eyes.
Now look through here, I said.
She drew in her breath.
Oh, Father, she said. It’s wonderful. Just wonderful.
She stayed like this for some time, looking at the soaring kites. Then she took the
viewer away from her face and closed her eyes.
It’s as though the whole world is just sky, and you’re floating in the middle of
it, she said. Just floating. And all these kites are spinning around and around and
around you.
She opened her eyes again. She held the viewer up in front of her. She turned it
around, and looked at its open end.
It’s beautiful, Fumiko said. Beautiful.
Perhaps I am a foolish old man, Omura said. But seeing Fumiko lying there, seeing
her smiling, I cannot tell you, Inspector, how much I had come to love this child.
That evening, on the way home, in the train, Fumiko sat by the window. At some point
I caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her face seemed to be floating in the darkness
outside. Seeing her like this, I was reminded of the first time I saw Sachiko, her
mother. And I was reminded yet again of all the terrible events that followed.
Chapter 6
AFTER that day at the beach, time seemed to evaporate. Years slipped by like days.
My legal practice at Fujimoto, Fujimoto and Co. expanded. I became a senior partner.
I began publishing articles in a number of legal journals. My reputation grew. As
a consequence, I was offered a professorship at the Imperial University. It was a
difficult decision. I enjoyed my work. There was also the question of loyalty. Fujimoto
and Co. had been good to me. And Fumiko. So I put a proposition to the university.
I would accept their offer on the condition that I was able to continue my private
practice. They agreed.
So, two days a week, I continued walking the kilometre and a half to my office, just
as I had been doing for years. And for a long time my life with Fumiko was settled.
Of course, there were times when she was curious about her mother. This was only
to be expected. I answered her questions by telling her that her mother had died
in childbirth, which was true. I showed her a black-and-white photograph of Katsuo
and Mariko, his fiancée, and myself that had been taken on the terrace of Katsuo’s
house overlooking Osaka Bay. This was at a time when Katsuo and Mariko were still
happy.
In the photo, the bay was at our backs. I remember Katsuo showing Ume, his housekeeper,
how to operate the camera. It was late afternoon. Katsuo and I were wearing our dark
suits. He was holding his hat in his left hand by his side. Mariko was wearing a
long, white, pleated dress, like something from the twenties. A row of dark pearls
at her neck. On the stone balustrade beside us were two glasses of saké, each still
half-full.
In the photograph, Mariko’s dress glows in the late afternoon sun. I am standing
next to her. My right hand is resting on her shoulder. She has a small scar there,
like a tiny map of Japan, which she does nothing to conceal. Katsuo is standing off
to one side.
I used to look at this photograph from time to time. And every time I did so, I could
see why Katsuo had fallen in love with Mariko. With her half-smile, her self-possessed
gaze, Mariko was extraordinarily beautiful.
I told Fumiko that this was Sachiko, her mother. Who had died in childbirth. It was
a lie, but a small lie, one which she seemed happy to accept.
On the other hand, she never once questioned the monstrous lie that lay dormant just
below the surface of our lives, the lie that I was her father, a lie that I knew
would come back to haunt us. But by then, her childhood memories, if they had ever
existed, had been erased.
Occasionally, little things would even conspire to reinforce this deception. Once,
I remember, we were eating our evening meal when Fumiko—she must have been twelve
at the time—turned to me and said: Do you remember, Father, how some months ago I
said I had noticed that in the afternoon the shadow of our apartment building climbed
your office tower,
Now look through here, I said.
She drew in her breath.
Oh, Father, she said. It’s wonderful. Just wonderful.
She stayed like this for some time, looking at the soaring kites. Then she took the
viewer away from her face and closed her eyes.
It’s as though the whole world is just sky, and you’re floating in the middle of
it, she said. Just floating. And all these kites are spinning around and around and
around you.
She opened her eyes again. She held the viewer up in front of her. She turned it
around, and looked at its open end.
It’s beautiful, Fumiko said. Beautiful.
Perhaps I am a foolish old man, Omura said. But seeing Fumiko lying there, seeing
her smiling, I cannot tell you, Inspector, how much I had come to love this child.
That evening, on the way home, in the train, Fumiko sat by the window. At some point
I caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her face seemed to be floating in the darkness
outside. Seeing her like this, I was reminded of the first time I saw Sachiko, her
mother. And I was reminded yet again of all the terrible events that followed.
Chapter 6
AFTER that day at the beach, time seemed to evaporate. Years slipped by like days.
My legal practice at Fujimoto, Fujimoto and Co. expanded. I became a senior partner.
I began publishing articles in a number of legal journals. My reputation grew. As
a consequence, I was offered a professorship at the Imperial University. It was a
difficult decision. I enjoyed my work. There was also the question of loyalty. Fujimoto
and Co. had been good to me. And Fumiko. So I put a proposition to the university.
I would accept their offer on the condition that I was able to continue my private
practice. They agreed.
So, two days a week, I continued walking the kilometre and a half to my office, just
as I had been doing for years. And for a long time my life with Fumiko was settled.
Of course, there were times when she was curious about her mother. This was only
to be expected. I answered her questions by telling her that her mother had died
in childbirth, which was true. I showed her a black-and-white photograph of Katsuo
and Mariko, his fiancée, and myself that had been taken on the terrace of Katsuo’s
house overlooking Osaka Bay. This was at a time when Katsuo and Mariko were still
happy.
In the photo, the bay was at our backs. I remember Katsuo showing Ume, his housekeeper,
how to operate the camera. It was late afternoon. Katsuo and I were wearing our dark
suits. He was holding his hat in his left hand by his side. Mariko was wearing a
long, white, pleated dress, like something from the twenties. A row of dark pearls
at her neck. On the stone balustrade beside us were two glasses of saké, each still
half-full.
In the photograph, Mariko’s dress glows in the late afternoon sun. I am standing
next to her. My right hand is resting on her shoulder. She has a small scar there,
like a tiny map of Japan, which she does nothing to conceal. Katsuo is standing off
to one side.
I used to look at this photograph from time to time. And every time I did so, I could
see why Katsuo had fallen in love with Mariko. With her half-smile, her self-possessed
gaze, Mariko was extraordinarily beautiful.
I told Fumiko that this was Sachiko, her mother. Who had died in childbirth. It was
a lie, but a small lie, one which she seemed happy to accept.
On the other hand, she never once questioned the monstrous lie that lay dormant just
below the surface of our lives, the lie that I was her father, a lie that I knew
would come back to haunt us. But by then, her childhood memories, if they had ever
existed, had been erased.
Occasionally, little things would even conspire to reinforce this deception. Once,
I remember, we were eating our evening meal when Fumiko—she must have been twelve
at the time—turned to me and said: Do you remember, Father, how some months ago I
said I had noticed that in the afternoon the shadow of our apartment building climbed
your office tower,
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