One Morning Like a Bird (41 page)

    ‘What?’

    ‘I didn’t know until the end.’

    ‘But it’s yours?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘You’re sure?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘I suppose  .   .   . I suppose he has some of your features?’

    ‘His eyes perhaps. His back  .   .   .’

    ‘His back?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘So you’re a father.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘A father  . . .’ He shakes his head, lights another cigarette. ‘Tomorrow, this conversation will seem like a dream.’

    ‘Will you tell Mother?’

    ‘I have no idea. What can I say to her? By the way, before I boarded the train Yuji informed me of something quite interesting.’

    ‘I should have spoken sooner.’

    ‘Of
course
you should.’

    ‘You were away.’

    ‘Please, do not make excuses.’ For a few moments, looking past Yuji, Father gently rubs, with the tip of his thumb, the crease between his eyebrows. ‘I am a grandfather,’ he says at last.

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Your mother is a grandmother.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘And he, this child, he is with his mother now?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Alissa?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘They intend to return one day?’

    ‘They still have a house.’

    ‘In Kanda.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘And he is healthy.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Emile.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘You could have chosen a name that’s easier to pronounce.’

    ‘If I have brought shame  .   .   .’

    ‘It’s not a question of that. It’s not  .   .   . All that  .   .   . With things as they are, I mean. We must think more practically.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Do they sell sake in this place?’

    ‘I don’t think so.’

    ‘A pity.’

    Father reaches for the photograph, puts on his glasses again. ‘I should like to have seen him. Once, at least.’

    ‘Please, take it with you,’ says Yuji.

    ‘The photograph?’

    ‘When you tell Mother, you could show it to her.’

    ‘You have others?’

    ‘No.’

    ‘Then you must keep it.’

    ‘Please take it.’

    ‘You don’t want it?’

    ‘It’s not that.’

    ‘No?’ They look at each other, study each other. The minute hand of the clock slides to ten to the hour.

    ‘Your train,’ says Yuji.

    ‘The train? Mmm  . . .’

    Yuji pays. They cross the road in silence, enter the halls of the station.

    ‘I’m near the engine, I think,’ says Father, hurrying past the steel pillars at the side of the train as a guard follows behind them slamming doors.

    ‘Here?’

    ‘Three?’

    ‘Yes.’

    Father climbs the metal steps. Yuji swings up the cases.

    ‘We cut it fine again,’ says Father through the open window. ‘Another minute  . . .’

    ‘Please give Mother my best wishes.’

    ‘I will.’

    ‘Thank her for the biscuits.’

    ‘I will.’

    ‘And Uncle Kensuke and Auntie Sawa  . . .’

    ‘All of them. Yes.’

    A bell rings. A bell answers. The guard shouts a final warning.

    ‘It may be a while,’ says Yuji.

    ‘You must do what is necessary,’ calls Father. ‘Ryuichi can take care of us now.’ He opens a hand in farewell. Yuji, turning away, shields his eyes from the smoke.

19

While Miyo is out of the house watching, with the neighbourhood children, a show put on by a travelling entertainer (puppets in a shoebox theatre strapped to the back of a bicycle), Yuji telephones Mr Masuda. Masuda sounds as though he has just returned from a long lunch and is, perhaps, considering locking his door and sleeping for an hour, but his voice becomes more attentive when Yuji mentions Horikawa.

    ‘You used to work for him?’

    ‘I was the one who wrote the copy for your company last year. “The newest ships, the fastest routes  . . .”   ’

    ‘“Niigata Docks are truly a gateway to the world.” I remember it. It had a good ring to it.’

    ‘Thank you.’

    ‘Mr Horikawa was a man I had a deep respect for. We sometimes played
shogi
together. Had things been different for him  . . .’

    ‘His circumstances  . . .’

    ‘Yes  . . . It is very regrettable.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘But how is it I can help you, Mr Takano? Is this a business matter?’

20

The maid, a girl with large, drowsy eyes, the sleeves of her kimono tied up, a damp cloth in one hand, ushers Yuji into a room at the back of the house where a window at floor level admits a flow of even, shallow light. She puts out a sitting cushion for him beside the alcove. The scroll in the alcove is an ink drawing of a frog, a slightly mischievous-looking creature described with a half-dozen energetic lines. Something about this picture makes Yuji smile, and he is smiling still when Mrs Miyazaki comes in, bowing, chattering, her face puckered with embarrassment to find herself alone with such an educated young man, a published poet, a friend of her brilliant sons. Also, of course, someone who has seen her in consternation, who has seen her weep.

    To calm her, he asks about the drawing of the frog.

    ‘Junzo chose it,’ she says, ‘before he left. It was the one he liked best for springtime. It’s only a copy of course. I think the original is in a museum in Kamakura. Or Nara? I’m sure
you
know where it is.’

    ‘So he’s gone?’

    ‘It’s nearly two weeks now. The Association of Patriotic Schoolgirls was at the station to wave them off. There were so many of them, all cheering so excitedly it was quite difficult for us to get close to the train and I was afraid we wouldn’t find him. But then I heard his voice, calling me. We had his belt, you see. His thousand-stitch belt. Everyone in the street had sewed a stitch on it, lots of strangers too, though now with women waiting on every corner with needle and thread, it’s a wonder anybody has the time to do anything else, don’t you think?’

    ‘He’s gone to China?’

    ‘He said they would be near a big river, though, of course, he wasn’t allowed to tell me any more.’

    ‘The Yangtze, perhaps.’

    ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Perhaps it was that one.’

    ‘And Taro? There were two flags outside the house.’

    ‘He’s in Hanoi,’ she says. ‘They needed people who could speak French.’

    ‘Translators.’

    She nods. ‘We were very honoured.’

    ‘His French was always better than mine,’ says Yuji.

    ‘I’m sure that can’t be true,’ she says.

    ‘I brought something for Junzo. I thought  . . . I’d hoped he might still be here.’

    ‘How kind of you,’ she says, glancing at the package in Yuji’s hands.

    ‘It’s just a book. Some French poems I had when I was at university. I tried to give it to him once before, when he volunteered  . . . And there’s a letter.’

    ‘From you?’

    ‘No. It’s an old letter. Some of us thought it didn’t even exist. But Junzo always believed in it.’

    ‘So,’ she says, trying not to look confused. ‘It’s an old one, then.’

    Yuji puts the package on the mat and with both hands slides it towards Mrs Miyazaki’s knees. Seeing the formality of his gesture, she accepts the package with as low a bow as the fullness of her waist, the tightness of her obi, permits. She touches the indigo cloth, Uncle Kensuke’s ‘test piece’, in which the book and letter are wrapped. ‘And this?’ she asks.

    ‘Yes,’ says Yuji. ‘It’s all for him.’

    For while she sits there, quiet as a flower. Her eyes have brimmed but the tears will not fall in front of him again.

    ‘You are going away too?’ she asks.

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Then perhaps you will see him. You could give it to him yourself.’

    ‘I am not going to China,’ says Yuji.

    ‘No?’

    ‘Somewhere else.’

    ‘Ah.’ She nods, then bows again. ‘On behalf of the Miyazaki family, please accept our congratulations. May you return safely one day.’

    He thanks her. ‘One day,’ he says.

    The door slides open. The maid, excusing herself through a stifled yawn, brings in the tea.

21

One more day for Fujitomi. One more day in the blue van. One more strip of soft money. When Yuji climbs from the van near a tram-stop in Nihombashi, he tells Fujitomi he is closing the house in Hongo.

    ‘Then you’ll need some help,’ says Fujitomi, wiping the April warmth from his throat. ‘Somewhere to store the valuables?’

    Yuji nods.

    ‘I’ve got a place up in Meguro Ward. Steel door. A ventilation grille even a mosquito would have trouble getting through. I’ve been putting some of my own stuff there  . . .’

    ‘Your own?’

    ‘It’s good to be prepared, eh? When do you need it?’

    ‘Soon.’

    ‘How soon?’

    ‘Tomorrow afternoon?’

    ‘As soon as that  . . . Well, let’s see. If I can leave those boxes of Shanghai eggs at the bakers in Monzen Nakacho and find somewhere for the golf balls, the van will be empty enough.’

    ‘Thank you,’ says Yuji. ‘I’ll be ready.’

    They smile at each other through the open window. If, thinks Yuji, Fujitomi asks him a direct question now, if he asks him
the
direct question, then he will answer it, directly, but Fujitomi, long conditioned by that habitual restraint of curiosity required by the pick-up and delivery business, does not ask.

    ‘I’ll be there at half twelve,’ he says. ‘People will be busy with the midday meal. We’ll have less of an audience.’ He revs the engine, finds the gear at the third attempt. ‘Looks like I shall have to do my own driving for a while,’ he shouts, then grins, peers from the far window to watch the road, and moves the van, in a series of lurches, into the evening traffic.

When Yuji reaches home, two men walk into the house behind him. They do it so naturally – the air of people whose right to enter this or any house is beyond debate – that Yuji, turning to face them in the vestibule, is, at first, more impressed than alarmed, as if they have performed an interesting trick, a little theatrical coup. One man is several years older than the other. They are wearing smartly pressed but inexpensive suits, the same suits Yuji saw them in outside the cemetery.

    ‘Surprised to see us?’ asks the elder man.

    ‘We know all about you,’ says the younger, taking off his shoes and leaving them neatly beside the step.

    ‘We’re going to have a look around,’ says the elder man. ‘You don’t mind, I hope?’