Chapter 8
Missing pieces
Kenji didn't sleep. He lay on the veranda, impatiently awaiting the sunrise. At some point, before dawn, the temperature dropped to a more merciful degree, making clothes bearable again. With the first rays, the young man tiptoed to his parents' bedroom, the last known location of the Uta garuta lacquered box. As quietly as possible he opened the oshi-ire and started his meticulous search. If he was completely honest, the box wasn't the only thing he wished to find. First, he removed the bedding. It had been cleaned after his mother's passing; there wasn't any chance it would yield anything. That out of the way, he inspected every inch of the space, using his fingers to make sure nothing stuck to the wall or the shelf. He then moved on to the kimono cabinet. He methodically emptied each drawer, taking his mother's kimonos out of the rice paper, checking for anything unusual. Remnants of her perfume wafted to his nose and he had to force himself to focus on the task at hand lest he start hugging the delicate silk to his chest. The cabinet emptied, he took each drawer out; he scrutinised every surface. He then pulled the piece of furniture out of the storage area and investigated the space. He found nothing but dust. Undeterred, he painstakingly returned everything to its original location. He then moved on to the other side of the oshi-ire. The top shelf revealed more bedding and nothing else. The cabinet on that side proved to be even harder to go through. Each drawer contained a piece of clothing that had belonged to his father. He went through all the rice paper packages. The top ones contained the usual hakamashita, hakama, haori, yukata and the odd jimbei. Kenji had seen his father wear all of those. Just as his love for his mother had threatened to set him off track, so did his resentment for his father. Like his mother's kimonos had brought back her scent, so did his father's. The only difference was he hardly knew that scent. Kenji proceeded to the last drawer. He pulled out two paper wrapped garments. He stared in surprise when the first one revealed an old and faded hakamashita. Intrigued, he unwrapped the other bundle. Grey hakama in much the same state were revealed. He'd never seen those. He picked up the hakama, unfolding it. The frayed hem was even more discoloured. The fabric of the strings of the belt was threadbare. He moved closer to the door and in the morning light, he noticed a spatter of old stains. The kind of stain that had been washed over and over until it almost became one with the fabric. The hakamashita sported the same pattern; in both case, most of it concentrated on the front. He smelled the fabric. Nothing special aside from the mustiness of clothes long stored. Had his father worn these clothes during the bakumatsu? Were those stains what he thought they were?
He carefully folded the clothes and wrapped them, setting them aside with the thoughts that related to them. He probed the inside of the now empty chest and found nothing else of interest. Now to the last step: taking out the bulky piece of furniture out. His father's cabinet, older and heavier, gave him a bit more trouble. He was relieved by the knowledge that the tatami in the room was due to be replaced soon; this level of destruction would not go unnoticed. The furniture finally out of the way, Kenji inspected the empty space. He ran his fingers underneath the shelf and along the walls but found nothing. Then, at the very back, he spied a straight cut in the straw mat. He crouched and, careful not to bang his head, walked the small space of the oshi-ire. Once inside, he pulled on the sectioned piece of tatami. It came off easily but lifted a small cloud of dust that made Kenji sneeze and hit his head. He swore. In the space, he saw a small package wrapped in an oil cloth. Kenji took it and squeezed out of the confined space. Still coughing, he stepped outside and sat at the edge of the engawa. The fabric of the bundle had become brittle with age and the fibre all but disintegrated at the fold. The contents were wrapped in a yellowed washi. With gentle care, Kenji unfolded the paper. Nestled in all those protective layers, he found a piece of faded blue silk. He took it out and proceeded to unfold it on the wooden floor. The deep creases were fragile and yielded with difficulty. After a few layers, Kenji discovered a desiccated white plum bough. He dared not disturb it for fear that the flowers would fall off. In the light, he could see that the scarf or shawl also had a spatter of stains. However those were darker; no one had tried to remove them. This puzzled him. This was clearly a woman's garment and definitely not his mother's. The Kamiya weren't poor, but tsumugi silk was way out of their reach. How was it connected to his father's old clothes? Kenji sighed. All of this made little sense and fatigue had dampened his motivation. He folded then wrapped the scarf and placed it atop the two bundles protecting his father's unexplained accoutrement. He then attacked the daunting task of putting everything back where it belonged.
A long shadow fell on him, blocking the sun. Kenji rubbed his eyes, disoriented. He propped himself on his elbows. Seemed he'd fallen asleep in his parents' room. From the doorway, Yahiko stared at him.
"What happened here?"
Kenji glanced around. Apparently, he'd fallen asleep halfway through the cleaning process.
"I... I was looking for something."
"Oh." Yahiko's discomfort filled the room. The man still tiptoed around him whenever the subject of his parents (or anything even remotely related) came up. "Well, did you find it?"
Kenji shook his head.
"Ok. Well, I just wanted to let you know that I am leaving for the next few days to do the usual dojo rounds. But you should ask Tsubame about that thing you're looking for: she knows where everything is."
"Right. Thank you."
Yahiko lingered a little bit too long, swaying from one foot to the other, apparently unsure of what to do with himself.
"It's noon, by the way."
Having delivered this unrequested piece of information, he nodded and walked away awkwardly. Kenji exhaled, realising he'd been holding his breath. He resisted temptation to lay back down and resumed his tidying.
Kenji found Tsubame in the yard, picking up wood for the kitchen. He jogged up to her.
"Let me help you."
He took the logs from her. She rubbed her hand on the front of her apron then eyed him somewhat suspiciously. Without waiting for her, he made for the kitchen. She caught up.
"Yahiko told me you we going through your parents things."
Kenji couldn't help but smile. Straight to the point, as usual.
"I was."
"Anything specific you want?"
Her tone was uncharacteristically cold. He dropped the wood next to the kamado and turned to face her. Her arms were crossed on her chest.
"I could prefer it if you didn't poke your nose around. I know this is your house, but I can help you find anything you need."
For a split-second, he felt anger flare. It was immediately extinguished by the realisation that Tsubame wasn't trying to prevent him from finding what he wanted: she was annoyed that he was turning the house upside down. He couldn't help but laugh. She glared. He laughed some more, unable to stop. The woman, soon mollified by Kenji's burst of mirth, joined in.
"I'm sorry," she said as the hilarity subsided. "That was rather harsh."
He shook his head.
"Not at all. The room was quite a mess when Yahiko found me. I'm afraid I've destroyed the tatami."
She dismissed his last words with a wave of the hand.
"It's alright. So. What was it you were looking for?"
Without going into the details of the story behind it, Kenji gave a description of the lacquered box and of the game of Uta Garuta. Tsubame remembered the game, having herself played it with the young man, a long time ago.
"That would be in the souko, if we still have it. I was actually planning on cleaning up that dusty storage nightmare. From what I can tell, the weather should hold until the end of the day. Why don't you take everything out in the yard? We'll go through everything and get rid of what we don't want."
She looked at him eagerly, a cunning smirk on her face. He shook his head with a small laugh. Kenji had walked right into that trap. If Megumi was kitsune by name, Tsubame was the real thing.
Sitting in the middle of all their possessions, the two young people looked like dusty ghosts. Tsubame shook her head.
"So many things. It's quite incredible."
Kenji nodded.
"Was Yahiko in on it?" he asked
"What?" she asked.
He gave her a look. Tsubame smiled knowingly.
"Let's just say I planted the seed. I saw you asleep in that mess this morning. Yahiko unconsciously made sure you wouldn't get off scot-free. Thank you for helping me."
He blew her a raspberry. She laughed behind her hand.
"Why don't you take inventory of all this stuff. Put whatever you want to discard over there then I'll take a look at it, too. I'll scrub the floor in the meantime."
Kenji started with the bigger items. Three chests containing kendo paraphernalia, a few old (and useless) yari, one woven basket filled with rolled up scrolls and two wooden crates containing ceramics from another age were some of the more interesting items. The remainder was an assortment of various household implements and broken furniture. A mouldy futon also joined the latter in the rubbish pile. He set aside the foreign chest, intending to give it a more thorough look later. He also gathered the different clippings and broadsheets, piling them on top of the box. By the time Tsubame was done cleaning up, only a big steamer trunk was left. Kenji lifted the lid, hopeful for the object of his quest. The chest revealed bolts of very well preserved silk, mousseline and cotton. This got Tsubame's attention. She lifted a delicately embroidered blue silk.
"These are... There are incredible. How many bolts are there?"
He counted ten.
"This is worth a fortune. How did this even get here? I've never even seen this kind of silk or those patterns. Why was it hidden in there?"
Kenji shrugged. A quick glance had confirmed that none of the fabrics matched the ones from his morning discoveries. Moreover, something more exciting than the fine textile was to be found at the bottom of the drunk: the lacquered box. Without further ado, he lifted the lid. Atop the neatly arranged cards, sat a yellowed envelope.