3.
Accident upon Accident

“I PROMISE I will wake you when she comes,” Keiko told her sister. “That is my job as elder daughter. Your job is to go to sleep immediately. It’s already late so hurry up. Do it and don’t pretend! I’m watching you! Go to sleep like you always do, with your mouth wide open and your tongue sticking out.”

Only when she was exhausted did Keiko speak like Masako, so as Fumiko listened to her daughter she learned that Keiko was the one who would be asleep in no time. It was, after all, nearly midnight and they had all been up since dawn. Fumiko herself had spent much of the day preparing for the move back to Odawara, not exactly packing, but stepping around the workers and instructing O-bata about which items would go and which would be stored in the closets of the house. And she had spent the rest of her time out in Einosuke’s garden, not actually raking it, since that was her husbands only relaxation and greatest joy, but doing the difficult work of preparing the garden for raking, of reaching in among the boulders and snatching away the leaves and debris. There was a stand of deciduous maples in the next-door neighbor’s garden, an unruly hybrid that irritated Fumiko because it seemed to lose its foliage all year long. Even now, though it was late March, those soggy leaves were as much a disruption of nature’s ways, it seemed to her, as the American ships were of society’s.

“I have an idea,” she told her daughters, so tired herself that she could barely keep her eyes open. “Why not ask O-bata to bring our bedding downstairs? That way no matter who falls asleep first we will all be sure to awaken when she comes. Remember, your auntie never arrives quietly, no matter what the time of day.”

“O-bata is sleeping with the baby,” said Masako. “And all the futon are already spread out upstairs. There will be six of us in the eight-mat room, you know, because Aunt Tsune’s usual room is now taken over by Grandfather.”

Keiko’s eyes had closed during Masako’s speech. She had slumped back in order to rest her head on the edge of the tokunoma, and had rolled onto her side, her hands tucked between her knees. But she was not asleep. She had only escaped into her thoughts, wondering how long her favorite aunt might stay and whether there might be an actual marriage arrangement, an O-miai, between Tsune and her Uncle Manjiro. Oh, she wanted it so much! And so, indeed, did her uncle, she could easily tell.

Fumiko watched the rise and fall of Keiko’s breasts and the composure of her face, the fine structure of the bones beneath a beauty so deeply born that it refused to leave even when the muscles that held it in place flattened out into a kind of sleep of their own. She sighed and reached over to touch the flower arrangement beyond her daughter’s head, to assure herself that it was still steady on its base. This was a new arrangement of bare branches that she had done just yesterday and of which she was inordinately proud. It was a proper representation of how she often felt.

“Masako dear,” she whispered, “don’t you think you should sleep, too? Auntie may not come for hours and no matter how little sleep you get I’m waking you both up early. You can’t skip your lessons tomorrow.”

Masako yawned but shook her head. “Not me,” she said. “I’m not like Keiko. I can stay up all night long.”

Because Tsune and Fumiko’s father was Lord Tokugawa’s chief retainer, Tsune had been invited to come to Edo from Mito with Lord Tokugawa himself, in order to attend the treaty-signing ceremony which was scheduled for the thirty-first of March. It had been unclear, at first, whether or not Lord Tokugawa would attend, since he was no longer in government yet remained Lord Abe’s main competitor—so Tsune’s own decision to travel had also come late. She had stayed the first nights in Lord Tokugawa’s hunting lodge, way across town, but had sent word that she would come to her sister’s house today, in plenty of time for Keiko’s dance recital and—somewhat grudgingly?—to be reintroduced to Manjiro. The girls had been waiting since noon but Fumiko knew that her sister was unreliable. She might come tonight or she might come tomorrow. It was even possible, though she would never miss the dance recital, that she might balk at such casual talk of marriage and not come to the house at all.

I hear her!” shouted Masako, chasing her mother’s thoughts away.

She and her mother both jumped up, but were disappointed when the voices that answered their calls were male.

“Oh, it’s not Aunt Tsune but Grandpa and Daddy and Uncle Manjiro,” said Masako. “I hate it if I’m still awake when they come home.”

This final disappointment made her give up her vigil. She bent down and pulled on her sister until Keiko, too, struggled to her feet, rubbing her eyes. And before the men came into the house, both girls had climbed the stairs to bed.

“Welcome,” said Fumiko, stepping out to the entryway. She liked her father-in-law, who had arrived two days before, and tried to hide her own disappointment that he was not her sister standing there.

“They were late in breaking up,” Einosuke explained. “In times of crisis everyone likes to hear the sound of his own voice.”

He was talking about a Great Council meeting that their father could attend but that he and Manjiro could not. Because the brothers had waited in a bar for the meeting to end, Einosuke’s face was flushed from drink, but his mood was good. No doubt his father had endorsed his point of view while deploring Manjiro’s. Everyone now seemed to think that Japan had no choice but to show a reasonable face, that she should hear the American demands with a polite ear, agree to give shipwrecked American sailors safe harbor, for example, but otherwise ask for a year or two to think about trade, which was the true purpose of the American sojourn, and build up her navy in the meantime. Hardly anyone, save the likes of Manjiro, believed in absolute engagement with the outside world, except with the Dutch who were confined to Nagasaki, and there were not many left, either, who thought that the time was right for outright war. Moderation had won the day, and, far more than drink, moderation was the tonic that calmed Einosuke.

“Ah, my daughter-in-law, I am tired,” said Lord Okubo, when Fumiko asked him if he would like some tea and rice. “I never sleep well my first few nights in Edo, and the meeting really was excessively long.”

When Fumiko looked at the brothers she could see that they were as tired as she was, as tired as their father. She could have sent them to bed in an instant, but instead she surprised them by asking, “Do you suppose they worry so much about Japan in America? When Americans think of us do you suppose they wring their hands?”

Lord Okubo was ready to climb the stairs, but the unexpected wistfulness of his daughter-in-law’s remark, on her mind since she’d made her austere flower arrangement yesterday, stopped his foot in midair. Manjiro thought it was an excellent question, but because he had now become central to everything, he could no longer easily say so. And Einosuke always waited to hear what his father would say.

When Lord Okubo only grunted and continued up to bed, however, Fumiko followed him. She knelt and waited while he stepped behind a screen to prepare himself. She could see his futon in the center of the room, a small pillow at the top of it, one side hard, one side soft, much like her father-in-law himself. When he came back out she bowed until her forehead touched the tatami and the grassy smell of the mats entered her nose. And when she sat up again Lord Okubo, reposed now on the darkened floor, kept her another moment by reciting a favorite poem.

Accident upon
accident, that’s what life is,
as it wends its way.

He made no movement after he spoke, but when Fumiko left the room he put a hand up to test the muscles of his jaw. This was his nightly habit, formed to reassure himself of his continued strength as he grew old.