A Dictionary of Mutual Understanding (8 page)

I looked at my guest. ‘Did your private detective tell you the date of his death?'

He nodded. Three days before August 9. Life's cruel calendar. We sat in silence, the whiskey low in the bottle, until my visitor roused himself. ‘You said you had plans? I should go.' He pointed at the package. ‘I hope what you find is not too distressing.' He placed his glass on the table and rose to his feet. I did the same.

‘I'm sorry for my doubt. You seem so sure.'

‘I have no definitive proof, no, but this is what I've been told and what I believe: my name is Hideo Sato, birth name, Watanabe. I was born in Nagasaki. I am forty-six years old. I am your grandson. I can only hope the package confirms this.'

‘And if it doesn't?'

‘Then you never have to see or think of me again.'

Haragei: The term is a compound of hara (belly) and gei (art). Literally, it means belly-art. Most dictionaries define it as the verbal or non-verbal act one utilises to influence others by drawing upon one's power of accumulated experience in an attempt to solve a mutual problem. Haragei will enable people to reach mutual understanding without confrontation.

My daughter had shown skills as an artist from a young age. Perhaps she inherited the technical flair from Kenzo and maybe the love of colour and shape from me. Who knows how talent forms? Maybe she was only good because she practised. When aged no more than five or six, she would sit with paper at our table and ask me to draw a picture that she would attempt to copy. My efforts were clumsy but I would try my best to re-create a horse or a crane or a carp. Rubbing her nose, or singing away, she would choose a crayon and trace the outline. Soon she did not need my crude attempts to inspire her. Under the shade of our camphor tree, I would make flowers of raw silk for my hair while Yuko drew on fresh sheets of mulberry paper. As the years progressed, she moved on to thick oils and fine inks bought from an art shop not far from our home. She worked with bright colours: greens and reds and yellows, which she transformed into scenes from Nagasaki, our home and me in my brightest
kimonos. Not long after her fifteenth birthday, we passed a print shop displaying old etchings of foreign sailors unloading goods and geishas strolling next to them under parasols. Yuko said she wished she had that kind of talent and I assured her she did. Shy suddenly, she said Himura, her art teacher, had said she would benefit from formal training, an apprenticeship, perhaps. ‘Would that be possible?' She looked hopeful, flushed at the thought. Kenzo and I had discussed the matter and resolved to wait a year, to see if her interest remained. Lately, she had not been drawing as much and so I presumed the apprenticeship had only been a passing fancy. I did not realise she was still sketching, only these were images she could not show me. I found out why on October 16, 1936.

The church bells had chimed seven times when Yuko ran into the house. She said she had been taking tea at her friend Miho's house and had lost track of the time. I watched her bound upstairs, saying she would change before dinner. I noticed she had left her bag by the front door, and poking out, just an inch or two, was her sketchbook. I was pleased and instinctively reached for it. She had always shown me her work, keen for approval or gentle critique, and so there was no reason for me to think I was invading her privacy. As I turned the pages, sand drifted from the creases and fell to the floor. I saw the sea and a diving platform, rocks by a coppice, a man holding a bucket as he made his way down a path by the beach, two children playing in a field, dragonflies, sketched in detail, and then I reached the picture of a man in swimming trunks, reclining on a towel, asleep.
Iō
j
ima, August 22, 1936.

I will never forget the agony of that discovery, the sickness in my stomach, the rage and the confusion. How did they know one another? How had they met? And as I stared at that face, that body, the anger turned to dread as one more ugly question formed in my mind: what had he done to my daughter? The thought of that moment in the hall still stops me dead in my tracks, whatever I am doing. Every cell in my body wanted to climb those stairs and confront Yuko. I wanted to hit the truth from her, beat Sato from our lives. Had he done this on purpose? Had he sought her out? Why? What was she to him? I could think of no reasonable explanation. Thoughts came at me like the wind in a typhoon, uncontrollable, rising up and then falling away. This was not her fault, I told myself. Whatever had happened, Sato would be to blame.

I could hear Yuko upstairs, singing some folk song. Why had I not been more curious about all those missing hours? Why had I not noticed the bored lethargy that overcame her in the morning followed by the rush of activity come the changing light of afternoon. So transparent in hindsight the reason for her red cheeks as she ran to the mirror to brush her hair, the show of vanity, a new and disconcerting trait, lips ready to impart the explanation for another sudden departure.

What could I do to keep my daughter safe? She had been led astray but she was a loyal daughter corrupted only by this outside force. Sato had to be stopped. He must be stripped of his power, of his control over her. I would wipe him from our lives. This was my duty as a mother. I still try to believe all that followed I did only for her and no other reason, but who knows? Perhaps it
is too easy to paint vile actions with the gilded hue of noble intent. I tore the drawing from the sketchbook, and sat there, waiting in the dark for Kenzo to return. I had no hesitation about telling my husband. He needed to know. As I had done he would want to act immediately and I would have to persuade him of the need for patience.

I only had to wait twenty minutes before he walked into the room. He had been working long hours and was always tired. The navy had grown to a formidable size since the turn of the century. Vessels once built abroad were now assembled at domestic shipyards. Japan had become bold, ignoring naval restrictions, snubbing negotiations with the West, expanding its territories. The country's interest in mainland Asia had strained its relationship with other world powers and divided the military at home. Maybe Kenzo already knew what was on our nation's horizon, the blood coming in the dawn. He looked at me kneeling by the table, the sketch in front of me. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?' He clicked on a light. ‘Amaterasu, what's wrong?' He sat down next to me, picked up the piece of paper. ‘What is this? Did Yuko draw it?' I felt the rage return. ‘Why do you have this? This is Sato.'

‘I found it in Yuko's bag. I don't understand. How do they know one another?' His silence betrayed him. ‘You? You introduced them? Why, Kenzo? Why would you do such a thing?'

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I met him in the street by chance. We had a drink. We talked. We had another drink, and another. It was good to see him. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed his company. So much time had passed, it seemed harmless.'

‘What did you talk about?'

‘Work, friends from university, I don't know, golf.'

‘And Yuko?'

‘She wasn't sleeping, remember. She wasn't eating. I mentioned we were worried about her. He told me to send her along for an examination.'

The question tore from me. ‘Why? You know what he's like. You know his tastes.'

‘The picture means nothing. There will be an explanation.'

‘Kenzo, must you make me say it? Don't you see what this is?'

He shook his head. ‘There will be a reason.'

‘The reason is obvious.'

Kenzo pushed the drawing away and clasped his head in his hands. He looked up, as if remembering he should be angry at this offence. ‘Where is she?'

‘In her room.'

‘This must stop now.' He growled the words and began to stand up.

I reached for his hand to stop him. ‘Wait.'

‘What? We must tell her we know this minute. Send her away. To my sister. Fukuoka.'

‘And Sato?' He said nothing. ‘You would let him go unpunished?'

‘Of course not. I will speak to him.'

‘Speak?'

He bristled. ‘What would you have me do?'

‘We must make her realise what he has done here. We need to make her look beyond the fantasy she is caught up in. She needs to see what this means to us, to Sato's wife, to our friends, your colleagues, the city gossips.
Otherwise we'll lose her. She'll blame us when we drive them apart. She'll crawl back to him somehow. He'll win. We'll be the enemy.' I thought of all the lies I had told people over the years, the ones I had needed to tell and the ones that had fallen easily from my lips; fictions Kenzo was content to facilitate if it meant I would be his. ‘Sato must force their separation, not us.'

‘But we cannot let him –'

‘This will be over, soon. Trust me. The damage is done. We'll go to a matchmaker, find a husband, the way we had planned if she'd decided against the apprenticeship.'

He rubbed his forehead. ‘I can't sit here and pretend I know nothing. I can't stand the thought of him touching her.'

I took his hand. ‘We can do this. We must be patient.'

‘How can we let it go on?'

‘Kenzo, this is why. What if she thinks she loves him?' He could not answer and I folded the picture up. ‘Have dinner somewhere else tonight. Try not to drink too much. We'll fix this. Trust me. Go now.'

When Yuko came down to dinner I said her father had been detained at work. I studied her as we ate. My quiet child had flowered since that summer without us, until that day, understanding why. She was winter blossom burst from the chilled bud, delicate and yet defiant. Why had I not seen this? I should have been more watchful, more careful. She smiled at me as we picked at our food, recounted some tale about a friend, which must have been a lie. She frowned when I did not respond. ‘Are you well, Mother?'

I managed to smile. ‘There have been so many lunches and charity meetings, I feel I've been neglecting you.'

‘No, not at all. Don't feel bad. I've enjoyed this summer. I feel . . .'

‘Yes?'

She blushed as she replied. ‘Alive.'

Maybe Yuko, eventually, would have realised how Sato had used her for her youth, for her convenience, for her beauty. Maybe she would have learned she was not his first infidelity, perhaps not even his youngest. He would have thrown her away as he had so many others before her. But my regret is this: maybe if I hadn't tried to prise them apart so forcefully and suddenly then perhaps she would have had time to appreciate his weaknesses; she would have broken away from him naturally, and yes, just maybe, if that had happened, she would have lived.

On: People incur social and psychological indebtedness upon receiving a favour from those in superior positions. The concept of on derived from Chinese philosophy and Japanese feudal society. The samurai warrior fulfilled his obligations to his lord in battle, risking his life if necessary. Sons and daughters exercise acts of ko
(
filial piety) and take care of their ageing parents. Human relations are bound by a complicated network of mutual responsibilities and obligations.

Kenzo and I only had to wait two days before Yuko betrayed herself. She put on her sandals, an excuse light on her lips and said goodbye. The slim rectangle of her grey kimono dipped out of sight of the garden before I followed her down the hill. Under the canopy of a butcher's shop I watched her step inside a street car. I signalled for a taxi and told the driver I would pay him extra for an unusual errand. The city passed by in streaks of colour, dappled by sun, illuminated in shadow. Down through the centre, past Chinatown into a street of noise, trade and poverty; this is where Yuko went. She walked past stalls selling baked squid, buttered peanuts and fried wasabi peas and disappeared into a building between a noodle bar and a cycle-repair shop. That he would take her to this corner of Nagasaki where children ran naked and toothless women long since sent packing from the
brothels of Maruyama sold trinkets or themselves. That he would treat her like one of the city's whores. I vowed Sato would pay for this.

The driver stopped outside the building and I asked him to wait. I called out and an old woman appeared. She seemed amused by my presence. ‘Yeah? You lost?' I tried to peer into the gloom of the hall. ‘I'm looking for a girl.' She laughed. ‘Any particular kind?' She shouted behind her and a man appeared, bare-chested, a phoenix tattooed across his chest and arms. ‘Makito, who's around at the moment?' I opened my purse, a drawstring silk bag. ‘I'm not buying. I just need to know where the girl in the grey kimono goes.' She looked at the money in my hand. ‘The room number, that's all I want.' She gestured and the man disappeared. ‘You're not going to cause us any trouble, are you?' I told her no. I just needed information then I would go. She looked me over. ‘The wives normally don't want to know. Apartment 15.'

I told the driver to take me to Mitsubishi, and the smells and calls of the traders collecting excrement for the hillside farmers gave way to the stench of metallic smoke that belched from the brick factories of Kenzo's workplace. The receptionist cast curious glances at me when I delivered my note to Kenzo. My husband and I made an odd pair to many. They did not see what I loved in him and they could never know what he saw in me. I wrote the directions to Yuko's location and under the address I added, ‘Bring my daughter home.' I handed the girl the message and left.

When Kenzo returned with Yuko an hour or so later she ran to her room, eyes bloodied with tears. He went
to the cabinet and poured a drink. He walked to the window, kept his back to me. His voice was flat, as if it came from a place where emotion had been drugged. He said he had done what I had told him to do. He hadn't knocked, he hadn't politely waited, he had entered the room unannounced, he had found them together as planned. He paused and took a drink. ‘While I waited for Sato to dress, there was an empty bottle of sake on the windowsill. I thought when he came through from the bedroom I could break the glass, drive that bottle into his neck, hurt him. That's what a father should do for this affront, yes? But I couldn't. What kind of man does this make me?' I told him Sato was the moral coward, not us. Why should Kenzo punish himself when the doctor was the one in the wrong? He shook his head. ‘We did a bad deed today, wife. How can Yuko and I be the same again? How can this family be the same again?'

I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘All pain passes, eventually. We'll get through this moment. We'll be a proper family again. What we did, we needed to do. I'm sorry for the hurt it caused, but I'm not sorry for the outcome. Did he agree to our demands?'

Kenzo nodded yes, finished his drink and said he should get back to the office. I watched him leave and made my way to Yuko's room. She was sitting on a window seat, her body twisted away, statue-still. ‘I don't want to talk, Mother.' I knelt down by her feet. ‘I must tell you this then I'll go.' I told her the arrangement made between her father and Sato had been one of mutual understanding. I told her the doctor had been in agreement. He wanted
to safeguard his marriage and reputation; Kenzo and I wanted to protect her from the scandal. There must be no more contact, none. He had promised to leave the city. She looked at me then, anger and hate in her eyes. This I could stand as long as she was safe. I continued speaking. The arrangement suited everyone. In time, she would see this. Any disgrace for the family had been contained. We did what we had to do. ‘How did you find out?' I reached for her hand and she flinched. ‘The drawing, Yuko.' She started to cry and begged me to leave her alone. So I did.

We all tried to erase that afternoon from our memories, but the humiliation burned longest for Yuko and her father, perhaps indelibly. I believed Yuko and Sato's abasement was necessary. I needed Kenzo to see what kind of man his former friend was. He needed to witness the depravity of the doctor, and what better way than to put the evidence in front of his eyes? Yuko must be ripped from Sato. How else could we drive him away if any one of us clung to some romantic notion of him? All these years later, I dared not face what Yuko had written about the day but this cowardice forced me back to the page.

‘I cannot stand the thought of Father standing there in the doorway. He could not look at me, only Jomei. He stared at him with an expression of bewilderment and fury. I tell myself he saw only a brief sketch of us, just the outlines of our bodies. I tell myself he could not colour in the detail, the shadowed limbs, the tensed muscles, the texture and contrast of hair against skin. I tell myself he saw none of this. How else could I look at him again? Father said nothing. He just slid the doors behind him and waited in the other room. Jomei began to dress and told me not to be scared, we had done nothing wrong,
but whatever happened, he would take the blame. His last words were: “Cio-Cio-san, I won't let you go.”

‘He went through to the kitchen to speak with Father while I picked up my clothes. By the time I found the courage to join them, Father was alone, sitting at the table. I sat down opposite him and slid my hand across the surface until my fingers were an inch from the tips of his own. He moved his hand onto his lap. I wanted to beg his forgiveness but I just sat there paralysed by my shame. He stood up and walked to the door. I could not move. “Father, I love him.” He turned away from me and I realised he was crying. “Well then, you are a fool, and a child.” I started to cry too. “I'm not a child. He loves me too.” He wiped his tears from his eyes. “Oh, Yuko. No he doesn't. If he did, he'd still be here.” He opened the door. “Let's go home. We shall speak no more of this.” I wanted to run after Jomei, call him back, make him tell Father the truth. I looked for him outside in the street. Father had to be wrong. Jomei had to be there. But he was not. I will never recover from the loss of him. His death could not cause me more agony.'

The end of a first love is operatic in its drama, physical in its showing. I could stand her tears and silence, her withdrawal from us; I could bear watching my daughter too unwell to eat or sleep or talk. This had to be done. I was saving her from Sato. She could never know why. And this too I could stand. I believed she would heal well enough, given time. Perhaps if I had remembered the anguish of my own early years, perhaps if I had been gentler with her, the intoxication of Sato would not have lasted so long.

‘I am trapped in a perpetual present, the past torn from me. If the hours pass, I do not feel them. If days surrender to nights, I do not see the changing colours of the sky. Time is a prison. Caged in the
house, I slither around like a snake, soaking up no heat from a cold
winter sun. Father cannot speak to me, Mother can only look on me
as if I am something foul that has polluted the home. That plans are afoot, I am sure, given the whispered conversations behind doors, the accusatory looks, the family dinners eaten in silence. I retreat to my room and torture myself with the possibilities. Where is Jomei? Is he out there somewhere among the streets, or bars, or maybe he is home with Natsu or working late at the hospital? Such thoughts provoke a retching that shudders through my body. “I won't let you go,” he said. But he has.'

All friends were banished from the house, all excursions forbidden. Only Misaki acknowledged Yuko's existence. She would leave cake outside her door or put fresh flowers in her room.
‘Mrs Goto appeared in the hall today, took my hands in her own. “How are you?” I did not know what to say. She squeezed my fingers. “I remember you as a child, so inquisitive. You would stare at, I don't know, a leaf, an insect, a crack in the soil, for hours. I never knew what you saw, but you were so fascinated.” She laid one of my hands on her breast. “Feel my heart beat. Feel it? Blood keeps the heart beating, not love. Do you understand? We make do, child. That is all we can do. We make do.” But how am I to make do? I cannot, I will not. I must meet Jomei again. What is the point of living without him?'