Thanks to the metallic screech of my rusty brakes, the youth sitting on his haunches at the back of the shop has already turned to look in my direction before I get off my bike. It’s dark inside, and my eyes are still dazzled by the summer sun. I can hardly make out his face. But I can feel his eyes on me.
Sunlight streams through the thin clusters of leaves on the tallow trees as I stand on tiptoe, straddling the saddle. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, fully aware of the impression that a mature woman in a sleeveless dress must be having on him.
The shop deals mainly in secondhand motorbikes. It’s an old, run-down kind of place, with no air-conditioning. The metal sign outside is faded. The whole building looks off balance, as though it might topple over if the newspaper store next door weren’t there to support it. It doesn’t seem like a workplace at all. It’s like somewhere left over from the past, with a thick sediment of oil from engines and chains and other bits and pieces they’ve repaired covering everything.
And I know he’s been waiting for me. Waiting for the brakes on my bicycle to get loose, for the screeching to start, and for me to come in to get it fixed.
And me? I’m here to seduce him. How did it start? Accidentally enough—a random flash of pale skin; I caught him staring at my thighs. But the next time it was no accident. I looked him in the eye as I gave him another glimpse. Yes, I’ve teased him and led him on. And now I can’t stop.
He looks me up and down as he ambles over from the back of the shop. His white overalls are stained with oil, but with his clean-cut features, he never really looks dirty. How can he stare at me so calmly? He doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. There’s a smirk on his face, but his look is steady. Maybe he’s out to seduce me, a married woman. Like most teenagers, he’s probably cocky as anything.
“Looks like the brakes have come loose again,” I say, slipping down from the saddle. The hem of my dress hitches up as I raise my leg. I still feel his eyes on me, but I’m not bothered by that now. I enjoy it, like being tickled. He doesn’t try to hide the lust in his eyes. I can feel his gaze licking at my skin.
“That could be dangerous,” he says. His voice is almost a whisper.
Checking to make sure the manager isn’t there, I step into the eerily quiet interior, taking off my broad-brimmed hat and the long black gloves I’m wearing over the elbow to protect me from the sun.
“What’s the good of wearing those if you’re going round with bare legs?”
I can tell from the way he’s talking that he’s on his own. I allow myself to become more daring.
“I took off my panty hose before I left the house.”
“That sounds like a come-on, that does.”
He wipes the black oil off his fingers with a towel and wheels my bike with one hand toward the back of the shop. I follow him as he pushes his way through the jungle of handlebars. Of course he could check the brakes just as well by the entrance—but we both know why he’s trundling the bike to the back where no one can see.
He crouches down and takes hold of a pedal with one hand, then gives the wheel a gentle spin and squeezes the brakes. There’s a loud squawking like the sound of some exotic bird being wrung by the neck, but he doesn’t even flinch.
“Brake connector’s rusty. That’s why it keeps getting loose. And it’s catching here. That’s where the noise is coming from.”
He points to the rim of the wheel, but I’m not really interested. I’ve heard it all before.
“Can you fix it?”
“It’s covered in rust. And it’s old. You can’t get these parts anymore. You’d be better off buying a new one, really. These brakes will just snap off one day.”
“Wow. That sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah, it is. I’ll tighten them again for now, but really…”
“Where’s the boss?”
“He went to the bank. He should be back any minute.”
“OK…” I crouch down opposite him, with the bike between us. The usual routine. I relax my knees and open my legs a fraction. His eyes brighten. I can feel them crawling up my skirt. I give in to the ravishing feeling of being exposed like this. I hardly know what I’m doing. Something is surging up inside me. I can’t resist.
“…lady…”
The desire in his eyes is almost innocent in its nakedness. He looks adorable. I have to fight against the urge to give him everything right here and now. Hurriedly, I get to my feet.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Not here.”
Next to the shopping in the basket on my handlebars is a single unripe kiwi fruit I picked up in the garden last night. I’d forgotten all about it. Actually it’s still too early for them to fall off the branches. And kiwis don’t often fall anyway—unlike persimmons. It was odd, finding this one on the ground.
“What’s that? A baby kiwi?”
He picks it up curiously, his attention diverted. I can’t help laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. ‘Baby kiwi’! It sounds so cute. They flower in June. The fruit starts after that. Grows really slowly, though. They’re all about that size now. By next month, they should be big enough to eat.”
“You grow them at home?”
“In the garden.”
“In a greenhouse?”
“No. Just normally, in the garden.”
“I thought they were tropical. D’you live near here?”
“In one of the houses at the top of the hill. Come up and see it sometime. You go up past the medical school, then follow the bus lane left at the top. It’s the old house with a brick wall, one block in. You can’t miss it.”
Cradled in his grubby hands, the kiwi with its hard coating of golden hairs reminds me of the forbidden fruit—as if there’s some secret meaning to it. I imagine the little thing ripening and swelling in the warmth of his hands. He’s still staring at it, a look of wonder on his face. “It’s so hairy,” he laughs. “It’s kind of disgusting, really.”
“I’ll leave the bike here. You can bring it up when you’ve fixed it. How about 10:30 tomorrow? I’ll show you the house.”
Even after this, he gives me the usual business patter. “I can fix it for you right now if you don’t mind waiting. The shop rule is that customers come to collect their bikes.” He doesn’t get it.
“There’ll be no one else at home,” I say. Suddenly, his eyes flash with understanding. “Ten-thirty, on the dot. All right?”
I hand him a piece of paper with the address. He looks it over, and a boyish smile crosses his face.
“Here, let me take another look just to be sure,” he says. He leers at me and gets back down on his haunches. I’m about to do the same when his face freezes. The manager! I turn to face the entrance, where a dark, rotund figure is silhouetted against the sunlight.
“Have you had time to fix that scooter yet?”
An elderly nun in a pale beige summer habit is standing smiling by the door. I feel a surge of shame. What if she saw what was on our minds?
It’s not far to the house from the shop. You follow the gentle curve of the bus lane uphill under the shade of some big camphor trees, keeping the dry stone wall of the university medical department on your right. At the top you turn into a back street and step into a quiet residential area that stretches out over the slopes of the hill.
In the afternoon, there are so few people about you’d think no one lived there at all. Our place is a big house on the corner, surrounded by a red brick wall and a thick stand of trees.
The long black gloves don’t really go with my sleeveless white dress. I’m carrying a parasol as well. It’s the height of summer, and the air is practically burning. A ten-minute walk is enough to leave you drenched.
My sweat has quite a sweet smell, apparently. When I still lived in Tokyo, I had an affair with one of my superiors at work that lasted nearly three years. He called it the “smell of honey.” Used to say he could never bear to let his Honey Girl go.
I open the arched metal door to find my husband’s parents sitting under the trellis in the garden where the small dark kiwi fruit are ripening.
“Been doing some weeding?”
They look like caddies on a golf course in their broad-brimmed hats, green-and-yellow striped gardening gloves, and long white sleeves.
“How about some lunch?” I say.
They both flap their hands at me. “Thank you for asking, Mihoko,” my mother-in-law calls out. “But you don’t have to worry about us.”
“What do you want to do about tonight? For Father’s birthday? How about sushi?”
Birthdays in this house are a low-key affair. Usually they don’t do anything beyond a simple “Happy Birthday.” They don’t even bother with presents. But I’ve been looking for a way to thank them for the travel vouchers they gave us last Christmas so that Shinji and I could go to Hawaii, and for once we’ve agreed to have presents today.
“Don’t worry, Mihoko. I’ll make something. You come over to us. Shinji’s home early tonight, isn’t he?”
So that lets me off the hook. I rejoice quietly to myself. Shinji’s mother always cooks the most amazing meals. I pretty much hate any kind of housework, and I’m certainly not what you’d call a natural in the kitchen.
“Great. I’ll bring the presents with us when we come.”
My father-in-law is eighty this year, but he’s still full of beans. In fact, he’s amazingly fit for his age. His skin is still smooth and hasn’t lost its luster, and his hair is a nice, elegant gray. My parents look far more decrepit than he does, and they’re twenty years younger.
“It was somewhere around here, I think,” I can hear them say.
“Right on this spot.”
“Why were they all together here?”
“And what were they talking about?”
They patted the ground where they sat. The sunlight shone in bright streaks on their backs.
When the house was rebuilt, they put up a trellis made of wood and steel to replace the one where wisteria had grown. But the wisteria refused to take. It’s more than a decade now since my father-in-law planted a couple of kiwi saplings instead. They shot up, covering the trellis in no time with a cross-stitch pattern of vines that produce white flowers every year, from May to June. The fruit gradually turns golden and ripens in the autumn. And the harvest gets bigger every year. When we counted them in early autumn when I married into the family three years ago, there were 227 on the vines. They’re much smaller than the ones you see in the shops, though.
“They wouldn’t have had time to take cover or run away.”
“It was all over in a flash.”
The door facing the kiwi trellis gives on to a corridor that connects his parents’ side to the part of the house where Shinji and I live. A shrine room is just off the corridor. On the other side of the netted screen door, a white statue of Our Lady stands with her arms open wide, gazing out into the garden.
From the cherry and plum trees, I can hear the steady din of cicadas, mingled with the pleasant humming of the wings of insects that gather on the trellis. Even when the flowering season is over, the roof of the trellis, tangled with vines and leaves and fruit, is constantly abuzz with the bees, gold bugs, potato beetles, and ladybugs that make their homes there.
It was from my father-in-law, who’s an amateur entomologist on top of everything else, that I learned that the little black-and-yellow striped insect I’d assumed was some kind of wasp is actually a beetle called a “tiger longhorn.”
No one bothers to pick the fruit, so even when it’s ripe it’s not good enough to give to the neighbors. The birds and ants end up eating most of it. But my parents-in-law obviously enjoy watching it all change over the course of the year—the bright greenery in the spring and summer, the growing autumn fruit, and the way everything withers and dies when the chill sets in. I’ve even seen my father-in-law on his knees with his digital camera, taking close-ups of a kiwi split open on the ground, the green, half-rotten flesh pushing through the broken skin. He kept saying to himself how beautiful it was. They really love this miniature world, even its death and decay.
“He planted the vines out of respect for Mr. Lange. From New Zealand,” my mother-in-law tells me.
It must be obvious from the look on my face that the name means nothing. She looks up and closes her eyes. Evidently she’s decided not to bother explaining. “Listen to the wind,” she says. “The rustling of the leaves, the whirring of the insects’ wings, the smell of the sunlight, the hint of honey in the air…” I sometimes haven’t a clue what’s on these people’s minds.
It’s my father-in-law who comes to the rescue. “Lange was the prime minister of New Zealand. A wonderful man. Refused to allow nuclear weapons into his country. And he took a leading role during the talks to ban them altogether.” OK, but what does that have to do with kiwi vines?
“Father thinks New Zealand is like a modern Garden of Eden. Bursting with golden kiwi fruit.”
The words “Garden of Eden” bring me to my senses. I’ve told the boy from the motorbike shop to come to the house tomorrow. What is going to happen? Are we going to be expelled from Paradise?
“Here, try one,” she says. “This one looks about ready. They’re supposed to be a good source of iron,” she adds, plucking one of the larger fruit from its hiding place under the round leaves.
“The ones that get direct sunlight ripen faster,” she mentions as they both drift toward the faucet under the eaves, where they take off their gardening gloves and wash their hands.
The house is more than twenty years old now and starting to show its age. But I like it here. They had the bathroom and plumbing redone specially before I moved in. I had my reservations at first about sharing a house with them, but in fact everything has been pretty laid back. The place was designed with two separate households in mind, linked by a corridor, the original idea being for Shinji’s elder brother and his wife to use half of it. Even though the two living areas are connected, it’s not like we’re constantly traipsing back and forth on visits. Apart from special occasions like birthdays and Christmas, we don’t even eat together most of the time.
I do worry about the future sometimes—about Shinji’s parents needing to be looked after at some stage. That wouldn’t suit me at all. Luckily, both of them are still in good shape, so there’s no immediate danger. On the whole, life here is pretty comfortable.
Of course, there are inconveniences. One day not long after we got married, I’d just had a bath and was pottering around the kitchen in a towel when I bumped into my father-in-law, who’d come over to our side of the house for some reason. He blushed bright red, and my mother-in-law had a few quiet words with me about it afterward. Back when I was single, working in Tokyo and living on my own in an apartment in Hachioji, I often used to loll about watching videos in my underwear. I suppose I should have realized that it wasn’t really an appropriate way to behave now that I was married. Still, minor adjustments like that are easy enough.
It was the other stuff that took me by surprise. The family traditions, for one thing. They’re totally different from what I grew up with. The biggest shock was how often they pray—not just Shinji and his parents, but the whole family. It isn’t just grace at mealtimes, either; they’re always at it. My own family is Christian, too—nominally. But we hardly ever go to church except at Christmas. My parents do occasionally give money to the church, but they do it grudgingly, as though paying some kind of local tax. With us, our faith is a pretty superficial thing.
Here, though, they have a shrine room in the middle of the house and a statue of Our Lady the size of a little girl. It was all quite unfamiliar to me at first. I remember saying to Shinji once: “So you really believe in God then?” He looked shocked. “But you’re a Christian too, surely. You’re not saying you’ve lost your faith, are you?”
My husband is a cardiologist. He says he can sense the presence of God when he’s operating on a patient and sees how perfectly all the tiny blood vessels, valves, and organs are arranged inside the body. Being face to face with His Creation is how he describes it. Sometimes, apparently, when he is massaging the heart of a patient he knows is beyond help, he asks God to tell him when to stop and let go.
“Do you never have moments like that?” he asked me. I pretended to be thinking it over, but he just laughed. “You never take anything seriously, Mihoko. People your age are all so empty-headed nowadays.” Yes, we are empty-headed, at least to start with. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t be so bad to live without ever feeling guilty. Though I realize how wrong that would be, too.
On the other side of the kiwi trellis is an old plum tree. Its soft pink flowers are the first signs of spring every year. The trunk is thick, with a green-and-white mold on the bark that looks like the blotches on an old person’s skin. It’s not really something you want to look at too closely. One day in January, I noticed a few new branches poking out of the mottled trunk like skewers, with small, bright flowers on them. Even though much of the tree is old and decrepit, its upper body is still bursting with vitality.
There is a hollow in the trunk that looks a bit like the face in Munch’s painting of the scream that was in a textbook at school. Apparently, starlings used to nest there, but even they moved out in the end. Now, the hollow is rotten and clogged with rubbish. Early this summer, I was helping to tidy the garden when I reached all the way inside it, despite thinking how nasty it looked. There was a sour whiff of rotting vegetation, from dead leaves and stagnant water. I was scooping it out when a large black snake suddenly emerged from deep inside, arching its dark sickle head and glaring at me with its yellow eyes. I watched as the whole length of the snake uncoiled and slid down the tree, then slithered with surprising speed along the brick wall and disappeared into a damp bush of fatsia.
Where did the snake go after that? Sometimes I wonder if somehow it might be hiding in a hollow inside me. I mean, look at me: a thirty-three-year-old married woman, proposing to take a boy just out of high school to bed. Why on earth? There must be something wrong with me—there’s no other explanation—something bad inside. Otherwise, how could I keep flashing my thighs at him without feeling a twinge of guilt? Like the snake that was sleeping peacefully under the dead leaves until I prodded it and drove it out of its refuge, it seems only a matter of time before I get chased out of Paradise, too.
For lunch, I decide to cook some pasta: pepperoncino with garlic, oil, and red chilies. All I have to do is keep an eye on the time as the thin Buitoni pasta boils to al dente firmness. For the sauce, I just cut open the packet and dribble it out of the foil onto the plate. It’s almost no effort at all.
But even though it’s more or less an instant meal, there’s a rich taste of garlic and a sharp bite of chili when I lick the pale yellow olive oil off my fingertips.. Add a few slices of Parma ham and the salad left over from breakfast, along with a kiwi from the garden, halved with the tip of a kitchen knife, and it’s a pretty respectable lunch. The kiwi is still slightly hard and sour, but as I sip my coffee at the end of the meal, I feel quite satisfied.
On Mondays and Thursdays, I go swimming at a sports club in the city center, so after putting the plates and bowls in the dishwasher, I toss my swimsuit into a bag and leave. If I don’t swim, I get out of shape in no time. The boy at the bike shop told me I should trade in my bicycle for a scooter or a motorbike. “It must be tough getting up those hills on a bike,” he said. But I don’t want to give it up. When I’m running errands in the neighborhood, I try to walk as much as possible. If I need to go farther afield, I take the bike, making sure to pedal up all the hills. The car is a last resort. For me cycling, like swimming, is an important part of my regime.
Mine is an old-fashioned bike with a basket on the handlebars, which I’ve had since I was in high school—fifteen years ago. It was in storage at my parents’ place for a while after I left school, but I started using it again when I moved back to Nagasaki. It’s been with me for so long that I’m quite attached to it now; it reminds me of the days when I used to pedal to school and back under the willows along the river.
But the sports club is too far to go by bike. I have a new red Beetle Salsa that I use for running around town. There’s also a Mercedes in the garage, which Shinji shares with his father. As I take the car out of the garage, I catch a glimpse in the mirror of the twisted vines and leaves on the kiwi trellis, and my mind turns again to thoughts of what might happen here tomorrow.
I’m only playing, really. But a strange thrill runs through me when I imagine taking things further. Even so, I’m not sure whether I really will go through with it.
The car is like an oven after being in the garage so long. The air-conditioning doesn’t seem to make any difference at all. Through the windshield, I can see fat summer clouds stretching out across the sky. The roads are unusually crowded, probably because of the peace ceremony tomorrow. Lots of the cars have out-of-town plates. I realize I’ve come out without my gloves. The sun beats straight down on the back of my hands.
The sports club has a twenty-five-meter pool downstairs, with a gym on the second floor and a coffee shop and sauna on the third. Even though the five-lane pool is a bit on the small side, it’s hardly ever crowded, probably because the club is so expensive. Most of the people there are like me, housewives from well-heeled families. They sit in the coffee shop after their workout and gossip over iced coffees about what a hunk such-and-such an instructor is and the appeal of a well-shaped set of pecs.
Occasionally there are rumors that something’s going on between a member and one of the instructors. But I’m not interested in any of that. I just want to empty my mind and tire myself out so I can get a good night’s sleep.
After a quick shower, I push my long hair under my swimming cap and head for the pool. Apart from three other women in the water and a lifeguard looking languidly on, the place is empty, just as I expected.
If I had children, I would probably be splashing around with the crowds in a public pool right now and worrying about getting sunburned. Maybe it’s a blessing not to have any.
I’m standing with the water up to my waist when I recognize the woman in the lane next to me. It’s Kei—a classmate from high school—swimming with an unflattering splashy stroke like a wounded frog. She seems to notice me, and I can see the indecision on her face through the splashing. I pretend I haven’t seen her, pull my goggles over my head, and set off at a gentle crawl in the opposite direction.
The ripples cast undulating shadows on the blue-painted bottom of the pool. Silver bubbles form as I breathe out through my mouth and nose, skimming the plastic surface of my goggles as they rush to the surface. As I swim, my mind a blank, I feel myself become one with the water and light. Bliss. When I reach the far end, I perform a rolling turn that maybe isn’t as technically correct as it used to be and head back again. Kei is standing in the next lane watching me, leaning forward in the water.
She says something as I reach her, but I can’t make out what it is with the water in my ears. I hop up and down and tap my right hand against the side of my head. Warm water trickles out of my left ear, and Kei’s voice clicks into focus.
“Wow! I wish I could swim like that.”
“I really pile on the weight if I don’t exercise.”
She obviously wants to talk, but I pretend not to notice and start on another lap.
When I climb out of the water for a break, Kei is beckoning me over. There’s no escape. Toweling my hair, I sit down on a plastic chair next to her.
Kei has the typical flabby physique of a middle-aged mother of two. But it’s not just her age—she was always a bit on the dumpy side, even at school.
“Sorry I kept you out late the other night,” she says.
“I’m the one who kept you. Did your husband give you a hard time about it?”
“I don’t think he even noticed,” she says with a laugh. “He never gets home till late anyway.”
I think it was the first weekend in July when a bunch of us from school got together for a mini reunion at an izakaya pub in Dōza—me, Kei, Nagasawa, and Yamaguchi. We must have had a fair bit to drink. At the karaoke place we went to next, we hardly sang at all; instead, we sat around taking it in turns to confess our romantic indiscretions.
Nagasawa and Yamaguchi talked about old boyfriends from before they were married, then I admitted to the affair I had with my superior at the stationery company where I used to work in Tokyo. We kept it secret for three years until I tried to break it off when I realized his wife was onto us. At that point, things got a bit messy for a while; he turned into a bit of a weirdo and started stalking me.
It was partly to get away from him that I agreed to meet Shinji. I figured maybe it was time to settle down and move back to Nagasaki. Hearing that Nagasawa and Yamaguchi had had similar affairs in the past was a relief. Maybe everyone goes through something like that when they’re still single, I thought. But Kei said nothing. She just sat there listening and, when it was her turn, said she had nothing to confess. “That’s what happens when you get married young,” she told us.
Kei got married immediately after graduating from the two-year junior college she went to after school. The first baby arrived soon afterward. She’d never had a real job, and I suppose the rest of us tended to look down on her a bit as a result.
It was past midnight when Nagasawa and Yamaguchi went home, leaving Kei and me alone. Since we live in the same general direction, one of us suggested grabbing a coffee somewhere before sharing a taxi home. We ended up in a late-night jazz café.
Our coffees were down to just ice melting in the bottom of the glass by the time she opened up.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I had one, too. And after I got married.”
“Had what?”
“An affair.”
“You? You must be kidding. I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve always seemed so happy at home.”
“I am happy at home. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want the experience of being in love.”
Kei’s husband is five years older than her, a chef with his own late-night restaurant. He’s a good looker—way out of her league, I’d have thought. Of course I would never say that to her face. So it was incredible to think she could have cheated. The other way around, sure—but Kei cheating on him? Never.
“Who with?”
“A college student nine years younger than me. He used to come to the house to teach the boys.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It seemed amazing that a nondescript person like her had such a scandalous secret in her past. And with a student nearly ten years younger? Sounded unlikely to me.
“I’m not making it up. How long is it now since you got married?”
“Three years.”
“It’s been thirteen for me. Ten when it happened. After all that time, you stop thinking about your husband in that way—romance, passion, whatever. But you’re still young. And you’re still a woman.”
Once she started, there was no stopping her, and I lapped up the details. There was a touch of boastfulness in her voice, but that didn’t put me off. I was excited by what she was saying. Something seemed to catch fire inside me. I felt my legs trembling as I listened. So things like this really did happen after all.
“But how did it happen?” I asked admiringly. Maybe there was a twinge of jealousy in my voice as well.
“He was from Sasebo originally. He’d come to Nagasaki for his studies. He used to give my boys their lessons, and then quite often I let him stay for dinner. At first I treated him like a younger brother. After dinner he’d sit watching TV and chatting with me and the kids. Sometimes after they went to bed, we’d stay up late talking, and since my husband never gets home till the morning… well, we had plenty of time to ourselves.”
“And then? How did it start?”
“I suppose you could say I seduced him.”
“How?”
“I was wearing a tank top with nothing underneath. You could see everything.”
“Wow, Kei. Talk about still waters…”
I felt a charge of erotic excitement run though me. I folded my legs and squeezed them tight.
“OK, so I know I’m not slim. But some guys prefer a woman with a few curves, right? Anyway, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. I could feel him staring the whole time. You know what they’re like at that age. It just mounts and mounts till they grab anything they can get their hands on.”
Again, it was like an electric shock. Until now, I’d always thought I preferred a man I could depend on. I’d never thought of younger men in that way.
“So—what then?”
“We were watching TV. Suddenly he reached out and started feeling me up through my top.”
“And?”
“We kissed.”
“Wow.”
“We’d had grapes for dessert. The second time we kissed I put a grape in my mouth and pushed it in under his tongue.”
I seemed to hear a voice shrieking inside my head. I could picture it perfectly—the pale, almost transparent green fruit rolling back and forth between their tongues. I could see it as clearly as on an endoscope in a doctor’s office.
I felt my nipples harden under my blouse. My thighs were sticky with perspiration.
We’d gone into the café intending to have nothing more than one iced coffee each, but by now we’d moved onto Cutty Sark with lots of ice and water. Our glasses glinted under the orange lamps. I remember the sound of a trumpet in the background.
Kei’s sudden confession had made my heart pound. I was a little breathless.
“It lasted for three months. I used to go over to his little one-room apartment. I was crazy about him. Sometimes I thought I wouldn’t mind leaving my family if it meant I could live with him for the rest of my life.”
“What about now? Did you stop seeing him?”
“He began making outrageous demands. Telling me I’d better come running whenever he sent me a text. Asking me to do all kinds of pervy things while he watched.”
“Pervy?”
“I can’t talk about it. Not here. It’s too embarrassing.” She looked around at the other customers, sunk in the dim orange light. Cigarette smoke eddied under the lampshades.
“Once, I remember crying my eyes out after he told me I smelled like an old woman. But in spite of the way it ended, I don’t regret it. No one will ever love me like that again.”
Her plump face looked tired.
“Maybe we should think about getting home,” I said. It was past three in the morning.
No doubt about it: Kei’s story that night awoke something inside me. By coincidence, it was around this time that the brakes on my bike stopped working properly, making that awful noise.
I began to notice younger men—I’d hardly given them a second look before. I suddenly saw high school students in a new light. I watched them when they took off the jackets of their uniforms, the boyish innocence on their faces belying the surprisingly muscular bodies beneath their open-neck shirts.
And I could sense them looking back at me too, feel their eyes stroking my breasts and thighs as I made my way through a crowd of boys waiting at the bus stop, the brakes on my bike squealing as I passed.
Before long, I was deliberately unbuttoning my shirt to show my cleavage, relishing their attention. I seemed to hear them groaning with desire, like bees buzzing at nectar.
It was as if a switch had been flipped inside me. I no longer wanted only to be led; I wanted to lead the way. I had a new band of followers. I enjoyed the thrill of discovery.
It was around then that I dropped in at the secondhand motorbike shop to get my brakes repaired—and met him for the first time.
“You won’t say anything, will you? About what I told you that night?” Kei lies back on the reclining chair like some marine animal, her flabby belly hidden under a towel.
“About what?” I say, as if I’ve forgotten all about it. She is obviously feeling embarrassed. I’m not surprised; it was embarrassing enough just listening to it.
I lie there with an innocent look on my face. The reflections from the pool flicker on the ceiling, tracing faint patterns. A whiff of chlorine floats in the air.
“Don’t pretend. I could tell you were hanging on every word.”
“Oh—you mean you and your boy toy?”
“You’re only jealous. Or maybe you still don’t believe me. You think something like that could never happen to me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Do you want to know what happened next?”
“I thought you said you split up?”
“Well…”
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to…” Really, of course, I’m dying to know. She’d described how the affair started. I want to hear how it ended, too. The bike shop boy and I are still feeling each other out. Nothing has really happened yet. But I’m sure it will flare up soon enough when the time is right. I want Kei to tell me what the future holds, after that first burst of flame. Will it just turn to ashes? Or will it linger on painfully till I’m old?
“It’s two years now since the last time I saw him.”
“How did you split up?”
“After he graduated, he just kind of disappeared. He got a job with a trading company—he lives in Kobe now.”
“Just kind of disappeared,” I sigh, remembering all the fights I had in the dying days of my relationship in Tokyo.
Kei holds a hand over her mouth apparently to cover a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“He sent a New Year’s card—addressed to the boys.”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“When I saw his childish handwriting, I burst into tears.”
“Why?”
“I can’t forget him. Even now I think I might go to him if he asked me to.”
“What, and leave your husband and children?”
“Isn’t it awful? Sometimes I think there must be something wrong with me.”
Seen in profile, Kei looks like someone I don’t know at all. She falls silent, and after a while, I can tell she’s dozed off. I drape my towel over the chair and walk toward the diving board. I glide into the water without a splash. The bottom of the pool looms up in front of my eyes before buoyancy brings me to the surface. I kick out and work my arms.
I’ve always been a strong swimmer. I was on the team in junior high. If I increase my speed, I know that I can cover twenty-five meters in next to no time. But I move my arms slowly. I want to enjoy being held by the water.
I swim on slowly, looking for a glimpse of his face in the clear blue water. I feel something about to rush over me, but for the life of me I can’t tell what it is.
When I take off my goggles after my third set of fifty meters and look up at the poolside, Kei has gone.
Recently, I find myself thinking about the boy from the bike shop all the time. I sometimes feel as though I’ve spent my whole life thinking about people who aren’t there. It’s as if absent people are more attractive to me than those I’m actually with.
It was the same when I worked in Tokyo. Alone in my apartment in Hachioji, I used to enjoy daydreaming about my lover, wondering what he was up to. Right now, he’ll be with his family, I’d think. I would picture him bathing his little girl, splashing water over her with gentle hands that weren’t at all gentle when he handled me. Thinking of these things made me upset, but there was something good about it, too—as though the pain was somehow grown-up.
On nights when he was coming over, I would take my time preparing a meal, even though I’m not normally much of a cook, and buy a bottle of the expensive red wine he liked. I’d greet him with a big smile and then, later on, do anything he asked me to in bed. I sometimes find myself looking back on it fondly now, even though the sadness when he left me there was often so bad I used to cry myself to sleep.
Over and over, we went through the same routine. Three years passed before I knew it. Other men used to ask me out from time to time, but I stayed faithful to him. I liked him the way he was—aloof and mean. He used to treat me roughly, like a plaything. Once he was done, he would turn his back and lie smoking a cigarette, indifferent to me. Not once did he stroke my hair or hold me in his arms. He left as soon as he got what he came for, with barely a word of goodbye. But in a way, it was good that he was so unromantic.
It was when I tried to break it off, worried that his wife was getting suspicious, that he abruptly changed. He’d always ignored me except when he wanted me, but now he started phoning constantly and coming over to the apartment two or three times a week instead of just on Friday nights. He lost all his attraction for me. I tried to get away, but he started bugging me at the office, asking me to take him back. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t bear to let you go…” Over and over, with tears in his eyes. Then there were threats, and the stalking began… That soon brought me to my senses.
It was during this rough patch that my mother called from Nagasaki to tell me about the possibility of a formally arranged introduction to someone she’d heard about through the church. “He’s a little older than you, but it’s a good family: they’re all doctors and professors. He’s the youngest. A cardiologist. Very nice, very polite. And a good steady income. At least say you’ll come and meet him.”
My brother had recently qualified as a pediatrician. It was this unprecedented event that gave my mother the confidence to even consider an introduction to someone with such an impressive background. “Our family’s just as good as anyone else’s,” she liked to say proudly. But there’s a big difference between one that has produced doctors and scholars for generations and a down-to-earth family like ours. Until my brother, our lot had produced nothing but a long succession of factory workers, city hall officials, and department store clerks. The undercurrent of a family’s traditions—people’s ways of thinking, their intelligence, their hobbies and interests—doesn’t change overnight just because one of them has become a doctor.
Take Shinji’s father, for example—a man who listens to Mahler symphonies with his after-dinner coffee. My dad still collects CDs of sentimental old Japanese enka ballads, and my mother is hooked on the young actors in her favorite Korean TV dramas. It’s like two different worlds.
Shinji was fifteen years older than me, quite plump, with glasses. At least he still had his own hair. Maybe that was what allowed him to squeeze into the “just passable” category. But getting married and sharing the next few decades with him? Let’s just say I had my doubts.
We met every day for the next three days. It was at the end of our third date that he took me to the house for the first time. When I saw the garden and the kiwi vines in fruit, I remember thinking: I’ve had enough of Tokyo, this is where I want to live. It came as a relief more than anything else.
We sat on a bench under the trellis, with sunlight drifting through the canopy. The kiwis were ripe and golden, and we talked easily as we sipped from glasses of lemonade. “Do you know what a kiwi is really?” he asked. I guess he must have begun to notice already how little I knew.
“It was just a bird, originally,” he said. “The national bird of New Zealand. An endangered species. For a while it looked as though they might become extinct. They’re protected now, but they’re still not easy to see. It’s small, and flightless—it lost the use of its wings a long time ago. Small, round, and brown… quite like this fruit, in fact, if you stuck legs and a beak on it. The name comes from its call. I like to think that when people bite into the fruit they think of this funny little bird skulking away in the depths of the forest.”
The soft light of late summer lay in golden patches on the ground, and a faint breeze stirred the leaves. I could sense time flowing gently by.
The prospect of enjoying this slower pace of life suddenly appealed to me. It was like a lungful of fresh air. I think that was when I decided to say yes—not so much to Shinji himself, but to the entire way of life I’m living now, of which he is just one part.
I went back to Tokyo to sort things out. I told the head of the department and my co-workers that I was leaving to get married and then finally spoke to—him. He didn’t take it at all well.
“You’ve just been blinded by money,” he said. I could tell he was losing control.
“As if you can talk—you’re just blinded by sex,” I spat back.
He flinched, then started making wild threats. “I’ll kill him. I’ll stop the fucking wedding!” He was yelling now and picked up a kitchen knife.
I reached for the phone to call the police. He must have realized I wasn’t kidding; it seemed to bring him to his senses.
“OK, OK,” he said eventually, “I’m going.” And he slunk off, leaving a cloud of dejection and resentment behind him.
For a while after I moved back to Nagasaki, he kept bothering me with text messages until I changed my addresses. Since then, I haven’t heard a thing. I was worried that he might turn up at the wedding, but everything went without a hitch.
Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in him. But now and then, I feel a pang of nostalgia for the nights when I sat waiting for him to call—for the times when he’d turn up at my apartment and use me to satisfy himself. Of course I’m quite happy with the life I have here in my little Garden of Eden. But if I’m honest, I think I might be getting a bit bored.
There’s never any problem with money. There’s no need for me to work even part-time. Shinji treats me well, and his parents never interfere in our lives. I know how lucky I am. Yet sometimes I can’t help feeling a little… bored by it all. I can’t help longing for a bit of adventure.
And just at this stage in my life, along comes Kei, with perfect timing, to whisper in my ear and tempt me to taste the forbidden fruit. It’s as if she disturbed a snake lying curled in some hollow inside me. Startled it and sent it slithering out of its hiding place.
Two laps of the pool: fifty meters. Twenty sets makes one kilometer. My target is to swim this distance twice a week. When I was on the school team, we used to do far more than that every day, but I’m not swimming competitively anymore. My main aim is to keep my weight down. Also, I love the sense of accomplishment and the pleasant exhaustion after finishing my laps. The water washes me clean right to the tips of my fingernails.
I take a shower and call Shinji while I towel my hair.
“We’re having a little celebration at home tonight. It’s your father’s birthday.”
“August 8, of course. I’d forgotten.”
“I was thinking of getting him a watch.”
“Sure. Sounds good to me.”
“Oh, and your mother is giving us dinner. So try to get home early if you can.”
Shinji often eats out, so I’m used to having meals on my own. But I want to make sure he’s there tonight. It’s always a bit awkward when it’s just me and his parents. Even when he’s there, the three of them are always talking about highbrow stuff. I wind up sitting there bored out of my mind, pronging olives with my fork like a child left out of the grown-ups’ conversation.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I haven’t any operations scheduled for this evening.” He often tells me how happy his parents are that I joined the family. The truth is they probably think of me more as a granddaughter than a daughter-in-law. They both were in their thirties when Shinji was born. There are eight years between Shinji and his eldest brother, and fifteen between Shinji and me. So it’s only natural that they might see me as a member of their grandchildren’s generation—especially since Shinji treats me more like a daughter than a wife these days.
Maybe that’s part of the reason why he doesn’t make love to me much anymore. Not that I exactly want to be touched by a short, fat man like him—however brilliant he may be intellectually. A man’s libido starts to fade when he reaches forty-eight, according to him. But I know otherwise. Once, he came home around three in the morning, and while he was taking a shower, the green light on his phone kept flashing to indicate a new message. I couldn’t help it, even though I felt a bit guilty as I picked up the thing to look. The message was from a number saved under the name of “Momo.” “Thanks for tonight,” it said. “I had a great time. Can’t wait to see you again soon.”
That’s the way it is with men. The desire builds and builds until they’re nearly bursting. Once they’ve shot it out, they’re like empty bottles. Then, clear as glass, they turn away and hurry home in the early morning.
But I wasn’t jealous. I felt more impressed than anything: I didn’t think he had it in him. I pretended not to notice and haven’t bothered to find out anything more since then. Maybe he’s keeping some big secret from me—but I’m not going to start probing and risk waking up the big black snake that might be inside him.
“Try not to be late.”
“All right. See you later.”
My hair’s still wet. I apply some mousse and give my head a shake. Wet hair gives me an untamed look, as if I’ve had a frizzy perm. I leave the club and head down to the parking lot in the basement.
I want to stop by the supermarket near the station to pick up supplies for breakfast, but the roads are jammed, the traffic at a standstill. I sit staring at the sunlight on my wrists, the hoods of the cars glinting in the opposite lane, the deep green of the tallow trees. Again, there are cars with out-of-town plates everywhere.
I think ahead to the ceremony tomorrow. What a day to have chosen for him to come to the house! But it couldn’t be helped.
I want to feel his hands on me, those work-stained fingers with dirt under the nails. I want him to treat me roughly, like a plaything.
What’s wrong with me? Somewhere deep inside, my yellow-eyed serpent is flicking out its tongue.
I’ve been reading the Old Testament in the Bible Shinji’s mother gave me. I think she was shocked by how little I knew. It was her idea to start with the Old Testament. “The New Testament might be a bit difficult at first. The other part’s full of interesting stories.” But I can’t get past the bit in Genesis about Adam and Eve and the Fall.
I suppose it’s not surprising, given my situation. All kinds of thoughts come into my head when I read it. Personally, I think it was unfair of God. He must have known that his two newly created people would sin—and still he let the snake wander around the garden. He could have dealt with the thing before the trouble started.
Maybe the Fall was part of his plan all along. Maybe God had already reckoned on all the sins that would be committed by all the men and women in history. Probably he’s known from the start what was going happen. Which would mean he’s always known that one day I would make a pass at the boy from the bike shop and invite him up to the house.
Tell me, Lord—if you really are up there in heaven. Where does this twisted heart of mine come from? Why is this descendant of your Eve about to commit a mortal sin without so much as a twinge of guilt?
When I finally make it to the station building, I pick out a pair of matching his-and-hers watches at the jeweler’s on the second floor. Nothing formal, but a neat design, with a black pearl face and alligator skin straps.
They’re the latest model—solar-powered, and connected by radio waves to one of those superaccurate atomic clocks: 186,000 yen for the pair. Before I got married, this would have been an unthinkable amount of money to spend. But now I just slap it on the credit card with barely a thought.
Once that’s out of the way, I go down to the supermarket on the first floor to pick up some bread for the morning, along with bacon, peppers, and some lemons to put in my tea, and some hand cream. I pack everything into a cheap shopping bag.
Back in the parking lot, I put the paper bag with the watches on the passenger seat. As I dump the groceries in the back, the top of the bag rips open and a lemon rolls out, coming to rest in the hollow of the ivory-colored seat. A funny premonition takes hold of me. Maybe this is God’s answer to my question.
Anyway, something has happened. I don’t know what it is, but it’s as if everything has fallen silent—over the rows of parked cars, the dark stains on the concrete floor, the walls, even the lemon on the back seat, glinting in the light from the rear window. It’s the kind of silence that sometimes hangs in the air just before someone starts to speak.
I’ve had other odd moments like this since I moved in with Shinji and his parents. Their faith must be having an influence on me. Even a lapsed believer like me isn’t immune.
I steer the car back onto the clogged highway. It’s now late afternoon, and the sunlight isn’t so fierce. I sit at the wheel as the car crawls forward, brooding about the boy and the reckless game we’re playing.
Maybe it will come to nothing. Maybe I’ll invite him into the house and lead him on for a bit, and that will be that.
There is a gap of fifteen years between us, after all—he’s barely half my age. Obviously we could never have any kind of future together. I’d be an old crone when he was still in his prime. He’d soon get tired of me and run off with a younger woman. It’s too bad we couldn’t have met when we both were teenagers. Maybe I should just swallow my regrets and leave it at that.
I pull off the highway just past the Takaramachi intersection. Before long, the place where he works comes into view. A couple of weeks ago, I beeped the car horn at him when I saw him working outside. He saw me coming and gave me a wave. It wasn’t much, but it put me in a good mood for the rest of the day.
There’s a group of young people standing in front of the shop, taking no notice of anyone else. Probably his friends. Suddenly, I know he’s there with them. My heart jumps.
The lights change to red at the crossing by the shop, and I look over and try to pick him out of the crowd.
There… the tallest one, with the spiky hair like a hedgehog… yes, no doubt about it. It’s him. I’m getting ready to signal excitedly with a blast of the horn when I feel his eyes on me. He’s seen me. He’s definitely seen me. But what happens next makes my hand freeze in midair before it reaches the horn.
He is leaning against a moped parked under the tallow trees in front of the shop. Next to him is a young woman with a moped of her own. As I watch, he slips his arm around her waist, pulls her close, and kisses her in front of everyone. And I’m sure he’s looking my way as he does it.
The girl dodges out of reach with a laugh and pushes his hand away. But it’s obvious she doesn’t really mind. She’s wearing one of those tank tops that leave the midriff exposed and a pair of bright blue, well-washed jeans. For all her curvy bust and hips, she still has the face of a young girl. But she’s interested. She’s definitely interested. In the sunlight coming through the trees, the group laughs and jeers at the couple, egging them on.
The lights change to green, and I put my foot down on the accelerator. I forget all about sounding the horn. My eyes are misting over. I feel a tightening in my chest. Why this anguish and frustration? And why the tears filling my eyes? I remember the bright yellow lemon on the back seat. It was an omen. I knew something bad was going to happen.
As soon as I get home, I go to my bedroom and bury my head under the bedclothes. He definitely saw me. He must have known I was watching from the car. That’s why he grabbed hold of her. Probably she’s not his girlfriend at all. The whole thing was an act, put on for my benefit. I feel my anger and sadness start to fade slightly.
Early in the evening, before Shinji gets home, I wash my face and sit down in front of the mirror to put on my makeup again. By the time I sit down to dinner, it’s as if nothing ever happened.
After grace, I sheepishly sing “Happy Birthday,” and Shinji’s father blows out the candles. He’s grinning from ear to ear. Someone opens a bottle of good Burgundy, and we all drink a toast.
Then, with the cake back in the fridge, we start on the meal that Shinji’s mother has prepared from scratch. Almost as soon as she sits down, she’s back on her feet again, bustling in and out of the kitchen to check on the pasta and some smoked things she’s made.
The phone rings soon after we’ve begun. It’s their eldest son, calling to say happy birthday. Shinji’s mother answers it and, after a brief chat, hands it over to her husband. “It’s Shinichiro. He’s got Shinzen and little Ma-kun there with him.”
My brother-in-law is a doctor in Tomachi, now fifty-six. His own son is already the father of a three-month-old baby boy, even though Shinzen himself is still in medical school.
The old man takes the phone and starts cooing happily at his great-grandson. Of course the baby can’t talk, but apparently someone is holding the phone in front of him. Shinji’s father keeps saying the child’s name, his eyes wrinkling with affection.
“It doesn’t matter how many times you say it. He doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”
My mother-in-law puts a bowl down in the middle of the table: cold pasta topped with okra and salmon, all drizzled with fresh pesto and lemon juice. This is one of my favorites, so even though I had pasta for lunch, I greet its arrival by clapping my hands and saying how delicious it looks.
“You’re always a pleasure to cook for, Mihoko,” she says. “You think everything tastes good.” But I can tell she’s pleased.
The birthday boy is still gurgling into the telephone. “It’s me, Ma-kun. Grandpa. You remember Grandpa, don’t you?”
Eventually, my mother-in-law has had enough. “Come on,” she says. “You’re going to go gaga over that child.”
He hangs up with a grin and comes back to the table. After helping himself to a generous amount of pasta, he twirls it thickly around his fork and tucks in. He certainly doesn’t eat like an old man.
“You’ll choke on that if you’re not careful.”
With everybody in a good mood, I decide to hand over my presents. They undo the ribbons and put the watches on right there.
“Thank you.”
“I’m so glad you came to live with us, Mihoko. Everyone else in the family married young except Shinji. I was starting to worry.”
“Here we go again. I told you, I was always too busy to think of getting married.”
I just smile and nod my head. The people in this family are like a different species.
It’s only been a few hours, but that girl I saw him with this afternoon has already taken on a new appearance in my imagination. She’s much better looking, with pearly skin. She needs to be a beauty to deserve him. They make a nice couple. I start to worry.
Maybe there won’t be any room for me to squeeze in between them. But at the same time, I’m more convinced than ever that it’s me he really wants.
I swing back and forth between these opposite opinions. I can’t confirm it either way. After a while, I lose track of who is trying to seduce whom.
“I never thought sixty years ago when we stood here in the ruins that I would live to see my great-grandson’s face.”
“Everyone was just bones—I thought we were the last of the line. Do you remember what you said to comfort me? We’re not the last, you said, we’re the first.” The old couple clink their glasses again.
“You did well to keep going that day,” my father-in-law tells her. Gray haired and elderly, they look more like brother and sister than husband and wife.
The exact blood relationship between them is a bit complicated, and I’m not sure of all the details, but Shinji’s parents come from distantly related families. They used to live next door to each other on this plot of land. Apparently when they still were small, their parents made arrangements for them to get married one day. Instead of rebelling against this plan, the two young people seemed to grow fond of each other quite naturally when the time came, as if it had been waiting to happen.
“There was no fence between the houses. We had that wisteria trellis instead. We often used to sit and talk there before the war. When it was blooming, it was better even than the cherry blossoms.”
“It was quite a sight, wasn’t it?—all those lavender flowers hanging down in big, long bunches.”
Inevitably, we all turn to look at the trellis outside, now laced with kiwi vines. A soft orange light is shining through the leaves.
“To tell the truth, I never really felt comfortable under the wisteria when it was out. I was worried about creepy-crawlies.”
“Do you remember that bench made out of a log?”
“Yes. Who was it put it there?”
“It came from a tree that Kiyoshi cut down on Mount Konpira. He dragged it all the way to the city on horseback.”
“He was surprisingly tough for such a bookworm.”
I’m amazed how clearly they can remember things that happened more than sixty years earlier. I can’t even remember what I had for lunch a few days ago. For me, time is not something that builds up like snow, gradually becoming “the past”; it just seeps away into a hole somewhere.
Right now, that empty heart of mine is seething. I am not going to let some nobody like her get her hands on him. I repeat it to myself like a curse.
Physically I’m still sitting at the table, smiling and nodding. But in reality I’m somewhere far away; already driven out of Paradise, wandering in a wilderness…
“I wonder if they had a premonition that something was going to happen. Do you remember how they teased us the night before, when we all were cooling off under the wisteria after supper? They kept saying, ‘You two had better hurry up and get married.’ Remember?”
“They’d been saying it for a while by then—ever since I got my call-up papers. I was due to join the regiment in November. ‘You never know what might happen,’ they said. ‘At least get married before you go.’”
“They sent us up to Mitsuyama to attend a ground-breaking ceremony for the house they were planning to evacuate to… We were the only ones to survive.”
“I remember my father had a fever that morning. Normally, education came before everything else, but that day he made an exception and asked me, as the eldest son, to represent the family. He didn’t want to bother any of the other relatives. He sounded oddly emotional… That’s how I wound up skipping the lectures that day.”
“My parents told me to go on ahead—they were going to follow later that morning. Afterward, the air raid sirens sounded. They must have been late leaving the house. It was a beautiful clear day. I remember taking some eggplants as a present.”
“That’s right—we used to grow eggplants and pumpkins behind the trellis. I was wearing some new gaiters my father had given me.”
“It was in the papers that a new type of bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima, but we never imagined…”
“‘This good, strong country of yours will become a wasteland in July and August.’ ”
“What’s that?”
“Something a classmate showed me. His name was Furukawa. We roomed together. He showed me one of the leaflets the Americans were dropping from their planes. He was a bright, quick-thinking guy from Saga—cheerful, and popular with children. It must have been just a few days before it happened… The print looked like matchsticks, on yellow paper. I told him, they’ll string you up if they find you with this. He just sighed and said, ‘You know, I think we’re going to lose this war.’ He was killed along with everyone else, listening to some lecture.”
“A wasteland? Is that what it said?”
“God wasn’t up there above us when it happened. Not up in the skies where the B-29 bombers flew. It was out of His control.”
“He wasn’t present…”
“That’s the only way I can make sense of it. I simply can’t understand it otherwise.”
Shinji, who has been listening quietly to his parents until now, suddenly speaks up. “What’s got into that cat?” We all turn to look out into the garden.
A black cat is rubbing itself against the bark of the two things supporting the fabric of the trellis: originally a couple of small saplings, one male and one female, planted slightly apart. Around knee height, these merged into a kind of double spiral as they grew. Down at the base the stems are quite thick and from a distance they bulge like warts.
With its front paws on the warts, the cat has wrapped its body around the intertwined trunks, stretching out its neck and moving its head from side to side as though sniffing the scent of the leaves bobbing in the breeze. It looks a bit like a bottle partly buried in the sand, swaying gently as the waves wash in and out again. As I watch the cat’s face, its eyes shut tight, the image of a woman in ecstasy sneaks into my mind… this restless mind, which won’t leave me in peace these days.
By a natural association, I assume the cat is in heat. When I was a girl, I had a brown tabby called Mii-chan. I remember how Mii-chan used to come and curl herself around people’s legs at certain times of the year.
“Oni matatabi,” my father-in-law is muttering. “Devil’s silver vine. Where’s that digital camera?” he asks.
“Where you left it.” She hands it to him from the magazine rack.
He always keeps one in the living room so that he can photograph whatever birds and insects come into the garden.
“Is it something unusual?”
“Another name for the kiwi is oni matatabi—devil’s silver vine. It’s a kind of catnip. That cat is high on catnip. I’ve heard about this, but I’ve never actually seen it before…”
The cat doesn’t pay us any attention even when we move over to the window. It keeps pressing itself against the vines, as though an invisible person is stroking its neck. Eventually, the sudden flash of the camera startles it, and after a glance in our direction, it slinks off into the azaleas.
Night comes. The heat is stifling, and it’s hard to sleep. I toss and turn, switching the air-conditioning on and off. I try to keep my agitation under control, but it’s no good.
I want him for myself. I’m not going to share him with anyone. But how do I know if he’s even interested? Doubts and angry thoughts keep sweeping over me. It’s enough to make me feel like crying.
In the middle of the night, I hear what sounds like the wind. It gets louder, and then I realize it’s Shinji snoring in the next bed. I’m wide awake now and too irritated to get to sleep again.
I can’t bear to stay and creep downstairs to sit at the kitchen table. I pour myself some mineral water and drain half the glass. Already I can feel the vexation beginning to subside. With my head in my hands, I stare at the silvery water in the glass. “What should I do?” I ask the night.
It’s nearly daybreak by the time I fall asleep, but I’m awake again at six. Immediately, one question dominates my thoughts: Will he come? I’m beginning to worry a bit about Shinji’s parents, too. What if they don’t go out? At their age, their plans could easily change at the last minute if they’re not feeling up to it.
The soft light of early morning comes in through the curtains. For a while, I lie in bed with my eyes wide open. What should I do? Shinji is quiet now, lost in a deep sleep, a still, shadowy mound wrapped in a thin blanket.
The digital clock by the bedside is showing 6:30 when I get up and go back to the kitchen. The unfinished glass of water is still on the table where I left it.
I toss the water in the sink and open the shutters. This is Shinji’s job really, but I don’t feel like sitting here in semidarkness waiting for him to get up. It’s already light outside. Our neighborhood is one of the last to get the light. But the clean glow of morning is all around us now.
On the parents’ side of the house, everything is still closed up. Evidently, they’re still asleep. The shutters between our living area and theirs tend to stick. I use this as an excuse to make an extraloud clatter as I open them. The window faces the trellis, where sunlight is already spilling through the gaps in the foliage. Dark fruit hang from the vines like misshapen Ping-Pong balls.
After the shutters, I push back the screen door to let in the morning air. A halo of sunlight surrounds the statue of Our Lady.
I turn away from her smiling face to look out at the trellis. It was here that the bones of the family dead were found—on this very spot, sixty years ago.
Both the statue and the crucifix next to it point toward where the bones were collected. It’s like a grave site.
Shinji’s parents always take care to keep the area free of weeds and clutter. It’s as if they’ve been living here as grave keepers all these years.
It’s funny how you always find a graveyard wherever a hillside gets plenty of sun, as though the best spots are set aside for people who can’t enjoy them. Where I grew up is the same: a cemetery stretches out directly behind the house, and we walked past tombstones more or less every day. In an area where so many people died when the atom bomb fell, it would be silly to be afraid of the dead or spooked by their graves.
Over by the matted branches of the trellis are small translucent insects with a rainbow-colored sheen. I can already hear the pleasant buzzing of their wings.
On the screen door is what looks like a little row of black dots. When I take a closer look, I realize that it’s two ladybugs with tiny red blobs on their black backs. They are mating, their backsides joined together. It doesn’t look like much of a sin. Certainly it doesn’t seem to merit a fall from grace.
I try to think of a way of seducing him: something daring that he won’t be able to resist.
I remember Kei’s story of how she let her bare nipples show through her tank top. I can smell a bit of sweet sweat prickling under my arms. I’m turning myself on.
And then it comes to me: something I know will work.
Shinji’s mother is sitting in a black dress looking out into the garden, waiting for her husband.
“It’s already quite hot,” I say. “I hope you’ll be all right at the ceremony.”
She’s dabbing at her eyes. The wrinkles around them are wet. I pretend not to notice.
“What plans do you have for the afternoon?”
“Oh, we’ll have lunch somewhere and then go to church.”
“Are you sure you won’t get tired in this heat?”
“If we do, we’ll just come home.”
“What, during the ceremony?”
This is the one outcome I want to avoid at all costs: it would be a total disaster if they suddenly came back while I’m alone with him.
“I expect we’ll stay till the end of that, whatever happens. You never know if we’ll still be here next year.”
She takes a lace handkerchief out of her bag and dabs at the perspiration that’s started to appear through her makeup.
“Should I close the door and turn on the air-conditioning?” I say, but she waves the suggestion aside. “It’s all right. We’ll be leaving in a minute.”
Out in the direct sunlight, a heat haze is rising from the lawn.
“Were you thinking about your relatives?” I ask. “The ones who died?” I feel I should at least make an effort. Today of all days it seems odd to be avoiding the subject. She’s still patting her forehead and neck with her handkerchief. She sighs.
“I often think how lucky we’ve been—to live together for all these years like this… We stayed up in Mitsuyama at first. It wasn’t till two days later that we came back. We tried and tried to get back to the house, but there was rubble everywhere, and everything was on fire. Even the cathedral was destroyed, except for part of the walls.”
“Yes. This area was so close to the epicenter…”
A wasteland. The word comes to mind again. My eyes drift up toward the actual center of the explosion, 165 feet up in the blue sky. Here on the hillside, we are probably about the same distance from the center of the blast as ground zero down below.
“There weren’t many houses here then. The area was still covered in trees. They were all stripped bare. The atomic wind and the heat rays wiped out everything. We found glass and tiles that had bubbled in the heat. But there was practically nothing left of the wooden parts of the house. The ground was still hot and smoking.”
“Was it easy to find the bones?”
“He worked out where the house used to be by following the lines of a ditch that was buried under the rubble. We found the remains all together where the wisteria trellis used to be. I wept. Why were we left behind? Why did we have to be the last of the line? That’s when he said it. He was bending down to pick up the bones. When he heard me, he raised his head and said: ‘We’re not the last. We’re the first.’”
What can I say? My mind is a blank, and any words that come to me turn to ash before I can speak.
“All right, let’s go. I’ll call a taxi,” Shinji’s father shouts.
My mother-in-law slips her handkerchief into her bag and gets to her feet. “Look after things while we’re out,” she says.
The roads must be clogged with traffic; the taxi seems to take forever to come. I watch the clock anxiously. They have just started to discuss whether it would be quicker to walk when the car finally arrives. “We’re going to be late, thanks to you,” I hear her complaining as they get in. I wave them off with a smile and finally relax as the car pulls away. But my heart begins pounding again when I step back inside.
Absentmindedly, I go about my usual routine, stripping the bed and putting on new sheets. It gives me a start when I realize what I’m doing. Right: this is it. I take off my sweaty polo shirt and skirt and pull a black sleeveless dress over my head.
It’s a simple outfit that ends above the knee. I used to wear it all the time before I got married. I run downstairs and throw my dirty clothes into the machine. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide not to press the switch just yet. I go and sit in the living room.
It’s already 10:30, but still the doorbell hasn’t rung. The sound of the clock on the wall is making me frantic. I try to block it out, but I can’t ignore it. I’m supertense. I can make out sounds with amazing clarity—a dripping tap, voices echoing through loudspeakers somewhere in the distance, the noise of cars’ mufflers passing outside—everything.
Every second seems to last an eternity. When I next look up at the clock, it’s 10:50. Sadness floods over me. He’s forgotten. There’s no doubt about it now. He’s probably riding his motorbike along the coast road, with the girl behind him squeezing her breasts against his back, clutching him like a pair of mating insects. I feel myself losing control, and can’t hold the tears in any longer. Suddenly, the sound of the bell breaks the silence, ringing twice and echoing through the house. The whole building seems to flinch. I check the cherry blossom–pink varnish on my nails as I press the button on the machine. “Hello? Who is it?”
His voice is almost a whisper: “I’ve brought your bike.”
“Wait a minute.” Flustered, I wipe my tears with a handkerchief and take a deep breath. After a quick glance around, I hitch up my dress, then peel off my blue panties. Curls of pubic hair lick at my skin like black flames.
I scrunch up my underwear, throw it into the washing machine, and flick the switch. The water starts to cascade down the glass window. I fold my hands in front of my chest. Standing by the washing machine without any underwear, I look up to heaven and whisper a prayer. “Forgive me.”
He’s waiting with the bike on the other side of the green iron gate. There’s an odd look on his face.
“You came,” I say. I’m so happy for a moment I feel as though I’m going to start crying again. But as I open the gate, I still have the presence of mind to make sure that no one’s watching from the upstairs window of the house across the road. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.
He pushes the bike inside and stops before the front entrance.
“You took your time.”
“The old man gave me a hard time about it. Said there was no need to bring the bike. He wanted me to have you come and pick it up.”
“Did you manage to sort things out?”
“I told him he should try thinking about the customer’s convenience for a change. He gave me a look like his eyes were going to pop. But he didn’t say anything else, so I just left.”
“You’d better hurry right back, then.” I’m trying to sound him out, but he just smiles such an open smile you’d think it would melt in the sunlight.
“I’ll tell him I bumped into a friend and we got talking.”
“Not just a friend—a girlfriend, right?”
I can’t help it. The jealousy flares up again, and the remark just slips out. I want to know whether yesterday was deliberate. Did he realize I was watching? The look of surprise on his face makes it clear he hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about.
It’s a side of him I don’t know. A handsome young boy like him must have plenty of girls to play around with. Why should he bother with an older woman? I feel a stab of loneliness. I can’t bear the thought of giving him up.
“Do you want to try the brakes?” he says, starting to crouch down beside the bike.
“Not here. It’s too hot. Let’s go into the garden. I’ll show you the kiwis.” I lead the way.
“You’re going to show me your hairy kiwis?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“You’re the one pushing your luck. One of these days, the brakes will pack up, and it’ll be too late. Too late for you, for me, the bike…”
He keeps up his suggestive remarks as he follows behind me with the bike. I can feel his desire against my back, as hot as the summer sun. Everything is silent except for the clicking of the bike’s axles. The heat rises from the ground to touch my buttocks and thighs. I start to sweat. I feel a squirm of embarrassment at the thought of what I am about to do.
He props the bike on its stand under the trellis. It’s almost as hot in the shade as it is out in the open. My skin, damp with perspiration, starts to give off a sweet smell that only makes me feel more uncomfortable.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding about the fruit. There’s loads of it,” he says, looking up at the trellis like a child. He reaches out to touch one of them. “They really are kind of obscene, though. Hairy,” he says, and laughs.
To my surprise, he looks at his hands. He turns them over and shows me both sides.
“These stains are hell to clean off. The oil gets right in under the nails.” A strangely serious look comes over his face. For a moment, I have the absurd feeling that he might start crying.
A siren sounds and the bells in the church begin to peal. “11:02,” I say. I feel panicky.
“What’s it matter?” he shrugs. He sits down next to the bike and says something, but I can’t make it out over the sound of the siren.
Look at me, standing here with no underwear on, observing the minute of silence and murmuring a prayer for the dead. It’s blasphemous. I gaze up through the trees. The siren and the church bells toll their rebuke.
Finally, the sound fades, and something wings away into the echoing sky. The boy turns the pedals slowly with his right hand. It’s as if he’s been waiting for the bells to finish. The wheel starts to turn faster, until he pulls sharply with his left hand on the handlebar brake. The wheel stops without a sound. I stand across from him on the other side of the bike, staring at the whorl in his short spiky hair.
“Let’s try it again. Here, crouch down.”
He grins at me with his big white teeth, like a horse. His eyes are flushed with excitement.
In the shade of the vines, the hum of the turning wheel mingles with the sound of beating insect wings.
The countless tiny hairs on the unripe fruit are golden. Shards of blue sky show between the leaves. The fine hair on my skin shines in the light.
The sun is reaching its zenith. Everything around us is giving off light and heat.
I crouch down opposite him, the bicycle between us. He lets his gaze move to the area around my knees, exposed as my skirt rises up my legs. With one hand holding the pedal, the other on the handlebars, he turns the wheel, unable to look away.
At first, the pedal is slow and heavy. But the wheel soon picks up speed, and as the bike begins to shake with the force of the rotation, I loosen the grip on my knees and my damp thighs slide apart until I am totally exposed.
I watch the rapt look in his eyes. His mouth hangs open.
Something slimy wriggles inside me. I feel a quiver of pleasure, and my knees start to tremble. What would happen if he reached deep inside me now? Even as I shudder at the thought, I long for it to happen.
The semicrouching position is too uncomfortable to hold for long. I adjust the position of my heels and settle into an easier pose. I open my legs wider to give him a better view. Then I hitch up my skirt. My soft thighs and buttocks stand out stark white in the sunlight. It feels like squatting to pee in the woods. My body is wet with sweat, and a honeyed smell oozes from every pore.
Over his shoulders, I can make out the corridor inside the house, but my eyes are dazzled by the light and the interior of the space behind the screen door is just a hollow. Beyond the silhouette of Our Lady with her arms outstretched, I can see nothing.
I feel misgiving for a moment. But the brakes are long past working now, and when the boy’s oil-stained fingers reach out to touch me, there is not so much as a screech.