This time Mariko won a pencil, and came back to us with a sullen expression. We started to go, but Mariko was still looking towards the Kujibiki stand.
“Come on,” Sachiko said. “Etsuko-San needs to be getting home now.”
“I want to try once more. Just once more.”
Sachiko sighed impatiently, then looked at me. I shrugged and gave a laugh.
“All right,” said Sachiko. “Try once more.”
Several more people won prizes. Once a young woman won a face-compact and the appropriateness of the prize provoked some applause. On seeing Mariko appear for the third time, the man with the handkerchief pulled another of his amusing faces.
“Well, little princess, back again! Still want the basket? Wouldn’t you prefer that big furry bear?”
Mariko said nothing, waiting for the man to offer her the bowl. When she had picked out a ticket, the man examined it closely, then glanced behind him to where the prizes were exhibited. He scrutinized the ticket once more, then finally gave a nod.
“You haven’t won the basket. But you have won — a major prize!”
There was laughter and applause all around. The man went to the back of the stall and returned with what looked like a large wooden box.
“For your mother to keep her vegetables in!” he announced — to the crowd rather than to Mariko — and for a brief moment held up the prize. Beside me, Sachiko burst into laughter and joined in the applause. A gangway formed to allow Mariko through with her prize.
Sachiko was still laughing as we came away from the crowd. She had laughed so much that small tears had appeared in her eyes; she wiped them away and looked at the box.
“What a strange-looking thing,” she said, passing it to me.
It was the size of an orange box and surprisingly light; the wood was smooth but unvarnished, and on one side were two sliding panels of wire gauze.
“It may come in useful,” I said, sliding open a panel.
“I won a major prize,” said Mariko.
“Yes, well done,” Sachiko said.
“I won a kimono once,” Mariko said to me. “In Tokyo, I won a kimono once.”
“Well, you’ve won again.”
“Etsuko, perhaps you could carry my bag. Then I could carry this object home.”
“I won a major prize,” said Mariko.
“Yes, you were very good,” said her mother, and laughed a little.
We walked away from the kujibiki stand. The street was littered with discarded newspapers and all manner of rubbish.
“The kittens could live in there, couldn’t they?” Mariko said. “We could put rugs inside it and that could be their house.”
Sachiko looked doubtfully at the box in her arms. “I’m not sure they’d like it so much.”
“That could be their house. Then when we go to Yasuko-San’s house, we could carry them in there.”
Sachiko smiled tiredly.
“We could, couldn’t we, Mother? We could carry the kittens in there.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sachiko. “Yes, all right. We’ll carry the kittens in there.”
“So we can keep the kittens then?”
“Yes, we can keep the kittens. I’m sure Yasuko-San’s father won’t object.”
Mariko ran a little way ahead, then waited for us to catch up.
“So we won’t have to find homes for them any more?”
“No, not now. We’re going to Yasuko-San’s house, so we’ll keep the kittens after all.”
“We won’t have to find owners then. We can keep them all. We could take them in the box, couldn’t we, Mother?”
“Yes,” said Sachiko. Then she tossed back her head and once more began to laugh.
I often find myself recalling Mariko’s face the way I saw it that evening on the tram going home. She was staring out of the window, her forehead pressed against the glass; a boyish face, caught in the changing lights of the city rattling by outside. Mariko remained silent throughout that journey home, and Sachiko and I conversed little. Once, I remember, Sachiko asked:
“Will your husband be angry with you?”
“Quite possibly,” I said, with a smile. “But I did warn him yesterday I might be late.”
“It’s been an enjoyable day.”
“Yes. Jiro will just have to sit and get angry. I’ve enjoyed today very much.”
“We must do it again, Etsuko.”
“Yes, we must.”
“Remember, won’t you, to come and visit me after I move.”
“Yes, I’ll remember.”
We fell silent again after that. It was a little later, just as the tram slowed for a stop, I felt Sachiko give a sudden start. She was looking down the carriage, to where two or three people had gathered near the exit. A woman was standing there looking at Mariko. She was around thirty or so, with a thin face and tired expression. It was conceivable she was gazing at Mariko quite innocently, and but for Sachiko’s reaction I doubt if my suspicions would have been aroused. In the meantime, Mariko continued to look out of the window, quite unaware of the woman.
The woman noticed Sachiko looking at her and turned away. The tram came to a stop, the doors opened and the woman stepped out.
“Did you know that person?” I asked, quietly.
Sachiko laughed a little. “No. I just made a mistake.”
“You mistook her for someone else?”
“Just for a moment. There wasn’t even a resemblance really.” She laughed again, then glanced outside to check where we were.
Chapter Eight
In retrospect it seems quite clear why Ogata-San remained with us for as long as he did that summer. Knowing his son well enough, he must have recognized Jiro’s strategy over the matter concerning Shigeo Matsuda’s magazine article; my husband was simply waiting for Ogata-San to return home to Fukuoka so the whole affair could be forgotten. Meanwhile, he would continue to agree readily that such an attack on the family name should be dealt with both promptly and firmly, that the matter was his concern as much as his father’s, and that he would write to his old schoolfriend as soon as he had time. I can see now, with hindsight, how typical this was of the way Jiro faced any potentially awkward confrontation. Had he not, years later, faced another crisis in much the same manner, it may be that I would never have left Nagasaki. However, that is by the way.
I have recounted earlier some details of the evening my husband’s two drunken colleagues arrived to interrupt the chess game between Jiro and Ogata-San. That night, as I prepared for bed, I felt a strong urge to talk to Jiro about the whole business concerning Shigeo Matsuda; while I did not wish Jiro to write such a letter against his will, I was feeling more and more keenly that he should make his position clearer to his father. As it was, however, I refrained from mentioning the subject that night, just as I had done on previous occasions. For one thing, my husband would have considered it no business of mine to comment on such a matter. Furthermore, at that time of night, Jiro was invariably tired and any attempts to converse would only make him impatient. And in any case, it was never in the nature of our relationship to discuss such things openly.
Throughout the following day, Ogata-San remained in the apartment, often studying the chess game which — so he told me — had been interrupted at a crucial stage the previous night. Then that evening, an hour or so after we had finished supper, he brought out the chess-board again and began once more to study the pieces. Once, he looked up and said to my husband:
“So, Jiro. Tomorrow’s the big day then.”
Jiro looked up from his newspaper and gave a short laugh. “It’s nothing to make a fuss about,” he said.