were so many paths.

I don’t know the way, I said.

I will go, Katsuo-san, Ume said to me. I know which path to take. You stay here with
Sachiko.

She stood up, prepared to go.

Don’t worry, she said. It’s not far. Just keep Sachiko warm. I will be back soon.

And Ume set off into the falling snow.

Katsuo had taken Sachiko’s gloved hand in his. Talk to me, he said. Just talk to
me. It will take away the pain.

He no longer recalled, he said, the precise moment he realised—I remember the snow
had stopped, and the moon had already appeared above the mountain behind us—that
Ume was not coming back.

He recalled how still it was. How eerily beautiful.

And Ume did
not
return.

Hours later he heard their voices, and saw their burning torches through the trees.
In her haste, Ume had fallen from the path, into the steep ravine. And could not
get out. She had lain there for hours, calling.

On the outskirts of the village, in a small warm room, a man has stayed up late,
working into the night. Eventually—they have been there for some time—he hears the
faint cries of a woman echoing off the mountain. He puts down his pen. Listens. Walks
out into the night.

It is this that saves Ume. And Katsuo. And a tiny, blood-spattered newborn child.
But not Sachiko.

Chapter 44

WHO was it who said: There is another world—this is it.

The time, they both knew, had come. It was the early hours of the morning. They had
stopped talking. They had gone back to sit in the darkness of the long room.

I know you, Tadashi, Katsuo said eventually. You are still, I imagine, the man of
principle I once knew. I know where this will end. Unlike you, I gambled. And lost.
I am prepared to wait.