prologue
Sarashima is a beautiful name; a name that now belongs only to me. I was not born with it, this name, but I have chosen to take it, because once it belonged to my mother.
It is customary upon meeting someone to explain who you are and where you come from, but whether you realise it or not, you already know me and you know my story. Look closely. Reach into the far corners of your mind and sift through the news clippings, bulletins, tabloid crimes, tucked away there. You will see me. I am the line at the end of an article; I am the final sentence ending with a full stop.
Wakaresaseya Agent Goes Too Far?
By Yu Yamada. Published: 6:30 p.m., 16/05/1994
The trial of Kaitarō Nakamura, the man accused of murdering Rina Satō, began today at the Tokyo District Court.
The case has attracted international attention due to the fact that the defendant, Nakamura, is an agent in the wakaresaseya or so-called ‘marriage breakup’ industry, and has admitted that he was hired by the victim’s husband, Osamu Satō, to seduce his wife, Rina Satō, and provide grounds for divorce.
Nakamura claims that he and the deceased fell in love and were planning to start a new life together. If convicted of murder, Nakamura faces a minimum 20-year prison sentence; the judges may even consider the death penalty.
Rina Satō’s father, Yoshitake Sarashima, told reporters: ‘A business such as this which destroys people’s lives should not be allowed to operate in Tokyo. Rina was my only child and the heart of our family. I shall never get over her loss, nor forgive it.’
Rina Satō is survived by a daughter of seven years old.
Can you remember when you first read this? Were you at home at your breakfast table or in the office, scanning the morning news? I can see your face as you read about my family; your brows drew together in a slight frown, a crinkle formed above your nose. Perhaps the smell of coffee was strong and reassuring in the air, for eventually you shook your head and turned the page. The world is full of strange things.
Wakaresaseya was not common in Japan when Kaitarō was drawn into my mother’s life. The industry emerged out of a demand for its services, a demand that exists all over the world today. Look at the people around you: those you love, those who love you, those who want what you have. They can enter your life as easily as he entered mine.
Do you know now when we first met or where? Was it in the Telegraph, New York Times, Le Monde, Sydney Morning Herald? My story stopped there in the foreign press. Later articles focused on the marriage break-up industry itself and the agents who populate it, but none of them mentioned me. Lives to be rebuilt are always less interesting than lives destroyed. Even in Japan, I disappeared from the page.
part one
When you look at the world with knowledge, you realise that things are unchangeable and at the same time are constantly being transformed.
– mishima
Sumiko
What’s in a Name?
For the Sarashima, the naming of a child is a family matter. For me, it marked a bond with tradition that would govern my life. The names of my maternal relatives have always been chosen at Kiyoji in Meguro. You can just about glimpse the temple from the park at the end of our street. It sits at the base of a hill in the very centre of our neighbourhood; the green peaks of its roof tiles gleam in the sun and the red pillars of the portico peer out over the surrounding buildings.
As I grew up, my grandfather told me that our family had worshipped there since coming to Tokyo. He said that they remained at prayer during the firebombing of the city and that after the war they had restored the temple. For him, it is a symbol of regeneration.
This is why, as soon as Mama recovered from my birth, instead of gathering around the kamidana in the northern corner of the living room, my family went to Kiyoji and my mother carried me in her arms beneath the gates and into the heart of the temple complex.
As we climbed the stone steps leading to the main hall, my mother glanced up at the sprawling wooden roof, at its curved eaves stretching out beyond the building – shutting out the sunlight – resulting in the cool, dark shadows within. Inside, we proceeded through the sweet smoke of incense to the altar. All around us the wind blew through in gusts and the air swirled, while outside the bronze bells of the surrounding temples began to toll.
I don’t remember this journey, but I can see it quite clearly: me in my cream blanket, my father carrying Tora, the toy white tiger Grandpa had given to me, and my grandfather himself, grave in his three-piece suit. I have been told this story so many times it has seeped into my memory.
One of the monks, pale in his indigo robes, bowed to my grandfather and took from him a pouch containing a selection of names. My mother had prepared these names, first consulting the astrologer and then choosing her favourites, counting out the strokes of the characters to ensure that each given name, when combined with our surname, would add up to an optimal number.
I can still see her sitting at our dining table in her house slippers and jeans, an oversized T-shirt covering the bump that was me. The blinds are open, the sun slants across the marble floors of our home, while in the kitchen the rice cooker bubbles and the washing-up dries on the draining board. My mother lays a sheet of rice paper out in front of her and turns to the inkstone by her side. I can see her dip her brush into the ink, smell the rich scent of earth and pine soot rising into the air, as using the very tip of the bristles she presses down, the horsehair bending to create the first fluid stroke.
The monk bowed once more and placed the names in a shallow dish upon the altar. Then, kneeling before them, he selected a delicate wooden fan and, in unison with the breeze that drifted through the open screens, unfurled it, whipping up currents of air. Everyone was silent. The grey smoke of the incense drifted towards the rafters as one by one the names painted by my mother flew towards the ceiling. Eventually, one remained, alone on the teak surface:
寿美子
Grandpa knelt and picked it up from the altar and a smile broke out on his face as he read the characters of my given name and their meanings: celebration, beauty, child.
‘Sumiko,’ he said. ‘Sumiko Sarashima.’
My father had been silent throughout the proceedings. In the weeks leading up to my birth, plans for an ‘adoptive’ ceremony had been discussed. Under Japanese law, both people in a marriage must share the same surname, but in certain circumstances, a husband may take his wife’s surname and join her household, so that her name and her line may continue. My father was a second son and his family, the Satōs, readily agreed. However, that day, as the monk took out a fresh sheet of paper and began to inscribe my full name upon it, my father spoke:
‘Satō,’ he said. ‘She is a Satō, not a Sarashima.’