Fish of the Seto Inland Sea

That night, the Miwa children sat on cushions placed on the tatami floor while their father had his dinner. The children usually finished their meal early around a big table with their mother. A maid sat and attended them. Shintaro had his meal later, attended by his wife. He had a small table to himself, and Ayako sat by a little rice tub with a tray on her lap. The dishes were more elaborate than for the earlier gathering. There was soup in a black lacquered bowl with gold and silver chrysanthemums painted on it, a broiled fish with garnish and more plates of vegetables in season. Saké was served as well. As Shintaro ate, he talked to his children.

‘And what did you see in the pendant that you were peeping in?’ he asked Haruko that night. He had seen her on the beach.

‘I saw a lady. Is she Russian?’ Haruko relaxed. She was not going to be scolded.

‘Very likely. She must be his wife or fiancée.’

‘She had jewels around her neck.’

‘Did you like them?’

‘The jewels? I don’t know,’ she said. They had seemed so unreal that she had no feelings except awe. Shintaro laughed.

‘What is a pendant?’ Takeko wanted to know.

‘Russians are enemy,’ three-year-old Sachiko said.

‘Haruko.’ Her father called her as she was getting ready to go to school the next day. ‘I want you to come with me to the Russian hospital ship today. I will send someone to fetch you from school.’

‘But I cannot miss school.’ It was an awful dilemma. To miss school was bad. On the other hand, she had been told that her father’s word was absolute.

‘I will send a note to the teacher. It is to help me visit the wounded and make them feel better.’

‘Russians?’ Ayako opened her eyes wide with astonishment. She forgot her usual modesty in front of her husband and protested, ‘You cannot go to the enemy place with a little girl. They will kill you.’

‘No, no. They will not kill us. They are doctors like me and their patients.’

Ayako was not totally convinced but did not say any more.

‘In foreign countries,’ Shintaro explained gently, ‘it is the wife’s duty to go with her husband on such occasions.’

‘Wife!’

‘Yes. Wife. You see, in foreign countries, wives attend dinner parties looking like the lady that Haruko saw in the pendant, and are able to carry on conversations with other men.’

‘Do foreign women eat with men from the same table?’

‘Yes, they do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they think it is sociable.’

Most of Shintaro’s knowledge of life in Russia came from reading translations of novels by writers such as Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy.

Although she did not understand why Shintaro wanted to take Haruko to see the Russians, Ayako had Haruko’s special kimono, which was kept for New Year’s Day, spread out on the tatami floor and dressed her daughter.

‘You must stay with your otohsan. I heard that foreign men have hair all over their body like animals,’ she told Haruko. A rickshaw came and Haruko climbed up after her father. He held her in front of him. She was almost hidden behind a large bunch of flowers that the servant handed to her.

‘Foreign wives are like geishas,’ Ayako confided to her maid, Kiyo, later.

The hospital ship was a small vessel of about three and a half thousand tons but as Haruko stood in a little boat ready to be hoisted on board, the side of the ship soared up beside her like a cliff. They were winched up in a kind of basket. Shintaro was tall among fishermen and tenant farmers but the person who approached them on the deck was of another species. He was like a bear. A reddish beard covered half of his red face around a big nose. Her mother was right. His hands were covered with golden hair even between the knuckles.

‘This ojisan is the captain of this ship,’ Shintaro told Haruko. Although ‘ojisan’ meant ‘uncle’ it was freely used by children for men of their parents’ age. But this giant was not another ojisan. Shintaro amiably shook hands with him and talked in German. Then he handed Haruko the large bunch of flowers he was carrying for her. Pushing her gently towards the Russian, he said, ‘Give the flowers to the captain.’

The giant said something. His voice was deep and sonorous. He took the flowers from her and, still talking to Shintaro, put his large hand on her head. The hand covered her head and she could see the tips of the fingers. The hand was heavy. She shuddered a little. Her whole body went rigid.

‘Were you scared?’ Takeko asked when father and daughter came home.

‘No,’ Haruko said. ‘Not at all.’ She had decided never to tell anyone that she had wet herself when the large hand was placed on her head.

Soon after the Tsushima naval battle, the war ended, and the Miwas went back to the family home in the southern prefecture of the main island by the Seto Inland Sea.

3 (#ulink_50829683-0928-5e07-b355-b96c061ae09f)

Haruko and Her Father (#ulink_50829683-0928-5e07-b355-b96c061ae09f)

In the autumn after he had been married for ten years, Shintaro caught a cold and could not shake it off. His university friends, who were well-established doctors by then, were consulted. He had suffered from incipient tuberculosis as a student. It had been contained, but it seemed to have resurfaced.

Shintaro was afraid that his condition might be infectious, particularly to his family. He bought a small house not far from home along the coast of the Seto Inland Sea and stayed there. His four children were told that he would be better soon and come home, but they were never taken to see their father till his last days.

When the children were told that they were going to the seaside house, they were delighted. The oldest, Takeko, was then ten and the youngest, Shuichi, was just four.

It was balmy autumn weather and the sky was full of clouds like fish scales. The adults talked about a coming storm but all the children, except Takeko, romped about in the garden and played hide and seek. When they were hushed and scolded, Shintaro gestured that they should be allowed to play and watched them from his bed.

A maid came to Haruko to tell her that she was wanted by her father. When she went into the room, Shintaro nodded slightly to Haruko to come near him. After looking at her for a while, he said, ‘Give me your hand.’ When she placed her little hand on his thin veined hand, he whispered, ‘Promise me to help okahsan look after Shuichi, will you? I can rely on you, can I?’

Haruko nodded gravely. She felt an enormous weight of responsibility. She did not understand how she should help her mother. She concluded that they would become very poor like a lot of her school friends. If it was so, there was no problem. She would carry water, wood, and cook meals for Shuichi. She would fight village boys if they harmed her brother. She could picture herself in a tattered kimono going to school hungry because she had given her breakfast to Shuichi. Yes, she would do that.

‘Yes, otohsan, I will,’ she said. Shintaro smiled a little.

It was an honour to be asked. Haruko thought she knew why she was selected. When she was five, she and Takeko were having a nap in a kotatsu, a little charcoal burner in a wooden frame with a cover over it. Haruko was woken up by Takeko’s scream. Takeko had put her foot too near the fire. Her tabi, a sock, was smouldering. Haruko opened a window, scooped up snow in both hands and put it on the burning sock. By the time the grown-ups came, Takeko was still screaming but the fire was out. The burn was not severe.

‘You are such an intelligent child. You are more cool-headed than most grown-ups.’ Her father had patted her head then.

The night Haruko promised her father to look after Shuichi, there was a lot of rain. The sea was rough and the roar of waves was heard very close. Around midnight, a sliding door was quietly opened and Kei came into the room where the children were asleep. She woke the three girls and carried Shuichi.

When they went into the room where Shintaro lay, they were told to sit by his bedside. Shuichi was made to sit first and the girls followed. Their mother held a bowl of water and a brush for them. In turn, the children were handed the brush and told to wet their father’s lips.

The doctor was at the other side of the bed holding Shintaro’s wrist.

‘I am sorry ... Please look after Shuichi and the other children, and help Ayako,’ Shintaro said in a low but clear voice. In Confucius’ terms, Shintaro was an undutiful son, as his death preceded those of his parents and gave them grief.

‘Don’t worry. Shuichi will be well taken care of as the heir of the Miwas. And the other children, too, of course,’ Tei-ichi said from behind Shobei. Shobei had his arms folded and did not move.

‘Thank you,’ Shintaro said, and closed his eyes.

The wind blew hard and bamboo bushes kept hitting the shutters. The electric bulb hanging from the ceiling swayed in a draught and moved their shadows.