Sarah imagined the women's future: chance meetings in the open-air market, brief stolen moments over a bit of grilled eel or liver. She had been here long enough to see that for all their new closeness, there was little change in their day-to-day routine.

"It doesn't seem like enough," Sarah said. "You hardly even see each other, or talk, or anything. It just doesn't seem fair."

"It's not not fair," said Mrs. Kobayashi. "But it's enough." fair," said Mrs. Kobayashi. "But it's enough."

"Oh, Grandma." Sarah felt a great sadness. "Why can't you spend more time together? Those old boundaries can't possibly matter now. You're her mother. mother."

"I gave Granny-san my word. After she's gone-"

"But what if you die first first?" Sarah's voice rose in spite of herself. "Granny's had all those good years. You and Auntie didn't have any. It's not right."

Mrs. Kobayashi shook her head stubbornly. "I don't agree," she said. "And I know your auntie feels the same way I do." Sarah, sensing that gap of generation and culture between them, knew it was a lost cause.

"It's like a love affair," she marveled. "A sad, beautiful love affair."

Her grandmother nodded. "Romance isn't just between men and women," she said. "It's a state of mind, I suppose. It may be beautiful but it comes with pain. And sacrifice. Not just for yourself, but for others around you. I've often thought that being in love in love is bad for a family. It's much less risky when people merely is bad for a family. It's much less risky when people merely love. love. There's a big difference, you know." There's a big difference, you know."

Sarah sipped her tea, pondering this.

"I've been in love all my life," said Mrs. Kobayashi.

"Your whole life?"

"My whole life. It's the one part of me I always protected."

Growing up, Sarah had thought of her grandmother's charisma only as it related to her mother. With her mother gone, she could see her grandmother had a force of her own. It wasn't the social magnetism of her mother. Nor was it the fetching femininity of her aunt Tama. Her grandmother's charisma went deeper, somehow, than those surface attractions. She made people feel something of the magic and purity and pa.s.sion that were still possible in this world.

"I admire you," Sarah said impulsively. "I do. Not many people are brave enough to give up security for love." Her vehemence made them both laugh. She felt her sadness lift, replaced by a girlish kind of optimism.

"Your mother, she had that quality too," said Mrs. Kobayashi. "That's why we got along."

Sarah, remembering, nodded. From somewhere outside in the rainy afternoon, there came the muted pee-poh pee-poh pee-poh pee-poh of a pa.s.sing ambulance. of a pa.s.sing ambulance.

"And you got a chance to experience it. But your auntie, she never had much opportunity for romance."

"Not until now," Sarah said.

"That's right," said her grandmother. "Not until now."

chapter 44.

After her tea, Sarah slipped her sock-clad feet into an old pair of geta and clopped over to the Asaki house. A drizzle made pinp.r.i.c.ks of sound on her umbrella and on the surrounding garden foliage. She lingered in the lane, breathing in the smell of rain and leaves and wet wood. her tea, Sarah slipped her sock-clad feet into an old pair of geta and clopped over to the Asaki house. A drizzle made pinp.r.i.c.ks of sound on her umbrella and on the surrounding garden foliage. She lingered in the lane, breathing in the smell of rain and leaves and wet wood.

Alerted by the sound of the garden gate rolling open, Mrs. Nishimura came to meet Sarah at the door. "Go right on up, Sarah-chan," she said. "Granny's waiting for you. I'll bring up refreshments a little later."

Sarah climbed the old-fashioned stairs, which were exceedingly steep and made her feel as if she were climbing a stepladder. She planted her hands firmly on the step above her-partly because there were no handrails, only wooden walls, and partly because her socks had no traction against the aged, slippery wood. Dangerous, she thought. But no one in this family, young or old, had ever had an accident.

Emerging from the dark stairway onto the landing, Sarah slid open the fusuma fusuma panel and found her great-aunt hunched over a panel and found her great-aunt hunched over a kotatsu kotatsu near the gla.s.s panels. All around her, strewn on the tatami floor, were drifts of persimmon leaves. Each year she collected them from the tree in the back garden, while they were still pliable enough to wipe clean with a moist cloth. This she did painstakingly over a period of weeks-she had little else to do-and when they dried out completely, she crumbled them in tins to use as medicinal tea throughout the year. "It's excellent for a woman's health," she always said, though the tea was so bitter no one else would drink it. near the gla.s.s panels. All around her, strewn on the tatami floor, were drifts of persimmon leaves. Each year she collected them from the tree in the back garden, while they were still pliable enough to wipe clean with a moist cloth. This she did painstakingly over a period of weeks-she had little else to do-and when they dried out completely, she crumbled them in tins to use as medicinal tea throughout the year. "It's excellent for a woman's health," she always said, though the tea was so bitter no one else would drink it.

"Sarah-chan!" Mrs. Asaki put down the leaf she was wiping. "Come in, come in!"

Reverently, Sarah stepped over the threshold. Nothing had changed since her childhood: the thick fusuma fusuma panels inlaid with green seaweed; the view from the balcony, now shrouded in mist; caged finches hanging in a corner. The shoji panels had been pushed aside and the s.p.a.cious room pulsed with a white, watery light. panels inlaid with green seaweed; the view from the balcony, now shrouded in mist; caged finches hanging in a corner. The shoji panels had been pushed aside and the s.p.a.cious room pulsed with a white, watery light.

"Come, come," cried the old woman gaily in her singsong accent. "Don't mind the leaves, just step around. Come, sit down." In old age she was hunchbacked, with a body as frail and insubstantial as a child's. But her spirit was as game as ever. She still dyed her hair the old-fashioned way, using some kind of dried plant sold by Chinese herbalists.

Mrs. Asaki now lifted the edge of the kotatsu kotatsu quilt for Sarah to slip under, as if holding open a door. Sarah acknowledged this with a smile and a half-bow of thanks, feeling a sudden rush of love for this old woman who had filled her earliest memories with nursery chants and games. "Granny," she said. "I'm so happy to see you healthy and thriving each time I visit." quilt for Sarah to slip under, as if holding open a door. Sarah acknowledged this with a smile and a half-bow of thanks, feeling a sudden rush of love for this old woman who had filled her earliest memories with nursery chants and games. "Granny," she said. "I'm so happy to see you healthy and thriving each time I visit."

"Tell her h.e.l.lo too," Mrs. Asaki replied. "Tell her that when all this rain pa.s.ses, I'd love to pay my respects to the altar."

There had been several such moments lately, for Mrs. Asaki was losing her hearing. But she was a proud woman, too proud to say "What?" She faked her way with aplomb, and only occasional slips betrayed the effort with which she hid her infirmity. Sarah never let on that she knew. She merely spoke as little as possible, relying on smiles, nods, and comments that were easy to lip-read.

She reached for one of the alb.u.ms lying on the kotatsu kotatsu in preparation for her visit. Mrs. Asaki picked up her persimmon leaf and commenced wiping. They sat in companionable silence while the finches ruffled their feathers and pecked contentedly at their feed. Every so often Sarah slid the book toward her great-aunt and remarked, "So pretty!" or "Auntie was so cute!" Her great-aunt gave a pleased cackle and replied: "That was a high school field trip." Or, "That was two years after I got married." in preparation for her visit. Mrs. Asaki picked up her persimmon leaf and commenced wiping. They sat in companionable silence while the finches ruffled their feathers and pecked contentedly at their feed. Every so often Sarah slid the book toward her great-aunt and remarked, "So pretty!" or "Auntie was so cute!" Her great-aunt gave a pleased cackle and replied: "That was a high school field trip." Or, "That was two years after I got married."

Here was a photograph of Mrs. Asaki as a young woman: tall, unrecognizably beautiful, standing under a tree. She wore a white fur draped around her neck and down the side of her silk kimono. She had grown up in the rural outskirts of Kyoto, the daughter of a town mayor. Despite this unremarkable pedigree, she had married into a fine old family in the city on the strength of her looks. In this picture she was tilting her head demurely to the side, but her sloe-eyed gaze held that gleam that beautiful women have when they know they're invincible.

Sarah knew that Granny had been asked to stay upstairs to make things easier on everyone. It was too bad; social activity had been her lifeblood. Mrs. Kobayashi sympathized too. "Poor thing," she had said. "It would be so much healthier if she could chatter away in a public bathhouse, instead of being cooped up there all alone." But theirs was more of a philosophical pity, for they also understood Mrs. Nishimura's position. As Sarah's mother used to say: What can you do? There was no perfect solution, and right now it was Mrs. Nishimura's turn to bloom at the expense of someone else.

The old woman never let on that her circ.u.mstances weren't ideal. "Who wants to run about at my age?" she bragged. "I'm perfectly happy in my little kingdom upstairs. Surrounded by family, waited on hand and foot, maa maa, maa maa, I'm incredibly lucky..." I'm incredibly lucky..."

Sarah scrutinized the photograph again. Mrs. Asaki, glancing over to see what was taking so much time, gave a little laugh of recognition. "I was young then," she said.

In college, Sarah had learned that history was the study of power rising and power falling. Sitting here, leafing through the pages of another woman's life, she felt the truth of this and was humbled. It occurred to her that her own past-the trio of her mother and grandmother and herself that had once seemed so extraordinary, strong and shining like the sun-was hardly unique. Countless other suns, like her great-aunt's, had risen and fallen as a matter of course, each with its own forgotten story, its own poignance.

chapter 45.

Sarah found her aunt alone in the kitchen, making preparations for dinner. "I'm just finishing up this side dish," she told Sarah, in apology for cooking in the presence of a guest. She was sauteing a combination of julienned carrots, hijiki seaweed, and fried tofu skin. It looked identical to the dish Mrs. Kobayashi often made, but this would have much less soy sauce and sugar. Mrs. Kobayashi disparagingly referred to it as "Kyoto flavor." found her aunt alone in the kitchen, making preparations for dinner. "I'm just finishing up this side dish," she told Sarah, in apology for cooking in the presence of a guest. She was sauteing a combination of julienned carrots, hijiki seaweed, and fried tofu skin. It looked identical to the dish Mrs. Kobayashi often made, but this would have much less soy sauce and sugar. Mrs. Kobayashi disparagingly referred to it as "Kyoto flavor."

Before going off to undress, Sarah leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and watched her aunt. The radio was on, a plastic h.e.l.lo Kitty model long outgrown by Momoko and Yashiko. For years now, it had been tuned to the same cla.s.sical station that played everything from the Western melodies of Strauss and Puccini to the elegant notes of koto, punctuated by a shamisen's bitter tw.a.n.gs.

In general, Mrs. Nishimura seemed unchanged. Under her ap.r.o.n she wore a blouse of pastel yellow, with a round collar that had embroidered daisies on it. She still wore the short bob, although Sarah could see it was professionally cut at a salon, with graduated layers and the subtlest of brownish highlights to indicate she was coloring her roots.

But on closer inspection, Sarah did sense something of the change her grandmother had mentioned. That virginal, ethereal quality was gone. As Mrs. Nishimura reached for a bottle of seasoning, she leaned across the counter with an unfamiliar physical brio that reminded Sarah, for an unsettling moment, of her own mother.

She stared, but Mrs. Nishimura made no more surprising moves. Stirring quietly at the stove, she was once again the aunt of Sarah's childhood: a gentle figure who never frowned or grimaced, who hovered with a damp cloth for wiping children's fingers.

An early memory floated up in her mind. She was six years old; they were walking to the park on a winter afternoon. She was in the middle, between her aunt and Momoko-Yashiko wasn't born yet. "Hold on to Big Sister's hand, for safety," Mrs. Nishimura had told Momoko. As young as she was, Sarah knew her aunt was doing this to flatter her; any other adult would have walked in the middle, keeping one child on either side. Little Momoko obediently clutched Sarah's hand with her mittened one, looking up at her with a chubby, trusting face framed by a knitted hood with animal ears. Sarah felt a rush of importance, followed by overwhelming love for her aunt. The three of them held hands and strolled down the sidewalk. "Ten ten ten-ten koro rin...," "Ten ten ten-ten koro rin...," Mrs. Nishimura chanted softly as they swung their joined hands back and forth. Mrs. Nishimura chanted softly as they swung their joined hands back and forth.

It had struck Sarah, with a small child's intuitiveness, that no one but her aunt could have been capable of such sensitivity. Looking back now, she wondered if even then she had sensed a kinship between them, for they both knew how it felt to be on the outside.

"Sarah-chan," her aunt said, "are you finding this j.a.panese weather too chilly?"

"Not at all, Auntie. Today's quite warm, I thought."

"Yes, you're right!" said Mrs. Nishimura. "It's unseasonably warm."

Talking to her aunt was slightly awkward, as always. On a purely technical level, she wasn't used to making allowances for Sarah's simple j.a.panese vocabulary. Mrs. Kobayashi had the knack for putting complex ideas into simple terms. Nuclear physics, for instance, became "the rules of science involving-" followed by an exploding sound, with both hands outlining an enormous H-bomb mushroom. "Right, right!" Sarah would say, laughing and nodding. But her aunt would use the term nuclear physics, nuclear physics, then be at a loss if Sarah didn't understand. So she usually stuck to the simplest of conversational topics. then be at a loss if Sarah didn't understand. So she usually stuck to the simplest of conversational topics.

But language aside, direct emotional entry was difficult. Mrs. Nishimura had a particularly traditional sensibility, with an oblique quality Sarah recognized from historical films. She had to remind herself that her mother, who had married a foreigner, was the unusual one. Mrs. Rexford had little patience for old-school j.a.panese opacity. "I have a cosmopolitan soul," she used to say, only half joking.

"Auntie," Sarah said, "I'm really looking forward to attending your concert."

Mrs. Nishimura glanced up from the stove and laughed, waving her free hand before her face in a no-no motion as if the very idea of her performing in a concert was absurd.

"I feel bad that I never even knew about your choir."

"You mustn't feel bad," her aunt said mildly.

After some more small talk, Sarah went off to undress behind the cotton curtain. It seemed odd that the informal dining room should adjoin the bathing room, but this was common in traditional j.a.panese homes where private baths had to be added on. It made more sense, she thought, than the Western custom of placing the bath in the same room as the toilet.

Fully naked, she slid open the gla.s.s door and entered the steaming bathing area. The tub was deeper than it was wide, with a lid to keep in the steam. Directly above the bath, mounted on the tiled wall, was a digital water temperature monitor (she was amused by this modern gadget, which was out of place with the rest of the house). At the other end of the room was a waist-high shower nozzle. Retrieving a low plastic stool from a stacked pile, Sarah drew it up before the nozzle, sat down, and soaped herself. As she shampooed her hair, she could hear faint clattering sounds in the kitchen, the energetic chatter of a commercial on the radio. Then the commercial ended and music came on. She recognized Pavarotti's soulful tenor launching into his cla.s.sic rendition of "Ave Maria."

"Ave Maria"! There was a family story...

"She learned this new song in middle school," Mrs. Asaki had once told the children. "And every day, when she went upstairs to hang up the towels and handkerchiefs, I'd hear..." The children waited eagerly as she placed her teacup deliberately onto the saucer with an elderly hand that, even back then, trembled. "Ave Maria!" She said it ominously: Ah-beh-mah-lih-ah! Ah-beh-mah-lih-ah! "All those strange foreign words-" Mrs. Asaki threw back her head and trilled an affected operatic tune. "Aaah...lalalaah...So loud! All over the neighborhood! I finally had to make her stop. "All those strange foreign words-" Mrs. Asaki threw back her head and trilled an affected operatic tune. "Aaah...lalalaah...So loud! All over the neighborhood! I finally had to make her stop. Maa, Maa, what the neighbors must have thought!" what the neighbors must have thought!"

Sarah and her cousins had sprawled on the tatami floor, shrieking with laughter at Granny's operatic performance. It was a bizarre anecdote. Neighbors here did not shout out to each other, or argue in public, or burst into song on balconies. Such activities were more in line with florid, excitable countries like Italy.

"Mommy did that, really?" Momoko gasped, and the image of gentle Mrs. Nishimura singing at the top of her voice made the girls burst anew into giggles. "She must have been really happy, to sing like that!" little Yashiko said.

Sarah turned off the shower and sat still, listening. This time, as an adult, she understood what she was hearing: a prayer, a pouring forth of something intense and mournful.

Now Pavarotti's voice swelled in volume, reawakening her childhood remorse for her aunt. A random remark flashed through her mind: her mother (or grandmother) saying, "Let's not mention this to Ma-chan. It's just easier." She was ashamed-partly on behalf of her mother and grandmother, but also for the eager way she had complied, proud of her place in their golden, laughter-filled circle.

Her remorse wasn't just for her aunt. It was also for herself, for the change that had started when she hid the cream puffs behind her back. From that day on, she had followed the trajectory of that choice. Not that she regretted it. She had grabbed at life, as was her right; she had grabbed at a place in the sun. But she had always felt a vague regret for that side of herself she had left behind, that side akin to her aunt. Her memory of the winter day, when she and her aunt had held hands against the world, glowed with an innocent purity that seemed lost to her forever.

But with her mother gone, maybe things could be made right.

That day, for the first time, Sarah let go of a penance she had carried so long she had almost forgotten its weight. With a feeling of relief that was almost luxury, she felt herself relax into second place.

chapter 46.

The radio was playing "Tea for Two" when Sarah emerged from behind the curtain. The informal eating area was fragrant with soy sauce and ginger, and a small plate of seasonal chestnut dumplings was waiting for her on the low table. In the kitchen, her aunt hummed along to the lively radio was playing "Tea for Two" when Sarah emerged from behind the curtain. The informal eating area was fragrant with soy sauce and ginger, and a small plate of seasonal chestnut dumplings was waiting for her on the low table. In the kitchen, her aunt hummed along to the lively cha cha cha cha cha chas.

Taking off her ap.r.o.n, Mrs. Nishimura sat down at the low table to keep Sarah company as she ate the dumplings.

"Are these the tickets?" Sarah picked up the flowered envelope placed neatly beside her plate.

"Soh," said Mrs. Nishimura. said Mrs. Nishimura.

Sarah peeked inside. The tickets, glossy and professional-looking, showed an unexpectedly high admission price. The t.i.tle was printed in raised Chinese characters: "Songs That Got Us Through: A Wartime Retrospective."

Mrs. Nishimura was eying Sarah's untouched cup of tea. "Oh-do you not drink j.a.panese tea?" she asked.

"Of course I do!" Sarah felt a twinge of her old insecurity. "Auntie, don't you remember?" She took a sip of the tea and, after a suitably appreciative silence, asked, "Are you a soprano?"

"No-I sing with a low voice," her aunt replied. Mrs. Kobayashi would have given Sarah credit for an easy word like alto, alto, considering it was a Western term to start with. considering it was a Western term to start with.

The large house was silent. The rice cooker bubbled in the kitchen.

"But your mother," continued Mrs. Nishimura, "she used to sing with a high voice. A beautiful high voice. I can still remember her singing 'Days of Yore' at our middle school graduation."

"Really? Tell me..." Now they were on secure ground. Sarah relaxed and listened with quiet pride. Even in death, her mother could fill up a conversational vacuum.

At one point she looked up and saw pity in the older woman's eyes. It resonated sharply, even unpleasantly, for this was how she had always regarded her aunt. Now she realized, with dawning embarra.s.sment, that her aunt was dwelling on her mother's singing for no other reason but kindness.

"Auntie?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you're here for Grandma." Sarah plunged awkwardly into the heart of the matter. "When she talks about you, her face lights up. She's so happy. I'm glad, and I know Mama would be glad too." Truthfully, she wasn't completely glad. Not yet. It struck her that siblings everywhere must face such ambivalence, and she was thankful she had been spared this as a child.

"No one will ever be like your mother," said Mrs. Nishimura. "But I'll do my best to take care of your grandma while you're away." She refilled their teacups with a no-nonsense briskness that reminded Sarah, once again, of her own mother.

Later, sated with tea and dumplings, Sarah got up to leave. She had probably held up her aunt's dinner preparations. Gathering up her bath bag, she maneuvered carefully around the low table so as not to poke a hole in the shoji panels behind her.

Her aunt walked her out.

"You must really love singing," Sarah said as she followed her aunt down the hallway, past one fusuma fusuma panel after another. panel after another.

"Aaa, I know," said Mrs. Nishimura sorrowfully, as if admitting to a bad habit. I know," said Mrs. Nishimura sorrowfully, as if admitting to a bad habit.

Sarah had a deep sense of futility. We're family, family, she wanted to say. Don't use such good manners. she wanted to say. Don't use such good manners.

They came out to the front gate. Darkness had fallen, though it was still early. The drizzle had stopped, and the air was sharp with the smell of wet pine. It was indeed warm for November; the typhoon in Hokkaido had altered the air pressure.

Sarah rolled open the slatted gate and paused on the stone step. A faint breeze wafted against her skin, still overheated from the bath.

Caught in the k.n.o.bby branches of the Ichiyoshis' pine tree, heavy with white light and almost touchable, was a full moon. "Oh, look!" Sarah said. "The moon."

"Aaa, isn't it pretty." isn't it pretty."