as young, immutable.
I could not open it. Not at first. I left it all day. I spoke to Mrs Akimoto. Cancelled
all my appointments. She had seemed perplexed. At one point, she knocked on my door.
I was by the window, looking out over the city, thinking that Fumiko would be home
from school by now. Then she knocked again. When she opened the door she was holding
a number of files in her arms.
Is everything all right, Mr Omura?
I saw her glance at the unopened letter lying on my desk.
Yes, thank you, Mrs Akimoto, I said.
Is there anything I can get you? she said.
No, I’m fine, I said. Thank you. Have Ryuichi call me tomorrow, will you.
Eventually, I sat down at my desk. I reached into my drawer, drew out my letter opener.
I inserted the blade under the flap of the envelope. A thin blue curl, like a tiny
breaking wave, began to unfold along its edge.
The writing paper took my breath away. A gift from me years before. I had no idea
he had kept it—the texture so beautiful, the grain so fine, the irony so perfect.
So characteristic. I could see him planning all of this. His foresight was, as always,
so cruelly precise.
The letter was exactly as I had expected.
My dear Tadashi,
I have known for some time that it was you who took Fumiko in. I had always hoped
it would be. I want you to know—I bear you no malice.
And then, the words I feared.
I would like to see my daughter. I think only of her. Indulge an old man, your one-time
friend, this one wish.
How many times had I imagined seeing those words? Imagined Katsuo writing them? I
think only of her, I think only of her…
This would be how my world ended, I thought . I would be alone, with everything over,
all questions answered. And Fumiko, my beloved daughter, would be gone.
As I put the letter down, I felt a death-like chill pass through me. Without Fumiko,
my beautiful, beautiful child, life meant nothing to me.
That night, walking home through the crowded streets alone, I wondered what I would
do. We were supposed to go to Kamakura the following weekend to watch the kites.
It had become a yearly pilgrimage. We always enjoyed ourselves. I could not tell
her about Katsuo before then. It would have to wait, even though it had already begun
to crush my heart.
So, Fumiko, I said during our evening meal. Are we still going to Kamakura?
We don’t have to, Father, she said. Not if you don’t want to. We have been so many
times before.
And we lapsed into silence, falling back into our own separate worlds, hers with
its unknown future, and mine with its inescapable past.
Chapter 7
WE went to Kamakura in any case. I carried the viewer—we had taken it every year
since I had made it for her—and my collapsible chair. Fumiko carried the mat, as
she always did, and our basket of provisions. We went to our favourite spot overlooking
the beach.
But I was not myself. I was preoccupied with how to break the truth to Fumiko. I
could not think of anything else. I decided I would tell her later that evening,
when we returned home. She, for her part, seemed to have picked up on my mood. I
caught her glancing at me from time to time. I could not bring myself to meet her
eye.
We sat without speaking for most of the afternoon, me in my chair, with Fumiko on
the mat a little way in front of me, her hands around her knees. She had worn her
hair up. Her neck was exposed, her earlobe faintly translucent against the sun. A
wisp of dark hair kept fluttering beside it in the wind. The sight of it was more
than I could bear.
I do not know whether I dozed off or whether I was daydreaming, nor do I know what
brought me back to myself. Perhaps it was a shout from the beach, or the sound of
thunder in the distance. Whatever it was, when I next looked up, hours had passed.
The beach below was in turmoil. Fumiko lay curled up asleep. Behind us, a tremendous
storm had begun to build. Already a dark underbelly of cloud had spilled over the
mountains and was beginning to loom over us.
I could not open it. Not at first. I left it all day. I spoke to Mrs Akimoto. Cancelled
all my appointments. She had seemed perplexed. At one point, she knocked on my door.
I was by the window, looking out over the city, thinking that Fumiko would be home
from school by now. Then she knocked again. When she opened the door she was holding
a number of files in her arms.
Is everything all right, Mr Omura?
I saw her glance at the unopened letter lying on my desk.
Yes, thank you, Mrs Akimoto, I said.
Is there anything I can get you? she said.
No, I’m fine, I said. Thank you. Have Ryuichi call me tomorrow, will you.
Eventually, I sat down at my desk. I reached into my drawer, drew out my letter opener.
I inserted the blade under the flap of the envelope. A thin blue curl, like a tiny
breaking wave, began to unfold along its edge.
The writing paper took my breath away. A gift from me years before. I had no idea
he had kept it—the texture so beautiful, the grain so fine, the irony so perfect.
So characteristic. I could see him planning all of this. His foresight was, as always,
so cruelly precise.
The letter was exactly as I had expected.
My dear Tadashi,
I have known for some time that it was you who took Fumiko in. I had always hoped
it would be. I want you to know—I bear you no malice.
And then, the words I feared.
I would like to see my daughter. I think only of her. Indulge an old man, your one-time
friend, this one wish.
How many times had I imagined seeing those words? Imagined Katsuo writing them? I
think only of her, I think only of her…
This would be how my world ended, I thought . I would be alone, with everything over,
all questions answered. And Fumiko, my beloved daughter, would be gone.
As I put the letter down, I felt a death-like chill pass through me. Without Fumiko,
my beautiful, beautiful child, life meant nothing to me.
That night, walking home through the crowded streets alone, I wondered what I would
do. We were supposed to go to Kamakura the following weekend to watch the kites.
It had become a yearly pilgrimage. We always enjoyed ourselves. I could not tell
her about Katsuo before then. It would have to wait, even though it had already begun
to crush my heart.
So, Fumiko, I said during our evening meal. Are we still going to Kamakura?
We don’t have to, Father, she said. Not if you don’t want to. We have been so many
times before.
And we lapsed into silence, falling back into our own separate worlds, hers with
its unknown future, and mine with its inescapable past.
Chapter 7
WE went to Kamakura in any case. I carried the viewer—we had taken it every year
since I had made it for her—and my collapsible chair. Fumiko carried the mat, as
she always did, and our basket of provisions. We went to our favourite spot overlooking
the beach.
But I was not myself. I was preoccupied with how to break the truth to Fumiko. I
could not think of anything else. I decided I would tell her later that evening,
when we returned home. She, for her part, seemed to have picked up on my mood. I
caught her glancing at me from time to time. I could not bring myself to meet her
eye.
We sat without speaking for most of the afternoon, me in my chair, with Fumiko on
the mat a little way in front of me, her hands around her knees. She had worn her
hair up. Her neck was exposed, her earlobe faintly translucent against the sun. A
wisp of dark hair kept fluttering beside it in the wind. The sight of it was more
than I could bear.
I do not know whether I dozed off or whether I was daydreaming, nor do I know what
brought me back to myself. Perhaps it was a shout from the beach, or the sound of
thunder in the distance. Whatever it was, when I next looked up, hours had passed.
The beach below was in turmoil. Fumiko lay curled up asleep. Behind us, a tremendous
storm had begun to build. Already a dark underbelly of cloud had spilled over the
mountains and was beginning to loom over us.
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