“Congratulations,” I said, smiling at my husband. “I’m so glad.”
Jiro looked up, as if noticing me for the first time.
“Why are you standing there like that?” he asked. “I wouldn’t mind some tea, you know.” He put down his towel and began combing his hair.
That evening, in order to celebrate Jiro’s success, I prepared a more elaborate meal than usual. Neither during supper, nor during the rest of the evening, did Ogata-San mention anything of his encounter with Shigeo Matsuda that day. However, just as we began to eat, he said quite suddenly:
“Well, Jiro, I’ll be leaving you tomorrow.”
Jiro looked up. “You’re leaving? Oh, a pity. Well, I hope you enjoyed your visit.”
“Yes, I’ve had a good rest. In fact, I’ve been with you rather longer than I planned.”
“You’re welcome, Father,” said Jiro. “No need to rush, I assure you.”
“Thank you, but I must be getting back now. There’s a few things I have to be getting on with.”
“Please come and visit us again, whenever it’s convenient.”
“Father,” I said. “You must come and see the baby when it arrives.”
Ogata-San smiled. “Perhaps at New Year then,” he said. “But I won’t bother you much earlier than that, Etsuko. You’ll have enough on your hands without having to contend with me.”
“A pity you caught me at such a busy time,” my husband said. “Next time, perhaps, I won’t be so hard pressed and we’ll have more time to talk.”
“Now, don’t worry, Jiro. Nothing has pleased me more than to see how much you devote yourself to your work.”
“Now this deal’s finally gone through,” said Jiro, “I’ll have a little more time. A shame you have to go back just now. And I was thinking of taking a couple of days off too. Still, it can’t be helped, I suppose.”
“Father,” I said, interrupting, “if Jiro’s going to take a few days off, can’t you stay another week?”
My husband stopped eating, but did not look up.
“It’s tempting,” Ogata-San said, “but I really think it’s time I went back.”
Jiro began to eat once more. “A pity,” he said.
“Yes, I really must get the veranda finished before Kikuko and her husband come. They’re bound to want to come down in the autumn.”
Jiro did not reply, and we all ate in silence for a while. Then Ogata-San said:
“Besides, I can’t sit here thinking about chess all day.” He laughed, a little strangely.
Jiro nodded, but said nothing. Ogata-San laughed again, then for several moments we continued to eat in silence.
“Do you drink sake these days, Father?” Jiro asked eventually.
“Sake? I take a drop sometimes. Not often.”
“Since this is your last evening with us, perhaps we should take some sake.”
Ogata-San seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally, he said with a smile: “There’s no need to make a fuss about an old man like me. But I’ll join you in a cup to celebrate your splendid future.”
Jiro nodded to me. I went to the cupboard and brought out a bottle and two cups.
“I always thought you’d go far,” Ogata-San was saying. “You always showed promise.”
“Just because of what happened today, that’s no guarantee they’ll give me the promotion,” my husband said. “But I suppose my efforts today will have done no harm.”
“No, indeed,” said Ogata-San. “I doubt if you did yourself much harm today.”
They both watched in silence as I poured out the sake. Then Ogata-San laid down his chopsticks and raised his cup.
“Here’s to your future, Jiro,” he said.
My husband, some food still in his mouth, also raised his cup.
“And to yours, Father,” he said.
Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often it is heavily coloured by the circumstances in which one remembers, and no doubt this applies to certain of the recollections I have gathered here. For instance, I find it tempting to persuade myself it was a premonition I experienced that afternoon, that the unpleasant image which entered my thoughts that day was something altogether different — something much more intense and vivid — than the numerous day-dreams which drift through one’s imagination during such long and empty hours.
In all possibility, it was nothing so remarkable. The tragedy of the little girl found hanging from a tree — much more so than the earlier child murders — had made a shocked impression on the neighbourhood, and I could not have been alone that summer in being disturbed by such images.
It was the latter part of the afternoon, a day or two after our outing to Inasa, and I was occupying myself with some small chores around the apartment when I happened to glance out of the window. The wasteground outside must have hardened significantly since the first occasion I had watched that large American car, for now I saw it coming across the uneven surface without undue difficulty. It continued to come nearer, then bumped up on to the concrete beneath my window. The glare on the windscreen prevented me from seeing clearly, but I received a distinct impression the driver was not alone. The car moved around the apartment block and out of my vision.
It must have been just then that it happened, just as I was gazing towards the cottage in a somewhat confused state of mind. With no apparent provocation, that chilling image intruded into my thoughts, and I came away from the window with a troubled feeling. I returned to my housework, trying to put the picture out of my mind, but it was some minutes before I felt sufficiently rid of it to give consideration to the reappearance of the large white car.
It was an hour or so later I saw the figure walking across the wasteground towards the cottage. I shaded my eyes to see more clearly; it was a woman — a thin figure — and she walked with a slow deliberate step. The figure paused outside the cottage for some time, then disappeared behind the sloping roof. I continued to watch, but she did not re-emerge; to all appearances, the woman had gone inside.
For several moments, I remained at the window, unsure what to do. Then finally, I put on some sandals and left the apartment. Outside, the day was at its hottest, and the journey across those few dried acres seemed to take an eternity. Indeed, the walk to the cottage tired me so much that when I arrived I had almost forgotten my original purpose. It was with a kind of shock, then, that I heard voices from within the cottage. One of the voices was Mariko’s; the other I did not recognize. I stepped closer to the entrance, but could make out no words. For several moments I remained there, not sure what I should do. Then I slid open the entrance and called out. The voices stopped. I waited another moment, then stepped inside.
Chapter Ten
After the brightness of the day outside, the interior of the cottage seemed cool and dark. Here and there, the sun came in sharply through narrow gaps, lighting up small patches on the tatami. The odour of damp wood seemed as strong as ever.
It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust. There was an old woman sitting on the tatami, Mariko in front of her. In turning to face me, the old woman moved her head with caution as if in fear of hurting her neck. Her face was thin, and had a chalky paleness about it which at first quite unnerved me. She looked to be around seventy or so, though the frailness of her neck and shoulders could have derived from ill-health as much as from age. Her kimono was of a dark sombre colour, the kind normally worn in mourning. Her eyes were slightly hooded and watched me with no apparent emotion.
“How do you do,” she said, eventually.
I bowed slightly and returned some greeting. For a second or two, we looked at each other awkwardly.