Read Online One Morning Like a Bird by Andrew Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Miller
Tags: Historical fiction, Japan
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death with Schumann and Beethoven.’
‘But you play the lieder so sweetly,’ says Feneon. ‘I was lying in bed this morning listening to you.’
‘I play them very badly,’ she says, smiling at her father.
‘Won’t you play something now?’ asks Taro, the peacemaker. ‘Then we can settle this matter at once and give the prize to music.’
She shakes her head. She’s not in the mood, she’s unprepared, she does not give impromptu recitals, but Taro persists and the others join him, until, taking her stick, she gets up from the sofa, and goes to the piano. It’s an English make, Collard & Collard, an odd and lovely object that must have travelled half the world crated in the hold of some wallowing cargo vessel. She settles herself on the stool, looks put out, irritated, flicks through some pages of manuscript on the music stand, then shuts her eyes, opens them, and leans her whole body into the first soft chords. She plays for five, six minutes, no more, her head tilted to the side, an expression of intense listening on her face. The music spreads in ripples, its rhythms simple as a lullaby, light as spring rain. The debate, with its mixture of earnestness and nonsense, is forgotten. When she finishes, and the echo of the last deep note has faded, there’s a hush in which only the murmuring of the embers in the stove can be heard. They applaud. She blushes, stands, limps back to the sofa.
‘That was beautiful,’ says Yuji quietly, the words out of his mouth before he has considered them.
‘Chopin,’ she says, turning to him, her blush briefly deepening. ‘ “ Grande Polonaise ”. I’m glad you liked it.’
12
An earth-tremor at three in the afternoon. Yuji is in the garden, talking through the fence with Kyoko. The old woman and Haruyo are in the street haggling with the boiled-bean-seller. There’s a sudden breeze, the bamboo rustles. Under their fingers, the fence vibrates, under their feet, the earth. They wait, breathlessly, three, four seconds. Then everything resumes, everything is normal again.
In 1923, Kyoko was a small child in her home village in Saitama Prefecture. She thinks Yuji was in Tokyo. He has not chosen to correct her, and Saburo, he assumes, has simply forgotten, as Saburo forgets so much. He grins at her. She grins back. For a while they hold the fence as though, without their gripping it, it would fly into the air and be lost.
13
On Mother’s birthday, to please her, or rather, to honour her as one honours on certain auspicious dates the family ancestors, Yuji spends the day being as useful as he can. He tidies his room, puts his bedding to air, returns various cups and dishes to the kitchen. He helps Father in the garden weeding and pruning, and after lunch pays Otaki the money he owes. In his room again, he sews a button onto a suit, reads a dozen pages of Isabelle , learns a new French idiom ( entre chien et loup ). Then, a few minutes before five, the little parcel with its wrapping of dark red paper in his hands, he goes downstairs and slides open the doors to Mother’s room. Haruyo is there, hunched beside a brazier on which a small copper kettle is beginning to steam. She dips her head to him. He walks past her, past the folding screen, and kneels opposite Mother. He bows, and wishes her a happy birthday.
There is only a single lamp for the whole room, and not a bright one, so it’s difficult to tell if becoming fifty-one has made much difference to her. He can see no threads of grey in her hair, and the skin of her face – a little blue under the eyes – shows, in this light, barely a wrinkle. Of her body, wrapped in an unpatterned kimono and darker shawl, he has only the sense of something immensely fragile.
She says how nice it is to see him. He thanks her. Round their knees the shadows lie like pools of water. She smiles drowsily as though she has recently woken from a sleep or will shortly need one.
‘But you play the lieder so sweetly,’ says Feneon. ‘I was lying in bed this morning listening to you.’
‘I play them very badly,’ she says, smiling at her father.
‘Won’t you play something now?’ asks Taro, the peacemaker. ‘Then we can settle this matter at once and give the prize to music.’
She shakes her head. She’s not in the mood, she’s unprepared, she does not give impromptu recitals, but Taro persists and the others join him, until, taking her stick, she gets up from the sofa, and goes to the piano. It’s an English make, Collard & Collard, an odd and lovely object that must have travelled half the world crated in the hold of some wallowing cargo vessel. She settles herself on the stool, looks put out, irritated, flicks through some pages of manuscript on the music stand, then shuts her eyes, opens them, and leans her whole body into the first soft chords. She plays for five, six minutes, no more, her head tilted to the side, an expression of intense listening on her face. The music spreads in ripples, its rhythms simple as a lullaby, light as spring rain. The debate, with its mixture of earnestness and nonsense, is forgotten. When she finishes, and the echo of the last deep note has faded, there’s a hush in which only the murmuring of the embers in the stove can be heard. They applaud. She blushes, stands, limps back to the sofa.
‘That was beautiful,’ says Yuji quietly, the words out of his mouth before he has considered them.
‘Chopin,’ she says, turning to him, her blush briefly deepening. ‘ “ Grande Polonaise ”. I’m glad you liked it.’
12
An earth-tremor at three in the afternoon. Yuji is in the garden, talking through the fence with Kyoko. The old woman and Haruyo are in the street haggling with the boiled-bean-seller. There’s a sudden breeze, the bamboo rustles. Under their fingers, the fence vibrates, under their feet, the earth. They wait, breathlessly, three, four seconds. Then everything resumes, everything is normal again.
In 1923, Kyoko was a small child in her home village in Saitama Prefecture. She thinks Yuji was in Tokyo. He has not chosen to correct her, and Saburo, he assumes, has simply forgotten, as Saburo forgets so much. He grins at her. She grins back. For a while they hold the fence as though, without their gripping it, it would fly into the air and be lost.
13
On Mother’s birthday, to please her, or rather, to honour her as one honours on certain auspicious dates the family ancestors, Yuji spends the day being as useful as he can. He tidies his room, puts his bedding to air, returns various cups and dishes to the kitchen. He helps Father in the garden weeding and pruning, and after lunch pays Otaki the money he owes. In his room again, he sews a button onto a suit, reads a dozen pages of Isabelle , learns a new French idiom ( entre chien et loup ). Then, a few minutes before five, the little parcel with its wrapping of dark red paper in his hands, he goes downstairs and slides open the doors to Mother’s room. Haruyo is there, hunched beside a brazier on which a small copper kettle is beginning to steam. She dips her head to him. He walks past her, past the folding screen, and kneels opposite Mother. He bows, and wishes her a happy birthday.
There is only a single lamp for the whole room, and not a bright one, so it’s difficult to tell if becoming fifty-one has made much difference to her. He can see no threads of grey in her hair, and the skin of her face – a little blue under the eyes – shows, in this light, barely a wrinkle. Of her body, wrapped in an unpatterned kimono and darker shawl, he has only the sense of something immensely fragile.
She says how nice it is to see him. He thanks her. Round their knees the shadows lie like pools of water. She smiles drowsily as though she has recently woken from a sleep or will shortly need one.
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