A Pale View of Hills (12 page)

"But there’s no need to go just yet, is there, Father? Your rockery can wait a Ii ttle longer.”

“You’re very kind, Etsuko. But time’s pressing on now. You see, I’m expecting my daughter and her husband down again this autumn, and I’ll need to get all this work finished before they come. Last year and the year before, they came to see me in the autumn. So I rather suspect they’ll want to come again this year.”

"I see."

“Yes, they’re bound to want to come again this autumn. It’s the most convenient time for Kikuko’s husband. And Kikuko’s always saying in her letters how curious she is to see my new house.”

Ogata-San nodded to himself, then carried on eating from his bowl. I watched him for a while.

“What a loyal daughter Kikuko-San is to you, Father,” I said. “It’s a long way to come, all that way from Osaka. She must miss you.”

“I suppose she feels the need to get away from her father- in-law once in a while. I can’t think why else she would want to come so far.”

“How unkind, Father. I’m sure she misses you. Ill have to tell her what you’re saying.”

Ogata-San laughed. “But it’s true. Old Watanabe rules over them like a war-lord. Whenever they come down, they’re forever talking about how intolerable he’s getting. Personally I rather like the old man, but there’s no denying he’s an old war-lord. I expect they’d like some place like this, Etsuko, an apartment like this just to themselves. It’s no bad thing, young couples living away from the parents. More and mow couples do it now. Young people don’t want overbearing old men ruling over them for ever.”

Ogata-San seemed to remember the food in his bowl and %egan to eat hurriedly. When he had finished, he got to his Feet and went over to the window. For a moment he stood there, his back to me, looking at the view. Then he adjusted the window to let in more air, and took a deep breath.

“Are you pleased with your new house, Father?” I asked. . “My house? Why, yes. It’ll need a little more work here and there, as I say. But it’s much more compact. The Nagasaki house was far too large for just one old man.”

He continued to gaze out of the window; in the sharp —morning light, all I could see of his head and shoulders was a hazy outline.

“But it was a nice house, the old house,” I said. “I still stop and look at it if I’m walking that way. In fact, I went past it last week on my way back from Mrs. Fujiwara’s.”

I thought he had not heard me, for he continued to gaze silently out at the view. But a moment later, he said:

“And how did it look, the old house?”

“Oh, much the same. The new occupants must like it the way Father left it.”

He turned towards me slightly. “And what about the azaleas, Etsuko? Were the azaleas still in the gateway?” The brightness still prevented me from seeing his face clearly, but I supposed from his voice that he was smiling.

"Azaleas?”

“Well, I suppose there’s no reason why you should remember.” He turned back to the window and stretched rut his arms. "I planted them in the gateway that day. The day it was all finally decided.”

“The day what was decided?” 

“That you and Etsuko were to be married. But I never told you about the azaleas, so I suppose it’s rather unreasonable of me to expect you to remember about them” -

“You planted some azaleas for me? Now that was a nice thought. But no, I don’t think you ever mentioned it.”

“But you see, Etsuko, you asked for them” He had turned towards me again. “In fact, you positively ordered me to plant them in the gateway."

“What?—I laughed—“I ordered you?”

“Yes, you ordered me. Like I was some hired gardener. Don’t you remember? Just when I thought it was all settled at last, and you were finally to become my daughter-in-law, you told me there was one thing more, you wouldn’t live in a house without azaleas in the gateway. And if I didn’t plant azaleas then the whole thing would be called off. So what could I do? I went straight out and planted azaleas."

I laughed a little. "Now you mention it,” I said, “l remember something like that. But what nonsense, Father. I never forced you.”

“Oh yes, you did, Etsuko. You said you wouldn’t live in a house without azaleas in the gateway.” He came away from the window and sat down opposite me again. “Yes, Etsuko,” he said “just like a hired gardener.”

We both laughed and I began to pour out the tea.

“Azaleas were always my favourite flowers, you see,”I said.

“Yes. So you said.”

I finished pouring and we sat silently for a few moments, watching the steam rise from the teacups.

“And I had no idea then,” I said. “About Jim’s plans, I mean.”

I reached forward and placed a plate of small cakes by his teacup. Ogata-San regarded them with a smile. Eventually, he said:

“The azaleas came up beautifully. But by that time, of course, you’d moved away. Still, it’s no bad thing at all, young couples living on their own. Look at Kikuko and her husband. They’d love to have a little place of their own, but old Watanabe won’t even let them consider it. What an old war-Lord he is.”

“Now I think of it,” I said, “there were azaleas in the gateway last week. The new occupants must agree with me. Azaleas are essential for a gateway.”

“I’m glad they’re still there.” Ogata-San took a sip from his teacup. Then he sighed and said with a laugh: “What an kild war-lord that Watanabe is.”

Shortly after breakfast, Ogata-San suggested we should go and look around Nagasaki—“like the tourists do”, as he put it. I agreed at once and we took a tram into the city. As I recall, we spent some time at an art gallery, and then, a little before noon, we went to visit the race memorial in the large public park not far from the centre of the city.

The park was commonly known as “Peace Park’—I never discovered whether this was the official name—and indeed, despite the sounds of children and birds, an atmosphere of solemnity hung over that large expanse of green. The usual adornments, such as shrubs and fountains, had been kept to a minimum, and the effect was a kind of austerity; the flat grass, a wide summer sky, and the memorial itself—a massive white statue in memory of those killed by the atomic bomb— presiding over its domain.

The statue resembled some muscular Greek god, seated with both arms outstretched. With his right hand, he pointed to the sky from where the bomb had fallen; with his other arm—stretched out to his left—the figure was Supposedly holding back the forces of evil. His eyes were dosed in prayer.

It was always my feeling that the statue had a rather cumbersome appearance, and I was ever able to associate with what had occurred that day the bomb had fallen, and those terrible days which followed. Seen from a distance, the figure looked almost comical, resembling a policeman conducting traffic. It remained for me nothing more than a statue, and while most people in Nagasaki seemed to appreciate it as some form of gesture, I suspect the general feeling was much like mine. And today, should I by chance recall that large white statue in Nagasaki, I find myself reminded primarily of my visit to Peace Park with Ogata-San that morning, and that business concerning his postcard.

“It doesn’t look quite so impressive in a picture," I remember Ogata-San saying, holding up the postcard of the statue which he had just bought. We were standing some fifty yards or so from the monument. “I’ve been meaning to send a card for some time,” he continued. "Ill be going back to Fukuoka any day now, but I suppose it’s still worth sending. Etsuko, do you have a pen? Perhaps I should send it straight away, otherwise I’m bound to forget."

I found a pen in my handbag and we sat down on a bench nearby. I became curious when I noticed him staring at the blank side of the card, his pen poised but not writing. Once or twice, I saw him glance up towards the statue as if for inspiration. Finally I asked him: Are you sending it to a friend in Fukuoka?”

“Well, just an acquaintance.’

“Father’s looking very guilty,” I said. “I wonder who it can be he’s writing to.”

Ogata-San glanced up with a look of astonishment. Then he burst into loud laughter. Guilty? Am I really?”

“Yes, very guilty. I wonder what Father gets up to when there’s no one,to keep an eye on him.”

Ogata-San continued to laugh loudly. He was laughing so much! could feel the bench shake. He recovered a little and said: “Very well, Etsuko. You’ve caught me. You’ve caught me writing to my girl-friend—he used the English word. “Caught me red-handed.” He began laughing again.

“I always suspected Father led a glamorous life in Fukuoka.”

“Yes, Etsuko”—he was still laughing a little—“a very glamorous life.” Then he took a deep breath and looked down once more at his postcard. “You know, I really don’t mow what to write. Perhaps I could just send it with 0thing written. After all, I only wanted to show her what Se memorial looks like. But then again, perhaps that’s rather too informal.”

“Well, I can’t advise you, Father, unless you reveal who this mysterious lady is.”

“The mysterious lady, Etsuko, runs a small restaurant in Fukuoka. It’s quite near my house so I usually go there for my evening meals. I talk to her sometimes, she’s pleasant enough, and I promised I’d send her a postcard of the peace memorial. I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.”

“I see, Father. But I’m still suspicious.’

“Quite a pleasant old woman, but she gets tiresome after a while. If I’m the only customer, she stands and talks all through the meal. Unfortunately there aren’t many other suitable places to eat nearby. You see, Etsuko, if you’d peach me to cook, as you promised, then I wouldn’t need to suffer the likes of her.”

“But it would be pointless,” I said, laughing. “Father would never get the hang of it.”

“Nonsense. You’re simply afraid I’ll surpass you. It’s host selfish of you, Etsuko. Now let me see’ he looked at his postcard once more—‘What can I say to the old woman?"

“Do you remember Mrs. Fujiwara?” I asked. ‘She runs a noodle shop now. Near Father’s old house.”

“Yes, so I hear. A great pity. Someone of her position running a noodle shop.”

“But she enjoys it. It gives her something to work for. She ten asks after you.”

“A great pity,’ he said again. “Her husband was a distinguished man. I had much respect for him. And now she’s running a noodle shop. Extraordinary.’ He shook his head gravely. “I’d call in and pay my respects, but then I suppose she’d find that rather awkward. In her present circumstances, I mean.”

“Father, she’s not ashamed to be running a noodle shop.:

She’s proud of it. She says she always wanted to run a business, however humble. I expect she’d be delighted if you called on her.”

“Her shop is in Nakagawa, you say?”

“Yes. Quite near the old house.”

Ogata-San seemed to consider this for some time. Then he turned to me and said: ‘Right, then, Etsuko. Let’s go and pay her a visit.’ He scribbled quickly on the postcard and gave me back the pen.

‘You mean, go now, Father?” I was a little taken aback by his sudden decisiveness.

“Yes, why not?”

"Very well. I suppose she could give us lunch.”

“Yes, perhaps. But I’ve no wish to humiliate the good lady.”

“She’d be pleased to give us lunch.”

Ogata-San nodded and for a moment did not speak. Then he said with some deliberation: “As a matter of fact, Etsuko, I’d been thinking of visiting Nakagawa for some time now. I’d like to call in on a certain person there.”

“Oh?”

“I wonder if he’d be in at this time of day.”

“Who is it you wish to call on, Father?”

“Shigeo. Shigeo Matsuda. I’ve been intending to pay him a call for some time. Perhaps he takes his lunch at home, in which case I may just catch him. That would be preferable to disturbing him at his school.”

For a few minutes, Ogata-San gazed towards the statue, a slightly puzzled look on his face. I remained silent, watching the postcard he was rotating in his hands. Then suddenly he slapped his knees and stood up.

“Right, Etsuko,” he said, “let’s do that then. Well try Shigeo first, then we could call in on Mrs. Fujiwara.”

I must have been around noon that we boarded the tram to take us to Nakagawa; the car was stiflingly crowded and the streets outside were filled with the lunchtime hordes. But we came away from the city centre, the passengers became more sparse, and by the time the car reached its terminus at Nakagawa, there were only a handful of us left.

Stepping out of the train, Ogata-San paused for a moment and stroked his chin. It was not easy to tell whether he was savouring the feeling of being back in the district, or whether he was simply trying to remember the way to Shigeo Matsuda’s house. We were standing in a concrete yard surrounded by several empty tram cars. Above our heads, a maze of black wires crossed the air. The sun was shining down with some force, causing the painted surfaces of the cars to gleam sharply.

“What heat,” Ogata-San remarked, wiping his forehead. Then he began to walk, leading the way towards a row of houses which began on the far side of the tram yard.

The district had not changed greatly over the years. As we walked, the narrow roads twisted, climbed and fell.

Houses, many of them still familiar to me, stood wherever the hilly landscape would permit; some were perched precariously on slopes, others squeezed into unlikely corners. Blankets and laundry hung from many of the balconies. We walked on, past other houses more grand- Poking, but we passed neither Ogata-San’s old house nor tie house I had once lived in with my parents. In fact, the bought occurred to me that perhaps Ogata-San had chosen a route so as to deliberately avoid them.

I doubt if we Walked for much more than ten or fifteen minutes in all, but the sun and the steep hills became very tiring. Eventually we stopped halfway up a steep path, and Ogata-San ushered me underneath the shelter of a leafy tree that hung over the pavement. Then he pointed across the road to a pleasant-looking old house with large sloping roof-tiles in the traditional manner.

That’s Shigeo’s place,” he said. “I knew his father quite well. As far as I know, his mother still lives with him.” Then Ogata-San began to stroke his chin, just as he had done on first stepping off the tram. I said nothing and waited.