“I’II drive you,” said Yuichi.
“Sorry to put you to so much trouble,” I said.
“Not at all. Who ever would have thought the club would be so busy tonight? It’s me who should apologize. Well! See you in the morning!”
She ran out in her high heels, and Yuichi called back to me, “Wait here! Watch TV or something!” then ran after her, leaving me alone in a daze.
I felt certain that if you looked really closely you would see a few normal signs of age—crow’s feet, less-than-perfect teeth—some part of her that looked like a real human being. Still, she was stunning. She made me want to be with her again. There was a warm light, like her afterimage, softly glowing in my heart. That must be what they mean by “charm.” Like Helen Keller when she understood “water” for the first time, the word burst into reality for me, its living example before my eyes. It’s no exaggeration; the encounter was that overwhelming.
Yuichi returned, jingling the car keys. “If she could only get away for ten minutes, she should have just called,” he said, taking off his shoes in the entryway.
I stayed where I was on the sofa and answered “Mmm,” noncommittally.
“Mikage,” he said, “were you a little bit intimidated by my mother?”
“Yes,” I told him frankly. “I’ve never seen a woman that beautiful.”
“Yes. But . . .” Smiling, he sat down on the floor right in front of me. “She’s had plastic surgery.”
“Oh?” I said, feigning nonchalance. “I wondered why she didn’t look anything like you.”
“And that’s not all. Guess what else—she’s a man.” He could barely contain his amusement.
This was too much. I just stared at him in wide-eyed silence. I expected any second he would say, “Just kidding.” Those tapered fingers, those mannerisms, the way she carried herself. . . I held my breath remembering that beautiful face; he, on the other hand, was enjoying this.
“Yes, but. . .” My mouth hung open. “You’ve been saying all along, ‘my mother’ this, and ‘my mother’ that. . . .”
“Yes, but. Could you call someone who looked like that ‘Dad’?” he asked calmly. He has a point, I thought. An extremely good answer.
“What about the name Eriko?”
“It’s actually Yuji.”
It was as though there were a haze in front of my eyes. When I was finally ready to hear the story, I said, “So, who gave birth to you?”
“Eriko was a man a long time ago. He married very young. The person he married was my mother.”
“Wow . . . I wonder what she was like.” I couldn’t imagine.
“I don’t remember her myself. She died when I was little. I have a picture, though. Want to see it?”
“Yes.” I nodded. Without getting up, he dragged his bag across the floor, then took an old photograph out of his wallet and handed it to me.
She was someone whose face told you nothing about her. Short hair, small eyes and nose. The impression was of a very odd woman of indeterminate age. When I didn’t say anything, Yuichi said, “She looks strange, doesn’t she?”
I smiled uncomfortably.
“As a child Eriko was taken in by her family. I don’t know why. They grew up together. Even as a man he was good-looking, and apparently he was very popular with women. Why he would marry such a strange . . .”he said smiling, looking at the photo. “He must have been pretty attached to my mother. So much so he turned his back on the debt of gratitude he owed his foster parents and eloped with her.”
I nodded.
“After my real mother died, Eriko quit her job, gathered me up, and asked herself, ‘What do I want to do now?’ What she decided was, ‘Become a woman.’ She knew she’d never love anybody else. She says that before she became a woman she was very shy. Because she hates to do things halfway, she had everything ‘done,’ from her face to her whatever, and with the money she had left over she bought that nightclub. She raised me a woman alone, as it were.” He smiled.
“What an amazing life story!”
“She’s not dead yet,” said Yuichi.
Whether I could trust him or whether he still had something up his sleeve . . . the more I found out about these people, the more I didn’t know what to expect.
But I trusted their kitchen. Even though they didn’t look alike, there were certain traits they shared. Their faces shone like buddhas when they smiled. I like that, I thought.
“I’ll be out of here early in the morning, so just help yourself to whatever you want.”
A sleepy-looking Yuichi, his arms full of blankets, pillows, and pajamas for me, showed me how the shower worked and pointed out the towels.
Unable to think of much of anything after hearing such a (fantastic!) life story, I had watched a video with Yuichi. We had chatted about things like the flower shop and my grandmother, and time passed quickly. Now it was one in the morning. That sofa was delectable. It was so big, so soft, so deep, I felt that once I surrendered to it I’d never get up again.
“Your mother,” I said after a while. “I bet the first time she sat on this sofa in the furniture store, she just had to have it and bought it right then and there.”
“You got it,” he said. “As soon as she gets an idea in her head she does it, you know? I just stand back in amazement at her way of making things happen.”
“No kidding.”
“So that sofa is yours for the time being. It’s your bed. It’s great for us to be able to put it to good use.”
“Is it,” I ventured softly, “is it really okay for me to sleep here?”
“Sure,” he said, without a hint of hesitation.
“I’m very grateful.”
After the usual instructions on how to make myself at home, he said good night and went to his room.
I was sleepy, too.
Showering at someone else’s house, I thought about what was happening to me, and my exhaustions washed away under the hot water.
I put on the borrowed pajamas and, barefoot, went into the silent living room. I just had to go back for one more look at the kitchen. It was really a good kitchen.
Then I stumbled over to the sofa that was to be my bed for the night and turned out the lamp. Suspended in the dim light before the window overlooking the magnificent tenth-floor view, the plants breathed softly, resting. By now the rain had stopped, and the atmosphere, sparkling, replete with moisture, refracted the glittering night splendidly.
Wrapped in blankets, I thought how funny it was that tonight, too, here I was sleeping next to the kitchen. I smiled to myself. But this time I wasn’t lonely. Maybe I had been waiting for this. Maybe all I had been hoping for was a bed in which to be able to stop thinking, just for a little while, about what happened before and what would happen in the future. I was too sad to be able to sleep in the same bed with anyone; that would only make the sadness worse. But here was a kitchen, some plants, someone sleeping in the next room, perfect quiet . . . this was the best. This place was . . . the best.
At peace, I slept.
* * *
I awoke to the sound of running water.
Morning had come, dazzling. I arose drowsily and went into the kitchen. There was “Eriko-san,” her back turned to me. Her clothing was subdued compared to last night’s, but as she turned to me with a cheery “Good morning!” her face, even more brilliantly animated, brought me to my senses. “Good morning,” I answered. She opened the refrigerator, glanced inside, and looked at me with a troubled air.
“You know,” she said, “I’m always hungry in the morning, even though I’m still sleepy. But there’s nothing to eat in this house. Let’s call for takeout. What would you like?”
I stood up. “Would you like me to make something?”
“Really?” she said, and then, doubtfully, “Do you think you can handle a knife, half-asleep?”
“No problem.”
The entire apartment was filled with light, like a sun-room. I looked out at the sw
eet, endless blue of the sky; it was glorious.
In the joy of being in a kitchen I liked so well, my head cleared, and suddenly I remembered she was a man. I turned to look at her. Déjà vu overwhelmed me like a flash flood.
The house smelled of wood. I felt an immense nostalgia, in that downpour of morning light, watching her pull a cushion onto the floor in that dusty living room and curl up to watch TV.
* * *
She attacked the food—cucumber salad and soupy rice with eggs—with gusto.
It was midday. From the building’s garden we could hear the shouts of children playing in the springlike weather. The plants near the window, enveloped in the gentle sunlight, sparkled bright green; far off in the pale sky, thin clouds gently flowed, suspended. It was a warm, lazy afternoon.
I couldn’t have dreamed of this yesterday morning, this scene of having breakfast at the house of someone I had just met, and it felt very strange. There we were, eating breakfast, all sorts of things set out directly on the floor (there was no table). The sunlight shone through our cups, and our cold green tea reflected prettily against the floor.
Suddenly Eriko looked me full in the face. “Yuichi told me before that you reminded him of Woofie, a dog we used to have. And you know—it’s really true.”
“His name was Woofie?”
“Yes, or Wolfie.”
“Hmm,” I said, thinking, “Woofie.”
“You have the same nice eyes, the same nice hair. . . . When I saw you for the first time yesterday, I had to force myself not to laugh. You really do look like him.”
“Is that right?” Not that I believed I looked like a dog, but I thought, if Woofie was a Saint Bernard, that would be pretty awful.
“When Woofie died I couldn’t get Yuichi to eat a bite, not a grain of rice, nothing. So it follows that Yuichi feels close to you. I can’t guarantee it’s romantic, though!” Mom shook with laughter.
“Okay,” I said.
“Yuichi says your grandmother was very kind.”
“Grandmother was really fond of him.”
“That boy. You know, I haven’t been able to devote myself full-time to raising him, and I’m afraid there are some things that slipped through the cracks.”
I smiled. “Slipped through the cracks?”
“It’s true,” she said with a motherly smile. “He’s confused about emotional things and he’s strangely distant with people. I know I haven’t done everything right. . . . But I wanted above all to make a good kid out of him and I focused everything on raising him that way. And you know, he is. A good kid.”
“I know.”
“You’re a good kid, too.” She beamed.
Her power was the brilliance of her charm and it had brought her to where she was now. I had the feeling that neither her wife nor her son could diminish it. That quality must have condemned her to an ice-cold loneliness.
She said, munching cucumbers, “You know, a lot of people say things they don’t mean. But I’m serious: I want you to stay here as long as you like. You’re a good kid, and having you here makes me truly happy. I understand what it’s like to be hurt and to have nowhere to go. Please, stay with us and don’t worry about anything. Okay?”
She emphasized her words by looking deep into my eyes.
“. . . Naturally, I’ll pay rent and everything,” I said, desperately moved. My chest was full to bursting. “But yes, till I find another place to live, I’d really appreciate your putting me up.”
“Of course, of course, think nothing of it. But instead of rent, just make us soupy rice once in a while. Yours is so much better than Yuichi’s,” she said, smiling.
To live alone with an old person is terribly nerve-racking, and the healthier he or she is, the more one worries. Actually, when I lived with my grandmother this didn’t occur to me; I enjoyed it. But looking back, I can’t help thinking that deep down I was always, at all times, afraid: “Grandma’s going to die.”
When I came home, my grandmother would come out of the Japanese-style room where the TV was and say, “Welcome home.” If I came in late I always brought her sweets. She was a pretty relaxed grandmother and never gave me a hard time if I told her I was going to sleep over somewhere or whatever. We would spend a little time together before bed, sometimes drinking coffee, sometimes green tea, eating cake and watching TV.
In my grandmother’s room, which hadn’t changed since I was little, we would tell each other silly gossip, talk about TV stars or what had happened that day; we talked about whatever. I think she even told me about Yuichi during those times.
No matter how dreamlike a love I have found myself in, no matter how delightfully drunk I have been, in my heart I was always aware that my family consisted of only one other person.
The space that cannot be filled, no matter how cheerfully a child and an old person are living together—the deathly silence that, panting in a corner of the room, pushes its way in like a shudder. I felt it very early, although no one told me about it.
I think Yuichi did, too.
When was it I realized that, on this truly dark and solitary path we all walk, the only way we can light is our own? Although I was raised with love, I was always lonely.
Someday, without fail, everyone will disappear, scattered into the blackness of time. I’ve always lived with that knowledge rooted in my being: perhaps that’s why Yuichi’s way of reacting to things seemed natural to me.
And that’s why I rushed into living with them.
I gave myself permission to be lazy until May. I was in paradise. I still went to my part-time job, but after that I would clean house, watch TV, bake cakes: I lived like a housewife.
Little by little, light and air came into my heart. I was thrilled.
What with Yuichi’s school and job, and Eriko’s working at night, the three of us were almost never home at the same time. At first I would get tired. I wasn’t used to sleeping in the living room, and I was constantly coming and going between the Tanabes’ and the old apartment to get things in order, but I soon got used to it.
I loved the Tanabes’ sofa as much as I loved their kitchen. I came to crave sleeping on it. Listening to the quiet breathing of the plants, sensing the night view through the curtains, I slept like a baby. There wasn’t anything more I wanted. I was happy.
I’ve always been like that—if I’m not pushed to the brink, I won’t move. This time it was the same. For having been granted such a warm bed after finding myself in the direst straits, I thanked the gods—whether they existed or not—with all my heart.
One day I went back to the old apartment to take care of the last of my things. When I opened the door, I shuddered. It was like coming back to a stranger’s house.
Cold and dark, not a sigh to be heard. Everything there, which should have been so familiar, seemed to be turning away from me. I entered gingerly, on tiptoe, feeling as though I should ask permission.
When my grandmother died, time died, too, in this apartment. The reality of that fact was immediate. There was nothing I could do to change it. Other than turning around and leaving, there was only one thing to do—humming a tune, I began to scrub the refrigerator.
Just then the telephone rang.
I picked up the receiver, knowing who it would be. It was Sotaro. He was my old . . . boyfriend. We broke up about the time my grandmother’s illness got bad.
“Hello? Mikage?” The sound of his voice made me want to weep with nostalgia.
“Long time no see!” I cried out joyfully. We were beyond displays of shyness.
“Yeah, well, you haven’t been coming to classes, so I started wondering what was wrong and I asked around. They told me your grandmother had died. I was shocked. . . . That’s really rough.”
“Yes. So I’ve been pretty busy.”
“Can you come out now?”
“Sure.”
As we decided where to meet, I looked up at the window. The sky outside was a dull gray. Waves of clouds were being pushed
around by the wind with amazing force. In this world there is no place for sadness. No place; not one.
Sotaro loved parks.
Green places, open spaces, the outdoors—he loved all of that, and at school he was often to be found in the middle of a garden or sitting on a bench beside a playground. The fact that if you wanted to find Sotaro you’d find him amid greenery had entered into university lore. He was planning to do some kind of work with plants.
For some reason I keep getting connected to men who have something to do with plants.
We were the very picture of a student couple in my happier days (Sotaro is always cheerful). Because of his obsession we would plan to meet outside even in the middle of winter, but I was late so often that we found a compromise meeting place. We hit on a ridiculously large coffee shop on the edge of the park.
So this day, too, there was Sotaro, sitting in the seat nearest the park in that large coffee shop, looking out the window. Outside, against the backdrop of the entirely overcast sky, the trees trembled in the wind, rustling. I made my way over to him, snaking around the comings and goings of the waitresses. He smiled when he saw me.
I sat down across from him and said, “I wonder if it’s going to rain.”
“Naah, it’s clearing up, don’t you think? Funny, isn’t it, we haven’t seen each other in all this time and we talk about the weather.” His smiling face put me at ease.
It’s so great, I thought, having tea in the afternoon with someone you really feel at home with. I knew how wildly he tosses in his sleep, how much milk and sugar he takes in his coffee. I knew his face in front of the mirror, insanely serious, as he tries to tame his mop of unruly hair with the hair dryer. Then I thought, if we were still together I would be worrying about how I’ve just chipped the nail polish on my right hand scrubbing the refrigerator.
In the middle of gossipy chitchat, as if suddenly remembering something, he changed the subject. “I hear you’re living with that Tanabe guy.”
That startled me. I was so surprised I let my cup tilt sideways and spilled my tea into the saucer.