by Tony Concannon

“Mayumi told me she never believed the spirits of our ancestors came back at O-Bon,” Kazuko Yamamoto said.

“I don’t know if anyone believes it,” Hiroyuki Sato said. Most of his hair was gone and Kazuko hadn’t recognized him at first.

“I did when I was little. I used to look for them, especially after my grandmother died. My grandfather wouldn’t say anything. He would just let me look. Mayumi lost her father in the war. That’s probably why she never believed.”

Sato lit a cigarette.

“My husband quit last year,” Kazuko said.

“I need to. Every New Year’s I make a resolution.”

“We all used to smoke back then. I’d be so mad if I caught my daughter smoking now.”

It was August 14, 1986, the second day of O-Bon, the time of the year in which the Japanese honor their ancestors. Kazuko had come up to Tokyo on Tuesday to spend a few days with her college friend Mayumi, who had ovarian cancer. On Wednesday Kazuko had called Sato and that night they’d met for coffee. They were at the coffee shop again this evening.

“Mayumi was depressed this morning,” Kazuko said after a moment.

“The treatment’s not going well?”

“The treatment’s going well but she can’t have children now. She wasn’t going to anyway. She’s forty-five. But now she really can’t.”

“How come she never got married?” Sato asked.

“How come you never got married?”

“You married someone else.”

“The accident was terrible, wasn’t it?” Kazuko said, picking up the newspaper Sato had been reading. The previous day an express train had rearended a train stopped at a station in Kumamoto Prefecture. Forty-nine people had died in the accident.

“The death toll’s up to eighty-one now,” Sato said. “It’s all they have on the news.”

“They think the driver fell asleep. They’ll never know, of course. There were a lot of children on those trains.”

“The trains were packed because of O-Bon.”

“My daughter’s boyfriend is from Kumamoto,” Kazuko said.

“How old is she now?”

“Twenty. She’s in school in California.”

“That was unheard of when we were kids.”

“They all go now. You know, last year she wrote that Halloween in America is like O-Bon here.”

“I heard it’s for children.”

“It has something to do with Christianity.”

She finished her cup of coffee and stared out the window. The coffee shop, on the third floor, overlooked the well-lit square in front of Otsuka Station. It could be the square in front of any station, Kazuko thought. There was a place for buses to turn around and a small park with benches. People were walking in every direction, living their lives. She turned back to Sato.

“I don’t know why I called you,” she said.

“I was surprised.”

“I guess being in Tokyo made me think of college and everything.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I tell my daughter to enjoy it because it will be the best time of her life.”

“Was it the best time of your life?”

“In a way.”

He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and looked at her.

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Not too far. It’s so hot out.”

Sato paid at the register and they rode the elevator to the ground floor. Outside the air was still and humid. Nearly all of the shops were closed.

“It feels like Sunday night,” Sato said.

“It’s like this every night where I live.”

He touched her elbow and guided her to the left. They entered a narrow side street. Along one side were small apartment buildings. On the tracks running behind the buildings a train approached. They passed a small hotel. The train went by and the road shook. Ahead on the left there was another hotel, the word HOTEL written in big English letters on the sign over the door. Sato stopped in front and Kazuko’s stomach sank.

“Let’s go in,” he said, looking at her.

She stood to the side while he paid the clerk at the window in the lobby. The bed took up much of their room on the fourth floor. Next to the bed was a television and beneath the television, a refrigerator. Sato squatted and opened the door.

“Would you like a beer?”

“I don’t want anything,” she said.

He took out a can of beer and opened it. There were glasses on a small table along the side of the room and he filled one of them.

“Are you sure you don’t want a little?”

“I don’t want anything,” she said again.

She sat on the bed. She felt as though she weren’t there, but rather as though she were watching someone else. Sato sat next to her and placed his arm behind her.

“Turn off the light,” she said.

He got up to turn it off. When he sat down, he put his arm around her again. Kazuko stood suddenly and began to undress. She folded her clothes one by one and piled them on the single chair in the room. She placed her bra on top and climbed behind him into the bed.

“Get undressed.”

He tossed his clothes onto the chair as he undressed. When he finished, he got into bed beside her. He smelt of beer and cigarettes. He was thinner and softer than her husband.

“I’m cold,” Kazuko said when they were done.

“I’ll turn down the air conditioner.” Sato got out of the bed. Naked, he looked strange. He got back into the bed. He lit a cigarette.

“I’m going back tomorrow, you know,” Kazuko said.

“Are you happy with your life?”

“Being happy doesn’t matter. It’s my life.”

“Remember when you used to come to my apartment in Iidabashi.”

“We were so young back then.”

He offered the cigarette to her. She pushed his hand away.

“I’m still cold,” she said. She got up and began to dress.

On the way back to the station they spoke about the accident. Her train came first.

The next night Sato was late. Kazuko looked at the evening edition of the newspaper as she sipped her coffee. The train accident was still front page news but the headline was the visit by the Prime Minister to Yasukuni Shrine. Every year on August 15, the day the war had ended, the news centered on whether the Prime Minister would visit the shrine, where so many of the war dead, including the convicted war criminals, were enshrined. This year he had gone. He looked so tall and proud in the photograph on the front page. The death toll from the accident was over one hundred now.

“I’m sorry to be late,” Sato said, sliding into the seat opposite of her. “My father’s cousin came over.”

“I thought you weren’t coming. I almost didn’t come myself,” she said, still looking down at the newspaper.

“Coffee,” Sato said to the waiter, who had come out from the back.

“August 15 is always such a sad day,” Kazuko said.

“I wish people would forget about the war.”

“A lot of older people can’t. I remember the day it ended. My grandmother couldn’t stop crying.”

“I don’t remember a thing. I was in Nikko. They sent us there because of the bombing.”

“I sometimes wonder if I really remember or if I’m just remembering what people told me happened.”

“It’s all the same,” he said.
“Not really.”

The waiter brought Sato his coffee and a glass of water.

“O-Bon’ll be over tomorrow,” Kazuko said, looking out the window. “Today is the day we’re supposed to see off our ancestors.”

“If you believe that.”

Neither of them spoke. Sato sipped his coffee. Kazuko looked out the window.

“How come you didn’t want to come tonight?” Sato asked. “Did Mayumi tell you not to come?”

“Mayumi wanted me to come. She always thought I should have married you.”

“You should have.”

“I couldn’t back then. My father was sick. Someone had to take over the store. You were in Tokyo. Then I got pregnant.”

Sato looked directly at her.

“I had a miscarriage,” she said. “But we were already married by then. I wouldn’t want my daughter to do that for me. It’s funny how even Japan has changed.”

“Change is good.”

“I told Mayumi I would be back early tonight.”

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“In the afternoon. It takes about three hours. I have to buy a few things to bring back.”

She took the check.

“I’ll treat you tonight.”

“Thank you.”

Outside the air was oppressive.

“The humidity’s worse tonight than last night,” Kazuko said.

“Let’s go for a short walk,” Sato said. He took her arm and started to guide her in the direction they’d gone the night before. She wrenched her arm free.

“I’m not going to a hotel.”

They stood on the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Sato said.

“Last night is over. I should go back.”

She crossed the square to the station and Sato followed. Kazuko brought a ticket. Sato had his monthly pass. They climbed the steps to the single platform. The Yamanote Line, which circled Tokyo in each direction, was the only line that used the station.

“It’s going to rain tonight,” Sato said.

“Maybe that’ll cool things off.”

Sato’s train came first.

“It was good to see you,” he said.

The doors slid open. The train was nearly empty.

“Take care of yourself,” she said, bowing formally.

“You, too.”

The bell for the train was ringing.

“Sayonara,” she said as he turned away to board.

Note on Author’s Work:

Tony Concannon also had the story A Misunderstanding published in the January issue of Eastlit.