The Snow Kimono (26 page)

Ume looked up at her. Sachiko saw the anguish on the old woman’s face.

I won’t, Ume-san. I promise you, I will never betray you. Never.

Ume, who had been expecting her, who had greeted her
and her father at the top of
the stairs, who had shown them to their rooms. How subtly their relationship had
changed in a matter of hours. It was as though, Sachiko thought, she had emerged
from a chrysalis, had left its empty husk behind.

Chapter 25

IT was not Ume who saw the scar first. It was Mizuki, her assistant. She was towelling
Sachiko’s wet hair, drying the last thin rills of water from her neck and shoulders.
She had eased the bath wrap away from Sachiko’s back with her fingertips and reached
into the crevice with the cloth to dry the last drops of water stranded there.

Oh, she said, pulling away.

Ume saw Mizuki recoil, her hand to her mouth.

What is it? she said.

Mizuki leaned tentatively closer.

It’s a scar, she said. On Sachiko’s shoulder. It’s like a…

But she hesitated, glanced at Ume.

Ume stepped forward to see what Mizuki had seen.

Sachiko thought of that day in the blazing snow, how she had lain hidden, watching
the two horses. How the boys had turned on her. Her dull legs trapped in the nightmare
snow.
The sudden piercing pain. Her falling. Afterwards, when she stood, the circle
of blood so distinct, so red, she could have picked it up.

Ume leaned down. Pulled back the collar of Sachiko’s bath wrap. Sachiko felt her
trace the curled outline of the scar with her fingertip.

How curious, Ume said. It’s like a small scorpion.

Hearing what Ume had said, Sachiko flinched. Ume’s nail caught briefly in her flesh.
Instantly, Sachiko felt the echo of that stinging pain she had felt years ago. She
cried out. She stood so abruptly her bathrobe fell to the floor.

The thought that there was a scorpion crawling in her flesh filled her with horror.
She pictured the scrabbling crescent claws, the upturned tail, the tiny, beaded eyes.
Watching. Waiting. Ready to strike.

Oh, she said, trying to look over her shoulder.

Ume was already at the basin, moistening the twisted tip of the towel with cold water.

Sit down, Sachiko, she said. You’re bleeding.

Ume faced her away from the mirror so that she could moisten the towel with ease.
Sachiko felt the cold, wet cloth on her shoulder blade. She sat hunched over, her
arms clasped about her breasts. She was sobbing quietly. Now she understood why her
parents, her mother, had been so angry when she had returned that day, dishevelled
and bleeding, from the upper fields.

She recalled her parent’s conversation on the verandah when she and her father had
set out. When was that? Could it
have been just yesterday? She could still hear her
mother’s voice coming to her from within the house: But it’s nothing, Hideo. You
can barely see it. You must convince him.

Seen from another vantage point, in the muted light, with her bent over like this,
Katsuo thought Sachiko’s back looked pale and vulnerable. And extraordinarily beautiful.

How many times had he gazed upon her like this since? How many times, with her bent
before him, had he seen her scar? Only to feel the same longing in his heart. It
was as though, in Sachiko, Mariko had returned to him.

He saw, high on her arched shoulder blade, where Ume’s nail had pierced her skin,
a tiny blood-red drop begin to pearl. It seemed to issue precisely from the tip of
the scorpion’s tail. He watched its sudden breaching, saw the thin trail of blood
spill down Sachiko’s back.

Later, Sachiko remembered Ume stepping away from the mirror, remembered her waiting,
then dabbing again at the blood with her wetted towel. Its coldness had made her
flinch again. She imagined the scorpion tensing its body, tightening its claws, as
though it would not be willingly plucked from her skin.

Is it gone? she said. Ume?

Ume pressed the cool cloth to Sachiko’s back, waited to see if any more blood would
surface.

There, Ume said. The bleeding’s stopped. I’m so sorry,
Sachiko. I did not mean to
hurt you.

I know, Sachiko said. She took two deep breaths, clenched and unclenched her fists,
sat up.

I want to see it, she said. I want to see what it looks like.

She twisted her head to look back over her shoulder. It took her a few moments to
locate the scar. It was higher up than she had imagined, right on the ridge of her
shoulder blade. A pale silhouette against her paler skin.

Ume and Mizuki were right. It did look like a scorpion. Sitting there. Still. Vigilant.
Her shoulder blade its permanent lair. As she pulled her arm around in front of her
the better to see it, the scorpion seemed to scuttle up her shoulder a short distance,
and stop. Sachiko shivered. A faint arc of blood appeared again where Ume’s nail
had broken her skin. When she relaxed, let her arm go, the scorpion moved again.

Oh, it’s horrible, Sachiko cried. Horrible.

She turned away from the mirror again, hid her face in her hands.

It’s horrible, horrible, she kept saying.

Ume dabbed the towel on her back once more. When she had finished, she looked at
the scar again. Sachiko’s skin was flushed from rubbing. The scar appeared oddly
fainter now, less scorpion-like, more benign, more, Ume thought, like the character
毛, which meant fur.

It’s nothing, Ume said. Nothing. I should not have said anything. You can barely
see it, Sachiko. She patted her shoulder. If I had not said it looked like a scorpion,
you would not have
thought so yourself. It could be anything. Anything, she said.

But I saw it move, Sachiko said.

It’s just a scar, Ume said. It doesn’t mean anything. There, the bleeding’s stopped.

Sachiko looked over her shoulder once again. All trace of blood had been sponged
from her back. Now she could barely see the scar. She turned her back from left to
right. It was only when lit from one particular angle that she could see it clearly.
And when she did, Ume was right—it could have been anything, a meaningless piece
of calligraphy; a small, delicate flourish etched into her skin; some other, less
sinister image. Or, what it was—a small, barely perceptible scar, of no consequence
to anyone, least of all to her.

When Ume and Mizuki had finished, when they had powdered her face, tied her hair
up, helped her into the snow kimono, Sachiko barely recognised herself in the mirror.
She had been transformed. It seemed to her now that there were two of her, each inhabiting
a different world—the one from which she watched, and the one she was watching.

In the end, Mr Ikeda, Katsuo, did not join them. He had sent a message. He was yet
delayed.

Sachiko sat opposite her father at the low table. From time to time, two young women
knelt into the silence between them to place a steaming new dish of food onto the
table, and remove the tepid, barely touched remains of the one that preceded.

Her father did not speak. He made no comment. Not on the beauty of the kimono she
was wearing. Not on the fact that it had been made by her grandmother, which he must
have known. Not on her hair. Her face. Even when she had entered the room, and he
was already there, he did not speak. He had stood, bowed, but he had done so as though
to a stranger.

Now her father sat pushing pieces of food around his plate. The sound of a shamisen
came from somewhere in the garden.

Are you all right, Father? she said, when she could stand the silence no longer.
You’re not eating.

He seemed to weigh up how rude it would be not to reply to a direct question from
his own daughter.

Yes, Sachiko, he said, picking up his cup. I am just not hungry. It has been a long
day and I have much to think about.

Sachiko.

Her father rarely used her name. He only used it when he was calling her. Or talking
about her. But almost never in her presence. It had always been Daughter this, Daughter
that.

She heard footsteps approaching along the corridor, and then Ume was standing in
the doorway.

Mr Ikeda is ready for you, Mr Yamaguchi.

Ready?

Sachiko looked at her father. What did ready mean? But she
did not have time to ask.
Her father was already on his feet, wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his
hand. Again, he did not say goodbye. Sachiko watched him leave.

The two young women detached themselves from the wall and came to collect his plate.

How long has Mr Ikeda been home? Sachiko asked them.

They glanced at her, each other.

I am sorry, Miss Sachiko, one of them said. We do not know.

Chapter 26

SACHIKO takes a breath.

Has Ume returned? she asks him.

Not yet, he tells her.

It is dark now, still snowing. Katsuo is kneeling beside her. Sachiko marshals what
little strength she has left; then, despite the cold which has begun to invade her,
she continues to tell him of that first night.

They are just two intermittent voices talking in the darkness. In the cold, cold
night.

After my father left me, she tells him between breaths, I went to lie on my bed.
You did not come down for the meal after all. I wondered why. So much had been made
of my coming here. Being presented to you. Ume had already told me about
the snow
kimono, the one you wanted me to wear…which I am wearing now.