‘It would mean a lot to me if you would come.’
She looked at him and the laughter faded from her eyes. ‘Then I will.’
The rain slowed to a drizzle and stopped as the evening drew on. They got out of the car and approached the rails lining the road; they could see the sea emerging through the wisps of mist that lingered on the hillside.
Kaitarō put his arms around her and rubbed her shoulders to ward off the chill. ‘I should go,’ she said, but now she was reluctant to leave. ‘Kai’ – she turned towards him – ‘about today . . .’
‘You don’t have to say anything.’
‘Thank you.’
He brushed her hair away from her face and untied the damp handkerchief that held it in place. Rina watched as he put it in his pocket and she let him take it.
‘I love you,’ he said.
Rina shifted in his arMs She tried to say something, but he shook his head, placing his fingers over her lips; his skin was rough where it touched her mouth.
‘I do.’
Sumiko
Tokyo
My mother was a photographer, before she became a wife. Each year when we went to the sea, Mama would play with me on the beach, taking roll after roll of film. Grandpa sent these off to Kodak to be made into Kodachrome slides, and in the autumn, as the leaves darkened and we returned to Tokyo, my mother would open a bottle of Coca-Cola at Grandpa’s home in Meguro and we would watch the slides all at once on the projector.
I still have them, these home movies of sorts; they are in the basement of the Meguro house, filed away in narrow leather boxes. Sometimes I go down there to look at the slides. They are beautiful, each one a rectangular jewel encased in white card. I can see my mother in miniature biting the cone of an ice cream; me in the sand with my red bucket, my swimsuit damp from the sea; Grandpa sheltering under an umbrella, even though he is already in the shade.
I have other memories too, but they are not of Shimoda. These appear to me as glimpses and flashes. In my mind’s eye, the line of the coast straightens, the rocky inlets of Shimoda are replaced by an open harbour, and I hear the slap of my feet on concrete as I run and run. There are moments of clarity, liquid scenes: I see a yacht on the waves, its sails stretched taut; I feel strong arms lifting me into the air; I turn away from the bright sun glinting off a camera lens; a man’s hand offers me a cone of red bean ice cream, a man with long elegant fingers that do not belong to my father.
I have never found these images in my grandfather’s basement, nor have I seen that harbour in any of our photographs. But sometimes, I wake in the night to the caramel scent of red beans. A breeze lingers in the air and there is an echo of people talking in the distance, but perhaps it is only the whir of the ceiling fan and the scent of buns left to cool in the kitchen, which Hannae, Grandpa’s housekeeper, taught me to make.
I asked Grandpa once about these memories of mine. He said I was remembering our summers in Shimoda. When I continued to look at him, he laughed and motioned for me to sit beside him on the stool by his chair. He reached for a pile of books stacked on the edge of his shelves, his fingers tracing the hardbacks, paperbacks and volumes of poetry. ‘Which one will it be today?’ he asked.
Years later, I was standing in my grandfather’s study when the lies that wrapped around my life finally began to unravel. I was due to give a talk to the final-year law students at Tōdai, and I was dressed in a navy suit, my hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, immaculate but late, for I had lost my notes.
I remember that I was leaning over Grandpa’s desk, casting the papers into disorder. I had passed the Japanese bar a year before and my legal apprenticeship with the Supreme Court in Wakō City was drawing to a close. I had just completed the final exams, so all my cases from the long months of rotations with judges, public prosecutors, and attorneys were stacked across every surface. Grandpa had gone to stay at an onsen with friends, but long before that he had ceded his office to me, too delighted by my professional choices and the job offer from Nomura & Higashino to question the invasion.
Crossing to the leather armchair in the corner of the room, I leafed through the files I’d left on the seat. Following my long daily commute home from Wakō, I often fell asleep reading there. In the past year I had taken on extra cases in an effort to stand out from the other trainees, and I’d worked hard to build up my network among the attorneys and prosecutors, but the lack of sleep was catching up with me.
I was kneeling on the floor, my hand outstretched towards a sheaf of papers that might have been my notes, when the phone started to ring. My life was in that room: certificates from childhood and university, the framed newspaper article on Grandpa’s most famous case, the folder on current events that he kept for me. Each morning before work, Grandpa would sit at the breakfast table, sipping his favourite cold noodles and cutting clippings from the day’s news so I would not get caught out. I had read every article, every story in that room, except mine. I was so caught up in the paraphernalia of my life that I almost didn’t hear it.
‘Hello?’ I said, picking up the phone.
‘Good afternoon,’ the voice said. It was hesitant, female. ‘May I speak to Mr Sarashima?’
I was distracted, so I mumbled into the receiver, glancing around the room. ‘I’m afraid he’s in Hakone at the moment. What is this regarding?’
‘Is this the home of Mr Yoshitake Sarashima?’
‘Yes,’ I repeated. ‘I am his granddaughter, Sumiko. How can I help?’
‘Is this the household and family of Mrs Rina Satō?’
‘My mother is dead,’ I replied, focusing on the phone and the person at the other end of the line. There was silence. For a moment I thought that the girl with the hesitant voice had hung up, but then I heard her take a breath. Over the earpiece she said, ‘I am calling from the Ministry of Justice, on behalf of the Prison Service. I am very sorry to disturb you, Miss Satō, but my call is regarding Kaitarō Nakamura.’
‘Who is that?’ I asked.
As my voice travelled into the silence, the line went dead.
Bells
People say that you can’t unring a bell, that words once spoken hang in the air with a life of their own. In the last year of my mother’s life, Grandpa started taking me to a temple in the city. The hum of the crowds surrounded us as we made our way towards Sensōji. As we walked I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of burning leaves and incense, and I tugged at Grandpa’s coat. He looked down and lifted me into his arms, continuing to walk through the market. It was a new ritual of ours, this weekly visit. He lifted me higher onto his hip, tucking my yellow skirt around my legs. I chattered to him as he walked, pointing out the things that caught my eye. There were over a hundred stalls stretching between the beginning of the avenue and Sensōji, and there was another arcade running east to west, but he always chose this approach because I liked it best; it contained my favourite treats.