“Why don’t you go into the kitchen for a little while,” she said, in a low voice. “Your mother will show you what to do. It’s very easy. I’m sure a clever girl like you could manage.”
Mariko gave no sign of having heard. Mrs Fujiwara glanced up at Sachiko, and for a brief instant I thought they exchanged cold glances. Then Mrs Fujiwara turned and went off towards her customers. She appeared to know them, for as she walked across the forecourt, she gave them a familiar greeting.
Sachiko came and sat at the edge of my table. “It’s so hot inside that kitchen,” she said.
“How are you getting on here?” I asked her.
“How am I getting on? Well, Etsuko, it’s certainly an amusing sort of experience, working in a noodle shop. I must say, I never imagined I’d one day find myself scrubbing tables in a place like this. Still” — she laughed quickly — “it’s quite amusing.”
“I see. And Mariko, is she settling in?”
We both glanced over to Mariko’s table; the child was still looking down at her hands.
“Oh, Mariko’s fine,” said Sachiko. “Of course, she’s rather restless at times. But then you’d hardly expect otherwise under the circumstances. It’s regrettable, Etsuko, but you see, my daughter doesn’t seem to share my sense of humour. She doesn’t find it quite so amusing here.” Sachiko smiled and glanced towards Mariko again. Then she got to her feet and went over to her.
She asked quietly: “Is it true what Mrs Fujiwara told me?”
The little girl remained silent.
“She says you were being rude to customers again. Is that true?”
Mariko still gave no response.
“Is it true what she told me? Mariko, please answer when you’re spoken to.”
“The woman came round again,” said Mariko. “Last night. While you were gone.”
Sachiko looked at her daughter for a second or two. Then she said: “I think you should go inside now. Go on, I’ll show you what you have to do.”
“She came again last night. She said she’d take me to her house.”
“Go on, Mariko, go on into the kitchen and wait for me there.”
“She’s going to show me where she lives.”
“Mariko, go inside.”
Across the forecourt, Mrs Fujiwara and the two women were laughing loudly about something. Mariko continued to stare at her palms. Sachiko turned away and came back to my table.
“Excuse me a moment, Etsuko,” she said. “But I left something boiling. I’ll be back in just a moment.” Then lowering her voice, she added: “You can hardly expect her to get enthusiastic about a place like this, can you?” She smiled and went towards the kitchen. At the doorway, she turned once more to her daughter.
“Come on, Mariko, come inside.”
Mariko did not move. Sachiko shrugged, then disappeared inside the kitchen.
Around that same time, in early summer, Ogata-San came to visit us, his first visit since moving away from Nagasaki earlier that year. He was my husband’s father, and it seems rather odd I always thought of him as “Ogata-San”, even in those days when that was my own name. But then I had known him as “Ogata-San” for such a long time — since long before I had ever met Jiro — I had never got used to calling him “Father”.
There was little family resemblance between Ogata-San and my husband. When I recall Jiro today, I picture a small stocky man wearing a stern expression; my husband was always fastidious about his appearance, and even at home would frequently dress in shirt and tie. I see him now as I saw him so often, seated on the tatami in our living room, hunched forward over his breakfast or supper. I remember he had this same tendency to hunch forward — in a manner not unlike that of a boxer — whether standing or walking. By contrast, his father would always sit with his shoulders flung well back, and had a relaxed, generous manner about him. When he came to visit us that summer, Ogata-San was still in the best of health, displaying a well-built physique and the robust energy of a much younger man.
I remember the morning he first mentioned Shigeo Matsuda. He had been with us for a few days by then, apparently finding the small square room comfortable enough for an extended stay. It was a bright morning and the three of us were finishing breakfast before Jiro left for the office.
“This school reunion of yours,” he said to Jiro. “That’s tonight, is it?”
“No, tomorrow evening.”
“Will you be seeing Shigeo Matsuda?”
“Shigeo? No, I doubt it. He doesn’t usually attend these occasions. I’m sorry to be going off and leaving you, Father. I’d rather give the thing a miss, but that may cause offence.”
“Don’t worry. Etsuko-San will look after me well enough. And these occasions are important.”
“I’d take some days off work,” Jiro said, “but we’re so busy just now. As I say, this order came into the office the day you arrived. A real nuisance.”
“Not at all,” said his father. “I understand perfectly. It wasn’t so long ago I was rushed off my feet with work myself. I’m not so old, you know.”
“No, of course.”
We ate on in silence for several moments. Then Ogata-San said:
“So you don’t think you’ll be running into Shigeo Matsuda. But you still see him from time to time?”
“Not so often these days. We’ve gone such separate ways since we got older.”
“Yes, this is what happens. Pupils all go separate ways, and then they find it so difficult to keep in touch. That’s why these reunions are so important. One shouldn’t be so quick to forget old allegiances. And it’s good to take a glance back now and then, it helps keep things in perspective. Yes, I think you should certainly go along tomorrow.”
“Perhaps Father will still be with us on Sunday,” my husband said. “Then perhaps we could go out somewhere for the day.”
“Yes, we can do that. A splendid idea. But if you have work to do, it doesn’t matter in the least.”
“No, I think I can leave Sunday free. I’m sorry to be so busy at the moment.”
“Have you asked any of your old teachers along tomorrow?” Ogata-San asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“It’s a shame teachers aren’t asked more often to these occasions. I was asked along from time to time. And when I was younger, we always made a point of inviting our teachers. I think it’s only proper. It’s an opportunity for a teacher to see the fruits of his work, and for the pupils to express their gratitude to him. I think it’s only proper that teachers are present.”
“Yes, perhaps you have a point.”
“Men these days forget so easily to whom they owe their education.”
“Yes, you’re very right.”
My husband finished eating and laid down his chopsticks. I poured him some tea.
“An odd little thing happened the other day,” Ogata-San said. “In retrospect, I suppose it’s rather amusing. I was at the library in Nagasaki, and I came across this periodical — a teachers’ periodical. I’d never heard of it, it wasn’t in existence in my days. To read it, you’d think all the teachers in Japan were communists now.”
“Apparently communism is growing in the country,” my husband said.
“Your friend Shigeo Matsuda had written in it. Now imagine my surprise when I saw my name mentioned in his article. I didn’t think I was so noteworthy these days.”
“I’m sure Father is still remembered very well in Nagasaki,” I put in.
“It was quite extraordinary. He was talking about Dr Endo and myself, about our retirements. If I understood him correctly, he was implying that the profession was well rid of us. In fact, he went so far as to suggest we should have been dismissed at the end of the war. Quite extraordinary.”