“It’s just a toy,” I said. “But you might be able to see a few things.”
Mariko opened the wrapping and examined the binoculars with a serious expression. She looked through them, first around the forecourt, then up at the hill-slope.
“Say thank you, Mariko,” Sachiko said.
Mariko continued to look through the binoculars. Then she brought them away from her face and put the plastic strap over her head.
“Thank you, Etsuko-San,” she said, a little grudgingly.
The American woman pointed to the binoculars, said something in English and laughed. The binoculars had also attracted the attention of the tubby boy, who previously had been watching the hill-slope and the descending cable-car. He took a few steps towards Mariko, his eyes on the binoculars.
“That was very kind of you, Etsuko,” said Sachiko.
“Not at all. It’s just a toy.”
The cable-car arrived and we went through the turnstiles, on to the hollow wooden boards. The two women and the tubby boy, it seemed, were to be the only other passengers. The man with the cap came out of his hut and ushered us one by one into the car. The interior looked stark and metallic. There were large windows on all sides and benches ran along the two larger walls.
The car remained at the platform for several more minutes and the tubby boy began to walk around impatiently. Beside me, Mariko was looking out of the window, her knees up on the bench. From our side of the car, we could see the forecourt and the gathering of young spectators at the turnstiles. Mariko seemed to be testing the effectiveness of her binoculars, holding them to her eyes one moment, taking them away the next. Then the tubby boy came and knelt on the bench beside her. For a little while, the two children ignored each other. Finally, the boy said:
“I want to have a look now.” He held out his hand for the binoculars. Mariko looked at him coldly.
“Akira, don’t ask like that,” said his mother. “Ask the little lady nicely.”
The boy took his hand away and looked at Mariko. The little girl stared back. The boy turned and went to another window.
The children at the turnstiles waved as the car began to pull away. I instinctively reached for the metal bar running along the window, and the American woman made a nervous noise and laughed. The forecourt was growing smaller and then the hillside began to move beneath us; the cable-car swayed gently as we climbed higher; for a moment, the treetops seemed to brush against the windows, then suddenly a large dip opened beneath us and we were hanging in the sky. Sachiko laughed softly and pointed to something out of the window. Mariko continued to look through her binoculars.
The cable-car finished its climb and we filed out cautiously as if uncertain we had arrived on solid ground. The higher station had no concrete forecourt, and we stepped off the wooden boards into a small grass clearing. Other than the uniformed man who ushered us out, there were no other people in sight. At the back of the clearing, almost amidst the pine trees, stood several wooden picnic tables. The near edge of the clearing where we had disembarked was marked by a metal fence, which separated us from a cliff-edge. When we had regained our bearings a little, we wandered over to the fence and looked out over the falling mountainside. After a moment, the two women and the boy joined us.
“Quite breathtaking, isn’t it?” the Japanese woman said to me. “I’m just showing my friend all the interesting sights. She’s never been in Japan before.”
“I see. I hope she’s enjoying it here.”
“I hope so. Unfortunately, I don’t understand English so well. Your friend seems to speak it much better than I do.”
“Yes, she speaks it very well.”
We both glanced towards Sachiko. She and the American woman were again exchanging remarks in English.
“How nice to be so well educated,” the woman said to me. “Well, I hope you all have a nice day.”
We exchanged bows, then the woman made gestures to her American guest, suggesting they move off.
“Please may I look,” the tubby boy said, in an angry voice. Again, he was holding out his hand. Mariko stared at him, as she had done in the cable-car.
“I want to see it,” the boy said, more fiercely.
“Akira, remember to ask the little lady nicely.”
“Please! I want to see it.”
Mariko continued to look at him for a second, then took the plastic strap from around her neck and handed the boy the binoculars. The boy put them to his face and for some moments gazed over the fence.
“These aren’t any good,” he said finally, turning to his mother. “They aren’t nearly as good as mine. Mother, look, you can’t even see those trees over there properly. Take a look.”
He held the binoculars towards his mother. Mariko reached for them but the boy snatched them away and again offered them to the woman.
“Take a look, Mother. You can’t even see those trees, the near ones.”
“Akira, give them back to the little lady now.”
“They aren’t nearly as good as mine.”
“Now, Akira, that’s not a nice thing to say. You know everyone isn’t as lucky as you.”
Mariko reached for the binoculars and this time the boy let go.
“Say thank you to the little lady,” said his mother.
The boy said nothing and started to walk away. The mother laughed a little.
“Thank you very much,” she said to Mariko. “You were very kind.” Then she smiled in turn towards Sachiko and myself. “Splendid scenery, isn’t it?” she said. “I do hope you have a nice day.”
The path was covered with pine needles and rose up the side of the mountain in zig-zags. We walked at an easy pace, often stopping to rest. Mariko was quiet and — rather to my surprise — showed no signs of wishing to misbehave. She did however display a curious reluctance to walk alongside her mother and myself. One moment she would be lagging behind, causing us to cast anxious glances over our shoulders; the next moment, she would go running past us and walk on ahead.
We met the American woman for the second time an hour or so after we had disembarked from the cable-car. She and her companion were coming back down the path and, recognizing us, gave cheerful greetings. The tubby boy, coming behind them, ignored us. As she passed, the American woman said something to Sachiko in English, and when Sachiko replied, gave a loud laugh. She seemed to want to stop and talk, but the Japanese woman and her son did not break their step; the American woman waved and walked on.
When I complimented Sachiko on her command of English, she laughed and said nothing. The encounter, I noticed, had had a curious effect upon her. She became quiet, and walked on beside me as if lost in thought. Then, when Mariko had once more rushed on ahead, she said to me:
“My father was a highly respected man, Etsuko. Highly respected indeed. But his foreign connections almost resulted in my marriage proposal being withdrawn.” She smiled slightly and shook her head. “How odd, Etsuko. That all seems like another age now.”
“Yes,” I said. “Things have changed so much.”
The path bent sharply and began to climb again. The trees fell away and suddenly the sky seemed huge all around us. Up ahead, Mariko shouted something and pointed. Then she hurried on excitedly.
“I never saw a great deal of my father,” Sachiko said. “He was abroad much of the time, in Europe and America. When I was young, I used to dream I’d go to America one day, that I’d go there and become a film actress. My mother used to laugh at me. But my father told me if I learnt my English well enough, I could easily become a business girl. I used to enjoy learning English.”