the folder under his arm and guided Vincent out of the lab, turning out the lights. The twenty-minute drive back to West Bay Bridge seemed awfully long to him all of a sudden.
Justine sat scrunched down in a far corner of the couch, knees drawn up, arms about her legs. Her open sketch pad lay on the low wooden coffee table in front of them. Across the room, the windowpanes were still teary, though most of the rain had dissipated into a low mist.
“Tell me about Japan,” she said abruptly, bringing her face down until it was level with his. Her cool eyes regarded him far from impassively.
“I haven’t been back in a very long time,” he said.
“What’s it like?”
“Different. Very different.”
“You mean the language.”
“Oh, that’s part of it, of course. But it’s more basic than that. You can go to France or Spain, have to deal with other languages. But after all, the thought processes are not that much different. Not in Japan. The Japanese confound most Westerners, frighten them, too, oddly enough.”
“Not really,” she observed. “Everyone’s frightened of what they don’t understand.”
“And then,” he said, “there are some who understand right away. My father was one of those. He loved the East.”
“As do you.”
“Yes,” he said. “As do I.”
“What made you come here?”
He watched her as the darkness came slowly down, as the world outside turned blue, wondering how she could be so insightful in her questions and at the same time so evasive in her answers. Inside the house, where they sat near the bubbling fish tank, the light was like yellow custard.
“I no longer wanted to be in Japan,” he said, recognizing in the simple statement both the truth and the utter insufficiency of the words. But would any words have sufficed? He could not say with any certainty.
“So you came here and went into advertising.”
He nodded. “In effect, yes.”
“And left your family?”
“I have no family.” The words came out cold and hard, as individually devastating as bullets, and she recoiled.
“You make me feel ashamed that I never talk to my sister,” she said, turning her face away from him for a moment as if to actively demonstrate her embarrassment.
“You must hate her a great deal.”
She spun her head back. “That was a cruel thing to say.”
“It was?” He was genuinely surprised. “I don’t think so.” He looked at her. “Are you indifferent about her? That would be far worse, I think.”
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not indifferent to her. She’s my sister. I—I don’t think you could understand,” she finished somewhat lamely and he knew she had meant to say something else, only changing her mind at the last instant.
“Why won’t you talk about your father? You spoke about him before in the past tense. Is he dead?”
There was a look in her eyes, a kind of reflective opacity as if she were staring into a fire, as she said, “Yes. He’s as dead as he could possibly be.” She got off the sofa, went over to the fish tank, peering in with a kind of coiled intensity as if she longed to shrink in size and jump into the salt water, becoming one with the crowd idling there. “What difference could it make to you, anyway? I’m not my father’s daughter; I don’t believe in all that shit.” But her tone said otherwise and Nicholas found himself wondering just what it was her father had done to her that she should despise him so.
“What about your sister?” he said. “I’m curious because I was an only child.”
She turned away from the tank, the water’s reflection in the overhead light dappling one side of her face as if she were submerged, some exotic sea creature attracted by the motion of his descent. He imagined they were at the bottom of the sea, puckered kelp like stately bamboo waving in the deep current’s breeze; he imagined they spoke sonically, bone to bone, vibrations batted back and forth like a tennis
Justine sat scrunched down in a far corner of the couch, knees drawn up, arms about her legs. Her open sketch pad lay on the low wooden coffee table in front of them. Across the room, the windowpanes were still teary, though most of the rain had dissipated into a low mist.
“Tell me about Japan,” she said abruptly, bringing her face down until it was level with his. Her cool eyes regarded him far from impassively.
“I haven’t been back in a very long time,” he said.
“What’s it like?”
“Different. Very different.”
“You mean the language.”
“Oh, that’s part of it, of course. But it’s more basic than that. You can go to France or Spain, have to deal with other languages. But after all, the thought processes are not that much different. Not in Japan. The Japanese confound most Westerners, frighten them, too, oddly enough.”
“Not really,” she observed. “Everyone’s frightened of what they don’t understand.”
“And then,” he said, “there are some who understand right away. My father was one of those. He loved the East.”
“As do you.”
“Yes,” he said. “As do I.”
“What made you come here?”
He watched her as the darkness came slowly down, as the world outside turned blue, wondering how she could be so insightful in her questions and at the same time so evasive in her answers. Inside the house, where they sat near the bubbling fish tank, the light was like yellow custard.
“I no longer wanted to be in Japan,” he said, recognizing in the simple statement both the truth and the utter insufficiency of the words. But would any words have sufficed? He could not say with any certainty.
“So you came here and went into advertising.”
He nodded. “In effect, yes.”
“And left your family?”
“I have no family.” The words came out cold and hard, as individually devastating as bullets, and she recoiled.
“You make me feel ashamed that I never talk to my sister,” she said, turning her face away from him for a moment as if to actively demonstrate her embarrassment.
“You must hate her a great deal.”
She spun her head back. “That was a cruel thing to say.”
“It was?” He was genuinely surprised. “I don’t think so.” He looked at her. “Are you indifferent about her? That would be far worse, I think.”
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not indifferent to her. She’s my sister. I—I don’t think you could understand,” she finished somewhat lamely and he knew she had meant to say something else, only changing her mind at the last instant.
“Why won’t you talk about your father? You spoke about him before in the past tense. Is he dead?”
There was a look in her eyes, a kind of reflective opacity as if she were staring into a fire, as she said, “Yes. He’s as dead as he could possibly be.” She got off the sofa, went over to the fish tank, peering in with a kind of coiled intensity as if she longed to shrink in size and jump into the salt water, becoming one with the crowd idling there. “What difference could it make to you, anyway? I’m not my father’s daughter; I don’t believe in all that shit.” But her tone said otherwise and Nicholas found himself wondering just what it was her father had done to her that she should despise him so.
“What about your sister?” he said. “I’m curious because I was an only child.”
She turned away from the tank, the water’s reflection in the overhead light dappling one side of her face as if she were submerged, some exotic sea creature attracted by the motion of his descent. He imagined they were at the bottom of the sea, puckered kelp like stately bamboo waving in the deep current’s breeze; he imagined they spoke sonically, bone to bone, vibrations batted back and forth like a tennis
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