A Pale View of Hills (2 page)

In those days, returning to the Nakagawa district still provoked in me mixed emotions of sadness and pleasure. It is a hilly area, and climbing again those steep narrow streets between the clusters of houses never failed to fill me with a deep sense of loss. Though not a place I visited on casual impulse, l was unable to stay away for long.

Calling on Mrs. Fujiwara amused in me much the same mixture of feelings; for she had been amongst my mother’s closest friends, a kindly woman with hair that was by then turning grey. Her noodle shop was situated in a busy side street; it had a concrete forecourt under the cover of an extended tool and it was there her customers ate, at the wooden tables and benches. She did a lot of trade with office workers during their lunch breaks and again on their way home, but at other times of the day the clientele became sparse.

I was a little anxious that afternoon, for it was the first time I had called at the shop since Sathiko had started to work there. I felt concerned on both their behalves—especially since I was not sure how genuinely Mrs. Fujiwara had wanted an assistant. It was a hot day, and the little side street was alive with people. I was glad to come into the shade.

Mrs. Fujiwara was pleased to see me. She sat me down at a table, then went to fetch some tea. Customers were few that afternoon—perhaps there were none, I do not remember—and Sachiko was not to be seen. When Mrs. Fujiwara came back, I asked her: “How is my friend getting along? Is she managing all right?”

“Your friend?” Mrs. Fujiwara looked over her shoulder towards the doorway of the kitchen. “She was peeling prawns. I expect shell be out soon." Then, as if on second thoughts, she got to her feet and walked a little way towards the doorway. “Sachiko-san,” she called. “Etsuko is here “I heard a voice reply from within.

As she sat down again, Mrs. Fujiwara reached over and touched my stomach. “It’s beginning to show now,” she said. “You must take good care from now on.”

“I don’t do a great deal anyway,” I said. “I lead a very easy life.”

“That’s good. I remember my first time, there was an earthquake, quite a large one. I was carrying Kazuo then. He came perfectly healthy though. Try not to worry too much, Etsuko.”

“I by not to.” I glanced towards the kitchen door. ‘Is my friend getting on well here?”

Mrs. Fujiwara followed my gaze towards the kitchen. Then she turned to me again and said: “I expect so. You’re good friends, are you?”

“Yes. I haven’t found many friends where we live. I’m very glad to have met Sachiko."

“Yes that was fortunate.” She sat there looking at me for several seconds. “Etsuko, you’re looking rather tired today.”

“I suppose I am." I laughed a little. “It’s only to be expected. I suppose.”

Yes, of course.” Mrs. Fujiwara kept looking into my face. “But I meant you looked a little—miserable."

“Miserable? I certainly don’t feel it. I’m just a little tired, but otherwise I’ve never been happier.”

‘That’s good. You must keep your mind on happy things now. Your child. And the future.”

“Yes, I will. Thinking about the child cheers me up.”

“Good.” She nodded, still keeping her gaze on me. “Your attitude makes all the difference. A mother can take all the physical care she likes, she needs a positive attitude to bring up a child.”

“Well, I’m certainly looking forward to it,” I said, with a laugh. A noise made me look towards the kitchen again but Sachiko was still not in sight.

“There’s a young Woman I see every week,” Mrs. Fujiwara went on. “She must be six or seven months pregnant now. I see her every time I go to visit the cemetery. I’ve never spoken to her, but she looks so sad, standing there with her husband. It’s a shame, a pregnant girl and her husband spending their Sundays thinking about the dead. I know they’re being respectful, but all the same, I think it’s a shame. They should be thinking about the future.”

“I suppose she finds it hard to forget."

“I suppose so. I feel sorry for her. But they should be thinking ahead now. That’s no way to bring a child into the world, visiting the cemetery every week."

“Perhaps not.”

“Cemeteries are no places for young people. Kazuo comes with me sometimes, but I never insist. It’s time he started looking ahead too.”

How is Kazuo?” I asked. “Is his work coming on well?”

“His work’s fine. He’s expecting to be promoted next month. But he needs to give other things a little thought. He won’t be young for ever.”

Just then my eye was caught by a small figure standing out in the sunlight amidst the rush of passers-by.

“Why, isn’t that Mariko?” I said.

Mrs. Fujiwara turned in her seat. “Mariko-San,” she called. “Where have you been?"

For a moment, Mariko remained standing out in the street. Then she stepped into the shade of the forecourt, came walking past us and sat down at an empty table nearby.

Mrs. Fujiwara watched the little girl, then gave me an uneasy look. She seemed about to say something, but then got to her feet and went over to the little girl.

“Mariko-San where have you been?” Mrs. Fujiwara had lowered her voice, but I was still able to hear. “You’re not to keep running off like that. Your mother’s very angry with you.”

Mariko was studying her fingers. She did not look up at Mrs. Fujiwara.

“And Mariko-san please, you’re never to talk to customers like that. Don’t you know it’s very rude? Your mother’s very angry with you.”

Mariko went on studying her hands. Behind her, Sachiko appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Seeing Sachiko that morning, I recall I was struck afresh by the impression that she was indeed older than I had first supposed; with her long hair hidden away inside a handkerchief the tired areas of skin around her eyes and mouth seemed somehow more pronounced

“Here’s your mother now," said Mrs. Fujiwara. “I expect she’s very angry with you.”

The little girl had remained seated with her back to her mother. Sachiko threw a quick glance towards her, then turned to me with a smile.

“How do you do, Etsuko,” she said, with an elegant bow. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

At the other end of the forecourt, two women in office clothes were seating themselves at a table. Mrs. Fujiwara gestured towards them, then turned to Mariko once more.

“Why don’t you go into the kitchen for a little while,” she said, in a low voice. “Your mother will show you what to do. It’s very easy. I’m sure a clever girl like you could manage”

Mariko gave no sign of having heard. Mrs. Fujiwara glanced up at Sachiko, and for a brief instant I thought they exchanged cold glances. Then Mrs. Fujiwara turned and went off towards her customers. She appeared to know them, for as she walked across the forecourt, she gave them a familiar greeting.

Sachiko came and sat at the edge of my table. “It’s so hot inside that kitchen," she said. I

“How are you getting on here?” tasked her.

“How am I getting on? Well, Etsuko, it’s certainly an amusing sort of experience, working in a noodle shop. I must say, I never imagined Id one day find myself scrubbing tables in a place like this. Still”—she laughed quickly—“it’s quite amusing.”

“I see. And Mariko, is she settling in?”

We both glanced over to Mariko’s table; the child was still looking down at her hands.

“Oh, Mariko’s fine,” said Sachiko. “Of course, she’s rather restless at times. But then you’d hardly expect otherwise under the circumstances. It’s regrettable, Etsuko, but you see, my daughter doesn’t seem to share my sense of humour. She doesn’t find it quite so amusing here.” Sachiko smiled and glanced towards Mariko again. Then she got to her feet and went over to her.

She asked quietly: “Is it true what Mrs. Fujiwara told me?”

The little girl remained silent.

“She says you were being rude to customers again. Is that true?”

Mariko still gave no response.

“Is it true what she told me? Mariko, please answer when you’re spoken to.”

“The woman came round again,” said Mariko. “Last night. While you were gone.”

Sachiko looked at her daughter for a second or two. Then she said: “I think you should go inside now. Go on. I’ll show you what you have to do.”

“She came again last night. She said she’d take me to her house.”

“Go on, Mariko, go on into the kitchen and wait for me there.”

“She’s going to show me where she lives.”

“Mariko, go inside.”

Across the forecourt, Mrs. Fujiwara and the two women were laughing loudly about something. Mariko continued to stare at her palms. Sachiko turned away and came back to my table.

‘Excuse me a moment, Etsuko,” she said. “But I left something boiling. I’ll be back in just a moment.” Then lowering her voice, she added: “you can hardly expect her to get enthusiastic about a place like this, can you?” She smiled and went towards the kitchen. At the doorway, she turned once more to her daughter.

“Come on, Mariko, come inside.”

Mariko did not move. Sachiko shrugged, then disappeared inside the kikhen.

Around that same time, in early summer, Ogata-San came to visit us, his first visit since moving away from Nagasaki earlier that year. He was my husband’s father, and it seems rather odd I always thought of him as “Ogata-San”, even in those days when that was my own name. But then I had known him as “Ogata-San” for such a long time—since long before I had ever met Jiro—I had never got used to calling him “Father”.

There was little family resemblance between Ogata-San and my husband. When I recall Jiro today, I picture a small stocky man wearing a stem expression; my husband was always fastidious about his appearance, and even at home would frequently dress in shirt and tie. I see him now as I saw him so often, seated on the tatami in our living room, hunched forward over his breakfast or supper. I remember he had this same tendency to hunch forward—in a manner not unlike that of a boxer—whether standing or walking. By contrast, his father would always sit with his shoulders flung well back, and had a relaxed, generous manner about him. Whet’ he came to visit us that summer, Ogata-San was still in the best of health, displaying a well-built physique and the robust energy of a much younger man.

I remember the morning he first mentioned Shigeo Matsuda. He had been with us for a few days by then, apparently finding the small square room comfortable enough for an extended stay. It was a bright morning and the three of us were finishing breakfast before Jiro left for the off ice.

“This school reunion of yours,” he said to Jiro. “That’s tonight, is it?”

“No. tomorrow evening.”

“Will you be seems Shigeo Matsuda?”

“Shigeo? No, I doubt it. He doesn’t usually attend these occasions. I’m sorry tobe going off and keaving you Father. I’d rather give the thing a miss, but that may cause offence.”

“Don’t worry. Etsuko-San will look after me well enough. And these occasions are important.”

“I’d take some days off work,” Jiro said, “but were so busy just now. As say, this order came into the office the day you arrived. A teal nuisance.”

‘Not at all,” said his father. “I understand perfectly. It wasn’t so long ago I was rushed off my feet with work myself. I’m not so old, you know.”

“No, of course”

We ate on in silence for several moments. Then Ogata-San said:

“So you don’t think you’ll be running into Shigeo Matsuda. But you still see him from time to time?”

“Not so often these days. We’ve gone such separate ways since we got older.”

“Yes, this is what happens. Pupils all go separate ways, and then they find it so difficult to keep in touch. That’s why these reunions are so important One shouldn’t be so quick to forget old allegiances. And it’s good to take a glance back now and then, it helps keep things in perspective. Yes, I think you should certainly go along tomorrow”

“Perhaps Father will still be with us on Sunday,” my husband said. ‘Then perhaps we could go out somewhere for the day.”

“Yes, we can do that. A splendid idea. But if you have work to do, it doesn’t matter in the least.”

“No, I think I can leave Sunday free. I’m sorry to be so busy at the moment.”

“Have you asked any of your old teachers along tomorrow?” Ogata-San asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“It’s a shame teachers aren’t asked more often to these occasions.! was asked along from time to time. And when I was younger, we always made a point of inviting our teachers. I think it’s only proper. It’s an opportunity for a teacher to see the fujits of his work, and for the pupils to express their gratitude to him. I think it’s only proper that teachers are present.”

“Yes, perhaps you have a point."

“Men these days forget so easily to whom they owe their education.”

“Yes, you’re very right.”

My husband finished eating and laid down his chopsticks. I poured him some tea.

“An odd little thing happened the other day,” Ogata-San said. “In retrospect, I suppose it’s rather amusing. I was at the library in Nagasaki, and I came across this periodical—a teachers’ periodical I’d never heard of it, it wasn’t in existence in my days. To read it, you’d think all the teachers in Japan were communists now.”

“Apparently communism is growing the country,” my husband said.

“Your friend Shigeo Matsuda had written in it. Now imagine my surprise when I saw my name mentioned in his article. I didn’t think I was so noteworthy these days.”

“I’m sure Father is still remembered very well in Nagasaki,” I put in.

“It was quite extraordinary. He was talking about Dr Endo and myself, about our retirements. If I understood him correctly, he was implying that the profession was well rid of us. In fact, he went so far as to suggest we should have been dismissed at the end of the war. Quite extraordinary.”

“Are you sure it’s the same Shigeo Matsuda?” asked Jim.

“The same one. From Kuriyama Highschool. Extraordinary. I remember when he used to come to our house, to play with you. Your mother used to spoil him. I asked the librarian if I could buy a copy, and she said she would order one for me. I’ll show it to you.”

“It seems very disloyal,” I said.