The Snow Kimono (13 page)

A minute or two later, Soseki returned.

Allow me, Mrs Kanzai, he said, to introduce you. This is Mr Ikeda, Mr Katsuo Ikeda.
From Tokyo. He stepped aside to reveal the subject of his introduction. Like you,
Madame, Soseki said, Mr Ikeda is one of our most valued customers. Mr Ikeda, Mrs
Natsumi Kanzai.

Natsumi looked up to see the surprisingly young man standing beside Soseki bowing
formally to her. She knew
him, of course. Shirahama was a small place. She had seen
him. At the markets. Strolling along the beach. Visiting the shrine above the town
late one evening. Only yesterday she had observed him talking earnestly to Mr Soseki.
She thought, for a moment, that he had glanced her way. He was shorter than she had
imagined. Slimmer. Still, he was beautifully dressed—his linen suit white, his dark
hair coiffed, his bow tie brilliant, the kerchief tucked into his top pocket. And
how exquisite were his hand-stitched shoes.

She looked back up at his freshly shaven, still-innocent face. Oh dear, she thought,
how
very
young he is. Perhaps she had made a terrible mistake.

Mrs Kanzai, Soseki said, has been coming to Shirahama for a number of years now.
I think of her almost as a niece.

Katsuo reminded her, standing there beside her table, his hat behind his back, of
a young actor, someone you might expect to see in an old American movie, something
from the forties.

Mrs Kanzai, he said, extending his hand. I am very pleased to meet you. She raised
her perfectly curved hand up to him. He held her long, thin fingers briefly in his.
He bowed again.

Beneath his nonchalance, Natsumi discerned a certain nervousness. She had felt it
in his hand. It was something she had learned to do years before. Take a potential
suitor’s hand immediately you meet them. Not later, when they have regained control.

I trust I am not disturbing you, her new table companion said. But…He gestured with
his palm to the crowded outdoor
sitting area. I came down late this morning, he said.
I didn’t expect so many people to be out and about so early.

On the other hand, his voice was strong. Not like a young person’s voice at all.
Rich, measured, like someone older, more experienced. Perhaps he wasn’t as young
as she thought.

You are welcome, Mr Ikeda, she said. I was just reading. Please.

Katsuo turned to Soseki.

Thank you, Soseki-san, he said. I appreciate what you have done for me. He bowed.
Soseki inclined his head.

You are more than welcome, Mr Ikeda, he said.

Soseki bowed to Natsumi.

Thank you, Mrs Kanzai, for accommodating Mr Ikeda, he said. It is most gracious of
you.

Natsumi smiled.

You’re welcome, as always, Soseki. It is the least I could do.

Once again, she watched Soseki’s retreating form. When she turned back to the table
she glanced up to take a discreet look at her new companion, but he was already looking
directly at her.

The following morning, Katsuo rose from his bed early. He bathed, put on the new
suit he had bought the previous afternoon. He went to sit in the garden as he usually
did. The air was crisp.

Kenji, the proprietor of The Nine-Tailed Fox, the inn he was staying at, came with
his tea.

Another beautiful day, Master Ikeda, Kenji said.

Another beautiful day, Kenji, Katsuo replied. And he thought: How wonderful life
can be.

While he sipped his tea he went over what he knew of her. Her name was Natsumi. Natsumi
Kanzai. How old did he think she was? Twenty-eight? Thirty, perhaps? Her skin still
so lovely. And when she had turned, her hand raised, to look half-squinting out over
the beach, towards the sea, how beautiful her profile was.

It had been Natsumi who asked the first question.

Soseki-san tells me you are from Tokyo, Mr Ikeda.

No, I am from Osaka, he said. But I have been working in Tokyo for a number of years
now.

Oh, Osaka, she said. I am from Osaka. She hesitated. So, were you born there, in
Osaka, Mr Ikeda?

Yes, he said.

He thought that it was both thrilling and strange that it was she who was asking
him, someone she had just met, such intimate questions.

Where, she said.

Where? he asked.

Where were you born, in Osaka?

So surprised by the question was he that he gave her the district in which his uncle
lived, instead of where he had been born. It was too late, and too complicated, however,
to take it back.

What a coincidence, she said. I live quite nearby. Do you know Hamada’s?

Hamada’s was the famous artists’ shop where he had bought his drawing materials when
he was a child, when he thought it was an artist that he wanted to be. The shop was
centuries old, its high, narrow aisles stocked with all manner of things: special
fan-shaped brushes, brushes as fine as a cat’s whisker, oil sticks, hundreds of different
types of coloured pencil, all with their little heads poking out of their burrows
like families of weasels, tiers and tiers of them, inks in tins, woodblocks, carving
instruments as sharp as any surgeon’s, solvents in glass-stoppered jars. In short,
it was a magical place, a place in which he had lost himself for hours and hours
as a child.

No, he said. I can’t say that I do.

He shifted in his chair.

What a pity, she said. It’s a beautiful old shop. And so close to you. You must go
there sometime.

He had expected the conversation to cease at this point. They had, after all, already
established the polite limits of what each needed to know about the other in order
for them both to now fall comfortably silent. A silence which he would soon break.
It would give him the upper hand. But she continued: And what is it you do in Tokyo,
Mr Ikeda?

I work for a publishing house, he said.

Ah, publishing. A noble profession.

And you, Mrs Kanzai? he asked, now emboldened.

Me? I am a governess, she said. To two lovely children.
Their father is a wealthy
businessman. Someone who is very, very busy. Who is often away. Although, it was
not always so. Now, however, each summer, he sends me here with the children, to
Shirahama, for the holidays.

And the children’s mother? he asked.

To tell you the truth, I am not sure what has happened to her, she said. I know that
some time ago she disappeared. Now she rarely comes up in conversation. My understanding
is that the children’s father has not seen her in years.

She sat looking across at the shimmering horizon. Although it was early, there were
people already on the beach, with picnic baskets, umbrellas, children. Others—couples,
their cuffs half-rolled, white-calved—were walking down to the water’s edge. Only
to run back laughing. Pursued by the small rippled sea.

So, she was from Osaka. A governess. To two young children. Boys, girls? He did not
know. And he did not have the opportunity to ask. It seemed Natsumi had confessed
enough.

Would you excuse me, Mr Ikeda? she said, looking at her watch. I have to go and collect
the children. I hope you enjoy your stay in Shirahama. Then she added, as an afterthought,
something he remembered, because he found it so odd: I hope it is everything you
wish it to be, she said.

She gathered up her book, and her bag, placed some money on the table, and left.
She departed so quickly that he barely had time enough to stand.

After a few minutes, Soseki came out to the table to pick up the money. So, what
do you think, Master Ikeda?

I don’t know, Soseki. There is no disputing that she is beautiful…

The truth was that he had no idea what to make of Natsumi. He had never met a woman
like her before. Someone older than he was, forthright, in control. Someone who knew
her own mind. She was uncharted territory. He did not know where to start. But start,
he knew, he must. It was what he had set himself to do. He took his notebook out,
tore out a sheet of paper.

My dear Tadashi,
he wrote.
I am done with little sparrows. I have finally met her,
the woman I told you about. Her name is Natsumi. Would you believe she lived just
two streets away from me in Osaka?

The following morning, hoping to see her, he went to the markets again. It had been
here that he had first observed her.

He spent a fruitless hour or two walking up and down the market stalls before deciding,
on the spur of the moment, to walk up through the narrow back streets to the mountain
shrine. He was thinking about Natsumi as he walked, when, as though it were his thoughts
that had summoned her, there she was, standing not more than fifty metres away. She
had some parcels under one arm. She was trying to open the gate to one of the summer
houses with her free hand.

He thanked the gods for how lucky he had been.

Here, he said. Let me help you.

Oh, it’s you, she said, a little startled. Mr Ikeda.

So, she remembered his name.

Mrs Kanzai.

Instead of opening the gate, he reached out and took the parcels from her. Open the
gate, and she will thank you, and walk in. Take the parcels, and
she
will open the
gate. And you can carry the parcels to the door. Who knew what might happen after
that.

Thank you, she said, turning back to him. She reached for the parcels.

I’ll carry them to the door if you like, he said. It will save you having to put
them on the ground. He smiled.

She looked around nervously, a little unsure. A woman of propriety, he thought. Excellent,
excellent. And now that he regarded her as a challenge, his nervousness evaporated.

All right then, she said. But just to the door.

Is this where you’re staying? he asked.

Yes, she said, avoiding his eyes. When they reached the top of the stairs, she took
her key out from her purse.

This will be fine, she said. Thank you, Mr Ikeda.

Katsuo, he said.

Katsuo.

He placed the parcels in her outstretched arms. She seemed more nervous than ever.

Goodbye, she said.

Clearly she was not going to open the door while he was standing there.

Perhaps we could meet sometime, he said.

No, she said. No, I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Ikeda, but I don’t think that would
be possible. Her back was to the door.

The more Katsuo looked at her, the more attractive he found her. She seemed so vulnerable
standing there.

Well, thank you, Mrs Kanzai, for allowing me to help, he said.

Thank you, Mr Ikeda,
for helping me. I knew when I met you that you were a man of principle.

As he walked down the path this phrase kept ringing in his ears. A man of principle.
How dismayed he was by this coincidence. He was Katsuo Ikeda, not Tadashi Omura.
A man of principle!

When he got to the gate he opened it, stepped onto the street, pulled the gate to
behind him, turned, and without looking back, began walking towards the centre of
town.

My old friend Shigeo gave it to me, Kenji was saying. You remember, the caretaker
of the temple gardens, the one with the missing fingers. You met him last year.