“Yes, I do,” she said, hurriedly. “It’s not that I don’t like it.” She fell silent, wiping some knives with a tea-towel. Finally she said: “It’s that other room. Her room. It gives me an odd feeling, that room being right opposite.”
I stopped what I was doing and looked at her sternly.
“Well, I can’t help it, Mother. I just feel strange thinking about that room being right opposite.”
“Take the spare room by all means,” I said, coldly. “But you’ll need to make up the bed in there.”
Although I had made a show of being upset by Niki’s request to change rooms, I had no wish to make it difficult for her to do so. For I too had experienced a disturbing feeling about that room opposite. In many ways, that room is the most pleasant in the house, with a splendid view across the orchard. But it had been Keiko’s fanatically guarded domain for so long, a strange spell seemed to linger there even now, six years after she had left it — a spell that had grown all the stronger now that Keiko was dead.
For the two or three years before she finally left us, Keiko had retreated into that bedroom, shutting us out of her life. She rarely came out, although I would sometimes hear her moving around the house after we had all gone to bed. I surmised that she spent her time reading magazines and listening to her radio. She had no friends, and the rest of us were forbidden entry into her room. At mealtimes I would leave her plate in the kitchen and she would come down to get it, then shut herself in again. The room, I realized, was in a terrible condition. An odour of stale perfume and dirty linen came from within, and on the occasions I had glimpsed inside, I had seen countless glossy magazines lying on the floor amidst heaps of clothes. I had to coax her to put out her laundry, and in this at least we reached an understanding: every few weeks I would find a bag of washing outside her door, which I would wash and return. In the end, the rest of us grew used to her ways, and when by some impulse Keiko ventured down into our living room, we would all feel a great tension. Invariably, these excursions would end with her fighting, with Niki or with my husband, and then she would be back in her room.
I never saw Keiko’s room in Manchester, the room in which she died. It may seem morbid of a mother to have such thoughts, but on hearing of her suicide, the first thought that ran through my mind — before I registered even the shock — was to wonder how long she had been there like that before they had found her. She had lived amidst her own family without being seen for days on end; little hope she would be discovered quickly in a strange city where no one knew her. Later, the coroner said she had been there “for several days”. It was the landlady who had opened the door, thinking Keiko had left without paying the rent.
I have found myself continually bringing to mind that picture — of my daughter hanging in her room for days on end. The horror of that image has never diminished, but it has long ceased to be a morbid matter; as with a wound on one’s own body, it is possible to develop an intimacy with the most disturbing of things.
“I’ll probably be warmer in the spare room anyhow,” Niki said.
“If you’re cold at night, Niki, you can simply turn up the heating.”
“I suppose so.” She gave a sigh. “I haven’t slept very well lately. I think I’m getting bad dreams, but I can never remember them properly once I wake up.”
“I had a dream last night,” I said.
“I think it might be to do with the quiet. I’m not used to it being so quiet at night.”
“I dreamt about that little girl. The one we were watching yesterday. The little girl in the park.”
“I can sleep right through traffic, but I’ve forgotten what it’s likesleeping in the quiet.” Niki shrugged and dropped some cutlery into the drawer. “Perhaps I’ll sleep better in the spare room.”
The fact that I mentioned my dream to Niki, that first time I had it, indicates perhaps that I had doubts even then as to its innocence. I must have suspected from the start — without fully knowing why — that the dream had to do not so much with the little girl we had watched, but with my having remembered Sachiko two days previously.
Chapter Four
I was in the kitchen one afternoon preparing the supper before my husband came home from work, when I heard a strange sound coming from the living room. I stopped what I was doing and listened. It came again — the sound of a violin being played very badly. The noises continued for a few minutes then stopped.
When eventually I went into the living room, I found Ogata-San bowed over a chess-board. The late afternoon sun was streaming in and despite the electric fans a humidity had set in all around the apartment. I opened the windows a little wider.
“Didn’t you finish your game last night?” I asked, coming over to him.
“No, Jiro claimed he was too tired. A ploy on his part, I suspect. You see, I have him in a nice corner here.”
“I see.”
“He’s relying on the fact that my memory’s so foggy these days. So I’m just going over my strategy again.”
“How resourceful of you, Father. But I doubt if Jiro’s mind works quite so cunningly.”
“Perhaps not. I dare say you know him better than I do these days.” Ogata-San continued to study the board for several moments, then looked up and laughed. “This must seem amusing to you. Jiro sweating away in his office and here I am preparing a game of chess for when he comes home. I feel like a small child waiting for his father.”
“Well, I’d much rather you occupied yourself with chess. Your musical recital earlier was hideous.”
“How disrespectful. And I thought you’d be moved, Etsuko.”
The violin was on the floor nearby, put back in its case. Ogata-San watched me as I began opening the case.
“I noticed it up there on the shelf,” he said. “I took the liberty of bringing it down. Don’t look so concerned, Etsuko. I was very gentle with it.”
“I can’t be sure. As you say, Father’s like a child these days.” I held up the violin and examined it. “Except small children can’t reach up to high shelves.”
I tucked the instrument under my chin. Ogata-San continued to watch me.
“Play something for me,” he said. “I’m sure you can do better than me.”
“I’m sure I can.” Once more I held the violin out at arm’s length. “But it’s been such a long time.”
“You mean you haven’t been practising? Now that’s a pity, Etsuko. You used to be so devoted to the instrument.”
“I suppose I was once. But I hardly touch it now.”
“A great shame, Etsuko. And you were so devoted. I remember when you used to play in the dead of night and wake up the house.”
“Wake up the house? When did I do that?”
“Yes, I remember. When you first came to stay with us.” Ogata-San gave a laugh. “Don’t look so worried, Etsuko. We all forgave you. Now let me see, who was the composer you used to admire so much? Was it Mendelssohn?”
“Is that true? I woke up the house?”
“Don’t look so worried, Etsuko. It was years ago. Play me something by Mendelssohn.”
“But why didn’t you stop me?”
“It was only for the first few nights. And besides, we didn’t mind in the least.”
I plucked the strings lightly. The violin was out of tune.
“I must have been such a burden to you in those days,” I said, quietly.
“Nonsense.”
“But the rest of the family. They must have thought I was a mad girl.”
“They couldn’t have thought too badly of you. After all, it ended up with you marrying Jiro. Now come on, Etsuko, enough of this. Play me something.”
“What was I like in those days, Father? Was I like a mad person?”