The Snow Kimono (9 page)

The letter was exactly as I had expected.

My dear Tadashi,
I have known for some time that it was you who took Fumiko in. I had always hoped
it would be. I want you to know—I bear you no malice.

And then, the words I feared.

I would like to see my daughter. I think only of her. Indulge an old man, your one-time
friend, this one wish.

How many times had I imagined seeing those words? Imagined Katsuo writing them?
I
think only of her, I think only of her…

This would be how my world ended, I thought
.
I would be alone, with everything over,
all questions answered. And Fumiko, my beloved daughter, would be gone.

As I put the letter down, I felt a death-like chill pass through me. Without Fumiko,
my beautiful, beautiful child, life meant nothing to me.

That night, walking home through the crowded streets alone, I wondered what I would
do. We were supposed to go to Kamakura the following weekend to watch the kites.
It had become a yearly pilgrimage. We always enjoyed ourselves. I could not tell
her about Katsuo before then. It would have to wait, even though it had already begun
to crush my heart.

So, Fumiko, I said during our evening meal. Are we still going to Kamakura?

We don’t have to, Father, she said. Not if you don’t want to. We have been so many
times before.

And we lapsed into silence, falling back into our own separate worlds, hers with
its unknown future, and mine with its inescapable past.

Chapter 7

WE went to Kamakura in any case. I carried the viewer—we had taken it every year
since I had made it for her—and my collapsible chair. Fumiko carried the mat, as
she always did, and our basket of provisions. We went to our favourite spot overlooking
the beach.

But I was not myself. I was preoccupied with how to break the truth to Fumiko. I
could not think of anything else. I decided I would tell her later that evening,
when we returned home. She, for her part, seemed to have picked up on my mood. I
caught her glancing at me from time to time. I could not bring myself to meet her
eye.

We sat without speaking for most of the afternoon, me in my chair, with Fumiko on
the mat a little way in front of me, her hands around her knees. She had worn her
hair up. Her neck was exposed, her earlobe faintly translucent against the sun. A
wisp of dark hair kept fluttering beside it in the wind.
The sight of it was more
than I could bear.

I do not know whether I dozed off or whether I was daydreaming, nor do I know what
brought me back to myself. Perhaps it was a shout from the beach, or the sound of
thunder in the distance. Whatever it was, when I next looked up, hours had passed.
The beach below was in turmoil. Fumiko lay curled up asleep. Behind us, a tremendous
storm had begun to build. Already a dark underbelly of cloud had spilled over the
mountains and was beginning to loom over us. The light had begun to change. It was
growing darker by the minute.

All around us, people were packing up, folding rugs, reorganising picnic baskets,
running this way and that. Some were already leaving, carrying their hastily collected
belongings under their arms. The vendors and their carts had already gone. On the
beach, the kite flyers were urgently hauling in the few remaining kites. I could
see their arms working. Near them, anxious parents were trying to shepherd half a
dozen children together who had strayed onto the beach. Somewhere a man was calling,
A-ki-o, A-ki-o
, his voice all but lost in the thunder that now rumbled towards us
across the narrow plain.

I watched a lightning bolt dance crazily along the mountain tops. It was alarmingly
close. Then another. I looked down and saw the light flicker across Fumiko’s face.
Almost instantly the thunder detonated above us with a tremendous buffeting thump.
I felt the ground shake, as though the earth itself were recoiling. A sharp metallic
smell permeated the air. People were beginning to run. The storm was upon us.

Fumiko, Fumiko, I said. I leaned down, shook her shoulder. She sat up, dazed. Hurry.
There’s a storm coming, I said. We have to go.

The storm broke just as the train pulled out of the station. It was already dark.
The rain came slashing down. Fumiko and I sat huddled opposite each other in the
crowded compartment. I remember the train gathering speed. I remember a level crossing
flashing by, rain-swept windows lighting up, the warning bells rising and falling.
A dimly lit station appeared, was gone.

Fumiko was staring into the darkness outside, her head rocking back and forth as
the train sped on towards home, and the moment that awaited us there.

We took a taxi from the station to our apartment. It was still raining when we pulled
up. We held the straw mat above our heads as we ran along the rain-soaked path towards
the entrance.

I no longer remember what happened next, the exact order. But I can still feel the
twisted knot in my chest. I can see us in our living room. The curtains are open.
The rain has stopped. The glistening city lies spread out below us in the clean sharp
air.

Fumiko has changed. She is wearing a simple dark-blue cotton kimono. She is seated
opposite me, drying her hair. In her lap, there is a book.

A teapot rests on the stand in front of us. My cup sits
beside it, still full, untouched.
Fumiko puts down her brush, reaches for hers.

Fumiko, I say.

I hear my voice. It sounds strangled. I hesitate. The blood is hammering in my head.

I have to talk to you, I say. There is something I have to tell you, something I’ve
been meaning to tell you for a long time…

I look at her. She sits watching me.

But the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Now… now there is no choice,
now it’s too late.

I thought that, once I had begun, the words would tumble out. But I was wrong. Barely
had I begun to speak when my nerve failed me. Where
did
I begin? With Katsuo—her
real father? Sachiko—her mother? What had happened to her? Did I tell her first that
I was not her father?

I fell silent. I stared at my hands, my grotesquely intertwined fingers, while all
the complicated events of my life swirled around and around in my head.

You must understand, I said.

Now, more than ever, I felt ashamed of what I had done. How could I have lied to
Fumiko, to my child who was not my child, for so long?

I stopped.

It must have become obvious to her that I could not go on.

It’s all right, Father, she said. She opened the book in her lap and pulled out an
envelope.

You see, she said. He wrote to me as well.

Why won’t you tell me? she says.

It’s not up to me, I say.

I had no idea how much time had elapsed. Fumiko was still sitting opposite me. Katsuo’s
letter was open beside her. She had been crying.

Not even why he was in jail? Not who my mother was? Is it so terrible?

I can’t.

Why can’t you? You should have told me years ago who my father was. It would have
changed everything.

How could I tell her that that is what I had feared most.

I tried, I said.

I told her that it had crossed my mind that Katsuo might die in jail. What would
have been the point in telling her then? No one knew except me. No one had ever found
out. No one had ever asked any questions. Why risk destroying the happiness we had
built together?

Because it was a lie, she said. A lie.

Katsuo’s letter to Fumiko was different from the one he sent me. I no longer care
what people think of me, he said. Whether what I did was right or wrong. I have paid
a terrible price. But you are still my daughter. I would like to see you. I ask nothing
more.

What happened after this, over the next few days, I don’t remember. Katsuo was due
to be released the following week. In his letter to me, he had made one request:
the first person he wanted to see as he walked out of the prison gates was Fumiko.

I offered to accompany her to Osaka. She refused.

She booked the ticket herself. Her train departed from one of the small outer-suburban
stations. She agreed to let me take her there. It was late in the afternoon when
we arrived. Knots of people had gathered on the platform, waiting to board. The weather
had turned cold; the warmth of the day had gone. Now a pitiless wind had sprung up.
It buffeted us, first this way then that. It would die down for a while, then come
back to howl and snap at my coattails. It was so strong that I had difficulty maintaining
my balance. Fumiko’s small suitcase lay at my feet. I remember turning away from
the wind, my eyes watering. Squinting behind my glasses. Reaching up for my hat.
I recall looking off into the distance. I walked a few paces to relieve the stiffness
in my legs. I tried in vain to light a cigarette, but each time I put the cupped
match up to my face the flame was instantly extinguished.

The station master stuck his head out of his watch post, looked up and down the tracks.
I felt like a man awaiting his own execution.

Fumiko came to stand beside me, sheltering her face with the collar of her coat.
An image of her as a three-year-old came back to me. It was the afternoon we had
gone to see Sachiko’s
grave. She was dressed in her coat and fur hat, and we were
standing on the old Togetsu platform.

The whistle blew.

I have to go, Fumiko said.

I stood awkwardly before her. I could not believe that this moment had finally arrived.
I am ashamed to admit it, Inspector, but I stood there silent, not knowing what to
say.

Goodbye…Father, she said.

She stooped to pick up her suitcase. I went to help.

It’s all right, she said. It’s not heavy. I can manage.

I struggled to find the simplest words.

Goodbye, Fumiko. I—

But what I was going to say then, if indeed I was going to say anything, was lost,
cut off by another shrill blast from the train whistle.

I went to reach out to touch her shoulder, but couldn’t. I was frozen to the spot.