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Chapter 4

TOMOKO WATANABE
Tokyo, Japan, January–July 2005

“Low interest rates punish savers.” —Bill Gross

THE HOUSE IN KASHIWA, CHIBA Prefecture, southeast of Tokyo, was a two-storied box with aluminum windows and clad in white mosaics. It had a grey-tiled roof and a tiny front garden. The wind was howling outside as Tomoko struggled to get up from her bed. It was six o’clock in the morning and still dark, and everybody in the house was asleep. She was loath to abandon the warmth of the heavy duvet, but today was her husband Akihiro Watanabe’s birthday, and she wanted to surprise him with a special breakfast.

Tomoko shivered as her feet, encased in thick white socks, trod silently on the tatami mat covering the floor. It was cold, even for January, and this was one time she wished there was heating in the bedroom upstairs. She put on her slippers, pulled on a heavy cardigan over her fleece pajamas, and went down to the kitchen.

The kitchen, Tomoko’s kingdom, was small, but she ran it like a tight ship, every utensil and small appliance kept in its assigned place.

She began to prepare her husband’s favorite menu: clam miso soup and omelet rolls. There was smoked fish left over from the previous night, as well as cooked rice.

After turning on the small heater and quickly swallowing a cup of hot tea, she put on her old blue-checked apron and set to work.

Poor Aki, she was thinking, as she removed from the fridge the asari clams she had bought the previous afternoon; he really deserved some cheering up. Only eight months ago he had lost his lifelong employment, the first serious crisis in their marriage of twenty-two years. The electronics company he had given his all to for over thirty years had gone bankrupt after its main customer decided to outsource to China.

She rinsed the clams in cold water, rubbed them clean with a dishcloth, and set them aside to soak in salt water. She then filled a pot with water from the sink and blanched a leaf of kelp. When it had softened, she removed it with chopsticks and then put it back in the pot to boil for a minute or two before taking it out again.

Though Aki had found a new job quickly enough, Tomoko was worried. It not only paid a third less than his previous salary, it was a temporary job, with a contract that had to be renewed every six months. While Tomoko was, by nature, someone who took life’s setbacks with a pragmatic optimism, she felt helpless in the face of the loss of their financial security. As she added dried bonito flakes to the boiling water, she shook her head and pursed her lips at the injustice of it.

When the fish was cooked, she passed the broth through a fine sieve lined with a cloth. Discarding the scum, she sieved it again. And again. Inspecting the liquid for any telltale specks, she repeated the process until she was satisfied the broth was perfectly clear. She now reached out for the clams, soaking in their bath of brine.

Usually, Tomoko loved the ritual fuss of birthdays, especially her husband’s—the shopping for presents, the paper decorations and cards, the candles on the cake—but this year there wasn’t much cause for celebration.

She rinsed the clams and tipped them into the broth. Bringing the liquid to a boil, she skimmed it patiently. Once the clams had opened, she mixed in the miso paste, squeezing it through a small sieve with a spoon. The soup was ready.

Now for the omelets. What was more worrying, she thought, breaking eggs into a bowl with a deft flick of her wrist, was that his pension was gone. And the new job offered no pension at all. The bleakness of their future agitated her as she whisked the eggs with more vigor than necessary and poured them into the frying pan.

The omelets were done. When they had cooled a bit, she rolled them up into narrow, finger-shaped wraps and put them aside. Then she arranged the fillets of cold smoked fish in the middle of a long rectangular plate, which she decorated in one corner with a dollop of daikon radish infused with ponzu sauce. Finally, she heated up the rice and took out some nattō, fermented soybeans, everyone’s favorite.

She looked out the window above the sink. The heavy night darkness was lifting, and she could make out the falling snowflakes and the leafless branches of the cherry tree in their garden bending in the wind. A cold grey light was beginning to infiltrate the kitchen. She switched off the overhead lamp, figuring she could do without it now.

A brown Formica-top table with six chairs stood in a nook just off the kitchen. Poor Aki, she repeated to herself as she began to set it. At the age of fifty-three, there was little chance of his finding steady employment again. Although they never talked about it, she knew that, ashamed and frustrated, her husband was unraveling. His drinking binges had become more frequent, and he had taken to coming home at all hours. He was also becoming moody and short-tempered.

Only last week he had flown off the handle when she told him she was thinking about looking for a part-time job. He wouldn’t hear of it, he had responded angrily. Their son was still at school and needed her. Besides, what would their neighbors think? It was out of the question.

Though Tomoko knew his objections had more to do with his pride, she didn’t bring up the subject again. She vowed to herself she would find another way to help. But how?

Tomoko put down a small flower arrangement, teacups, bowls, and chopstick supports on the table. She had to find a way to help Aki. Whereas she could still take comfort in little things, he had just lost his entire world. She took a moment to align the chopsticks just so. Taking a step back from the table, she viewed the result with satisfaction.

Tomoko glanced at the kitchen clock squeezed between the toaster oven and a shelf. It was seven-thirty and all was ready. Plenty of time left for a leisurely meal before Aki left for the office and their son, Nishio, left for school. What a pity her daughter, Keiko, wasn’t there.

Tomoko brushed that regret away, together with a lock of her permed black hair that had strayed onto her forehead, and stood meekly at the entrance of the kitchen, waiting. She could hear her family coming down the narrow wooden stairs.

She bowed to her husband and her mother-in-law as they appeared, her face faintly flushed from her efforts, her shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly. “Ohayō gozaimasu,” she said, with the politest of greetings.

But Aki only grunted a barely discernible thank-you as he viewed the mini-feast she had prepared and sat down, noisily pushing back his chair.

Then he buried his face in the morning newspaper that Tomoko had laid, neatly folded, to the right of his chopsticks.

He was followed by Nishio. At fifteen, he was a tall and gawky youth, with a few wisps of dark downy hair on his upper lip and chin. He advanced towards the table and sat down in silence. He sat there sullenly, looking down under lowered eyelids, not once making eye contact with his mother. He consumed his soup in a few rapid gulps and hurriedly shoved some rice into his mouth. Then with a curt, barely mumbled good-bye, he got up and was gone.

“Don’t forget your bento box,” Tomoko’s voice rang out after him, “you must eat lunch!”

The third person at the table was Mishimo, Tomoko’s mother-in-law. It was she who owned the house, and after the death of Akihiro’s father some ten years before had given over most of the space to her son’s family, keeping only one room for herself. It was a situation not without friction. She had never liked Tomoko and was of the opinion that her handsome son could have found a better match than the daughter of a taxi driver. Or, at the very least, a prettier one. Though their exchanges were invariably on the right side of civil, Mishimo inevitably found fault with everything Tomoko did. But this morning was different. She spooned down the soup slowly, savoring every sip. “Excellent, Tomoko,” she remarked loudly. “Well done.” A compliment! Tomoko was touched to the bottom of her heart.

She then turned to her husband.

“Anata,” he said, using a Japanese term of endearment. “I hope you’ll be home on time for dinner. I bought a cake for tonight. And there will be eel as a main course.”

Aki didn’t shift his eyes from the newspaper. “No. I’m eating out.

Client dinner. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back late.”

If Tomoko was disappointed, she showed no sign of it.

“Akihiro-san. I also bought you a small gift,” she announced timidly. She had bought it out of her personal savings and had hoped to give it to him at the evening meal. She would have to give it to him now instead.

She went to the living room where she had hidden it. Coming back, she bowed respectfully and held out the package in her two open palms like an offering, saying “Happy birthday” in English.

Aki finally deigned to lower the newspaper and stared at the box wrapped in delicately folded bright blue paper, tied with a slender red-and-gold string. He reached out to take it. But instead of opening it, he put it in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Have to rush now,” he said dismissively.

“It’s the lighter you always wanted,” said Tomoko. But Aki responded with a dead gaze of bitterness at the wall behind her. Suddenly, he jumped up from his chair with such violence that it crashed to the floor.

“Baka! You stupid woman! Kono ama, you bitch!” He exploded in an inexplicable fit of rage.