and that on the day of my birthday the corner seemed to pass right
through your window? And you said, well, in that case it would have to pass through
your window twice in one year. Do you remember?
Yes, I said.
I glanced up. Fumiko’s eyes were wide with excitement.
Well, she said. You were right. I’ve been watching and I’ve worked out that tomorrow
it’s going to pass through your window once again.
You mean to say you’ve been watching my window all this time?
Well, no, she said. Not really. But a month ago I noticed that the shadow had begun
to move back across your building.
I went to go on with my meal but when she didn’t continue I realised that we were
playing a familiar game, only now the roles had been reversed.
Go on, I said smiling.
Well, remember I said how strange it was that the shadow should pass through your
window on the very day of my birthday. I said it must mean something. You said it
wasn’t strange at all, it was just a coincidence.
Yes, I said.
Well, it’s tomorrow, she said. Tomorrow it’s going to happen again.
I must have looked puzzled.
Tomorrow! she said.
She looked at me with her eyes bright, as if she were stating something obvious.
Tomorrow it’s your birthday. Don’t you see, Father? So it must mean something, after
all.
Father. As the day of Katsuo’s release drew near, each time Fumiko said the word
I had so longed to hear it was like a blade being plunged into my heart. It astonished
me how often she said it. Father, could we go to the markets? Father, shall I pour
your tea? Father, there’s a letter here for you. And each time she said it, I was
reminded again of the lie my life had become, and of the inevitability of what lay
ahead, the moment when I would have to tell Fumiko the truth. About our life together.
And who her father really was.
Exactly three years to the day that Fumiko had reminded me of the shadow passing
down my building, the day of my birthday—it made me wonder whether Katsuo had planned
this, it would have been so characteristic of him—the letter which would undo my
life finally arrived. Fumiko was fifteen, just two years younger than Sachiko was
when she died.
After years of vigilance, its arrival caught me completely by surprise. As I knew
it would. Every morning I used to go through my mail expecting it to be there. You
cannot imagine what that did to me. How much my walk to work was coloured by the
expectation that today would be the day it arrived. How it—this waiting—tortured
me. Perhaps, I hoped, there would be another solution: Katsuo might die in jail,
he might disappear as he had done in the past, he might relinquish her. In my heart,
however, I knew that there was no escaping what was about to unfold—it had been written
into both our lives years before.
And now, on the morning of my fifty-fifth birthday, here it was.
I had taken the bus to my office instead of walking. It had been raining and I was
eager to finish the article I was writing.
I began working as soon as I arrived. At ten, Mrs Akimoto, my secretary, brought
me my mail. It lay bundled up in the tray on my desk. I looked up some minutes later
to see the thin sharp edge of a pale-blue envelope projecting slightly from the pile.
I sat looking at it, this edge, refusing to believe what I knew I was seeing. And
seeing it, I felt as though a vice was closing about my chest. I reached out, picked
up the bundle. My hand was shaking. I could barely breathe. I undid the piece of
string that bound the bundle together. I retrieved the envelope, held it up to my
face.
I recognised his handwriting immediately, the characters still beautiful, still perfectly
formed. And yet, the more closely I looked, I could see, here and there, an unmistakable
tremor, a momentary loss of control, as if death were already stalking him. This
observation shocked me. I had never thought of Katsuo growing old. I had been aware
of my own decline. But Katsuo. I had always thought of him
through your window? And you said, well, in that case it would have to pass through
your window twice in one year. Do you remember?
Yes, I said.
I glanced up. Fumiko’s eyes were wide with excitement.
Well, she said. You were right. I’ve been watching and I’ve worked out that tomorrow
it’s going to pass through your window once again.
You mean to say you’ve been watching my window all this time?
Well, no, she said. Not really. But a month ago I noticed that the shadow had begun
to move back across your building.
I went to go on with my meal but when she didn’t continue I realised that we were
playing a familiar game, only now the roles had been reversed.
Go on, I said smiling.
Well, remember I said how strange it was that the shadow should pass through your
window on the very day of my birthday. I said it must mean something. You said it
wasn’t strange at all, it was just a coincidence.
Yes, I said.
Well, it’s tomorrow, she said. Tomorrow it’s going to happen again.
I must have looked puzzled.
Tomorrow! she said.
She looked at me with her eyes bright, as if she were stating something obvious.
Tomorrow it’s your birthday. Don’t you see, Father? So it must mean something, after
all.
Father. As the day of Katsuo’s release drew near, each time Fumiko said the word
I had so longed to hear it was like a blade being plunged into my heart. It astonished
me how often she said it. Father, could we go to the markets? Father, shall I pour
your tea? Father, there’s a letter here for you. And each time she said it, I was
reminded again of the lie my life had become, and of the inevitability of what lay
ahead, the moment when I would have to tell Fumiko the truth. About our life together.
And who her father really was.
Exactly three years to the day that Fumiko had reminded me of the shadow passing
down my building, the day of my birthday—it made me wonder whether Katsuo had planned
this, it would have been so characteristic of him—the letter which would undo my
life finally arrived. Fumiko was fifteen, just two years younger than Sachiko was
when she died.
After years of vigilance, its arrival caught me completely by surprise. As I knew
it would. Every morning I used to go through my mail expecting it to be there. You
cannot imagine what that did to me. How much my walk to work was coloured by the
expectation that today would be the day it arrived. How it—this waiting—tortured
me. Perhaps, I hoped, there would be another solution: Katsuo might die in jail,
he might disappear as he had done in the past, he might relinquish her. In my heart,
however, I knew that there was no escaping what was about to unfold—it had been written
into both our lives years before.
And now, on the morning of my fifty-fifth birthday, here it was.
I had taken the bus to my office instead of walking. It had been raining and I was
eager to finish the article I was writing.
I began working as soon as I arrived. At ten, Mrs Akimoto, my secretary, brought
me my mail. It lay bundled up in the tray on my desk. I looked up some minutes later
to see the thin sharp edge of a pale-blue envelope projecting slightly from the pile.
I sat looking at it, this edge, refusing to believe what I knew I was seeing. And
seeing it, I felt as though a vice was closing about my chest. I reached out, picked
up the bundle. My hand was shaking. I could barely breathe. I undid the piece of
string that bound the bundle together. I retrieved the envelope, held it up to my
face.
I recognised his handwriting immediately, the characters still beautiful, still perfectly
formed. And yet, the more closely I looked, I could see, here and there, an unmistakable
tremor, a momentary loss of control, as if death were already stalking him. This
observation shocked me. I had never thought of Katsuo growing old. I had been aware
of my own decline. But Katsuo. I had always thought of him
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