Translator (21 page)

He doesn't reply, but she can guess what he's thinking—he has no choice in the matter. She doesn't push him.

Evening falls and Moto shows no sign of emerging. She listens outside his door and hears him snoring. She has a bowl of soup, then lies on the tatami mat, listening to the rain hit the roof tiles, which eventually lulls her to sleep. The next thing she knows, it's morning and sunlight floods the room. She heads to the cottage, showers, dresses, and returns to the main house. She's greeted with the sound of the
Bossa Nova
spilling from Moto's room.

She taps on his door.

“Open.”

She steps inside. His face is less puffy, and his eyes look more alert. He runs his hands over his face. “I've got to stop drinking.”

“Good idea.”

“Maybe next week. Or the week after.”

Her gaze locks on to the masks, the faces glaring, shouting, screaming, wailing, laughing. He must see her fascination with them. Noh masks, he tells her. Made of cypress wood. Some are 250 years old.

What draws her over to the mask of a middle-aged woman? The mouth is a long gash, as if at the start of an expression of alarm, or sorrow, or a boisterous laugh.

“Have you been all these people?” she says.

“At one time or another. People think a mask covers up. But it's not true. It makes everything possible. You can put yourself into any state of being.”

She takes the mask of the middle-aged woman off the wall and holds it out to him. For a moment, he does nothing. Then he reaches for it. The air seems to tremble as he slips it over his head. His center of gravity instantly sinks, and now he's gliding over to his desk, his head moving in a level line, one arm out in front of him, as if to prevent a collision or perhaps to touch something. Tipping back his head, the mouth of the mask appears to open, as if he's about to speak, and then he is speaking, not speaking, he's singing along with the record. It's a light sound, almost playful, tripping and skipping down the scales. A female voice.

Has he been waiting all this time? Waiting for someone to hand him a mask? His voice is frighteningly beautiful, as beautiful as the other night. And the ease with which he turned into this woman—this is where he belongs, she has no doubt.

But just as she decides this, he grips the back of the chair, his knuckles turn white, and he begins to moan, as if in horrible pain. She rushes over and grabs his shoulder, heat radiating through his thin robe. “Moto?” she whispers, afraid she might break something. A spell? But shouldn't it be broken? “Moto!” She's about to shake him, to call for help, when his entire body shudders and the cry of agony stops.

He turns toward her. She's staring into the face of a middle-aged woman. Is he in a trance? Acting out a play?

Before she can ask, he removes his mask, and there he is, his flushed face, his birthmark, small, shaped like a heart, and he's grinning madly, as if he might never stop.

“I can feel her,” he says, his voice excited, bright. “My God! I can feel this woman's anguish!”

“Is that good?”

But she need not ask. He is glowing, as if lit up from within.

“
Kanpai,
”
A toast to you,
says Renzo, raising his wine glass.

Renzo has insisted on taking her to the restaurant in Kurashiki, ordering one dish after another to celebrate in lavish style the news. Moto is at rehearsal, as he has been for the past two days because he's been given a part in the upcoming Noh production.

“You're giving me far too much credit,” says Hanne.

She doesn't pretend to understand what happened. The touch of a mask and—presto! his heart is beating vigorously, his engagement with life restored. Was that what happened? How is it possible to know or understand anyone?

But really, what does it matter? Moto has found his way back and Renzo is elated. Even the restaurant owner has come by the table to refill their sake glasses—on the house!—and say
“Omedeto gozaimasu
,” Congratulations!

Renzo is saying they'll probably perform in an elegant theater in Kyoto. Out the window the old men are gathered at the round stone tables, playing their last round of Go in the dying light.

“You must stay and see him perform. The real him,” says Renzo.

“The real him?”

“On stage, that's where he's most alive. You'll see.”

Renzo plans to go to the Buddhist temple tomorrow to make an offering and pray to his ancestors. “You're welcome to come along.”

If she did believe in prayers and ancestors who haunted and cajoled, what would she say to the Germans on her mother's side, philosophers and priests brooding about whether reality existed or biding their time until they departed from this wretched world? Or to the Dutch scientists on her father's side, with their busy minds dissecting the world in order to explain it, understand it, turn it into a theory?

And why would her parents want to hear from her? Her mother's perpetual look of dissatisfaction would harden into something more severe—“My god, what's become of you? After everything I did for you, this is what you are?” And her father? She's not sure she'd even recognize him. A man in a brown suit. Let them have their peace. “Thank you,” she says, “but I'm going to pass.”

A breeze swirls the willow leaves, like green paper prayers at a Shinto shrine. A girl runs by the window, chasing loose notebook pages. Pages float into the canal and the girl stands on the bank and cries. A woman, presumably the girl's mother, runs over and tries to fish the papers out with a stick.

A familiar scene, thinks Hanne. Brigitte's kite stuck in the big oak tree, Brigitte weeping, Hanne first tried to release it with a stick, then kicked off her flats, put on her tennis shoes, and scaled the tree, carefully making her way to the third brittle branch, while Tomas stood below her, certain she was going to fall, calling out “Be careful, Mom!” Sitting on a branch, she reached high above her and, after many tries, rooted out the kite. Brigitte sprang up from the grass, shouting with delight. Afterwards, both children regaled her by telling the story over and over to Hiro, to their friends, to her. She became something of a hero to them. She thought it would be locked into their memories, a beau geste never to be forgotten. But eventually the story turned into something else, turned against her, evidence that she was stubborn, unwilling or unable to give in, to give up.

Now she is suddenly overwhelmed with sadness that almost makes her cry. How easily good intentions are seen as bad, a hero becomes a villain, competence becomes incompetence.

Ono no Komachi comes to mind, a possible scene unfolding: alone in her hut, she notices the shadow of someone standing in the doorway, someone who's come to taunt her, to ridicule the woman who has been tossed out of the official court. What does this shamed woman do? Hanne imagines several scenarios, but there's one she likes best. Komachi nods an acknowledgment and returns to her poem. She who has been stripped of nearly everything has come to peace with her fall. She has work to do; so please, let her get on with the making of poems.

Can she become like the poet? Forget everyone and everything and just proceed, as if nothing happened? Hanne gazes out the window. Fog smears the trees, making them vague. That's how she feels, vague, ghostly, as if she's been erased.

When she gets back from the restaurant, she calls Tomas.

After the usual chitchat, Tomas says “What are your plans?”

“Plans?”

“I mean job-wise. Are you going to come back and look for a job? Maybe get your old teaching position back?”

When was the last time she paid a bill? She doubts she'll be compensated for the translation of Kobayashi's book, minus perhaps a small kill fee, and she doesn't have an upcoming project. Plans? She feels the knot in her back tighten.

She tells him she'll stay for Moto's performance, she must see the real Moto, whatever that might mean. Then she's not sure what next. Maybe to Tokyo or travel up to Hokkaido to see the nesting grounds of the red crowned cranes. She and Hiro did that right after they were married. But then she'd feel compelled to visit his parents, which she'd rather not do. They didn't bother to conceal their disappointment that he'd married a woman who was not Japanese. Even with her perfect Japanese, she doubts she'd be acceptable now. “I guess I'm at loose ends.”

She looks out the window. The sky is giving in to the dark. And now she recalls her dream from last night. Everywhere she turned, she kept bumping into a large gray cube, hard-edged, a dull, dark gray; it seemed to know exactly where she was going. For a while she thought she could walk right through it, if she persevered, if she willed herself not to stop; but after slamming her body into it enough times, her arms and legs badly bruised, she knew it was impossible. Attempting to go around it was also out of the question; it repositioned itself every time she changed her direction. What was this thing? How did it get here? When she tried again to charge through it, she hit herself against it so hard that it knocked her down, knocked the wind out of her, and she sat up in bed, wide awake, gasping for breath.

Tomas asks if she's checked in with her doctor. Tomorrow, she tells him she's going to call her doctor tomorrow, though she has no intention of doing so. She realizes she's resigned herself to speaking only Japanese. English, and all her other languages, they belong to a former life.

He begins talking about holiday plans—Christmas. Does she want to come to New York, or should they come to San Francisco? Or maybe they should meet on neutral territory.

Neutral territory? Are they at war? “It's only March.” Is it March? She's not even sure what month it is.

“How about Colorado?”

She sighs. Removes her earrings and necklace and massages her sore toes. For some reason, her good shoes don't fit her any longer. “Fine. How are the girls? I miss them.”

Then: “Brigitte called and needed money.”

“Why?”

A pause.

“Christ.” Then: “Don't worry, Mom. I took care of it.”

“What's wrong? What's happened?”

“Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything. Colorado. Or we could head to Tahoe.”

“Can I help? How much money?”

“No.” He sighs. “She wouldn't accept help from you anyway.”

Like a slap to the face. “Why not?”

“Do we have to go over this now? I've told you all this before.” He waits for what seems like a long time. “She believes you kicked her out of your life at the very time she needed you most. You sent her off to boarding school when she was so traumatized—that's her word, not mine—about Dad's death.”

She doesn't remember him saying it like that. She doesn't remember him saying the words “traumatized,” or “needed you most.” She thinks she'd remember that. That strong language. Those loaded words.

She repeats what she's told him before, what she's told everyone before—Brigitte was ruining her life. Something had to be done. To protect her. Save her.

He sighs again. “I know, Mom, I know. That's how you see it.”

She tightens her grip on the phone cord. “What does that mean?”

“Look, you wanted to get into this, not me. She said she needed you and you turned your back. You sent her away. Abandoned her. And it doesn't matter what I believe. But I warned you not to. I told you she was too sensitive.”

“I thought she'd eventually understand that it was in her best interest.”

“What about when Maria moved away?” he snaps.

Brigitte's best friend from Russia. When Brigitte was eleven, Maria's parents separated, then divorced, and Maria's mother took her back to Russia. Hanne knew Brigitte would be upset, but it went beyond that. Brigitte refused to eat or do anything. One harsh or impatient word and tears spilled from her eyes.

At dinner one night, Brigitte pushed her food around on her plate with a fork and said she had to go to Russia. She missed Maria so much. Hiro said she was fortunate to have had such a good friend. But, Hanne interjected, they weren't going to yank her out of school for such a trip. She could wait until summer. They'd set up a list of chores for Brigitte to earn the money for the airfare. She could see by the way Hiro looked down at his plate that he disagreed. But he wouldn't challenge her in front of Brigitte. They'd have their disagreement behind closed doors.

“But I have to go,” said Brigitte, shaking her head slowly, as if acknowledging some unspoken thought.

“You will. But not now.”

Tomas chimed in with a long list of things he wanted, but didn't get, as if he was trying to console his sister. As he went on, Brigitte quietly pushed back her chair, went to her room, and shut her door. A moment later, she came out and announced that she'd just swallowed a bottleful of aspirin.

Now Hanne says: “She was eleven when that happened. When she went to boarding school, she was fourteen. She was a different girl by then, a very different girl. Once she was at boarding school, everything was fine. She made new friends, so many new friends.”

“She hasn't spoken to you in six years. How is that fine?” She can hear the fury in his voice. Is it because he's been made responsible for Brigitte? Bearing the full burden of parenting? How many phone calls has he fielded from Brigitte asking for something, requesting guidance? “Did we live in the same house? With the same person? But I forget. This is what you do. Assign qualities to people so you can approve of them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Whatever you told yourself about Brigitte then so you could justify sending her to boarding school and believe she'd be fine.”

“What a horrible thing to say.”

He exhales loudly. “Christ, I'm under a lot of stress right now. Forget I said that. Forget the money. Forget everything.” He says he'll buy her ticket to Colorado and he'll rent a condo. They'll have plenty of room. A week together for Christmas. And now he says he must go—a million things pressing.

She sets the receiver down in its cradle and watches the gingko trees flutter their heart-shaped leaves. A gray morning light saturates the room. She sees three small green buds nestled on the high branches of the apple tree. Soon the air will be scented with apple blossoms and summer with sweltering heat. A sign that things do not remain the same. And they haven't, have they? Things have gotten worse. Brigitte requires money. The word money clattered around in her head last night, along with a steady stream of thoughts—Brigitte needing money, and for what? Medical bills? Car crash? Pregnancy? Money, and how will Hanne earn money if she has no job? But Brigitte won't take her money.

Still, she pulls out her checkbook and writes a check to Tomas for five hundred dollars. Hardly anything, she knows.
For Brigitte
, she writes on the memo line, her hand trembling.

Renzo's car is gone. She makes herself eat breakfast, then heads back to the cottage and stares at her play. What kind of story is it that ends with the main character's life just fizzling and fading away? Ono no Komachi is banished from the court—and then what? She dies a crazy old woman? She tries to think what this woman could have learned in this abandoned state. Loneliness? The ache of her heart? Or might someone or something come along and cause the poet's life to take another unexpected turn? She feels a flutter of excitement, but not enough to stop her from lying down on the bed and falling asleep again. Hours later, when she wakes, the dog is a small circle nestled on top of her feet.

Bleary-eyed, she gets up and wanders through the cold, empty house, with Morsel right on her heels. She does the few dishes in the sink, sweeps the kitchen floor. The wind picks up, blowing ghostly notes in the house made of paper walls. She makes herself go outside and sit in the back yard, hoping the fresh air will lift the dark mood that has settled over her shoulders like a shroud. Maybe she won't stay for the Noh production; she'll head back to San Francisco. But then what? She still can't speak any English.

For dinner, she has a bowl of miso soup. She finds a black-and-white TV in the upstairs study and watches the news, not paying much attention, but occasionally repeating random words out loud, as if to hear a voice, any voice—“purge,” “roving,” “stolen,” “new zoo,” “betrayal.” When the drama shows come on, she still sits there, watching flickering images of women and men kissing, shouting, weeping into pillows.

In the morning with the house still empty, she takes the dog and heads out. She's getting a taste of how old age will be, she thinks, these long stretches of nothing and no one. No. Not old age. Her life now. She briskly walks past the tall grasses.

When her legs are weary, she registers very little except her exhaustion. This is what she hoped for. To wear herself out. Though along the way, a phrase has gotten stuck in her head:
I have been forsaken like a memory lost
. Over and over it plays; she can't remember who said it or if she's remembering it correctly. When she gets home, she and the dog collapse; the dog splays out on the floor, panting, its pink tongue lolling out of its mouth. She flops down on her bed, her legs throbbing. Good, she thinks, too tired to move. There's nothing she wants to do but lie here. She closes her eyes and sleeps until the sound of a car wakes her. She quickly brushes her hair and heads to the main house.