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Chapter 8
- University of Wisconsin Press
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4 69 4 8 S eiji was an impatient driver, honking, weaving through traffic. But he seemed competent, his hands sure on the wheel of his truck. He obviously knew the way to the college. “When was Michi-san your teacher?” Barbara asked. “I was twelve or so. She was just beginning teacher.” “But you knew her later too, of course.” “Yes. Her family lived near to mine in Koi, a suburb of Hiroshima.” They stopped for a red light. Seiji took a cigarette from a pack on the dashboard and lit it. “How old were you when . . .” she paused. “Thirteen years of age.” He peered up at the light, squinting a little through the smoke. She studied his profile; just a few years older and he’d have been a soldier. The light turned, he stepped hard on the gas. She looked away from him out her window. As a child she’d known nothing about the atomic bombings; she hadn’t even been aware of the war that she could recall. In college, she saw the film Hiroshima Mon Amour: the flashbacks of the flattened city, the charred bodies were still vivid in her mind and in the foreground, juxtaposed against the scenes of horror, the naked bodies of two lovers, the shapes abstract at first, like a shifting landscape. “I know Hiroshima,” the French woman said. “Tu ne sais rien à Hiroshima,” the Japanese man said, again and again, “You know nothing.” When they reached the college he parked on the shoulder of the road instead of driving in. The gate was open; there was no one in the reception booth at the entrance. Still she felt tense as they walked past the library and the main building, following the gravel drive that wound through the trees to her apartment. They met no one on the grounds of the campus. At Sango-kan she was glad to see Mrs. Ueda’s car gone; she was going on a brief excursion, she had told her earlier in the day. Miss Ota was still in Yonago. Barbara and Seiji took off their shoes in the entranceway. She set out the guest slippers for Seiji. The students’ radio was playing in their room but the door was closed. They walked quietly down the hall and up the stairs. No one had seen them. She felt as if they had entered through a seam in the world. In her apartment Barbara ushered Seiji into the Western-style room. “Please wait here,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ve left a bit of a mess in the room where the tansu is.” In the bedroom she picked up clothes—rejects from the morning ’s indecision—and stuffed them into the closet. From the floor she picked up hairspray, rollers, a mirror. The unwrapped bottles were also on the tatami along with the two papers she’d decided not to take to Seiji’s house; she arranged the papers beside the tansu. She opened the top drawer of the wine chest, took out Michi’s bequeathal letter, and laid it on the tansu beside the framed photograph of herself and Michi-san. 4 70 4 4 71 4 She walked through the sitting room—it was presentable enough—into the Western-style room. Seiji was by the window looking in the direction of Michi’s apartment. “I’m ready,” she said, “Dozo.” He turned and smiled. “You have made the room tidy?” He followed her into the small room and sat before the wine chest. “Here’s the note from Michi,” she said, picking it up and unfolding it for him. He studied the paper for several moments, then put it back on the tansu. “You have visited Kamakura together,” he said, leaning forward to inspect the photograph. “Yes—in October. These are the writings from 1964 and ’63 bottles ,” she said, nodding toward the papers beside the chest. “Would you like to read them now?” “Yes. But first, may I look inside?” Together they pulled open the top drawer. He put his hand on the first wrapped wine, and curled his fingers around it. After a few moments he touched the next bottle with his palm, then moved down the row of wines, laying his hand upon each one. He closed the top drawer and pulled open the middle one. He gazed in at the bottles a long time. Very carefully he pushed the drawer shut and opened the bottom one...