Hotel Iris by Yōko Ogawa Page A

have taken her place.
    Would you like to have lunch at my home next Tuesday? I will cook for you. Thanks to these long years of living alone, I have a degree of confidence in the kitchen. This is an excellent idea, I think,and I feel certain that the meal will surprise you. I am already full of anticipation.
    Come at eleven, or at noon, at any hour that suits you. I’ll wait for you at home. Please make your escape from the Iris. I implore you.
    I hope you manage to avoid the worst of the heat. Take care of yourself.
    Until we meet again, my dear Mari.

N I N E
     
    It was certainly no ordinary lunch. I realized that things were different as soon as I walked in the door. There was a subtle change in the atmosphere of the house, and while it wasn’t unpleasant, I sensed that things could never go back to the way they had been.
    A pot was boiling on the stove, and a striped blue cloth covered the table. Two hibiscus flowers were floating in a glass bowl, and dishes of food crowded every remaining space. A radio sat on the serving cart next to the drinks, playing a classical piece I did not know.
    Where had he found the flowers? This was not a house for charming decorations. And the music? Other than the accordion tunes played by the boy in the plaza, we had never listened to music of any sort when we were together.
    But I was most shocked to find that the translator was not alone.
    “I’m so glad you could come,” he said. “It must have been hot on the boat. Please come in. Did you manage to find an excuse to get away? And can you spend the afternoon with us? Let me get you something cold to drink.” He was clearly in high spirits and couldn’t stop talking. He had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie, and he had even removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. “But first I should introduce you—this is my nephew. He’ll be staying with me for a week.”
    The young man stood and bowed to me without looking up.
    “Hello,” I said, still quite confused. He sat down again and crossed his legs, settling deep into the couch. He was tall and thin, and his curly hair was long enough to cover his ears. He wore tight black pants and a white T-shirt, but around his neck was an oddly shaped pendant that was out of keeping with his simple clothes. It was the only thing remarkable about his appearance. It might have been a piece of art, or a charm or talisman.
    A silence fell in the room. The translator’s nephew said nothing, ignoring the usual niceties. A piano solo began on the radio; the lid on the pot started to rattle.
    “Aah,” said the translator, “I should have mentioned it right away. He was sick at one point, and ever since he has been unable to talk.”
    “He can’t talk?”
    “That’s right. But it’s nothing to worry about. He just won’t be able to answer you. … I’d better see to lunch. It will be ready soon, just have a seat.”
    I felt ill at ease after he went into the kitchen. What did one do with a person who couldn’t talk? And besides, I was having difficulty accepting that someone other than the translator was sitting on the couch. Did this young man, with his slender hips and comfortably crossed legs, know what sorts of humiliating things had been done to me on that couch? The thought made me more and more uncomfortable.
    He motioned for me to sit down, but he still avoided looking at me. When our eyes met, he looked away immediately, focusing on some random point, a scratch on the coffee table, a frayed patch on a cushion, or the tips of his fingers. Then he would keep his head down, staring, for some time, as though he had always wanted to examine that particular spot.
    I sat across from him. We could hear the translator bustling about in the kitchen, and then the sound of the piano on the radio. Eventually, the woodwinds joined in.
    Suddenly, a slip of paper was in my hand. “It’s Chopin,” the note said. “His First Concerto. Do you know it?”
    The pendant