Bicycle Days (27 page)

For a long time, he didn’t move. He tilted back in Boon’s chair, put his feet up on the desk, and felt the bleakness of the plush, empty office gradually settle on him like silt. Ten days of it, years of it, filling the hollow around him, pushing down on him until he thought he would suffocate. He wondered if this was what his father had felt years before, whether he had stood
up from his desk one night after the divorce and realized in a moment the great distance that separated him from the world and how little solace there was to be found in his private office. And he wanted to call and tell him that he thought he understood things a little better now, because he had felt it, too.

Alec got up and went out into the main office. He closed Boon’s door, put the key on his secretary’s desk. He looked at the telephone, trying to remember his father’s number in Florida. But it was no use, and instead he found himself dialing Kiyoko’s apartment. Her line was busy. He put his jacket on and walked through the reception room and out into the hallway, locking the door behind him.

Half an hour later, he was staring at the door to the apartment Kiyoko shared with her aunt. He knocked twice and waited for an answer, but heard none. So he knocked again, harder this time. Nothing. Finally, he pushed the door with his finger. It swung open without a sound. Three pairs of Kiyoko’s leather shoes were strewn about the entrance. Her raincoat lay crumpled on the floor. Her umbrella was leaning against the wall, a small puddle of water beneath it. Alec left his own umbrella outside. He removed his shoes and stepped inside, thinking that the apartment had not looked like this on his last visit.

There was a single light on at the end of the hallway and a closed door behind it. He called Kiyoko’s name, softly at first, then more loudly. No one answered. He thought he could hear sounds coming from the far room and he walked toward it, sliding his stockinged feet along the wood floor. His breath was coming very quickly now, the blood rushing and pounding in his head. He knocked on the door, then turned the knob and walked in.

Kiyoko sat on the bed, holding her knees to her chest and slowly rocking back and forth. Her face was twisted and swollen from crying. She was wearing the same linen clothes she had worn that day at work, though now they were wrinkled.
She stared, unseeing, at the television. Alec whispered her name, took two hesitant steps forward. She turned then, reaching out for him as he moved toward her. He was still standing when he felt her press against his chest, sobbing now, all heat and tears, and he held her as tightly as he could. The shaking of her body gave him his own rhythm, and soon they were swaying back and forth together in the bright light of the room.

Gradually, the heat of her face and body began to cool. Alec let her go gently, turned off the television. He went into the bathroom, brought her back a damp facecloth and a glass of water, which she gulped. He wiped her face with the cloth and made her lie back on the bed with it placed over her red eyes. She groped for his arm and pulled him close.

The worst of the news came out at once, the details more gradually. She spoke in Japanese, which seemed odd to him, since they had always spoken in English. Her eyes were hidden by the facecloth, but he stared at them anyway, as if he could reach her through it.

“Grandfather is dead,” she told him. “He died yesterday while he was fishing. Night came and Grandmother waited for him to return. But he did not return, and so she went to look for him. When she found him by the river he was already dead. She could not move him, he was too heavy, and so she stayed with him during the night, and in the morning walked to a neighboring house for help. It was cold at night, and I do not know what will happen to her. My aunt went today to help prepare for the funeral. The entire family will go to Yamadera. I will go tomorrow.”

She paused. Alec pushed her tangled bangs away from her face. Her grip tightened on his arm.

“The doctor,” she said. “He says Grandfather died because of a growth in his brain, something that had become too big. He says that Grandfather had known about this for a long time. There were tests, but Grandfather never told anyone, not even Grandmother. He died alone, fishing.”

She took the cloth from her eyes, raised herself up to face
him. Alec found himself looking at nothing in particular, thinking about the old man and woman and the few days he had spent with them in Yamadera. The strength of his memories surprised him, and he felt them pulling him into sadness. There was something almost embarrassing in this, as if he had no right to feel grief for people he had known so briefly. And so he didn’t know what to say to her.

“I want to comfort you, Kiyoko, but I don’t know how.”

She moved closer to him. “Hold me, then.”

So he did, the heat of her breath rising around his neck and face. She began to kiss him, and they rolled over on the bed, her body pressing hard against him through her wrinkled clothes, full of a wild need that both frightened and excited him.

Later, in the shadows of the bedroom, he reached over, brushed the hair back from her face. She lay beside him on the futon, her arm draped across his chest. As quietly as he could, he slid out from under her and stood up, his skin prickling in the cold air. He saw her eyes slowly blink open. She reached up and held his hand.

“Will you go to Yamadera with me?”

“Yes,” he said.

She smiled faintly, and then her eyes closed. Alec got out of bed, walked through the eating room and into the small kitchen. From the refrigerator, he brought out a bottle of
mugi-cha,
poured himself a glass. He sat down on a stool by the window, its bare frame closed tight against the night, and remembered how Grandfather had clutched his head in the fast-flowing river. The cold liquid tasted fresh and bitter in his mouth.

T
he house had already been prepared for the funeral. Black-and-white curtains hung from the entrance, displaying the circular family crest. Paper lanterns perched like birdcages under roofs of reed and bamboo on either side of the steps leading up to the house. A man whom Alec had never seen before was sitting behind a cloth-covered table to the right of the entrance. A short line had formed in front of him as people stopped to sign their names in the guest book. When it was his turn, Alec thought he noticed the man’s eyes widen slightly in surprise and guessed that he was the only foreigner at the funeral. He signed his name in Japanese, going over some of the characters twice because his hand was shaking. He thought for a moment about turning around and leaving. But then Kiyoko touched his arm and they were inside.

The main room was crowded with people kneeling in rows behind a Buddhist priest, his long robe blossoming out at his feet. Alec could feel the eyes on him like sticks and the blood
rushing into his face. He kept his gaze on the floor in front of him. Kiyoko murmured a word of encouragement that he couldn’t quite hear. She led him to an open space among the rows of people, and they knelt amid the sounds of soft crying and prayer. He noticed then that her eyes were wet with tears, brought out his handkerchief and gave it to her.

The priest knelt down at the altar and began to recite what Alec supposed was the Buddhist scripture. His voice was deep and powerful, yet somehow gentle, as if the words were coming from somewhere far away. His hands worked to the rhythms of his voice, burning incense and lighting a large candle. Framed on either side by thick walls of flowers, the altar rose from its base to touch the ceiling of the room. It was a jigsaw puzzle of intricate figures carved from boxwood. Dragon-covered pagodas and candlesticks shaped like scepters fit together with miniature bowls and pillars and ornaments. A framed portrait of Grandfather rested in the center. His silver hair was parted, and the neckline of a formal kimono was visible. He held his head straight and his chin high, as though he thought posing for a picture was a serious matter. But his eyes gave him away. He might have been fishing, the way they were shining, twinkling with quiet amusement, too bright and clear and alive for anything as still as a photograph.

Minutes passed, the voice continued, transforming the room with its presence. It seemed to Alec that the priest was speaking to the old man, bathing the weathered face in a mysterious energy of sound and faith. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself as the photograph, staring out through the glass at a world whose texture and meaning had suddenly been altered. For a few seconds he felt as if the priest’s voice was actually directed at him. And when he opened his eyes again, each wooden figure of the altar had become a part of something that appeared not dead, but living—the limbs or tentacles of an organism whose nucleus was Grandfather, his eyes shining even more brightly than before.

Alec watched a wisp of incense smoke rise up above Grandfather’s
photograph, curling up through the sculpted figures, scenting the air with the smell of the earth, rich and full, and the clean, hard smell of wood, until the altar felt more real to him than all the people in the room—a face with two paper lanterns for eyes and the smoke coming out of its nose like breath.

The priest finished his recitation then, and the room was quiet. Alec searched the rows of people for Grandmother, almost passing right over her kneeling form before he recognized her. She looked so small and still that it seemed to him as if she had already left her body in some way, had used her strength and energy to go somewhere where she wouldn’t have to be alone. A young man in a black suit helped her get to her feet and walk to the altar. The height of the photograph was equal to that of her own head, and she could not take her eyes from it. Alec wondered what it was about the photograph that made it seem so close to life. It was as if Grandfather were more alive than any of those who knelt down in prayer and mourned for him.

Grandmother knelt in front of the altar. She offered incense and prayed silently to herself. Grandfather stared down at her from the photograph, giving her the warmth of his eyes, as if he were still in the kitchen with her, drinking tea while she prepared dinner. As if his nearness might still make her blush. When she had finished, the young man helped her to her feet and gently led her away.

One by one, the kneeling people rose to their feet and walked the short distance to the altar, only to kneel again. The room had grown hot with grief, and Alec’s body felt tight as a fist as he watched the mourners through the scented haze. Each silent prayer, each new private offering and message, pushed Grandfather further away from him, until it seemed he could hardly see the altar anymore, or the weathered face that he remembered, or the brightness of the old man’s eyes. He wished that he could hear the priest’s deep voice again or even that someone in the room would start to wail, somehow connect him through sound to what was taking place around him.

He looked over at Kiyoko, wanting to talk to her and hear her voice, but she sat motionless next to him, still drying her eyes with his handkerchief. Their eyes met but didn’t hold, and he realized that she was in her own place at the moment, grieving among family and friends. And he thought he couldn’t really blame her for not wanting to ruin everything with explanations.

There were too many people in the house that night, and Alec woke to confusion in their midst. Futons had been laid out in rows across the top floor. The room was quiet except for the sounds of breathing. Kiyoko was not where she had been when he fell asleep, lying on the futon beside his. Squinting, Alec peered through the darkness but could not recognize any of the sleeping forms around him. He got to his feet and tiptoed slowly to the stairs, and then down them, feeling his way, cringing as they complained under his weight.

He was quiet opening the screen door. Kiyoko was sitting at the end of the porch, her back to him. Alec stood where he was for a moment, looking at her. The sky was spotted with stars. Moonlight reflected off the wet rice paddies, spreading up the valley, licking like a flame at the edge of the cherry orchard. Crickets were in the peak hour of their nightly performance, sounding shrilly from their hidden stages. Kiyoko had brought a comforter from upstairs, and it lay draped across her shoulders and over her legs. Her hair fell down over the bright cotton, and Alec thought that it was the contrast of black and white that made her visible.

Even when she heard him—even when Alec was sure that she knew he was there—she did not turn around. He had already crossed half the distance between them when he whispered her name. But she still wouldn’t turn to look at him, and he had to walk the rest of the way. He bent down behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. He buried his face in her hair.

“Kiyoko?” he said. “Are you all right?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Then, finally, a nod.

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” he said. “It was strange with all the people.”

“I could not sleep,” she said.

Alec wrapped his arms around her, around the comforter, squeezing her to him. He rested his chin on her shoulder. Her cheek was cold against his.