A Pale View of Hills

Shortly after breakfast, Ogata-San suggested we should go and look around Nagasaki — “like the tourists do”, as he put it. I agreed at once and we took a tram into the city. As I recall, we spent some time at an art gallery, and then, a little F before noon, we went to visit the race memorial in the large public park not far from the centre of the city.

The park was commonly known as “Peace Park’ — I never discovered whether this was the official name — and indeed, despite the sounds of children and birds, an atmosphere of solemnity hung over that large expanse of green. The usual adornments, such as shrubs and fountains, had been kept to a minimum, and the effect was a kind of austerity; the flat grass, a wide summer sky, and the memorial itself — a massive white statue in memory of_ those killed by the atomic bomb— presiding over its domain.

The statue resembled some muscular Greek god, seated with both arms outstretched. With his right hand, he pointed to the sky from where the bomb had fallen; with his other arm — stretched out to his left — the figure was Supposedly holding back the forces of evil. His eyes were dosed in prayer.

It was always my feeling that the statue had a rather cumbersome appearance, and I was ever able to associate with what had occurred that day the bomb had fallen, and those terrible days which followed. Seen from a distance, the figure looked almost comical, resembling a policeman conducting traffic. It remained for me nothing more than a statue, and while most people in Nagasaki seemed to appreciate it as some form of gesture, I suspect the general feeling was much like mine. And today, should I by chance recall that large white statue in Nagasaki, I find myself reminded primarily of my visit to Peace Park with Ogata-San that morning, and that business concerning his postcard.

“It doesn’t look quite so impressive in a picture,’ I remember Ogata-San saying, holding up the postcard of the statue which he had just bought. We were standing some fifty yards or so from the monument. “I’ve been meaning to send a card for some time,” he continued. Ill be going back to Fukuoka any day now, but I suppose it’s still worth sending. Etsuko, do you have a pen? Perhaps I should send it straight away, otherwise I’m bound to forget

I found a pen in my handbag and we sat down on a bench nearby. I became curious when I noticed him staring at the blank side of the card, his pen poised but not writing. Once or twice, I saw him glance up towards the statue as if for inspiration. Finally I asked him:

Are you sending it to a friend in Fukuoka?”

“Well, just an acquaintance.’

“Father’s looking very guilty,” I said. “1 wonder who it can be he’s writing to.”

Ogata-San glanced up with a look of astonishment. Then he burst into loud laughter. Guilty? Am I really?”

“Yes, very guilty. I wonder what Father gets up to when there’s no one,to keep an eye on him.”

Ogata-San continued to laugh loudly. He was laughing so much! could feel the bench shake. He recovered a little and said: “Very well, Etsuko. You’ve caught me. You’ve caught me writing to my girl-friend — he used the English ‘word. “Caught me red-handed.” He began laughing again.

“I always suspected Father led a glamorous life in Fukuoka.”

“Yes, Etsuko” — he was still laughing a little — “a very’ glamorous life.” Then he took a deep breath and looked down once more at his postcard. “You know, I really don’t mow what to write. Perhaps I could just send it with 0thing written. After all, I only wanted to show her what Se memorial looks like. But then again, perhaps that’s rather too informal.”

“Well, I can’t advise you, Father, unless you reveal who this mysterious lady is.”

“The mysterious lady, Etsuko, runs a small restaurant in Fukuoka. It’s quite near my house so I usually go there for my evening meals. I talk to her sometimes, she’s pleasant enough, and I promised I’d send her a postcard of the peace memorial. I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.”

“1 see, Father. But I’m still suspicious.’

“Quite a pleasant old woman, but she gets tiresome after a while. If I’m the only customer, she stands and talks all through the meal. Unfortunately there aren’t many other suitable places to eat nearby. You see, Etsuko, if you’d peach me to cook, as you promised, then I wouldn’t need to suffer the likes of her.”

“But it would be pointless,” I said, laughing. “Father would never get the hang of it.”

“Nonsense. You’re simply afraid I’ll surpass you. It’s host selfish of you, Etsuko. Now let me see’ he looked

his postcard once more — ‘What can I say to the old

“Do you remember Mrs. Fujiwara?” I asked. ‘She runs a noodle shop now. Near Father’s old house.”

“Yes, so I hear. A great pity. Someone of her position running a noodle shop.”

“But she enjoys it. It gives her something to work for. She ten asks after you.”