The Favorites_ A Novel Part 7

The next day, while the Izumis were away paying their respects at the Asaki house, Sarah saw her grandmother's private photograph alb.u.m for the first time. next day, while the Izumis were away paying their respects at the Asaki house, Sarah saw her grandmother's private photograph alb.u.m for the first time.

She had been asking questions-about the war, about her real grandfather. "You're becoming quite the historian," Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ laughed, and turned to Mrs. Rexford. "What do you think, Yo-chan?" she said. "Is she ready to see some pictures?"

This alb.u.m wasn't kept in the storage recess like the others. Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ opened a bureau drawer and slid it out from between layers of seldom-worn kimonos.

"Let's not mention this to anyone," Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ said. She and Mrs. Rexford carefully turned the pages, with freshly washed hands smelling of soap.

"When your mother was young," Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ said, "I used to show this book to her. her."

Mrs. Rexford had very few memories of her real father. She had been three when he went off to war. Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ had been twenty-seven and pregnant with Masako.

"Here he is in his judo gear...Here he is at a company gathering..."

Shohei Kobayas.h.i.+ was handsome, like an old-time movie star, with perfectly proportioned features and eyes like elegant brushstrokes. Sarah had never seen a man like this outside of a samurai film.

"Here he is, holding your mother." They all leaned in to scrutinize the black-and-white photograph.

"Every minute he had free, he was carrying your mother. Walking around, always holding her in one arm."

"I think I remember being held by him," Mrs. Rexford said.

"Your mother got carried around so much, with her arm curled around his neck or mine, that when she was set down she'd forget to move her left arm."

The two women laughed wistfully.

"He's really handsome," said Sarah.

"Oh, do you think so?" her grandmother asked.

"Mother," said Mrs. Rexford, "don't be coy."

They had met through work. Before her marriage, Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ had been a typist in the head office of a large Kobe corporation-not a common common typist (as she always emphasized), but a foreign-language typist, using a machine equipped with English alphabet keys. In the 1930s English proficiency was a status symbol, proof of the higher education given to daughters from wealthy, academically liberal families. She had worn high heels to the office, and modish Western dresses with zippers and b.u.t.tons and flounces. After work, she and a group of coworkers frequented the new dance halls, where waltzes and foxtrots were all the rage among the young well-to-do. Shohei was a young executive from the Kyoto branch who often visited the head office on business. typist (as she always emphasized), but a foreign-language typist, using a machine equipped with English alphabet keys. In the 1930s English proficiency was a status symbol, proof of the higher education given to daughters from wealthy, academically liberal families. She had worn high heels to the office, and modish Western dresses with zippers and b.u.t.tons and flounces. After work, she and a group of coworkers frequented the new dance halls, where waltzes and foxtrots were all the rage among the young well-to-do. Shohei was a young executive from the Kyoto branch who often visited the head office on business.

"Is this you, you, Grandma? You look so glamorous." Sarah stared at a picture of a young woman with bobbed hair, lipstick, and a mischievous expression. "These pictures are so different from the others! It's like a whole different world." Grandma? You look so glamorous." Sarah stared at a picture of a young woman with bobbed hair, lipstick, and a mischievous expression. "These pictures are so different from the others! It's like a whole different world."

"Granny Asaki was always jealous," remarked Mrs. Rexford, "because your grandma came from a cosmopolitan background and she didn't."

"Look at this one," Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ said quickly. "It's our wedding reception."

The photograph had been taken at night. A large party boat blazed with prewar exuberance: red paper lanterns hanging above the deck, serving women in dark kimonos balancing lacquered trays of sus.h.i.+ above their heads as they wove sinuously among the tightly packed guests. Sarah could almost hear the gay tw.a.n.ging of the stringed shamisen and the guests clapping time, their reserve loosened by cups of sake.

Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ gave a little smile. "I've often looked back on that boat," she said, "from the distance of time." Sarah wondered how she pictured it. Closing her own eyes, she imagined a small oasis of light and laughter, bobbing on the water's dark expanse and spilling an occasional "To your future!" that faded into the night above the quiet lapping of the bay.

It was strange how both women, in different ways, had ended up falling from their youthful heights. Sarah wasn't sure how to account for this. She could only sense vaguely that life was like a maze, and sometimes, through no fault of your own, a perfectly good path could veer off in an unexpected direction.

Over the next few days, Mrs. Izumi launched into her campaign of religious conversion. The women were patient and accommodating as she interrupted their conversations with clumsy segues into "love" or "the Lord." But Sarah saw in her mother the restless eye movements, the flared nostrils through which she breathed rather more loudly than usual. She was worried for her aunt; couldn't she see she was alienating the very people whose circle she wanted to enter?

One afternoon Sarah and the three women were sitting down to tea in the family room. The men were out playing tennis with some of Mr. Kobayas.h.i.+'s friends. Little Jun had gone downtown with Mrs. Asaki and the girls.

"Here, you do the honors," Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ told Mrs. Rexford, gesturing toward the teapot. She knew her daughter wanted to practice her tea skills as much as possible; she often complained that living in America had made her rusty.

Mrs. Izumi turned to Sarah and said with mock sadness, "You see? I never get to pour."

Sarah played along. "Because you're the youngest?"

"That's right." Actually Mrs. Izumi had little interest in the tea ceremony. Both daughters had been formally trained in tea and koto, but only for Mrs. Rexford were they important as the last remnants of their old Kobe lineage. In those difficult early years, mother and daughter had bonded by honing the social skills that elevated them above the Asakis.

Mrs. Rexford lifted the teapot, giving it a gentle swirl before pouring the tea into thin porcelain cups. To Sarah's relief, the tea service was casual. The formal teas, which she usually avoided, took place in the parlor. They involved heavy glazed bowls with deceptively rustic "flaws," a cast-iron teapot, and a wooden whisk for frothing the matcha tea, which tasted bitter to the girl's untrained tongue. Even the formal sweets were disappointing. Since the bitterness of the tea required a correspondingly strong sweetness, her grandmother served tiny artistic confections that, while beautiful to look at, tasted like pure sugar. "It's the blend of opposites that makes it pleasurable," she had explained.

Today's tea was a mild sencha. Sarah would have preferred cold barley tea, but such a watered-down drink, she knew, was too lowly even for an informal tea: one gave it to small children or else drank it from a thermos in place of water. At least her snack of ohagi, ohagi, a sticky rice ball covered with sweet bean paste, was something she could really sink her teeth into. a sticky rice ball covered with sweet bean paste, was something she could really sink her teeth into.

As each woman accepted her tea with a slight bow of thanks, a polite silence fell over the table. The first sip was followed by formal murmurs of appreciation. Then, since it was a casual tea, Mrs. Izumi resumed the thread of her earlier conversation.

Sarah took an absentminded pleasure in watching the women's fluid movements. It was like ballet above the waist; their precise alignment came from a lifetime of practice. Sarah envied their lack of concentration. She herself was always stiff and self-conscious when she took tea. She had sensed this same self-consciousness in Mrs. Asaki and Mrs. Nis.h.i.+mura. They made the right movements but they came from the brain, not from muscle memory. Sarah, remembering her recent grievance against Mrs. Asaki, felt a smug flash of pride in these women sitting beside her.

"So that big religious conference my friend went to, it was in the southern part of the country. I wanted to go too," Mrs. Izumi said. "But my husband put his foot down."

"People down in those southern areas eat a lot of pork," Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ said. "They boil enormous chunks of it in iron kettles, along with cabbage and all kinds of strange things."

"It wasn't in Okinawa, Mother," Mrs. Izumi corrected her. "It was a normal suburb of Kagos.h.i.+ma." With the sn.o.bbery of mainland dwellers, the women regarded Okinawans as not quite j.a.panese, existing in the same category as Ainu aborigines from Hokkaido.

"Kagos.h.i.+ma has its own regional cuisine, doesn't it?" said Mrs. Rexford. "When I went there on my school trip..."

Doggedly, Mrs. Izumi tried to steer the topic back to religion. Finally she pulled out a thin book from the pile next to her floor cus.h.i.+on. Turning to Sarah, she said, "Anyway, my friend brought me back some books. This one's for you."

Sarah was pleased, for her aunt usually ignored her when she discussed religion. "Wait, what does that word mean?" Sarah always demanded at crucial moments, knowing her mother and grandmother wouldn't mind the intrusion. "Wait, wait! What does it mean mean?"

"Thank you, Auntie," she said now, accepting the book with both hands and examining the cover. Some of the Chinese characters were unfamiliar-she recognized only the ideograms for thousand, love, thousand, love, and and ultimate ultimate-but the ill.u.s.tration was clear enough. There was a gra.s.sy park with children of various nationalities laughing and playing in the foreground. Behind them, smiling parents strolled two by two beneath colorful fruit trees, past a lion and a lamb lying together in the shade.

The two women paused in their discussion of boiled pork. With wary expressions, they leaned forward-straight-backed, still in proper tea posture-to peer at the cover.

"Very nice," said Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ faintly.

"Would you be interested," Mrs. Izumi asked Sarah, "in meeting some people your age from the local branch?"

"A, a! Don't even think about it," said Mrs. Rexford. "The children are off limits." Don't even think about it," said Mrs. Rexford. "The children are off limits."

"Fine." Mrs. Izumi sighed with comical resignation. She sipped her tea and took a bite of her ohagi. ohagi. Then she looked up at the two women, this time with a flash of defiance. "You two don't take me seriously," she said. "I'm like a lapdog to you. Cute. Silly. A nuisance." Then she looked up at the two women, this time with a flash of defiance. "You two don't take me seriously," she said. "I'm like a lapdog to you. Cute. Silly. A nuisance."

The women looked up from their teacups.

"What if it turned out I wasn't so stupid after all? What if it turned out I had the key to something that could completely change your lives?"

Mrs. Rexford thought for a moment. "I don't think you're stupid," she said finally. "And maybe you do do have the key. But right now I don't want to change my life. I just want to talk with you like a real person, Tama-chan. I can't seem to find you underneath all this religion." have the key. But right now I don't want to change my life. I just want to talk with you like a real person, Tama-chan. I can't seem to find you underneath all this religion."

"But Big Sister, this is is me." me."

"It's not the sister I used to know."

"Well, of course not! I've grown up. I can't live in your shadow forever. And now I have something important to share. I can teach teach you something. So why won't you let me?" Mrs. Izumi was dead earnest now; she seemed to have forgotten Sarah's presence. "Why can't you both, for once, follow you something. So why won't you let me?" Mrs. Izumi was dead earnest now; she seemed to have forgotten Sarah's presence. "Why can't you both, for once, follow me me?"

The women were silent.

Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ cleared her throat. "It's a lovely idea, Tama-chan," she said. "But-" She gestured up at the family altar, and they all knew she was referring to the late Shohei. "It would mean abandoning him. him. Who'd be left to say sutras for him every morning?" Who'd be left to say sutras for him every morning?"

But he's dead, Sarah thought, and she's alive. But even as she thought this, she knew it didn't matter.

"And when Mother dies," Mrs. Rexford chimed in, "I'll be there to say sutras for her. That's the way it has to be. You can't just throw away history, Tama."

There was silence as everyone pictured the chain of favoritism stretching forward into the afterlife.

"But don't you think G.o.d understands? He can make provisions. The magnitude of his love...it transcends genealogy."

"Maybe," said Mrs. Rexford. "But here on earth it doesn't work that way. History creates commitments. That means certain people take priority over others. I can't see any way around it."

Mrs. Izumi made a moue as if thoughtfully considering this theory, but Sarah saw that her eyes were watery.

chapter 20.

Shortly afterward, Mrs. Izumi went away to pay a call on someone she had met through church. afterward, Mrs. Izumi went away to pay a call on someone she had met through church.

Mrs. Rexford was irritable and restless. "I think I'll go out," she told her mother.

"Soh soh, that's a good idea," said Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ soothingly. "Take a stroll through one of your old haunts." Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ herself did not go in for aimless walks; she left that to the young people. that's a good idea," said Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ soothingly. "Take a stroll through one of your old haunts." Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ herself did not go in for aimless walks; she left that to the young people.

"I think I'll go out for an ice. Come on," Mrs. Rexford told Sarah.

"Are we going to the snack shop?" Sarah asked.

"No. I'm taking you to an old-fas.h.i.+oned teahouse, the kind we used to go to before they came up with those dreadful convenience stores. Can you believe it, Mother? That a child of mine has never eaten shaved ice at Kinjin-ya in the middle of summer?"

"It's downright un-j.a.panese," said Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+. "You should fix that right away. Run along, then. Go enjoy yourselves."

They strolled through the lanes, becoming absorbed in the larger outdoor world of cicadas and trees and wind chimes and bicycle bells. Sarah felt her mother's agitation fade. Smugly, she thought how silly her aunt Tama was to ruin a perfectly nice visit with all that religion.

Her own position, in contrast, felt sweet. How things had changed since America! It seemed ages ago that she had whined because her mother insisted on tr.i.m.m.i.n.g her sandwich crusts or drawing little sketches on her brown paper lunch bags. Sarah pushed those memories away, ashamed of herself.

And yet-would the changes last? She remembered a science experiment at school, where she had dropped an egg into various liquids. In some, the egg floated to the surface; in others it sank like a stone. What if j.a.pan was the only alchemy in which she could float?

The Kinjin-ya teahouse was small and unpretentious. Sarah had pa.s.sed it many times on the way to the open-air market but had never gone inside. Its atmosphere was quite different from the modern tea shops downtown. It reminded Sarah of the pickle shop, with its aged wooden walls from when j.a.pan had been a poor country. On one side hung a row of rectangular wooden tablets, one for each item on the menu, bearing the name and price in old-fas.h.i.+oned black brushstrokes. At this time of day the tables were empty; the only other customers were a little boy about Jun's age and his mother. The boy was spooning his way through a plate of om-rice-an omelette stuffed with ketchup-flavored rice-a children's favorite since the postwar years.

Mrs. Rexford and Sarah ordered shaved ice topped with a mound of sweetened azuki beans. It came in fluted gla.s.s dishes with long-handled spoons. "My generation grew up on this," Mrs. Rexford said. "Maa, it really takes me back!" it really takes me back!"

They were silent, savoring the crushed ice and the creamy sweetness of the beans.

"Remember this, remember the way it tastes," Mrs. Rexford told Sarah. And Sarah did, decades later. Many random experiences would be cemented in her mind by her mother's phrase "remember this."

Mrs. Rexford leaned back in her chair, gazing about her with a pleased expression. The seasonal cloth flaps over the open doorway cast a bluish tint on the room. Every so often, a breeze broke apart the heavy flaps and let in a flash of sunlight.

Taking advantage of this peaceful moment, Sarah ventured, "It's weird now, isn't it, with Auntie being Christian."

"Well," her mother said, "she never had top priority growing up. But it couldn't be helped-you know how complicated things were back then."

Sarah nodded.

"It's an issue in every family, though. Remember that day we had snacks at the Asaki house?"

"Oh right, the bottle of Fanta."

There had been one large bottle of orange Fanta to share among the three children. Dividing it was quite a project: first the empty gla.s.ses were lined up side by side, then each one was filled with the same number of ice cubes, and finally Mrs. Nis.h.i.+mura had poured the Fanta, little by little, until the levels were precisely equal. Momoko and Yas.h.i.+ko seemed familiar with the routine. They had crouched down on their hands and knees so as to be eye-level with the gla.s.ses, making sure that neither sibling got a milliliter more than the other.

"You and I are lucky," said Mrs. Rexford. "Some people never get to come first." Sarah thought of her aunt Tama making a moue to hide her tears. She thought of her aunt Masako waving from her shadowed gateway as the Kobayas.h.i.+ household strolled past, laughing and chatting, on their way to the bathhouse.

But now for the first time her sympathy was tinged with something hard, an unwillingness to give up her advantage. Her grandmother's favoritism might not be working in her aunts' favor, but it was working in hers. For the first time in her life she was blooming. This was the luck of the draw, and she was tired of feeling guilty. In some dim recess of her mind she had begun to feel she deserved it, that fate had recognized her worth and was finally rewarding her.

"I guess there's no way around it," Sarah said, echoing her mother's words from earlier that day.

"I guess not," said Mrs. Rexford. They were silent, spooning up the last of the azuki beans.

"When you come first in someone's heart," Mrs. Rexford said, "it changes you. It literally, chemically changes you. And that stays with you, even after the person's gone. Remember that."

Sarah nodded. The idea of chemical change resonated with her, and once again she thought of the eggs floating.

She let out a little sigh of well-being. So this was how it felt to eat shaved ice at Kinjin-ya in the middle of summer. It was pleasant to sit in the path of the old-fas.h.i.+oned fan and feel the air flow over her moist arms and legs, exactly as it must have done when her mother was a girl. She felt curiously relaxed, all her pores open to the world. For the first time she noticed that some defensive part of herself-her habitual readiness to shrink and harden at a moment's notice-had melted away, leaving a sense of implicit trust in the world. This, she thought, is how it must feel to be a queen bee.

They left the teahouse in excellent spirits.

"That was yummy." Sarah used the childish word on purpose.

"It was, ne, ne," agreed Mrs. Rexford.

They walked slowly, in no rush to get home. They took a roundabout route through a neighborhood Sarah had never seen. Some of the houses had old-fas.h.i.+oned thatched roofs instead of the usual gray tile.

"They look like the houses in those history books Grandma sent me," said Sarah.

"This lane hasn't changed in generations," Mrs. Rexford said. "It's never going to change, I'm sure."