“Are you a neighbour?” the old woman asked. She had a slow way of speaking her words.
“Yes,” I said. “A friend.”
She continued to look at me for a moment, then asked: “Have you any idea where the occupant has gone? She’s left the child here on her own.”
The little girl had shifted her position so that she was sitting alongside the stranger. At the old woman’s question, Mariko looked at me intently.
“No, I’ve no idea,” I said.
“It’s odd,” said the woman. “The child doesn’t seem to know either. I wonder where she could be. I cannot stay long.”
We gazed at each other for a few moments more.
“Have you come far?” I asked.
“Quite far. Please excuse my clothes. I’ve just been attending a funeral.”
“I see.” I bowed again.
“A sorrowful occasion,” the old woman said, nodding slowly to herself. “A former colleague of my father. My father is too ill to leave the house. He sent me to pay his respects. It was a sorrowful occasion.” She passed her gaze around the inside of the cottage, moving her head with the same carefulness. “You have no idea where she is?” she asked again.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I cannot wait long. My father will be getting anxious.”
“Is there perhaps some message I could pass on?” I asked.
The old woman did not answer for a while. Then she said: “You could perhaps tell her I came here and was asking after her. I am a relative. My name is Yasuko Kawada.”
“Yasuko-San?” I did my best to conceal my surprise. “You’re Yasuko-San, Sachiko’s cousin?”
The old woman bowed, and as she did so her shoulders trembled slightly. “If you would tell her I was here and that I was asking after her. You have no idea where she could be?”
Again, I denied any knowledge. The woman began nodding to herself once more.
“Nagasaki is very different now,” she said. “This afternoon, I could hardly recognize it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I suppose it’s greatly changed. But do you not live in Nagasaki?”
“We’ve lived in Nagasaki now for many years. It’s greatly changed, as you say. New buildings have appeared, even new streets. It must have been in the spring, the last time I came out into the town. And even since then, new buildings have appeared. I’m certain they were not there in the spring. In fact, on that occasion too, I believe I was attending a funeral. Yes, it was Yamashita-San’s funeral. A funeral in the spring seems all the sadder somehow. You are a neighbour, you say? Then I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her face trembled and I saw she was smiling; her eyes had become very thin, and her mouth was curving downwards instead of up. I felt uncomfortable standing in the entryway, but did not feel free to step up to the tatami.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said. “Sachiko often mentions you.”
“She mentions me?” The woman seemed to consider this for a moment. “We were expecting her to come and live with us. With my father and myself. Perhaps she told you as much.”
“Yes, she did.”
“We were expecting her three weeks ago. But she has not yet come.”
“Three weeks ago? Well, I suppose there must have been some misunderstanding. I know she’s preparing to move any day.”
The old woman’s eyes passed around the cottage once more. “A pity she isn’t here,” she said. “But if you are her neighbour, then I’m very glad to have made your acquaintance.” She bowed to me again, then went on gazing at me. “Perhaps you will pass a message to her,” she said.
“Why, certainly.”
The woman remained silent for some time. Finally, she said: “We had a slight disagreement, she and I. Perhaps she even told you about it. Nothing more than a misunderstanding, that was all. I was very surprised to find she had packed and left the next day. I was very surprised indeed. I didn’t mean to offend her. My father says I am to blame.” She paused for a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend her,” she repeated.
It had never occurred to me before that Sachiko’s uncle and cousin would know nothing of the existence of her American friend. I bowed again, at a loss for a suitable reply.
“I’ve missed her since she left, I confess it,” the old woman continued. “I’ve missed Mariko-San also. I enjoyed their company and it was foolish of me to have lost my temper and said the things I did.” She paused again, turned her face towards Mariko, then back to me. “My father, in his own way, misses them also. He can hear, you see. He can hear how much quieter the house is. The other morning I found him awake and he said it reminded him of a tomb. Just like a tomb, he said. It would do my father much good to have them back again. Perhaps she will come back for his sake.”
“I’ll certainly convey your feelings to Sachiko-San,” I said.
“For her own sake too,” the old woman said. “After all, it isn’t good that a woman should be without a man to guide her. Only harm can come of such a situation. My father is ill, but his life is in no danger. She should come back now, for her own wellbeing if for nothing else.” The old woman began to untie a kerchief lying at her side. “In fact, I brought these with me,” she said. “Just some cardigans I knitted, nothing more. But it’s fine wool. I’d intended to offer them when she came back, but I brought them with me today. I first knitted one for Mariko, then I thought I may as well knit another for her mother.” She held up a cardigan, then looked towards the little girl. Her mouth curved downwards again as she smiled.
“They look splendid,” I said. “It must have taken you a long time.”
“It’s fine wool,” the woman said again. She wrapped the kerchief back around the cardigans, then tied it carefully. “Now I must return. My father will be anxious.”
She got to her feet and came down off the tatami. I assisted her in putting on her wooden sandals. Mariko had come to the edge of the tatami and the old woman lightly touched the top of the child’s head.
“Remember then, Mariko-San,” she said, “tell your mother what I told you. And you’re not to worry about your kittens. There’s plenty of room in the house for them all.”
“We’ll come soon,” Mariko said. “I’ll tell Mother.”
The woman smiled again. Then she turned to me and bowed. “I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. I cannot stay any longer. My father, you see, is unwell.”
“Oh, it’s you, Etsuko,” Sachiko said, when I returned to her cottage that evening. Then she laughed and said: “Don’t look so surprised. You didn’t expect me to stay here for ever, did you?”
Articles of clothing, blankets, numerous other items lay scattered over the tatami. I made some appropriate reply and sat down where I would not be in the way. On the floor beside me, I noticed two splendid-looking kimonos I had never seen Sachiko wear. I saw also — in the middle of the floor, packed into a cardboard box — her delicate teaset of pale white china.
Sachiko had opened wide the central partitions to allow the last of the daylight to come into the cottage; despite that, a dimness was fast setting in, and the sunset coming across the veranda barely reached the far corner where Mariko sat watching her mother quietly. Near her, two of the kittens were fighting playfully; the little girl was holding a third kitten in her arms.
“I expect Mariko told you,” I said to Sachiko. “There was a visitor for you earlier. Your cousin was here.”
“Yes. Mariko told me.” Sachiko continued to pack her trunk.
“You’re leaving in the morning?”
“Yes,” she said, with a touch of impatience. Then she gave a sigh and looked up at me. “Yes, Etsuko, we’re leaving in the morning.” She folded something away into a corner of her trunk.