The favorites: a novel - By Mary Yukari Waters Page 0,20
in pleased recognition. “You both look so nice!” Mrs. Nishimura said.
“So do you, Auntie,” said Sarah. Her aunt wore soft pink lipstick and a sundress of the same general shade as her parasol. Under the blue-tinted shade her face looked delicate, almost translucent.
“Ma-chan!” exclaimed Mrs. Rexford, her eyes still animated from the marketplace encounters. “Listen: go to Hachi-ya as soon as you get there. They’re having a sale on prayer incense—the good kind. And it’s going fast.”
“Really? Good thing you told me. We’re almost out.”
As they stood chatting in the street, Sarah became aware of a problem. Inside her string bag, clearly visible if anyone glanced down, was a box of cream puffs. It had been laid right on top so as not to get squashed, and it was wrapped in the distinctive blue paper of Ushigome Confectionery.
The problem consisted of several parts. On a simple level, Mrs. Rexford hadn’t bought enough to share with the Asaki household. If her aunt knew about the cream puffs, she and the girls might expect to receive some that evening.
On a more complex level, Ushigome Confectionery was far more expensive than the store where they had bought the Nishimuras’ cake on the first day. No expense was being spared for the Rexfords’ visit—the best cuts of meat, the most expensive fish, gourmet-quality desserts. Mrs. Nishimura, who was Mrs. Kobayashi’s daughter too, had never had any such fuss made over her. Of course there were logical reasons for this. But there was a fundamental inequality here, one that mustn’t be flaunted. Imitating the sleight of hand she had observed in her elders, Sarah casually shifted the basket behind her back.
Her mother shot her a look of approval.
That glance, coming on the heels of Sarah’s remorse for her mother, triggered in her a burst of happiness.
Later, she would look back on this moment as one of the turning points of the summer. For it was the first time she had actively colluded against her aunt. Even in her happiness she was aware of crossing an invisible line of allegiance, leaving her auntie on the other side.
The lane that passed through the weavers’ neighborhood was narrower than the lanes at home and covered with asphalt instead of loose gravel. Although seemingly deserted, it resounded with the gat-tan, gat-tan of wooden looms from the houses on either side. These were the poorer dwellings, lacking the buffer of gateways or garden entrances. They were packed so closely together that they gave the impression of being one continuous building, broken up only by individual roofs.
When Sarah and her mother passed the open windows, many of which were lightly barred with old-fashioned bamboo, the general clatter resolved itself into individual rhythms. In one house, it was slow and uneven. In the next house, the pace was fast and furious; someone was probably speeding through an unpatterned section. This lane was extremely narrow, almost claustrophobic with so much noise and so many miniature potted plants lined beside each door. The two of them, walking abreast, took up its entire width.
Then Sarah felt her mother’s hand slip into hers.
She stared straight ahead, unable to look. Her mother’s hand was warm and slightly calloused, and it held hers with the close, familiar grip she remembered from childhood. Sarah thought of the woman in the shrine, singing to her toddler in that tender voice. A strange burning started in her eyes, a slow treacherous swell in her throat. She widened her eyes so that no tears would spill.
They walked hand in hand through the cacophony of the looms. A straggle of wild grass, still lush from the rainy season, had pushed up through a crack in the asphalt. Its detail refracted sharp and clear through the moisture in her eyes.
“This little lane,” said her mother, “is the best barometer of Japan’s economy. I tell you, it’s so accurate you don’t even need a newspaper.” She said this nonchalantly, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
“Ng,” said Sarah.
“Think about it,” Mrs. Rexford continued. “When women have extra spending money, what’s the first thing they do? They show off to their neighbors. They attend expensive tea ceremonies. They send their daughters for lessons in koto or classical dance. And what do all these activities require? That’s right, kimonos and sashes. And who weaves the silk? People like these.”
“So this noise means Japan’s really prosperous right now?” Sarah thought of the bells attached to the vendors’ money bags: the sound of prosperous commerce.