“The day what was decided?”
“That you and Jiro were to be married. But I never told you about the azaleas, so I suppose it’s rather unreasonable of me to expect you to remember about them.”
“You planted some azaleas for me? Now that was a nice thought. But no, I don’t think you ever mentioned it.”
“But you see, Etsuko, you asked for them.” He had turned towards me again. “In fact, you positively ordered me to plant them in the gateway.”
“What? — I laughed — “I ordered you?”
“Yes, you ordered me. Like I was some hired gardener. Don’t you remember? Just when I thought it was all settled at last, and you were finally to become my daughter-in-law, you told me there was one thing more, you wouldn’t live in a house without azaleas in the gateway. And if I didn’t plant azaleas then the whole thing would be called off. So what could I do? I went straight out and planted azaleas.”
I laughed a little. “Now you mention it,” I said, “I remember something like that. But what nonsense, Father. I never forced you.”
“Oh yes, you did, Etsuko. You said you wouldn’t live in a house without azaleas in the gateway.” He came away from the window and sat down opposite me again. “Yes, Etsuko,” he said “just like a hired gardener.”
We both laughed and I began to pour out the tea.
“Azaleas were always my favourite flowers, you see,” I said.
“Yes. So you said.”
I finished pouring and we sat silently for a few moments, watching the steam rise from the teacups.
“And I had no idea then,” I said. “About Jiro’s plans, I mean.”
“No.”
I reached forward and placed a plate of small cakes by his teacup. Ogata-San regarded them with a smile. Eventually, he said:
“The azaleas came up beautifully. But by that time, of course, you’d moved away. Still, it’s no bad thing at all, young couples living on their own. Look at Kikuko and her husband. They’d love to have a little place of their own, but old Watanabe won’t even let them consider it. What an old war-lord he is.”
“Now I think of it,” I said, “there were azaleas in the gateway last week. The new occupants must agree with me. Azaleas are essential for a gateway.”
“I’m glad they’re still there.” Ogata-San took a sip from his teacup. Then he sighed and said with a laugh: “What an old war-lord that Watanabe is.”
Shortly after breakfast, Ogata-San suggested we should go and look around Nagasaki — “like the tourists do”, as he put it. I agreed at once and we took a tram into the city. As I recall, we spent some time at an art gallery, and then, a little before noon, we went to visit the peace memorial in the large public park not far from the centre of the city.
The park was commonly known as “Peace Park” — I never discovered whether this was the official name — and indeed, despite the sounds of children and birds, an atmosphere of solemnity hung over that large expanse of green. The usual adornments, such as shrubs and fountains, had been kept to a minimum, and the effect was a kind of austerity; the flat grass, a wide summer sky, and the memorial itself — a massive white statue in memory of those killed by the atomic bomb — presiding over its domain.
The statue resembled some muscular Greek god, seated with both arms outstretched. With his right hand, he pointed to the sky from where the bomb had fallen; with his other arm — stretched out to his left — the figure was supposedly holding back the forces of evil. His eyes were closed in prayer.
It was always my feeling that the statue had a rather cumbersome appearance, and I was never able to associate it with what had occurred that day the bomb had fallen, and those terrible days which followed. Seen from a distance, the figure looked almost comical, resembling a policeman conducting traffic. It remained for me nothing more than a statue, and while most people in Nagasaki seemed to appreciate it as some form of gesture, I suspect the general feeling was much like mine. And today, should I by chance recall that large white statue in Nagasaki, I find myself reminded primarily of my visit to Peace Park with Ogata-San that morning, and that business concerning his postcard.
“It doesn’t look quite so impressive in a picture,” I remember Ogata-San saying, holding up the postcard of the statue which he had just bought. We were standing some fifty yards or so from the monument. “I’ve been meaning to send a card for some time,” he continued. “I’ll be going back to Fukuoka any day now, but I suppose it’s still worth sending. Etsuko, do you have a pen? Perhaps I should send it straight away, otherwise I’m bound to forget.”
I found a pen in my handbag and we sat down on a bench nearby. I became curious when I noticed him staring at the blank side of the card, his pen poised but not writing. Once or twice, I saw him glance up towards the statue as if for inspiration. Finally I asked him:
“Are you sending it to a friend in Fukuoka?”
“Well, just an acquaintance.”
“Father’s looking very guilty,” I said. “I wonder who it can be he’s writing to.”
Ogata-San glanced up with a look of astonishment. Then he burst into loud laughter. “Guilty? Am I really?”
“Yes, very guilty. I wonder what Father gets up to when there’s no one to keep an eye on him.”
Ogata-San continued to laugh loudly. He was laughing so much I could feel the bench shake. He recovered a little and said: “Very well, Etsuko. You’ve caught me. You’ve caught me writing to my girl-friend — he used the English word. “Caught me red-handed.” He began laughing again.
“I always suspected Father led a glamorous life in Fukuoka.”
“Yes, Etsuko” — he was still laughing a little — “a very glamorous life.” Then he took a deep breath and looked down once more at his postcard. “You know, I really don’t know what to write. Perhaps I could just send it with nothing written. After all, I only wanted to show her what the memorial looks like. But then again, perhaps that’s rather too informal.”
“Well, I can’t advise you, Father, unless you reveal who this mysterious lady is.”
“The mysterious lady, Etsuko, runs a small restaurant in Fukuoka. It’s quite near my house so I usually go there for my evening meals. I talk to her sometimes, she’s pleasant enough, and I promised I’d send her a postcard of the peace memorial. I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.”
“I see, Father. But I’m still suspicious.”
“Quite a pleasant old woman, but she gets tiresome after a while. If I’m the only customer, she stands and talks all through the meal. Unfortunately there aren’t many other suitable places to eat nearby. You see, Etsuko, if you’d teach me to cook, as you promised, then I wouldn’t need to suffer the likes of her.”
“But it would be pointless,” I said, laughing. “Father would never get the hang of it.”
“Nonsense. You’re simply afraid I’ll surpass you. It’s most selfish of you, Etsuko. Now let me see” — he looked at his postcard once more — “What can I say to the old lady?”
“Do you remember Mrs Fujiwara?” I asked. “She runs a noodle shop now. Near Father’s old house.”
“Yes, so I hear. A great pity. Someone of her position running a noodle shop.”
“But she enjoys it. It gives her something to work for. She often asks after you.”
“A great pity,” he said again. “Her husband was a distinguished man. I had much respect for him. And now she’s running a noodle shop. Extraordinary.” He shook his head gravely. “I’d call in and pay my respects, but then I suppose she’d find that rather awkward. In her present circumstances, I mean.”