Mirror: The Fiction and Essays of Koda Aya

The Medal

The Medal In those days, I wore a black striped apprentice’s kimono with a chintz sash so threadbare that you could barely see the floral print. A long, straight apron hung firmly from the waist of that sash, like a shield, like a plaster cast, like a fire door. With the resounding failure of my husband’s business, I had fallen from the status of proud young mistress of a prosperous Shingawa liquor wholesaler to manager of a for-members-only sake shop. This way of describing our store makes it sound reputable, but in fact it was a miserable little place without so much as a vendor’s permit, much less a regulation-size storefront. It was late April 1937. The papers in those days always had some amazing news in them—from the attempted military coup of February the year before to the start of fighting in China just three months later. A ferocious gale had come sweeping through, causing small whirlwinds some days and, at other times, a tremendous commotion that stirred up everything, even the dust in the forgotten corners of the world. I was just a speck of dust in one of the narrowest , most remote niches. With only one telephone and a single errand boy at my disposal—and an ashen-faced husband with whom I wished to spend as little time as possible— I worked myself to the bone. That day I had gone out to make a delivery at a customer’s home in Horinouchi. It was my first trip there, and I wasted much time searching for the house. My shop boy had mixed up east and west on his hastily drawn map. The lady of the house made no attempt to hide her anger at my tardiness, and, just as I was about to leave, she spitefully saddled me with five empty bottles . Taking empties was part of the job, of course, so I could hardly refuse, but it seemed unfair. None of my other customers would have burdened me with such a load because they all knew that I made my rounds on foot, rather than by bicycle. That day, though, I had no choice but to bundle the bottles up in my net bags, two on one side and three on the other, and lug them home. True, I did have strong arms in those days. In fact, I did not balk at any test of strength, because I hated my reputation as Mr. Köda’s dainty, fragile daughter, a flimsy specimen raised in a hothouse, easily knocked over by the slightest gust of wind. I surprised many a customer by maneuvering those forty-five-gallon barrels that weigh two hundred pounds. There was a trick to it, you see, but none of my customers knew that. And even those big two-quart sake bottles that weigh more than six pounds—I had once carried half a dozen of them up five flights of stairs because one of the customers had no elevator. So, for me, a load of five empty bottles on the way down was really nothing. It was the woman’s attitude that bothered me that day. Even then, the arrogance that came from being born in the distinguished Köda family and the haughtiness remaining from my days as mistress of a fine house would not disappear, no matter how I might try to rid myself of them. I had become physically stronger and more able by the day, but my mind would not accept the changes in my life so easily. And the way I dressed! Born and bred in an old merchant family, my mother-in-law saw to it that I was fitted in a striped kimono, the garb of apprentices. The chintz sash became part of the outfit because it was woven of the same material as the kimono and would not hike up or slide down when I was working, the way silk does on cotton. The “sail apron” I wore got its name from the sturdy canvas sailcloth from which it was made. Wide like a sumo wrestler’s ceremonial apron, my aprons had gigantic liquor emblems printed across the front. With slogans such as “The Rose of Wines,” “Very Finest Quality,” “Famous the World Round,” or the names of breweries or shops plastered all over, the aprons worked as billboards too—some of the most colorful, eye-catching affairs you have ever seen. Another part...