The house is still up on the hill in any case. I went there once with Kyōko. Through the boarded up windows we could make out the piano, with a sheet of music on it, covered in dust. The door to his wife’s room stood wide open, but through the cracks we could see little more than a narrow bed. We sat down on one of the steps that led into the garden and listened for a long time to the wind as it roared through the trees. I hear him playing, said Kyōko, and pointed to the waving branches. Her finger towards the skies: I hear them all, up there, playing.
Be that as it may.
I would like to see the teacher again, because I’d like to admit I was a poor student. I am sorry, I’d like to tell him. I am sorry you wasted your time on me.
He drew a circle in the gravel with his toe, put his feet inside it and took them out again. He loosened his tie: Otherwise I can’t get any air.
81
If I remember correctly. He hesitated. Actually I’d rather death were the end. A clean cut. With nothing after. You step into a vacuum. No body any more, no history. Completely dissolved. Or how is it? His voice like crumpled paper. You should know. I didn’t tell you the whole truth. His breath became shallow. When you asked me if I had children. Kyōko and I. We have. We had a son. His name was, is Tsuyoshi. He pulled the tie from around his neck and threw it quickly over the back of the bench, breathed more freely, continued. His voice like crumpled paper, carefully unfolded and smoothed out again as best as possible: Tsuyoshi. The strong one.
We don’t talk about him very often. And when we do, it is Kyōko who talks about him, not me. She curls up on the couch, like a cat, buries her head in a cushion and talks into it. Always the same: I called him the little glowworm. His smile, so bright. And: You know. The blue sweater I knitted for him. How I undid it, stitch by stitch. And: You know? The little stuffed rabbit at the head of his bed. His rosy cheeks as he slept. And: You know? The similarity. It’s always the same. She talks of things I can’t remember. Of soap bubbles and dandelion heads. The only thing I remember is the pain, a hot wave, the pain of indifference, when they told me: Your son is handicapped. He’ll never be like others. The feeling, no feeling: There’s been a mix-up. This child is not mine but someone else’s. It is a mistake, this child, I reject it.
82
Good News! Kyōko ran towards me.
The best thing about working…
… is coming home. She pulled me by the arm, through the hall and into the living room. Our house. She had furnished it, had gone through the rooms right after we bought it and took measurements. The couch would go here, the television over there. The snow globes and the musical clocks on the sideboard. The dancing ballerina on the side table. The naked lady with her feet in the sand would hang on this wall, on the other one the sailor with the droopy eyes. Our home. All the furniture and objects and photos. But most important of all were Kyōko’s books. Every year she would declare: We need a new bookcase.
You have to guess. She pulled me close to her on the couch. I pretended to be stupid. There must be cabbage and peppers for dinner. She laughed. My hand on her stomach. Aha, I know! Strawberries and peaches! Her stomach, shaking with laughter. I heard happiness in it. Expectation. A little fear. And happiness again. Sh, sh, she went at last, you’ll wake it up. She, almost whispering. Soon we’ll be a family. The word was soft and melted in my mouth. A family, I repeated and melted at the same time as the word: A f-a-m-i-l-y.
83
I had a vision of the child, as yet incomplete, as yet not there, as yet nameless, growing in our midst. I had a vision of a person, in this world, growing up in it, who would in some way make it a better place. It was a typical image. Typical in its particularities. My child, our child, would be capable of it, no question. It would live up to this, would surpass this where possible, beyond expectations, would surpass this vision. One way or another, it would be the continuation of what I and my father before me had begun. I bore this vision, as Kyōko bore the child, in my heart. And even little Kei could not damage my faith in it.
It was late at night, shortly before the birth, when I heard Kyōko padding through the house. I found her, round bellied, in front of the wardrobe in the baby’s room, surrounded by colorful little hats and jackets and bootees.
Can’t you sleep? I walked towards her.
No. She turned away. The moon behind her. I was dreaming. She spoke as if she were still dreaming. I dreamed of little Kei.
Who is little Kei?
The girl with the birthmark. They said her face was half covered with a red mark, red as fire, from forehead to neck. They said it under their breath. Her parents were well aware of the talk and kept her hidden during the day. They would only take her outside after dark. Her father would carry her on his shoulders and show her the streets we played in. Her mother would sing as she trotted along beside them. They talked of it in hushed voices. The three would walk through the night, avoiding the glare of the street lights. And if anyone came towards them, they would plunge into the bushes, stand still against a wall, or hurry away with their heads down. When I still lived in the neighborhood, I was seven, perhaps eight years old, I quite often went past their house. Blank windows. Sometimes the curtains moved. I imagined little Kei was waving to me. How lonely she must be. I wished I had the courage to wave back. Strange. To dream of her after all these years. I haven’t thought about her for a long time. In the dream she was the one who asked me: Are you lonely? I said: Very. Without you I am very lonely.
Only a dream. You were dreaming. I crouched beside Kyōko on the cold floor and folded one of the tiny jackets, no bigger than my hand.
Is that right? Kyōko was suddenly wide awake. We would love our child, even if –
— What nonsense! I didn’t let her finish.
And when we were lying in bed: It’s a boy. The doctor told me it’s a boy.
I was already half asleep: He will be called Tsuyoshi.
84
The birth was apparently easy. I wasn’t there. I bought flowers on the way to the hospital. Their gentle scent in my nostrils mingled with the slightly sour smell I recognized from the teacher’s house. I thought of him as I ran up the steps, a song on my lips, I pushed open the door. I thought of him as I walked along corridors, past rooms and beds and countless name plates, at last read Ohara Kyōko, entered and on entering felt again that my life had reached a definitive point. It was a feeling of triumph. With one blow it was a feeling of defeat. They won’t bring him in to me. Kyōko’s first sentence after I walked in. I don’t know why. But they won’t bring him to me. Something’s not right. I don’t know why. Her hand grasped mine. Tetsu, please. I want them to bring him to me. Even if he has no eyes and no mouth. It doesn’t matter. I must see him. The flowers seemed withered, seemed dead, something hardened within me. I freed myself from Kyōko’s grasp, her hand fell back on the bedcover. What are you talking about? Everything is alright. I have a plan. Do you hear? I have thousands of plans. I screamed: Thousands! Do you hear? Thousands! We’re playing baseball together, Tsuyoshi and I. He’s the batter, I’m the catcher. You’re sewing a uniform for him, black and yellow, like the Giants. He’s interested in history. No. In geography. I buy him a globe and with our fingers we travel around the world. We fight. For fun, of course. We fight like in the movies we watch together at night, when you’re already asleep. He’s stronger than me. He has a strong punch. He hits me in the belly and I think: He’ll be a strong man. He studies medicine. No. Technology. No. Business. He’s the best in his class, and I’m proud of him. I don’t say it but I am proud. I deny it. I am so proud that I deny it. My pride is such that I behave as if it were nothing: That he is the best not only in his class, the best son, altogether, the best man I have ever met in my life.