Fifty Words for Rain Read online

  Akiko released her hand, bowed slightly, and whispered softly, “I’ll be back soon. Be good.”

  Nori couldn’t help herself. She made a clumsy, mad dash to where Akira sat and scrambled into the chair next to him. The women across the room shot her irritated glances as her chair screeched loudly across the floor.

  Akira raised a dark eyebrow at her, shooting her a sidelong glance while still keeping his eyes on the book.

  She waited for him to speak. To reveal his masterful tale of how he’d managed to convince their grandmother to extend the length of Nori’s leash. She waited for him to tell her something. Ask her something. Anything.

  But most of all, she wanted him to tell her why. Why he’d wasted even three sentences to help her. Why he was even allowing her in his presence. Why he, unlike the rest of the world, did not hate her for something that had happened before she was born. And then there was another part of her that was waiting to hear a harsh remark, a snide comment, or to feel the hiss of a slap against her cheek. There was a part of her that was waiting for this, this simple moment of contentment, to be snatched away from her.

  She was waiting for God to send down something horrible, to remind her who she was and what her life was supposed to be. But there was nothing from God. And there was nothing from Akira.

  Several moments passed in silence. Nori drew her knees up to her chest and waited.

  Finally, after what seemed like a decade, Akira put down the book.

  “Nori,” he said, “aren’t you bored?”

  She stared at him blankly. Bored? What kind of ludicrous question was that? How could she possibly be bored?

  “No, Oniichan.”

  Akira studied her for another moment, with those sharp gray eyes of his. It made her skin tingle. But the sensation was not entirely unpleasant.

  “Your hair. Did you do it yourself?”

  Nori perked up instantly. “Yes.”

  Akira noted her reaction with obvious amusement. He reached out a hand and fingered one of her braids lightly, brushing her ear as he did so. Something inside of her stretched and broke at his touch.

  “It’s nice.”

  Akira turned his eyes from her hair back to her face. His eyes went wide with something Nori couldn’t interpret. She could only look at him, helpless. Helpless to move, helpless to speak. Faintly, she felt something touch her hand. But it felt like it was happening in a separate reality, in a place that was somehow irrevocably disconnected from this one.

  “Nori . . . you’re crying.”

  Akira’s voice was gentle and unassuming. If anything, he sounded confused. His previous sarcastic edge was gone.

  Her lips parted in an attempt to voice words, but nothing came. She looked down at her hand, resting on the table. There were indeed two drops of water there. But that was impossible. She had absolutely no reason to be crying. There was no pain.

  Nori heard someone whimper softly, and to her horror, she realized it was her. She jerked a hand up to her face and swiped at the tears that had collected on her cheeks, wiping them away frantically. She tried to force out an apology, only to be met with a ragged sob. It was getting away from her. Everything was getting away from her, and it was cracked and broken and lying on the floor.

  Oh, God.

  Why? Why are you crying? Stop it. Stop it, stop it. Not in front of him. You’re ruining it. You’re . . .

  Akira watched her sob in silence. She sat like that, curled in her chair, sobbing for no apparent reason for the next hour straight.

  Every time she attempted to catch her breath or speak, the sobs threatened to strangle the life out of her lungs. She resorted to her old technique: relinquishing herself to the tears and letting them wash over her in waves until they were done. If the spectacle she was creating was attracting attention from the help, she didn’t notice. Nor did she particularly care. She balled her fist into her mouth and bit down in an effort to stop the pathetic mewing sounds emitting from it. She tasted a mixture of bitter salt, from the blood and tears that had mingled together.

  She wished someone would order her to stop. Because on her own, left here to her own devices, she did not know if she would ever be able to. It felt as if a flood had broken free and now would not relent until it had sucked her down into its depths. She had nothing to hold on to as it tossed her about.

  Finally, the racking gasps and sobs began to subside. She could feel that her face was hot and red. Her eyes burned with tears; her lashes felt sticky, and they clung to her face like spidery tendrils. She found it hard to keep her eyes open at all.

  Wordlessly, Akira handed her a handkerchief that he drew from his pocket. She took it with shaking hands and wiped her cheeks, unable to look at him. It was over. Before it had even begun, she had destroyed any chance she might have had at making him respect her.

  “Thank you, Oniichan.”

  Akira studied her with, as far as she could tell, perfect neutrality.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Nori looked at him in disbelief, sure that she had misheard.

  “Hungry?” Her vocal cords thrummed in protest as she spoke. Her throat was completely raw.

  “I’m starving, myself. I’m sure you like ice cream. All little girls like ice cream. Chocolate or vanilla?”

  She looked him in the eyes, trying and failing to read them. He was simply Akira, with his usual serene expression and faintly curled lips.

  “I’ve never had ice cream.”

  If Akira was surprised, he did not show it. He got up and turned his back to her, going to the icebox and rummaging around it. One of the servants stepped forward and offered to help him find what he was looking for. He waved her away.

  Nori looked away from what he was doing, swollen eyes focusing on the book he’d left behind. It was a book of poetry. Forgetting herself, she reached forward and turned a page.

  “It’s Kazunomiya-sama. Have you read her work before?”

  Nori retreated back into her position, not wanting to embarrass herself further. Akira took his seat beside her and placed a bowl of what looked like a creamy rice ball in front of her.

  “No, Oniichan.”

  “It might be a little advanced for you, but you can read it if you like. I can help you with it. Here, eat.”

  Nori obeyed, placing a spoonful of the dessert in her mouth. It was creamy and sweet, sweeter than anything she’d ever tasted. The cold, while startling, soothed her aching throat. She finished the entire bowl within minutes. Akira handed her a napkin. Without looking at her, he pushed out his chair. It made no sound as it scraped across the floor.

  “I’m going upstairs to read.”

  He got up and walked away without looking back at her, leaving the book open on the table. She hesitated for half a second, before tucking it under her arm and following.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “AVE MARIA”

  Kyoto, Japan

  Winter/Spring 1951

  They called her his shadow. She knew because she heard them whisper disparagingly behind their hands when she passed in the hall. Sometimes, when they were feeling less than kind, they called her his dog.

  Nori didn’t particularly mind. It was a nickname she had earned.

  She was always behind him. Every day, he rose early and dined on a breakfast of rice, miso soup, fish, pickles, and eggs. He preferred coffee with a dash of milk, but sometimes he would have tea. He teased Nori about her habit of blowing bubbles in her juice. Once, he had allowed her a sip of his coffee. It was so bitter that she had spit it all over her dress. He’d laughed at her until she’d wanted to crawl into a dark hole and die.

  Akira favored the warmth. At midday, when the sun was high, he liked to sit in the foyer, directly beneath the open windows. Though the servants had offered him a chair more than once, he would sit slumped against the wall with a cup
of tea and a book or some sheet music. How anyone could drink tea in hot weather was beyond Nori.

  She would sit across from him, hiding in the shade. The heat was too much for her. Periodically, Akiko would come to check on her, and she’d request some ice water. She’d pretend to read her books, but mostly, she watched him through her eyelashes. He didn’t need to be doing anything. She just liked looking at him.

  When Akira had finished whatever it was he was doing, it was usually late afternoon. For lunch, he often ate some fish and the pickled vegetables that Nori so despised. He smothered it all in so much wasabi that she wondered how he could even discern what it was that he was eating.

  She had become addicted to ice cream and now gulped down at least three bowls of it daily.

  Akira made her eat some real food before he’d let her have it, though. He also made her eat vegetables, much to her chagrin. But she felt that the ice cream was worth it.

  When they had finished this late lunch, Akira would always retreat to the music room. Of all the rooms in the house, the existence of this room surprised Nori the most.

  It seemed rather impossible that a woman like her grandmother would have an entire room dedicated to something that, until Akira’s arrival, was never heard in the house.

  Akira told her that the first time he’d discovered it, the door had been shut tight and the air was so thick he could hardly breathe. The instruments had been covered in a thick layer of dust—a decade’s worth at least. He’d put in a request to have it cleaned, and by the next morning, the room was sparkling and pristine. It still smelled like lemon-scented cleansers.

  The room was dominated by a baby grand piano, with glistening ivory keys and a sleek black finish. Bookshelves piled with scores lined the walls, and there was an empty shelf that was clearly designed to hold more instruments if the need arose. There were no windows, which made Nori very sad, as peeking out of the windows had become one of her favorite hobbies. The grounds around the house were manicured beautifully, and the patchwork of colors that came with spring made her heart ache.

  But there was a very comfortable love seat in one corner that Nori could sit on while she watched Akira play.

  And by God, did he play. Never in her life, or in her most euphoric and hope-filled dreams, had she heard a sound as beautiful as the music he brought into the world.

  Despite her admittedly all-consuming adoration for Akira, she was aware that he was only human. In some vague sense, she recognized that.

  He was human, and his violin was nothing more than an intricately crafted piece of wood with some strings attached. But the two of them together transcended mortality to become something divine. She knew it was blasphemy to have such thoughts, and she tried to atone for them in her prayers every night.

  She would curl herself onto the couch and listen to him making paintings out of sound. And each piece was a different picture. In her mind’s eye, she could see a garden full of trees with white leaves and a fountain with blush-pink petals floating in the clear water—that was a concerto. The volta: scarlet and plum-colored ribbons winding around each other, battling for dominance. A requiem . . . a lone horse walking down a dimly lit cobbled road, looking for a rider that had died long ago. From these dead foreigners whose names she was slowly growing accustomed to, Nori was learning what it was to live a thousand lifetimes of joy and sorrow without ever leaving this house.

  Beethoven. Ravel. Mozart. Tchaikovsky. Names that she could hardly wrap her tongue around. She knew better than to interrupt Akira while he was practicing, but after, when he had exhausted himself and sunk onto the couch next to her with his eyes half closed, Nori would ask all the questions she could think of.

  And he would answer. He didn’t initiate conversation with her, nor did he encourage it. In fact, he probably said three unprovoked sentences to her from the time she joined him in the morning to the time she was escorted away at night. But he didn’t discourage her, and he didn’t ignore her when she spoke to him. Sometimes he would reach out and toy with her braids or fix her collar if it was standing up. Akira found her wiry curls interesting. He liked to wrap them around his finger and watch them snap back into place when he let go, a feat that his own straight hair could never accomplish. He was the only person who had ever liked her hair. Nori valued these rare moments, and she tucked them away in the most precious corner of her mind, right next to the memories of her mother.

  One such evening, as Nori sat curled up on the sofa beside him, she queried hesitantly, “What was that song you played?” She was torn between her desire for interaction and her reluctance to break the tranquil calm that had settled over them.

  Akira did not bother to open his eyes.

  “Which song, little sister? I played at least fifteen.”

  Nori could not help but smile. Akira only called her “little sister” when he was happy.

  “The last one. I liked it the best.”

  Akira paused for a moment, trying to remember. “Oh, that one.” The lack of interest in his tone was palpable. “That’s nothing. It’s just a simple piece. All the pieces I played and that’s the one you want to know about?”

  Nori bit her lower lip. It was still raw from the gnawing she’d given it earlier, and it began to sting when her teeth came into contact with the open cut. “It was pretty,” she mumbled. “Simple can be pretty.”

  At this, Akira snickered. She could see the corner of his lip curl upwards in a smirk. But when he spoke, his tone was soft. “You would say that, wouldn’t you? It’s actually no surprise you would like it. It’s rather like a child’s lullaby, isn’t it?”

  Nori said nothing, partly because she was sure he was making fun of her and partly because she didn’t know what a lullaby was supposed to sound like and hated to look stupid in front of her worldly brother. Akira gestured for her to hand him the cup of tea he’d left sitting on the end table. She did so, waiting patiently for him to answer her question.

  “It’s Schubert, Nori. Franz Schubert. It’s his ‘Ave Maria.’”

  Nori struggled to repeat after him, finding that the sound of the words eluded her mouth. Akira laughed at her again. She jutted her bottom lip out in a pout.

  “Oniichan, will you teach me to play it?”

  She had been working up the nerve to ask this question for a while now. Every time she watched Akira play, it captivated her soul. It felt like her very spirit was floating above her body, which sat dull and limp on the earth like an empty fossil. She wanted to be able to do that. To make people feel like that.

  Akira removed his hand from across his face and straightened up slightly, meeting her eyes. “You’re serious?”

  “Hai.”

  “Nori, the violin isn’t a toy. It’s an instrument. It takes years to learn.”

  “I can learn.” She pouted, fully aware that her wheedling was not likely to get her anywhere with Akira’s limited level of patience. “You learned.”

  “I have a natural facility for music, Nori. It’s not something that everyone has. You can practice until your fingers are raw, but if you don’t have talent, you’ll never rise beyond a certain level. It’s really just a giant waste of time. You find out, years after you’ve spent hours and hours training, that you’ll never be anything but ordinary.”

  She felt her resolve weakening. It seemed unlikely that she possessed a natural talent of any kind. But she pressed on. “I would like to try.”

  Akira pinned her down with a cold stare. She looked back at him, eyes wide and quivering. But she held her gaze steady. Little by little, she was learning to minimize signs of flinching. Akira blinked. She took this as a sign that he had resigned himself to her request.

  “If you really want to learn, I’ll teach you. For a little while.”

  Nori perked up instantly, unable to resist the urge to throw herself on top of him. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Onii
chan!”

  Gently but firmly, Akira carefully moved away from her. He looked only slightly irritated that she had touched him, which Nori counted as a personal victory.

  “Fine, fine. Now, go on. Akiko-san should be expecting you.”

  “But, Onii—”

  “Nori.”

  And she knew it was over then. When Akira said her name like that there was no point in arguing.

  She rose from her seat and bowed slightly. “Oyasumi nasai, Oniichan.”

  “Good night, Nori.”

  Akiko was waiting just outside the door to the music room, as Nori had known she would be.

  Nori answered the expected questions about her day with as much interest as she could feign. But her mind was already gone.

  She ate her dinner quickly, anxious for Akiko to collect the dishes and retire for the night. She was struck with a sudden and intense desire to be alone. The thought of having another person around her made her skin itch. As much as she disliked solitude, she had grown so comfortable with it that prolonged exposure to other people made her uneasy.

  Akira didn’t count, of course, but Akira was Akira.

  After she finished her meal, she delved into the book of poetry that Akira had lent her. He was right when he’d said it would be difficult for her. It was clearly an old, well-worn book—the pages were yellowing and curled upwards. The script was tiny and tightly packed so that the words blurred together on the page. The characters were complex, and many of them were entirely foreign to her. Akira had explained that the poems inside were several centuries old and that, over time, languages evolved. Though it was tempting to get frustrated and give up, she pressed on.

  She read until her eyes hurt. Then she turned off the lights, lit her candles, and said her prayers before the altar. She asked God to watch over Akira and her grandparents. She included her grandparents in her prayers by default. How genuine it was, she couldn’t be certain.