“I have a solution,” said Mrs. Asaki. She was starting to sweat under her kimono. She shrank with distaste from what she was about to do.
“We’ve always wanted a child of our own,” she began. She steeled herself to meet Mrs. Kobayashi’s startled eyes. The words poured out: they could adopt little Masako. The neighbors could be trusted to keep quiet. All the children could still grow up together, right on the same lane. No one would have to miss out on anything.
“After all,” she concluded, “these kinds of arrangements have been going on for centuries.”
The amazement in Mrs. Kobayashi’s eyes changed to gradually dawning awareness. For a brief unguarded instant, her eyes narrowed with hate.
Mrs. Asaki’s own shame twisted into an answering flash of anger. This young woman had an inflated sense of what life owed her. How quickly she had forgotten the staggering debt her family owed. Where was her gratitude now?
“It seems to me you’re forgetting how society works,” Mrs. Asaki told her coldly. “Families survive by helping one another. We were there for you and your family in your worst hour of need. Who’ll be there for us, when we’re old and helpless with no children to look after us?”
Mrs. Kobayashi hung her head and said nothing.
“You already have children,” Mrs. Asaki said. “You’re young and healthy.” She was stung by the unfairness of it. “You can still have many more.”
Years later, when Mrs. Asaki broke the news to Masako about her adoption, she related these events in a far more benign light. In her version, both parties came to a mutual decision in the spirit of what was best for the family. Which, if one really thought about it, was exactly what had happened.
She told her daughter on her twentieth birthday, when she turned legally of age. She took her into the parlor to formally deliver the news.
“What a pity your father’s not here,” she said. Mr. Asaki had died two years earlier from lung complications. “He wanted so much to see you grow up.”
Masako listened carefully as her mother told the story. But she didn’t seem shocked. She asked no questions. Did she already know? That possibility had never occurred to Mrs. Asaki.
Masako finally asked one question. “Was she sad,” she asked, “the day she gave me up?” She said this calmly, almost conversationally. But the nakedness in her eyes gave her away.
“Why yes, of course she was!” cried Mrs. Asaki. Then she paused. Part of her wanted to keep going, because it was what her daughter needed to hear. But the other part of her was reluctant.
So she compromised. “She shed a tear, and she stroked your head one last time before she handed you over to me,” she said. “Then she bowed, and I bowed, and she thanked me for agreeing to raise you as my own.”
In reality there had been no tears. Mrs. Kobayashi had seemed vacant, almost distracted; her complexion had a yellowish cast and there were dark circles under her eyes. And there was no ceremonial handing over of the child. When Mrs. Kobayashi took formal leave of the Asaki house, baby Masako had been sound asleep upstairs. While the two women exchanged formal bows and polite phrases in the outer guest vestibule, little Yoko stood quietly by, her shoes on and ready to go. She made no fuss, she did not ask after her little sister, she did not clutch on to the hanging sleeve of her mother’s kimono. She seemed to sense that her mother was no longer strong enough to deal with childish demands. When Mrs. Kobayashi finally ushered her down the garden path toward the outer gate, the little girl had looked back with an expression of such gravity, such adult sentience, that Mrs. Asaki had shivered.
chapter 27
Back in her own house, Mrs. Asaki padded down the long hall toward the kitchen. It was time to make advance preparations for dinner.
She hadn’t cooked in years. She had given it up when her daughter became the lady of the house. It was good to be back in charge again while her daughter was away.
But ara, what was this unwelcome intrusion? Mr. Nishimura was vacuuming the tatami floor of the informal dining area, wearing a thin undershirt and jogging pants. He did this every Sunday on his day off-Mrs. Asaki always heard the vacuum cleaner from the other side of the house-but she’d never realized how much he spread himself around in the process. The low table, pushed off to the side, was piled with his Sunday newspapers. Two empty bottles of beer stood among them. His jogging jacket lay flung into a corner of the room, and the radio had been switched to some unfamiliar station playing enka, those heartfelt torch songs heard in traditional drinking houses.
At his mother-in-law’s entrance, Mr. Nishimura’s expansive air shrank. This was her house, after all.
“Maa maa, so busy at work! Much obliged,” laughed Mrs. Asaki as she passed through the dining area into the kitchen. She cast a pointed glance at all the clutter on the low table.
Mr. Nishimura grinned at her, but as soon as he was done vacuuming he gathered up his newspapers and beer bottles and jacket, then slipped off to another part of the house.
He was a good man. Mrs. Asaki had picked him out herself, with the help of a matchmaker. She had chosen astutely and well. He was a good companion for her daughter, and in all these years he had not disappointed. But she was still vigilant-on warm nights she left the upstairs glass panels slightly open, so she could hear his footsteps on the gravel and check them against the clock beside her futon.
He wasn’t the kind of man she would have chosen for herself. Years ago, his coworkers had gone on strike because management had been grossly unfair. Mr. Nishimura, afraid of losing his job, hadn’t joined them. When his coworkers were fired, he received a promotion for his loyalty. Mrs. Asaki had been filled with quiet contempt. Her own husband would have never been so cowardly. But as a mother, she was glad that Masako and the girls would be safe.
The Kobayashi daughters had not chosen arranged marriages. This was hardly surprising, given their mother’s history. Take Yoko and her American husband-but there was no point in comparing Yoko to anyone; she was always the exception. Tama, on the other hand, had been coaxed by her father into some introductory meetings.
Back around that time, Mrs. Asaki had visited the Kobayashi house and found Tama alone, looking over some résumés that a matchmaker had dropped off. Little Sarah was hovering over her aunt’s shoulder, even though she was too young to read.
“You’re breathing on my neck,” Tama said irritably. She was in a bad mood. Her college sweetheart, Masahiro Izumi, had not yet proposed.
She eventually relented, allowing the little girl to hold two photographs that had come with the résumé. It was a running joke that parents always reached for the résumé first-which listed a candidate’s education, current employment, parents’ affiliations, and hobbies-whereas young people reached for the photographs.
“Maa, pictures! What fun! Let’s see!” Mrs. Asaki dropped onto her knees beside the child, who obligingly held out the photographs so they could both share. In one photo, an earnest-looking young man stood in a formal suit; in another, he stood on a riverbank and grinned as he held up a fish on a line. Wordlessly, Tama handed over the accompanying résumé. Mrs. Asaki scrutinized it.
“He seems like a fine candidate,” she told her niece. “Well educated, hardworking, with a good future.”
“Yes,” said Tama brightly. “And in his free time, he enjoys fishing!” Her voice held such amused contempt that the little girl glanced up with interest.
Mrs. Asaki felt the sharp sting of insult. Her own daughter had married a man like this-Mr. Nishimura’s résumé was almost interchangeable with the one she held in her hands. But she could secretly relate to her niece; she would have felt the same way in her position. For Mrs. Asaki, too, knew what it was to possess beauty and charm, to have the arrogance that came from having options.