The Graveyard Apartment Read online

  As for resale, Misao knew the unconventional setting might make it more difficult to find a buyer, but she couldn’t imagine that they would want to move out and find another place until sometime in the extremely distant future, and there was no point in thinking that far ahead. She had every expectation that the three of them (four, with Cookie) would enjoy living at the Central Plaza Mansion so much that they wouldn’t need to think about selling for many years to come. The dank little rental apartment where they had been living until yesterday was tainted by some exceptionally unpleasant memories, and it was a wonderfully liberating feeling to be making a new beginning here.

  “Mama?” Tamao said quizzically, poking her head through the kitchen door. Misao had been absently spreading a piece of toast with butter, and she jolted back to reality with such a start that she dropped the pat on the floor.

  “I can make Cookie’s breakfast,” Tamao announced.

  “Really? You’re sure?”

  “Yep! I’m sure!”

  “Well, that would be a big help. You don’t need to add any water, though.”

  The moment Tamao took the box of dog food out of the cupboard and rattled it, Cookie came galloping up with her tail wagging at maximum velocity. She wasn’t a purebred dog by any means, but her round black eyes and tawny coat were a clear legacy of the Shiba Inu branch of her family tree.

  Oh, that’s right, Misao thought, staying positive. This area is an ideal place to walk a dog, too. And even if Cookie barks a bit from time to time, we won’t need to worry because there’s nobody living next door.

  They had bought unit 801; the other apartment on the eighth floor, 802, was still empty. Of course, there was a good chance that someone would move in eventually, but as long as their future neighbor wasn’t a curmudgeon with an extreme dislike of dogs, it should still be all right, assuming Cookie didn’t suddenly start howling loudly at all hours.

  The big front window stood open, and the breeze wafting into the apartment caused the newly purchased white lace curtains to undulate softly. The air smelled like springtime. Although it was only nine a.m., the warm rays of the morning sun had already flooded the entire left side of the living room with light.

  “After we finish breakfast, we’ll have a funeral for Pyoko,” Misao told Tamao. “Then you can tidy up your room and put all your clothes and books and toys where they belong. All right?”

  “How are we going to make a funeral for Pyoko?”

  “Well, first we’ll dig a grave outside and put a cross next to it, with ‘Here Lies Pyoko’ written on it. Then we’ll all say a prayer: ‘Please let Pyoko be happy in heaven,’ or something like that.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Is there something else you’d like to do?”

  “No, it’s just—don’t we need to make one of those long, skinny sticks, like the one I’ve seen you and Papa praying over sometimes?”

  Oh dear. Not this, Misao thought, averting her eyes. “You’re talking about a memorial tablet,” she said. “No, Pyoko doesn’t need to have one of those.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because those are only for people. Pyoko was a bird, so we don’t need to make one for him.”

  “Huh,” Tamao said doubtfully, watching as Cookie plunged her snout into the dog food dish and began wolfing down the dry kibble.

  Misao hadn’t yet talked to Teppei about where to set up their small, portable Buddhist family altar. Last night she had stuck it in the closet of the master bedroom, as a temporary measure, but they couldn’t very well leave it there forever. After all, the altar needed to be somewhere out in the open, where the spirit of a certain deceased person could bask in the refreshing breeze that wafted through the new apartment.

  Teppei was continually teasing Misao about her old-fashioned insistence on observing traditional rituals regarding people who were no longer among the living. In this case, the person in question was Teppei’s first wife, but that didn’t stop him from giving Misao a hard time. It wasn’t because he was heartless or unfeeling; he just happened to be the kind of tough-minded, strong-willed positive thinker who always found a rational explanation for everything, and refused to be haunted by painful memories or might-have-beens.

  The event that changed everything had taken place seven years ago, during the summer when Misao and Teppei were twenty-five and twenty-eight, respectively. They had taken a secret weekend trip to a resort on the Izu Peninsula, where they had spent two blissful days (and nights) swimming in the hotel pool, enjoying poolside barbecues, and later, in bed, making love again and again. Teppei returned to his house in Tokyo late Sunday evening and found his wife, Reiko, standing silently in the unlit entry hall, waiting to welcome him home—or so he thought.

  “What’s going on?” he asked casually as he slipped out of his shoes. “Why are you just waiting here in the dark?” When Reiko didn’t reply, Teppei groped around for the wall switch and turned on the overhead light.

  His wife, he saw then, wasn’t standing on the landing, at all. She had hung herself from a crossbeam by a silk kimono cord, and the architectural element holding her upright was the ceiling, not the floor.

  Reiko had left behind a suicide note, addressed to Teppei. In it, she wrote that she harbored no ill feelings whatsoever toward him or the woman he was having an affair with. She was just tired. Life no longer offered her anything to enjoy, and all she wanted was to go to sleep, forever. Good-bye, she concluded. Please be happy.

  Even now, Misao still knew every line of that brief letter by heart, and she could have recited it word for word. Life no longer offers me anything to enjoy …

  Before Reiko’s suicide, Misao was just a carefree young woman who had never given any serious thought to the nuances—or the ultimate stakes—of romantic relationships. She hadn’t had the slightest intention of engaging Reiko in a territorial tug-of-war, or of trying to coerce Teppei into getting a divorce. She would have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t bothered by the fact that Teppei was married, but their mutual attraction (stoked by workplace propinquity) had simply been impossible to resist.

  Misao and Teppei had met at the advertising agency where they were both employed, and after Reiko died their coworkers began to say nasty things about the two of them, quite openly. Misao decided that the only remedy was for her to quit her job, so she resigned and became a freelance illustrator.

  At the time she had every intention of breaking things off with Teppei as well, but somehow they went on seeing each other. Evening after evening the two of them would huddle together in Misao’s tiny apartment and spend endless hours rehashing every detail of Reiko’s death. They knew it wasn’t healthy to keep going over the same things, but they also understood that while their psychic wounds would never heal if they kept reopening them again and again, retreating into silent denial would have been even less beneficial. There was no way to whitewash the harsh fact that their selfish, illicit actions had driven another human being to end her own life, and Misao and Teppei felt compelled to continue talking until they were able to accept that terrible truth, and forgive themselves, and move on. They were, in effect, equal co-conspirators who shared the burden of guilt, and neither of them wanted to take the easy path of pretending that nothing had happened, or that it hadn’t been their fault.

  And so they talked, and talked, and talked about the suicide of Teppei’s wife, to the point where they were sick and tired of the sound of their own voices, but instead of driving them to break up and go their separate ways, that painful process brought them closer. And then, finally, after all those long, dark nights, Misao had a major epiphany. She realized she and Teppei were meant to be together, for the long haul—marriage, children, the whole nine yards—and that was when she committed fully to their relationship, in her heart.

  Misao had just turned twenty-seven when she discovered she was pregnant. At that point Teppei was still living in the house he had shared with Reiko, but he moved out and came to live with Misao in
her small, sunless apartment, bringing Reiko’s memorial tablet with him. They got married in a low-key civil ceremony, and the following year Tamao was born. And then …

  “Hey, what’s for breakfast? I’m starving!” Teppei strode into the kitchen, wiping his damp hands on a towel. “I just finished putting up our nameplate next to the front door. Turns out, that’s hungry work!”

  “I’m afraid there’s only coffee and toast and fried eggs,” Misao said.

  “That sounds perfect. Wait, it looks like Cookie went ahead and ate before the rest of the family.”

  “I made Cookie’s breakfast, all by myself!” Tamao announced proudly.

  Teppei smiled at her. “What a good girl!” he said.

  “Well, you know, I’m Cookie’s mother, so it’s my job,” Tamao explained.

  “You don’t say.” Teppei’s grin grew broader. “Then I guess that means Mama and I are Cookie’s grandparents?”

  “That’s right.” Tamao’s expression was still completely serious.

  Teppei slid his arm around Misao’s waist. “Hey, Grandma,” he said slyly.

  Misao laughed. “Are there really any grandmothers who look as good as this?” she asked with mock arrogance. “I mean, I don’t have a single wrinkle yet, and my bottom isn’t even a little bit saggy.”

  “Oh, this bottom? Hang on, let me check,” Teppei said. The hand that had been encircling Misao’s waist inched slowly down, tickling her playfully through the cloth of the jeans she was wearing, until it came to rest on her rear end.

  “Stop it, you! You’re going to make me spill the coffee!”

  “Now that you mention it, it’s our first day in a new place and you haven’t even kissed me good morning yet,” Teppei whispered in Misao’s ear.

  “That isn’t going to happen,” Misao said primly.

  “Wow, you’re a regular ice queen.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” Misao sighed. “Okay, go ahead, knock yourself out,” she added with feigned weariness, turning to face Teppei with her lips extended in a comically exaggerated way.

  Tamao was watching with great interest. “Me, too!” she clamored.

  Teppei swept his daughter into his arms. Holding her tightly, he twirled her around and around, planting noisy kisses all over her face. Tamao responded with a torrent of high-pitched giggles and shrieks of delight.

  2

  March 14, 1987

  Ever since they moved in, four days earlier, there had been an unbroken string of flawless blue-sky days. Before that, all the way through the end of February, cloudiness had been the daily norm in Tokyo, and a cold, damp wind laced with rain and sleet had blown almost around the clock. The current change in weather was so radical that it felt as though winter had turned to spring the moment the Kano family arrived at the Central Plaza Mansion.

  In the flower gardens that bordered the immense graveyard, the buds of aromatic daphne seemed to be bursting open moment by moment, releasing their sweet fragrance into the balmy air. It probably wouldn’t be long before the tulips and violets began to bloom, as well. On the other side of the flower garden, some long-dead temple gardener had planted a variety of cherry trees. By the time people started coming to visit their ancestors’ graves during the week of Buddhist ceremonies centered on the spring equinox, the cherry trees, too, would most likely be sprouting some leaves. The graveyard was so old that many of the wooden grave markers—long, narrow planks adorned with calligraphic characters in Japanese or Sanskrit—were on the verge of toppling over, and most of the gravestones had been darkened by smoke and age. From a distance, as just one element of the larger vista (which included trees, hedges, flowering plants, vacant lots, narrow lanes, and a few scattered clusters of abandoned-looking buildings), those gloomy tombstones could almost be seen as nothing more disquieting than a handful of pebbles strewn across the landscape. At least, that’s what Misao kept telling herself. Every time she gazed at the view from her eighth-floor balcony, she would repeat, over and over, “This really isn’t so bad.”

  An ancient cemetery, right in the middle of the city. It was just as the man from the real estate agency had said in his obviously rehearsed pitch: “This area is no longer merely a place where the dead find their final resting place. Instead, it is being transformed into a haven where the living can relax and enjoy themselves.” Whatever you say, Misao had thought sourly.

  The graveyard was directly in front of the apartment, with only a narrow driveway between them. If Misao stood on the balcony, craned her neck, and peered off to the left, she could see the Buddhist temple with its lustrous black-tiled roof, and the tall, spooky-looking smokestack of the nearby crematorium soaring into the sky. When the trees were bare, it was hard to ignore the fact that the apartment looked out on a cemetery and a perpetually active cremation facility, but when summer rolled around and all the trees were lushly leafed out, surely it would be possible to forget about that unsettling proximity.

  There was so much to look forward to. First, the exquisite canopy of cherry blossoms in early spring. Then in summertime, the entire green belt would be thronged with thousands of cicadas, singing their exuberant songs all day long. When summer turned to autumn, there would be the spectacular display of fall colors: crimson, russet, orange, gold. And so it would go from beauty to beauty, as the scenery morphed through its seasonal changes. It occurred to Misao (who was a city girl, born and raised) that she had never before lived in a place where it was possible to experience the natural wonders of each of the four seasons so directly. No, it really isn’t so bad here, at all … that was how she needed to feel about her new home, and the more often she repeated the “not so bad” mantra, the closer she came to believing it.

  On the day she finally finished unpacking and nearly everything had been put away in its proper place, Misao took Tamao over to St. Mary’s Kindergarten and filled out the necessary forms for enrollment in the two-tiered school’s junior class. She and Teppei had engaged in lengthy discussions about the pros and cons of this move, and they had ended up agreeing that it was a necessary step. In order to minimize any possible ill effects from Tamao’s being an only child, the sooner she became accustomed to functioning in a group the better it would be for everyone.

  In addition, Misao was planning to start easing back into work beginning in April. While in theory an illustrator who also happened to be a mother should have been able to do her work at home, the reality was that there was a seemingly infinite number of ways in which having a young child in the house all the time could undermine that rosy scenario. If Misao could only have the morning hours to herself, she could devote that entire stretch of time to working. She knew she couldn’t expect to generate very much income, but (needless to say) a little was better than nothing at all. That was the best plan for the time being, she thought: to live frugally and continue to look for freelance assignments to bring in a bit of extra money. It was unrealistic to wish for a situation that was perfect in every way. Self-indulgence always came with a hefty price tag. Just as it had seven years ago …

  St. Mary’s Kindergarten was tucked away in a residential district on the other side of the highway in front of Manseiji, the temple attached to the graveyard. There was no school bus, so whenever Misao and Tamao made the trip back and forth they would have to cross the busy highway. Every day, Misao would need to walk Tamao to kindergarten in the morning, then walk back over to pick her up at the end of the session. There were no other options.

  After the admissions procedure had been completed, Misao paid her respects, first to the young teacher of the kindergarten’s junior class, and then to the head of the school—an imposing older woman whose gnarly-looking skin and hefty build made Misao think of a rhinoceros. Then she and Tamao headed off to a nearby clothing store to buy the required uniform.

  There was a shopping district around the station’s south exit, but compared to the lively, thriving area outside the north exit, it had the forlorn aspect of a
ghost town. A weather-beaten signboard wishfully proclaimed the district the “South Exit Ginza,” and the eaves of the shops were strung with cheap-looking plastic cherry blossoms and paper lanterns. All the stores looked so shabby that it would have been no surprise if they had gone out of business the next day, and the overall effect was relentlessly bleak.

  “Official Uniforms for St. Mary’s Kindergarten” read a hand-painted sign outside one of the stores. When Misao and Tamao walked in, an elderly couple emerged from the back of the shop. In a corner, dressed in a dark blue uniform, stood one of those rudimentary mannequins you see in country stores, looking rather like an anatomical model from a science lab. The uniform’s design couldn’t be called chic by any means, but it wasn’t unsightly, either; it was just a run-of-the-mill school uniform.

  “Oh, what a little cutie,” the female shopkeeper gushed, patting Tamao’s head while she beamed down at the child. Misao smiled in return.

  “The hats used to be blue, but they’re yellow now,” the woman chattered on, putting one on Tamao’s head. “Oh, look, it’s a perfect fit. Some of the mothers don’t care for these hats because they look like helmets, but the hard hats really are the best. When you think about the accident that happened on the highway, it makes you realize that safety is more important than style.”

  “There was an accident on the highway?” Misao asked nervously.

  “You didn’t hear about it? Yes, one of the younger children from St. Mary’s Kindergarten was hit by a car.”

  “Well, we just moved here recently, so…” Misao said.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize that,” the woman said. Her kindly face reddened slightly, as though she had said something inappropriate. “It was the year before last, in the fall. A little boy was hit by a car right in front of the temple—you know, Manseiji? Apparently his mother glanced away for a split second and for some reason he decided to try to cross the street by himself. It was really tragic.”