Read Online The Snow Kimono by Mark Henshaw - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Henshaw
Tags: Historical
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The light had begun to change. It was
growing darker by the minute.
All around us, people were packing up, folding rugs, reorganising picnic baskets,
running this way and that. Some were already leaving, carrying their hastily collected
belongings under their arms. The vendors and their carts had already gone. On the
beach, the kite flyers were urgently hauling in the few remaining kites. I could
see their arms working. Near them, anxious parents were trying to shepherd half a
dozen children together who had strayed onto the beach. Somewhere a man was calling, A-ki-o, A-ki-o , his voice all but lost in the thunder that now rumbled towards us
across the narrow plain.
I watched a lightning bolt dance crazily along the mountain tops. It was alarmingly
close. Then another. I looked down and saw the light flicker across Fumiko’s face.
Almost instantly the thunder detonated above us with a tremendous buffeting thump.
I felt the ground shake, as though the earth itself were recoiling. A sharp metallic
smell permeated the air. People were beginning to run. The storm was upon us.
Fumiko, Fumiko, I said. I leaned down, shook her shoulder. She sat up, dazed. Hurry.
There’s a storm coming, I said. We have to go.
The storm broke just as the train pulled out of the station. It was already dark.
The rain came slashing down. Fumiko and I sat huddled opposite each other in the
crowded compartment. I remember the train gathering speed. I remember a level crossing
flashing by, rain-swept windows lighting up, the warning bells rising and falling.
A dimly lit station appeared, was gone.
Fumiko was staring into the darkness outside, her head rocking back and forth as
the train sped on towards home, and the moment that awaited us there.
We took a taxi from the station to our apartment. It was still raining when we pulled
up. We held the straw mat above our heads as we ran along the rain-soaked path towards
the entrance.
I no longer remember what happened next, the exact order. But I can still feel the
twisted knot in my chest. I can see us in our living room. The curtains are open.
The rain has stopped. The glistening city lies spread out below us in the clean sharp
air.
Fumiko has changed. She is wearing a simple dark-blue cotton kimono. She is seated
opposite me, drying her hair. In her lap, there is a book.
A teapot rests on the stand in front of us. My cup sits beside it, still full, untouched.
Fumiko puts down her brush, reaches for hers.
Fumiko, I say.
I hear my voice. It sounds strangled. I hesitate. The blood is hammering in my head.
I have to talk to you, I say. There is something I have to tell you, something I’ve
been meaning to tell you for a long time…
I look at her. She sits watching me.
But the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Now… now there is no choice,
now it’s too late.
I thought that, once I had begun, the words would tumble out. But I was wrong. Barely
had I begun to speak when my nerve failed me. Where did I begin? With Katsuo—her
real father? Sachiko—her mother? What had happened to her? Did I tell her first that
I was not her father?
I fell silent. I stared at my hands, my grotesquely intertwined fingers, while all
the complicated events of my life swirled around and around in my head.
You must understand, I said.
Now, more than ever, I felt ashamed of what I had done. How could I have lied to
Fumiko, to my child who was not my child, for so long?
I stopped.
It must have become obvious to her that I could not go on.
It’s all right, Father, she said. She opened the book in her lap and pulled out an
envelope.
You see, she said. He wrote to me as well.
Why won’t you tell me? she says.
It’s not up to me, I say.
I had no idea how much time had elapsed. Fumiko was still sitting opposite me. Katsuo’s
letter was open beside her. She had been crying.
Not even why he was in jail? Not who my mother was? Is it so terrible?
I can’t.
Why can’t you? You should have told me
growing darker by the minute.
All around us, people were packing up, folding rugs, reorganising picnic baskets,
running this way and that. Some were already leaving, carrying their hastily collected
belongings under their arms. The vendors and their carts had already gone. On the
beach, the kite flyers were urgently hauling in the few remaining kites. I could
see their arms working. Near them, anxious parents were trying to shepherd half a
dozen children together who had strayed onto the beach. Somewhere a man was calling, A-ki-o, A-ki-o , his voice all but lost in the thunder that now rumbled towards us
across the narrow plain.
I watched a lightning bolt dance crazily along the mountain tops. It was alarmingly
close. Then another. I looked down and saw the light flicker across Fumiko’s face.
Almost instantly the thunder detonated above us with a tremendous buffeting thump.
I felt the ground shake, as though the earth itself were recoiling. A sharp metallic
smell permeated the air. People were beginning to run. The storm was upon us.
Fumiko, Fumiko, I said. I leaned down, shook her shoulder. She sat up, dazed. Hurry.
There’s a storm coming, I said. We have to go.
The storm broke just as the train pulled out of the station. It was already dark.
The rain came slashing down. Fumiko and I sat huddled opposite each other in the
crowded compartment. I remember the train gathering speed. I remember a level crossing
flashing by, rain-swept windows lighting up, the warning bells rising and falling.
A dimly lit station appeared, was gone.
Fumiko was staring into the darkness outside, her head rocking back and forth as
the train sped on towards home, and the moment that awaited us there.
We took a taxi from the station to our apartment. It was still raining when we pulled
up. We held the straw mat above our heads as we ran along the rain-soaked path towards
the entrance.
I no longer remember what happened next, the exact order. But I can still feel the
twisted knot in my chest. I can see us in our living room. The curtains are open.
The rain has stopped. The glistening city lies spread out below us in the clean sharp
air.
Fumiko has changed. She is wearing a simple dark-blue cotton kimono. She is seated
opposite me, drying her hair. In her lap, there is a book.
A teapot rests on the stand in front of us. My cup sits beside it, still full, untouched.
Fumiko puts down her brush, reaches for hers.
Fumiko, I say.
I hear my voice. It sounds strangled. I hesitate. The blood is hammering in my head.
I have to talk to you, I say. There is something I have to tell you, something I’ve
been meaning to tell you for a long time…
I look at her. She sits watching me.
But the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Now… now there is no choice,
now it’s too late.
I thought that, once I had begun, the words would tumble out. But I was wrong. Barely
had I begun to speak when my nerve failed me. Where did I begin? With Katsuo—her
real father? Sachiko—her mother? What had happened to her? Did I tell her first that
I was not her father?
I fell silent. I stared at my hands, my grotesquely intertwined fingers, while all
the complicated events of my life swirled around and around in my head.
You must understand, I said.
Now, more than ever, I felt ashamed of what I had done. How could I have lied to
Fumiko, to my child who was not my child, for so long?
I stopped.
It must have become obvious to her that I could not go on.
It’s all right, Father, she said. She opened the book in her lap and pulled out an
envelope.
You see, she said. He wrote to me as well.
Why won’t you tell me? she says.
It’s not up to me, I say.
I had no idea how much time had elapsed. Fumiko was still sitting opposite me. Katsuo’s
letter was open beside her. She had been crying.
Not even why he was in jail? Not who my mother was? Is it so terrible?
I can’t.
Why can’t you? You should have told me
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