front room and was carrying in several plates. I knew he was doing this just as an excuse to see me; we’d need plates again when my mother decided to serve her guests something else to eat. But by bringing the dishes into the kitchen he was giving the impression of being a helpful guest while coming up with an excuse to see me alone. No one followed him and I knew that they knew exactly what he intended.
“Well.” I tried to sound lighthearted. “I leave you alone for a couple of years and you lose your hair.”
He blushed and ran his hand over his scalp. “Actually, this is considered kind of long. I have to get it shaved again soon.”
The teakettle was whistling and I turned off the gas and let the water sit for a few seconds to make sure it was the perfect temperature for tea. Then I began to pour the steaming water over the leaves. They unfurled at the touch of the hot liquid, like little fists relaxing at last. In a few minutes, the tea would be ready. If I waited too long, my mother would complain that I had made the tea too strong. So, quickly, I said, “If you wanted to get married you could have just asked me.”
He didn’t seem to know quite how to respond, which infuriated me.
“Ah. Is that so?” he said.
I frowned. “You can’t come in here looking for an excuse to talk to me, and when I finally bring up what you want to talk about, just stutter like that.”
“Excuse me.”
I waited.
“You always were very blunt. I used to wonder if maybe you didn’t grow up in Japan. If maybe your father was a foreigner,” he said.
“Could have been. No one knows who my father was. I’m not even sure anymore that my mother does.”
“Well, either way. I’ll bet you will do very well overseas. I hear that the foreigners are much more direct than we are.”
“Let’s hope so,” I muttered.
“Satomi …,” he began.
I waited a few seconds then turned to take the tea back into the front room. It wouldn’t have made much difference if I’d continued standing there. I know how men’s minds work. Masayoshi probably told himself that if I’d been able to give him just a few more seconds, he would have come up with the words to ask me to forgive him. He took my quickness as evidence that he had been right after all to just let our friendship go. But this is silly. It is very easy to convince yourself that you have done something correctly if you never really pay attention to what else you might have done in the first place. What kind of person, I asked myself as I slid open the
shoji
door to the front room with one hand while carrying the tea carefully into the
tatami
-lined room with the other, doesn’t speak up for himself? I saw my mother give me a probing look, the pressure of her gaze feeling a little bit like the weight of her hand stroking my forehead when I had been a child and had a fever. But I didn’t look at her. I simply knelt down and held the teapot over the table, giving it a few swirls before I offered our guests an additional cupful to drink.
Then I excused myself and went out to the entrance of the house. I put on my shoes and went for a long walk, all the way down to the water. When I came back, several hours later, the guests had gone. And if I half hoped that there would be a letter for me, some little scribbled note asking for my forgiveness, I was disappointed. No such missive was waiting for me. There was only my mother sewing a button on one of her golf shirts and listening to the broadcast of a live symphony orchestra coming from Tokyo and dreaming, no doubt, that I would be piped to her in similar fashion one day.
I sat by myself in my room and looked at all the objects I had collected over the years. There were scale books and étude books and photos and old certificates from music contests. In the closet were my old recital dresses and skirts whose hems my mother had let out numerous times as I had grown. I looked over my record collection and chose an old album,
“Well.” I tried to sound lighthearted. “I leave you alone for a couple of years and you lose your hair.”
He blushed and ran his hand over his scalp. “Actually, this is considered kind of long. I have to get it shaved again soon.”
The teakettle was whistling and I turned off the gas and let the water sit for a few seconds to make sure it was the perfect temperature for tea. Then I began to pour the steaming water over the leaves. They unfurled at the touch of the hot liquid, like little fists relaxing at last. In a few minutes, the tea would be ready. If I waited too long, my mother would complain that I had made the tea too strong. So, quickly, I said, “If you wanted to get married you could have just asked me.”
He didn’t seem to know quite how to respond, which infuriated me.
“Ah. Is that so?” he said.
I frowned. “You can’t come in here looking for an excuse to talk to me, and when I finally bring up what you want to talk about, just stutter like that.”
“Excuse me.”
I waited.
“You always were very blunt. I used to wonder if maybe you didn’t grow up in Japan. If maybe your father was a foreigner,” he said.
“Could have been. No one knows who my father was. I’m not even sure anymore that my mother does.”
“Well, either way. I’ll bet you will do very well overseas. I hear that the foreigners are much more direct than we are.”
“Let’s hope so,” I muttered.
“Satomi …,” he began.
I waited a few seconds then turned to take the tea back into the front room. It wouldn’t have made much difference if I’d continued standing there. I know how men’s minds work. Masayoshi probably told himself that if I’d been able to give him just a few more seconds, he would have come up with the words to ask me to forgive him. He took my quickness as evidence that he had been right after all to just let our friendship go. But this is silly. It is very easy to convince yourself that you have done something correctly if you never really pay attention to what else you might have done in the first place. What kind of person, I asked myself as I slid open the
shoji
door to the front room with one hand while carrying the tea carefully into the
tatami
-lined room with the other, doesn’t speak up for himself? I saw my mother give me a probing look, the pressure of her gaze feeling a little bit like the weight of her hand stroking my forehead when I had been a child and had a fever. But I didn’t look at her. I simply knelt down and held the teapot over the table, giving it a few swirls before I offered our guests an additional cupful to drink.
Then I excused myself and went out to the entrance of the house. I put on my shoes and went for a long walk, all the way down to the water. When I came back, several hours later, the guests had gone. And if I half hoped that there would be a letter for me, some little scribbled note asking for my forgiveness, I was disappointed. No such missive was waiting for me. There was only my mother sewing a button on one of her golf shirts and listening to the broadcast of a live symphony orchestra coming from Tokyo and dreaming, no doubt, that I would be piped to her in similar fashion one day.
I sat by myself in my room and looked at all the objects I had collected over the years. There were scale books and étude books and photos and old certificates from music contests. In the closet were my old recital dresses and skirts whose hems my mother had let out numerous times as I had grown. I looked over my record collection and chose an old album,
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