stomach lurched, but I saw the faintest trace of a frown on her face, which reminded me of her wary look when Kazuo invited her to the meet. “I saw you at the pharmacy,” I said. “Before we met at the stadium.”
She looked up at me, and I told her about Yi-yang and Wen-shen and their scheme to ask her for aspirin.
She burst out laughing. “I charge all those guys a dollar,” she said. “Here I have this whole long line of customers, and these boys are asking for things they don’t even need.”
I laughed, too, glad I hadn’t gone in to gawk with Yi-yang and Wen-shen or made up a story when I had gone myself.
She smiled up at me, eyes shining in the silvery light. “So that was you watching in the window when your brother was there?”
“It was.” I smiled, too. “I should have gone in.”
“Why didn’t you? Were you afraid of your brother?”
I changed the subject, telling stories about my classmates. She laughed easily and often, and so I told her more. I found myself telling her stories I’d never told anyone—about fishing with my bare hands in the countryside, and how I’d worked on my running technique at Taikong. I told her how I was teaching myself to repair radios. Everything I said seemed fascinating to her, and it was almost impossible for me to stop talking, as though I’d saved up all these things to tell her for my whole life.
“I think I could make a radio shop work,” I said. “It’s just a matter of building up the capital first.”
She turned her head to the side for a moment, her face in shadow. “You will. I still remember that car you made in the hardware store,” she said.
“It’s late,” I said.
“I should go.”
I touched her elbow to help her off the fence, and her hand rested for a moment on my shoulder as she stepped down. A memory roused in me that I could not trace, and as she began to pull away I held her arm. She looked up at me, eyes reflecting the starlight. I could smell the perfume of her hair.
“You’re meeting Kazuo for dinner?” I said.
“Yes.”
I thought of Kazuo burning my book.
“Then meet me in the morning at the train station,” I said. “We’ll go to Taipei. Do you know the Sintori Noodle Shop?”
She laughed. “All right.”
I left her by the big front windows of the pharmacy and walked home, mind racing, heart bursting, my body flushed with warmth. The cicadas screeched in the dark alleys between the buildings I passed, and the spicy moistness of the night air filled my lungs. Yoshiko, the girl I had looked for all my life. I had been a fool not to look harder. I would be an even bigger fool to stand by and let her go.
I turned south toward my parents’ house, and as I walked, with the feel of her hand still on my arm, the memory came, flashing through all the curtained years of solitude and pain. She had touched me that way after the air raid. It had been my first such touch, and my last, until today.
11
W E HURTLED EAST TO Taipei, the train’s whistle amplified in the metal interior of our passenger car. I breathed in the smell of burning coal sweetened by the light scent of Yoshiko’s perfume.
Her head swayed gently as she looked out the window, her eyes reflecting Guanyin Mountain and the northern countryside where I had wasted three years of my childhood. With the train’s rocking movements, the red wool of her jacket shoulder brushed against my upper arm. She was so slight and gentle. I wanted to claim her, make her mine, promise her a world of happiness. But what did I have to offer her? After last night’s euphoria I had awoken feeling the burden of my past mistakes, of my limited life.
She looked out the window with sadness in her face.
“I leave for my military-service year tomorrow,” I said.
She turned to me, her eyes illuminated with the sunlight slanting in from the window. “Tomorrow! Where will you go?”
“Kaohsiung. I’ll be taking that train instead.” I pointed ahead to the train
She looked up at me, and I told her about Yi-yang and Wen-shen and their scheme to ask her for aspirin.
She burst out laughing. “I charge all those guys a dollar,” she said. “Here I have this whole long line of customers, and these boys are asking for things they don’t even need.”
I laughed, too, glad I hadn’t gone in to gawk with Yi-yang and Wen-shen or made up a story when I had gone myself.
She smiled up at me, eyes shining in the silvery light. “So that was you watching in the window when your brother was there?”
“It was.” I smiled, too. “I should have gone in.”
“Why didn’t you? Were you afraid of your brother?”
I changed the subject, telling stories about my classmates. She laughed easily and often, and so I told her more. I found myself telling her stories I’d never told anyone—about fishing with my bare hands in the countryside, and how I’d worked on my running technique at Taikong. I told her how I was teaching myself to repair radios. Everything I said seemed fascinating to her, and it was almost impossible for me to stop talking, as though I’d saved up all these things to tell her for my whole life.
“I think I could make a radio shop work,” I said. “It’s just a matter of building up the capital first.”
She turned her head to the side for a moment, her face in shadow. “You will. I still remember that car you made in the hardware store,” she said.
“It’s late,” I said.
“I should go.”
I touched her elbow to help her off the fence, and her hand rested for a moment on my shoulder as she stepped down. A memory roused in me that I could not trace, and as she began to pull away I held her arm. She looked up at me, eyes reflecting the starlight. I could smell the perfume of her hair.
“You’re meeting Kazuo for dinner?” I said.
“Yes.”
I thought of Kazuo burning my book.
“Then meet me in the morning at the train station,” I said. “We’ll go to Taipei. Do you know the Sintori Noodle Shop?”
She laughed. “All right.”
I left her by the big front windows of the pharmacy and walked home, mind racing, heart bursting, my body flushed with warmth. The cicadas screeched in the dark alleys between the buildings I passed, and the spicy moistness of the night air filled my lungs. Yoshiko, the girl I had looked for all my life. I had been a fool not to look harder. I would be an even bigger fool to stand by and let her go.
I turned south toward my parents’ house, and as I walked, with the feel of her hand still on my arm, the memory came, flashing through all the curtained years of solitude and pain. She had touched me that way after the air raid. It had been my first such touch, and my last, until today.
11
W E HURTLED EAST TO Taipei, the train’s whistle amplified in the metal interior of our passenger car. I breathed in the smell of burning coal sweetened by the light scent of Yoshiko’s perfume.
Her head swayed gently as she looked out the window, her eyes reflecting Guanyin Mountain and the northern countryside where I had wasted three years of my childhood. With the train’s rocking movements, the red wool of her jacket shoulder brushed against my upper arm. She was so slight and gentle. I wanted to claim her, make her mine, promise her a world of happiness. But what did I have to offer her? After last night’s euphoria I had awoken feeling the burden of my past mistakes, of my limited life.
She looked out the window with sadness in her face.
“I leave for my military-service year tomorrow,” I said.
She turned to me, her eyes illuminated with the sunlight slanting in from the window. “Tomorrow! Where will you go?”
“Kaohsiung. I’ll be taking that train instead.” I pointed ahead to the train
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