A Pale View of Hills

Mrs. Fujiwara turned in her seat. “Mariko-San,” she called. “Where have you been?’

For a moment, Mariko remained standing out in the street. Then she stepped into the shade of the forecourt, came walking past us and sat down at an empty table nearby.

Mrs. Fujiwara watched the little girl, then gave me an uneasy look. She seemed about to say something, but then got to her feet and went over to the little girl.

“Mariko-San where have you been?” Mrs. Fujiwara had lowered her voice, but I was still able to hear. “You’re not to keep running off like that. Your mother’s very angry with you.”

Mariko was studying her fingers. She did not look up at Mrs. Fujiwara.

“And Mariko-san please, you’re never to talk to customers like that. Don’t you know it’s very rude? Your mother’s very angry with you.”

Mariko went on studying her hands. Behind her, Sachiko appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Seeing Sachiko that morning, I recall I was struck afresh by the impression that she was indeed older than I had first supposed; with her long hair hidden away inside a handkerchief the tired areas of skin around her eyes and mouth seemed somehow more pronounced

“Here’s your mother now,’ said Mrs. Fujiwara. “I expect she’s very angry with you.”

The little girl had remained seated with her back to her mother. Sachiko threw a quick glance towards her, then turned to me with a smile.

“How do you do, Etsuko,” she said, with an elegant bow. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

At the other end of the forecourt, two women in office clothes were seating themselves at a table. Mrs. Fujiwara gestured towards them, then turned to Mariko once more.

“Why don’t you go into the kitchen for a little while,” she said, in a low voice. “Your mother will show you what to do. It’s very easy. I’m sure a clever girl like you could manage”

Mariko gave no sign of having heard. Mrs. Fujiwara glanced up at Sachiko, and for a brief instant I thought they exchanged cold glances. Then Mrs. Fujiwara turned and went off towards her customers. She appeared to know them, for as she walked across the forecourt, she gave them a familiar greeting.

Sachiko came and sat at the edge of my table. “It’s so hot inside that kitchen,’ she said. I

“How are you getting on here?” tasked her.

“How am I getting on? Well, Etsuko, it’s certainly an amusing sort of experience, working in a noodle shop. I must say, I never imagined Id one day find myself scrubbing tables in a place like this. Still” — she laughed quickly — “it’s quite amusing.”

“I see. And Mariko, is she settling in?”

We both glanced over to Mariko’s table; the child was still looking down at her hands.

“Oh, Mariko’s fine,” said Sachiko. “Of course, she’s rather restless at times. But then you’d hardly expect otherwise under the circumstances. It’s regrettable, Etsuko, but you see, my daughter doesn’t seem to share my sense of humour. She doesn’t find it quite so amusing here.” Sachiko smiled and glanced towards Mariko again. Then she got to her feet and went over to her.

She asked quietly: “Is it true what Mrs. Fujiwara told me?”

The little girl remained silent.

“She says you were being rude to customers again. Is that true?”

Mariko still gave no response.

“Is it true what she told me? Mariko, please answer when you’re spoken to.”

“The woman came round again,” said Mariko. “Last night. While you were gone.”

Sachiko looked at her daughter for a second or two. Then she said: “I think you should go inside now. Go on. I’ll show you what you have to do.”

“She came again last night. She said she’d take me to her house.”

“Go on, Mariko, go on into the kitchen and wait for me there.”

“She’s going to show me where she lives.”

“Mariko, go inside.”

Across the forecourt, Mrs. Fujiwara and the two women were laughing loudly about something. Mariko continued to stare at her palms. Sachiko turned away and came back to my table.

‘Excuse me a moment, Etsuko,” she said. “But I left something boiling. I’ll be back in just a moment.” Then lowering her voice, she added: “you can hardly expect her to get enthusiastic about a place like this, can you?” She smiled and went towards the kitchen. At the doorway, she turned once more to her daughter.

“Come on, Mariko, come inside.”

Mariko did not move. Sachiko shrugged, then disappeared inside the kikhen.

Around that same time, in early summer, Ogata-San came to visit us, his first visit since moving away from Nagasaki earlier that year. He was my husband’s father, and it seems rather odd I always thought of him as “Ogata-San”, even in those days when that was my own name. But then I had known him as “Ogata-San” for such a long time— since long before I had ever met Jiro — I had never got used to calling him “Father”.