Mariko had stopped at what looked like a plateau. She shouted something to us again.
“I remember once,” Sachiko went on, “my father brought a book back from America for me, an English version of A Christmas Carol. That became something of an ambition of mine, Etsuko. I wanted to learn English well enough to read that book. Unfortunately, I never had the chance. When I married, my husband forbade me to continue learning. In fact, he made me throw the book away.”
“That seems rather a pity,” I said.
“My husband was like that, Etsuko. Very strict and very patriotic. He was never the most considerate of men. But he came from a highly distinguished family and my parents considered it a good match. I didn’t protest when he forbade me to study English. After all, there seemed little point any more.”
We reached the spot where Mariko was standing; it was a square area of ground that jutted off the edge of the path, bound in by several large boulders. A thick tree trunk fallen on to its side had been converted into a bench, the top surface having been smoothed and flattened. Sachiko and I sat down to recover our breath.
“Don’t go too near the edge, Mariko,” Sachiko called. The little girl had walked out to the boulders and was looking at the view with her binoculars.
I had a rather precarious feeling, perched on the edge of that mountain looking out over such a view; a long way down below us, we could see the harbour looking like a dense piece of machinery left in the water. Across the harbour, on the opposite bank, rose the series of hills that led into Nagasaki. The land at the foot of the hills was busy with houses and buildings. Far over to our right, the harbour opened out on to the sea.
We sat there for a while, recovering our breath and enjoying the breeze. Then I said:
“You wouldn’t think anything had ever happened here, would you? Everything looks so full of life. But all that area down there” — I waved my hand at the view below us — “all that area was so badly hit when the bomb fell. But look at it now.”
Sachiko nodded, then turned to me with a smile. “How cheerful you are today, Etsuko,” she said.
“But it’s so good to come out here. Today I’ve decided I’m going to be optimistic. I’m determined to have a happy future. Mrs Fujiwara always tells me how important it is to keep looking forward. And she’s right. If people didn’t do that, then all this” — I pointed again at the view — “all this would still be rubble.”
Sachiko smiled again. “Yes, as you say, Etsuko. It would all be rubble.” For a few moments, she continued to gaze at the view below us. “Incidentally, Etsuko,” she said, after a while, “your friend, Mrs Fujiwara. I assume she lost her family in the war.”
I nodded. “She had five children. And her husband was an important man in Nagasaki. When the bomb fell, they all died except her eldest son. It must have been such a blow to her, but she just kept going.”
“Yes,” said Sachiko, nodding slowly, “I thought something of that nature had happened. And did she always have that noodle shop of hers?”
“No, of course not. Her husband was an important man. That was only afterwards, after she lost everything. Whenever I see her, I think to myself I have to be like her, I should keep looking forward. Because in many ways, she lost more than I did. After all, look at me now. I’m about to start a family of my own.”
“Yes, how right you are.” The wind had disturbed Sachiko’s carefully combed hair. She passed her hand through it, then took a deep breath, “How right you are Etsuko, we shouldn’t keep looking back to the past. The war destroyed many things for me, but I still have my daughter. As you say, we have to keep looking forward.”
“You know,” I said, “it’s only in the last few days I’ve really thought about what it’s going to be like. To have a child, I mean. I don’t feel nearly so afraid now. I’m going to look forward to it. I’m going to be optimistic from now on.”
“And so you should, Etsuko. After all, you have a lot to look forward to. In fact, you’ll discover soon enough, it’s being a mother that makes life truly worthwhile. What do I care if life is a little dull at my uncle’s house? All I want is what’s best for my daughter. We’ll get her the best private tuition and she’ll catch up on her schoolwork in no time. As you say, Etsuko, we must look forward to life.”
“I’m so glad you feel like that,” I said. “We should both of us be grateful really. We may have lost a lot in the war, but there’s still so much to look forward to.”
“Yes, Etsuko. There’s a lot to look forward to.”
Mariko came nearer and stood in front of us. Perhaps she had overheard some of our conversation, for she said to me:
“We’re going to live with Yasuko-San again. Did Mother tell you?”
“Yes,” I said, “she did. Are you looking forward to living there again, Mariko-San?”
“We might be able to keep the kittens now,” the little girl said. “There’s plenty of room at Yasuko-San’s house.”
“We’ll have to see about that, Mariko,” said Sachiko.
Mariko looked at her mother for a moment. Then she said: “But Yasuko-San likes cats. And anyway, Maru was Yasuko-San’s cat before we took her. So the kittens are hers too.”
“Yes, Mariko, but we’ll have to see. We’ll have to see what Yasuko-San’s father will say.”
The little girl regarded her mother with a sullen look, then turned to me once more. “We might be able to keep them,” she said, with a serious expression.
Towards the latter part of the afternoon, we found ourselves back at the clearing where we had first stepped off the cable-car. There still remained in our lunch-boxes some biscuits and chocolates, so we sat down for a snack at one of the picnic tables. At the other end of the clearing, a handful of people were gathered near the metal fence, awaiting the cable-car that would take them back down the mountain.
We had been sitting at the picnic table for several minutes when a voice made us look up. The American woman came striding across the clearing, a broad smile on her face. Without the least sign of bashfulness, she sat down at our table, smiled to us in turn, then began to address Sachiko in English. She was, I supposed, grateful for the chance to communicate other than by means of gestures. Looking around, I spotted the Japanese woman nearby, putting a jacket on her son. She appeared less enthusiastic for our company, but eventually she came towards our table with a smile. She sat down opposite me, and when her son sat beside her, I could see the extent to which mother and child shared the same plump features; most noticeably, their cheeks had a kind of fleshy sagginess to them, not unlike the cheeks of bulldogs. The American woman, all the while, continued to talk loudly to Sachiko.
At the arrival of the strangers, Mariko had opened her sketchbook and begun to draw. The plump-faced woman, after exchanging a few pleasantries with me, turned to the little girl.
“And have you enjoyed your day?” she asked Mariko. “It’s very pretty up here, isn’t it?”
Mariko continued to crayon her page, not looking up. The woman, however, did not seem in the least deterred.
“What are you drawing there?” she asked. “It looks very nice.”
This time, Mariko stopped drawing and looked at the woman coldly.
“That looks very nice. May we see?” The woman reached forward and took the sketchbook. “Aren’t these nice, Akira,” she said to her son. “Isn’t the little lady clever?”
The boy leaned across the table for a better view. He regarded the drawings with interest, but said nothing.
“They’re very nice indeed.” The woman was turning over the pages. “Did you do all these today?”