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Authors: Mark Henshaw
Tags: Historical
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years ago who my father was. It would have
changed everything.
How could I tell her that that is what I had feared most.
I tried, I said.
I told her that it had crossed my mind that Katsuo might die in jail. What would
have been the point in telling her then? No one knew except me. No one had ever found
out. No one had ever asked any questions. Why risk destroying the happiness we had
built together?
Because it was a lie, she said. A lie.
Katsuo’s letter to Fumiko was different from the one he sent me. I no longer care
what people think of me, he said. Whether what I did was right or wrong. I have paid
a terrible price. But you are still my daughter. I would like to see you. I ask nothing
more.
What happened after this, over the next few days, I don’t remember. Katsuo was due
to be released the following week. In his letter to me, he had made one request:
the first person he wanted to see as he walked out of the prison gates was Fumiko.
I offered to accompany her to Osaka. She refused.
She booked the ticket herself. Her train departed from one of the small outer-suburban
stations. She agreed to let me take her there. It was late in the afternoon when
we arrived. Knots of people had gathered on the platform, waiting to board. The weather
had turned cold; the warmth of the day had gone. Now a pitiless wind had sprung up.
It buffeted us, first this way then that. It would die down for a while, then come
back to howl and snap at my coattails. It was so strong that I had difficulty maintaining
my balance. Fumiko’s small suitcase lay at my feet. I remember turning away from
the wind, my eyes watering. Squinting behind my glasses. Reaching up for my hat.
I recall looking off into the distance. I walked a few paces to relieve the stiffness
in my legs. I tried in vain to light a cigarette, but each time I put the cupped
match up to my face the flame was instantly extinguished.
The station master stuck his head out of his watch post, looked up and down the tracks.
I felt like a man awaiting his own execution.
Fumiko came to stand beside me, sheltering her face with the collar of her coat.
An image of her as a three-year-old came back to me. It was the afternoon we had
gone to see Sachiko’s grave. She was dressed in her coat and fur hat, and we were
standing on the old Togetsu platform.
The whistle blew.
I have to go, Fumiko said.
I stood awkwardly before her. I could not believe that this moment had finally arrived.
I am ashamed to admit it, Inspector, but I stood there silent, not knowing what to
say.
Goodbye…Father, she said.
She stooped to pick up her suitcase. I went to help.
It’s all right, she said. It’s not heavy. I can manage.
I struggled to find the simplest words.
Goodbye, Fumiko. I—
But what I was going to say then, if indeed I was going to say anything, was lost,
cut off by another shrill blast from the train whistle.
I went to reach out to touch her shoulder, but couldn’t. I was frozen to the spot.
Then she was in the carriage. The train was already full. She was having difficulty
making her way down the narrow aisle. I saw her looking at the seat numbers. When
she found hers, she lifted her bag into the overhead rack.
I must have turned to look down the platform then. I hadn’t expected the train to
leave. Not yet. But when I looked back up it was already moving. There was a great
confusion now beside me—the wheels squealing against the polished tracks, an incomprehensible
announcement over the loudspeaker, the whistle blowing. I looked up to where I thought
Fumiko was, but suddenly all of the carriages looked alike. I couldn’t tell which
was which. I started to move along the platform, my hand outstretched. I don’t know
what people must have thought. It must have appeared as though I was reaching out
to try and stop the train. I scanned the windows of the carriage in front of me.
Then the next. The one behind. The whistle sounded one last time.
Fumiko! I called.
A gust of
changed everything.
How could I tell her that that is what I had feared most.
I tried, I said.
I told her that it had crossed my mind that Katsuo might die in jail. What would
have been the point in telling her then? No one knew except me. No one had ever found
out. No one had ever asked any questions. Why risk destroying the happiness we had
built together?
Because it was a lie, she said. A lie.
Katsuo’s letter to Fumiko was different from the one he sent me. I no longer care
what people think of me, he said. Whether what I did was right or wrong. I have paid
a terrible price. But you are still my daughter. I would like to see you. I ask nothing
more.
What happened after this, over the next few days, I don’t remember. Katsuo was due
to be released the following week. In his letter to me, he had made one request:
the first person he wanted to see as he walked out of the prison gates was Fumiko.
I offered to accompany her to Osaka. She refused.
She booked the ticket herself. Her train departed from one of the small outer-suburban
stations. She agreed to let me take her there. It was late in the afternoon when
we arrived. Knots of people had gathered on the platform, waiting to board. The weather
had turned cold; the warmth of the day had gone. Now a pitiless wind had sprung up.
It buffeted us, first this way then that. It would die down for a while, then come
back to howl and snap at my coattails. It was so strong that I had difficulty maintaining
my balance. Fumiko’s small suitcase lay at my feet. I remember turning away from
the wind, my eyes watering. Squinting behind my glasses. Reaching up for my hat.
I recall looking off into the distance. I walked a few paces to relieve the stiffness
in my legs. I tried in vain to light a cigarette, but each time I put the cupped
match up to my face the flame was instantly extinguished.
The station master stuck his head out of his watch post, looked up and down the tracks.
I felt like a man awaiting his own execution.
Fumiko came to stand beside me, sheltering her face with the collar of her coat.
An image of her as a three-year-old came back to me. It was the afternoon we had
gone to see Sachiko’s grave. She was dressed in her coat and fur hat, and we were
standing on the old Togetsu platform.
The whistle blew.
I have to go, Fumiko said.
I stood awkwardly before her. I could not believe that this moment had finally arrived.
I am ashamed to admit it, Inspector, but I stood there silent, not knowing what to
say.
Goodbye…Father, she said.
She stooped to pick up her suitcase. I went to help.
It’s all right, she said. It’s not heavy. I can manage.
I struggled to find the simplest words.
Goodbye, Fumiko. I—
But what I was going to say then, if indeed I was going to say anything, was lost,
cut off by another shrill blast from the train whistle.
I went to reach out to touch her shoulder, but couldn’t. I was frozen to the spot.
Then she was in the carriage. The train was already full. She was having difficulty
making her way down the narrow aisle. I saw her looking at the seat numbers. When
she found hers, she lifted her bag into the overhead rack.
I must have turned to look down the platform then. I hadn’t expected the train to
leave. Not yet. But when I looked back up it was already moving. There was a great
confusion now beside me—the wheels squealing against the polished tracks, an incomprehensible
announcement over the loudspeaker, the whistle blowing. I looked up to where I thought
Fumiko was, but suddenly all of the carriages looked alike. I couldn’t tell which
was which. I started to move along the platform, my hand outstretched. I don’t know
what people must have thought. It must have appeared as though I was reaching out
to try and stop the train. I scanned the windows of the carriage in front of me.
Then the next. The one behind. The whistle sounded one last time.
Fumiko! I called.
A gust of
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