A Dictionary of Mutual Understanding by Jackie Copleton Page B

shadowed limbs, the tensed muscles, the texture and contrast of hair against skin. I tell myself he saw none of this. How else could I look at him again? Father said nothing. He just slid the doors behind him and waited in the other room. Jomei began to dress and told me not to be scared, we had done nothing wrong,but whatever happened, he would take the blame. His last words were: “Cio-Cio-san, I won’t let you go.”
    â€˜He went through to the kitchen to speak with Father while I picked up my clothes. By the time I found the courage to join them, Father was alone, sitting at the table. I sat down opposite him and slid my hand across the surface until my fingers were an inch from the tips of his own. He moved his hand onto his lap. I wanted to beg his forgiveness but I just sat there paralysed by my shame. He stood up and walked to the door. I could not move. “Father, I love him.” He turned away from me and I realised he was crying. “Well then, you are a fool, and a child.” I started to cry too. “I’m not a child. He loves me too.” He wiped his tears from his eyes. “Oh, Yuko. No he doesn’t. If he did, he’d still be here.” He opened the door. “Let’s go home. We shall speak no more of this.” I wanted to run after Jomei, call him back, make him tell Father the truth. I looked for him outside in the street. Father had to be wrong. Jomei had to be there. But he was not. I will never recover from the loss of him. His death could not cause me more agony.’
    The end of a first love is operatic in its drama, physical in its showing. I could stand her tears and silence, her withdrawal from us; I could bear watching my daughter too unwell to eat or sleep or talk. This had to be done. I was saving her from Sato. She could never know why. And this too I could stand. I believed she would heal well enough, given time. Perhaps if I had remembered the anguish of my own early years, perhaps if I had been gentler with her, the intoxication of Sato would not have lasted so long.
    â€˜I am trapped in a perpetual present, the past torn from me. If the hours pass, I do not feel them. If days surrender to nights, I do not see the changing colours of the sky. Time is a prison. Caged in thehouse, I slither around like a snake, soaking up no heat from a cold
winter sun. Father cannot speak to me, Mother can only look on me
as if I am something foul that has polluted the home. That plans are afoot, I am sure, given the whispered conversations behind doors, the accusatory looks, the family dinners eaten in silence. I retreat to my room and torture myself with the possibilities. Where is Jomei? Is he out there somewhere among the streets, or bars, or maybe he is home with Natsu or working late at the hospital? Such thoughts provoke a retching that shudders through my body. “I won’t let you go,” he said. But he has.’
    All friends were banished from the house, all excursions forbidden. Only Misaki acknowledged Yuko’s existence. She would leave cake outside her door or put fresh flowers in her room.
‘Mrs Goto appeared in the hall today, took my hands in her own. “How are you?” I did not know what to say. She squeezed my fingers. “I remember you as a child, so inquisitive. You would stare at, I don’t know, a leaf, an insect, a crack in the soil, for hours. I never knew what you saw, but you were so fascinated.” She laid one of my hands on her breast. “Feel my heart beat. Feel it? Blood keeps the heart beating, not love. Do you understand? We make do, child. That is all we can do. We make do.” But how am I to make do? I cannot, I will not. I must meet Jomei again. What is the point of living without him?’

An Arranged Marriage
    Miai-kekkon: Until the end of the Second World War, most marriages were arranged. Nakodo (a go-between) helps with the exchanges of information between the two families. It is