Fifty Words for Rain Page 8

  After a long pause, Yuko-sama relaxes her lips. “She is typically a healthy child, is she not?” she asks me, though she already knows the answer.

  “Yes, Okugatasama.” Madam.

  “What is wrong with her?”

  I hesitate. “She is hot to the touch. She is sleeping heavily, and I could not wake her.”

  My mistress lets out a frustrated sigh. It is clear that she was hoping to avoid involving an outside party. But she cannot ignore this. Kohei-sama, I’m sure, would love to use this as an excuse to get rid of the girl. But Yuko-sama is not like her husband. She holds no love for the child but, make no mistake, she is the only reason that Nori-sama wasn’t taken to the dark woods and shot like a sick dog the minute she arrived on the doorstep.

  I do hope she doesn’t die. She is my charge. I am responsible for her well-being.

  I admit, when the little madam first arrived, I didn’t want to look after her. For the first few weeks I thought that I had been given an imbecile. I swear, all she did was sit on the floor all day and stare at the wall.

  But now I do not mind her so much. It would be preferable if she didn’t die.

  I don’t know what I will do if she dies.

  Yuko-sama makes a discreet call from the study, and not an hour later, I open the door to greet a man, ancient and stooped. He smiles at me and I am tempted to cringe.

  My lady greets him cordially, and he bows low to her, addressing her as Yuko-hime. She smiles at him and swats him lightly with her fan. Through this little gesture alone, it is obvious that they are familiar.

  “Thank you for coming, Hiroki-san. Prompt as always.”

  He flashes her the same toothy grin he flashed me. He is missing several teeth.

  “It is my pleasure. To be in your company, I would agree to treat the plague. Heaven forgive me, but I wish people in your house would take sick more often.”

  They exchange a few more pleasantries. He inquires about her husband’s health and seems vaguely disappointed when she responds that he is fine. Then she leads him up to the attic.

  I run to the kitchen to prepare a tea tray. I have been thumped over the head with that fan more than once for forgetting the tea.

  Just as I am about to embark up the stairs with the tray, Akira-sama rounds the corner. I am so startled that I nearly drop everything in my hands. I never hear him coming—he manages to walk without making a sound. Though he is certainly polite, well-spoken, and charming, there is something about him that unnerves me.

  He looks at me without smiling. “Akiko-san. Ohayou gozaimasu. Have you seen Noriko?”

  Of course—he has no idea what is going on. Their little music lesson was supposed to begin some time ago.

  “Ojosama is ill. Your esteemed grandmother has had to call a doctor. They—”

  Before I can finish my sentence, he steps forward and takes the tray right out of my hands.

  “I’ll take it,” he says. “Thanks.”

  And then he marches right up the stairs, just as prim and proper as the Emperor himself. He has this way of being rude while still maintaining the air of someone who was born and bred with manners. I wait a minute or two before following.

  I find things much as I expected. Yuko-sama is sitting down at the table, fanning herself lightly and sipping at her tea. The young master is hovering beside the bed with his arms crossed. His face is difficult to read.

  Hiroki-sensei is examining the girl. He touches her forehead and the sides of her throat, muttering to himself as he goes. He then reaches into his satchel and pulls out a wooden tongue depressor, which he jams rather roughly into her mouth. She does not move a single inch through all of this poking and prodding. When he opens her mouth, I hear the faintest hint of a groan. He touches the exposed skin on her collarbone, which I notice for the first time is raised and red.

  When the good doctor has finished his examination, he makes a series of strange noises to signify that he is ready to speak.

  Yuko-sama offers up a polite if slightly tense smile. Akira-sama’s face is fixed in a scowl so tight that I have a hard time believing he’s only fifteen. The boy is as frightening as his mother was when she was displeased. God help us all if we ever see a repeat of the day Seiko-sama found out that her music studies were at an end and she was to be married immediately. The day she came home from Paris to find a wedding gown already laid out on her bed.

  “The child has the scarlet fever,” the doctor announces, sounding a little too proud of himself for good taste. “I am certain of it.”

  Lady Yuko betrays no emotion, but I shoot her a covert glance anyway. Because I know, and she knows, that Noriko’s mother got the fever when she was this age. It claimed part of the hearing in her left ear and nearly claimed her life.

  But that was different. Seiko-sama was the only heir to the family name and titles. We couldn’t allow her to die. She was our great hope for the future.

  Of course, that was before.

  I am broken out of my little reverie by the sound of bickering. It is Akira-sama, not quite yelling—but close—at his grandmother. The delicate blue veins in his forehead are standing up.

  “What do you mean we can’t afford it?”

  Yuko-sama snaps her fan shut and meets his heated gaze with a level one. “I did not say that. I said that this expense is not in the budget.”

  The doctor has the decency to look uncomfortable. He has pressed himself against the bed, with one hand resting on the little madam’s petrified body. As if a sleeping child will protect him from the cross fire.

  Akira-sama lets out a rough bark of laughter. “Do you mean to tell me, Grandmother, that we have fallen so low that we can’t stretch the budget for a few pills? Must I go begging in the street?”

  “Not just medicine,” peeps the doctor. “Antibiotics. They are a new development in the field of medicine and primarily reserved for soldiers. Especially now, with the occupation . . . they are expensive, as well as difficult to obtain. The Americans regulate—”

  “I don’t care,” Akira-sama says curtly. “I have just heard you say that without them she could die.”

  The doctor bows his head. “Akira-sama . . . if I may . . . children have been surviving the fever for centuries without such things. There is a chance she’ll recover if we just wait and see what happens. As I said, children have lived through this for ages.”

  “They’ve also been dying from it just as long. This isn’t up for discussion. Go and get the medicine. I’ll make sure you get your money.”

  My mistress rises from her seat, somehow managing to look intimidating even though Akira-sama towers over her. To my great surprise, she is actually smiling. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that she finds Akira-sama’s strong personality . . . amusing. I have never seen anyone defy Yuko-sama and receive a smile in return.

  “Dearest grandson, there is no need. I will see it done.”

  She snaps her fingers at me. I know this is my cue to turn her wishes into action.

  I don’t really want to leave, but then I am not paid to want. I am not paid to think. I am paid to do. I serve the Kamiza family, but mostly I serve Lady Yuko. My family swore fealty to hers many years ago. We all have our calling in life. Mine is not glamorous, but it is mine and I will do it.

  I serve the family. And somewhere along the way, I came to serve the little madam. She has a part to play in life also, and that much will be clear to her soon enough.

  Let her have her Eden. Let her have a few more years of relative happiness. She deserves that much, I think.

  * * *

  The pain came quickly. It was the going that took longer.

  Nori waded through the thick fog surrounding her, lifting her body limb by limb. Never had she felt such heaviness, as if a cinder block were tied to every one of her bones. Someone was touching her . . . head? Back? Hands
? She didn’t know. Her body felt like a singular blob. Something warm was pressed against her lips. A morsel of it touched her tongue, and somehow she recognized the taste: okayu, with just a hint of salt.

  The spoon continued to press against her lips, and she accepted it, the instinct to swallow overpowering her confusion.

  Hot. God, why was it so hot? It burned. She couldn’t breathe. Every breath was a mercy, a gift from heaven that might not come again. The air in her lungs was too thick to be a relief. It had been so sudden, this feeling, this weakness so profound that she was sure she would melt into the mattress and fade away. No warning. Not even a cough.

  She could hear people talking, vaguely. As if she were underwater and they were talking on the surface above her. She had no idea if it was day or night. Someone pressed something else against her lips. This time it was water. She welcomed it, hoping it would quench the oppressive heat in her bones.

  Something else now, with the water . . . it was hard. It hurt her throat and she wanted to reject it, but someone was holding her mouth closed. They were saying something to her.

  She was too weak to fight it. She swallowed and more water came to ease the pain as it went down. This cycle repeated itself, for how long she honestly didn’t know. When she felt the spoon, she opened her mouth.

  Sometimes she would feel something cool pressed against her forehead. She liked this. She attempted to muster a “thank you” but could not seem to form words.

  Little by little, the fog lifted. She became more aware of what was happening. She could sit up in bed, propped against some pillows, if one of the shadowy figures helped her.

  She knew now that the person holding the spoon was Akiko, and she recognized the shadowy figure lurking in the corner as Akira. He sat there in silence, reading one of his books. He was there when she woke up and there when she went to sleep. But she was still not strong enough to call his name.

  More time passed. Be it days or weeks, she still wasn’t quite sure.

  When she grew a little stronger, she grasped Akiko’s wrist during a feeding session and asked for some ice cream. Her voice was raspy and weak from disuse. The maid looked stunned for a moment before breaking into a wide smile.

  “Yes, little madam.”

  On her way out of the room, Akiko leaned down and whispered something in Akira’s ear. The boy looked up from his book, and their eyes met from across the darkened room. And that’s when Nori knew that she wasn’t going to die.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DELPHINIUM

  Kyoto, Japan

  Summer 1951

  Summer began to draw to a close, and the mid-August days were both warm and breezy. Sometimes Akira would cancel a lesson or two to run some errands or go visit some friends in Tokyo. Nori sat by the door until he returned. There was always the fear that he wouldn’t come back to her.

  He placated her with trinkets from the city to keep her complaints to a minimum. He presented her with a stuffed rabbit when he returned from a weeklong venture into Tokyo for a violin competition. He refused to tell her whether or not he had won, but Nori did spy a shiny new trophy being carried up to his room.

  “I saw it in a toy store window,” he remarked dryly when he handed the toy to a squealing Nori. “It was the last one, so don’t lose it because I don’t think I’ll be able to get you another one.”

  The stuffed bunny rabbit was exquisite, with snow-white fur and shiny, happy-looking black eyes made of half-moon-shaped buttons. Around its neck was a bright yellow ribbon tied in a bow. When Nori looked closely, she could see that there were tiny suns stitched into the silk.

  She named the toy Agnes, after one of the characters in Oliver Twist. Thanks to Akira, who had grown up speaking English as a second language, she was about three-quarters of the way through. When she was still recovering from her illness, he would sit beside the bed and read it to her.

  From that day forward, Agnes went everywhere with her. When Nori ate, Agnes went below the seat. When she was in her lessons, Agnes sat atop the piano. Her smile was stitched on—so even when Nori faltered and Akira winced in distaste, Agnes kept smiling.

  During one such lesson, Nori joked that if Akira wanted her playing to improve, he should try beating her. She was expecting a laugh, but it did not come. The look he gave her was grave.

  “Has she been hitting you?”

  Nori was instantly uncomfortable. Stoic Akira she could deal with. Serious Akira was an entirely different beast.

  “I mean . . . a little bit.” This was a lie. The beatings had only gotten worse since she’d recovered.

  Akira frowned and placed his tea on the end table. “Often?”

  “Every . . . week or so. It’s fine, really.”

  Akira would not relent. He pressed for details, and she was forced to tell him about the visits from her grandmother and the beatings that inevitably followed. She told him everything—the beatings, the special baths designed to chemically lighten her skin. He listened to her with a hard face.

  “That’s not going to be happening anymore,” he said, shoving her weekly assignment—four pieces of music to be memorized and performed—into her hands. “There’s some Brahms in here. He’s new to you. His style will prove challenging, but I expect you to learn it anyway. Understood?”

  “I’ll try, Oniichan.”

  “I didn’t tell you to try, I told you to do it. Start practicing one of the pieces from last week. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Which one should I practice?”

  Akira shrugged as he walked past her. It was clear that his attention had already moved on. “Any of them, all of them. They were all terrible, so you have a lot to work with.”

  And on that note, she was alone. She didn’t waste energy thinking about what Akira was going to do. He did what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it, and the rest of the world seemed to fall in line.

  Truthfully, it had become painfully obvious that Akira could have whatever he wanted. If he asked for the moon, her grandmother would probably find a way to bring it to him.

  She needed him. Akira was the only legitimate heir. And her dearest grandmother would saw off her own foot before she let it be said that Yuko Kamiza was responsible for the demise of the legacy—though, since Akira had explained to her that the monarchy was dead in all but name, Nori didn’t know what good the legacy would do them now. The kuge nobility that the Kamiza family had come from, the kazoku aristocracy of the imperial court that her grandmother and mother and Akira had been born into—both were gone. Everyone was to be equal now. Cousins to the emperor or rice farmers, it made no difference in the new Japan.

  Akira told her that wasn’t going over very well.

  Why Akira explained things to her, why he cared what happened to her, was still a mystery to Nori.

  She knew that her best hope was to be an amusement for him. Many years from now when they were both grown, he would be a very important person. Though the peerage and all hereditary titles had been officially dissolved after the war, many people still believed in the power of blood. Besides, the wealth and reputation of their family still carried a great deal of weight. Akira might no longer be called a prince or a duke, but he was still going to be treated like one.

  And she would probably still be here, in the attic, watching the flowers bloom and die.

  Nori shook her head to clear it. Such thoughts served no purpose other than to depress her.

  She did not dwell too much on her mother, or her future, or the gaping, bottomless pit of emptiness that resided inside her chest where her heart should be. She had learned, in the years that she had spent here in utter isolation, not to think too much. Because if she did, she likely would have dashed her head against the ground until her brains spilled out to form a watercolor on the hardwood floor. And so Nori counted what she had and kept the rest at a distance, in
a place where it could not destroy her.

  When Akira returned, he gave her a gentle swat on the back to correct her posture but said nothing to her. She didn’t ask where he’d gone or what had been said. But somehow she knew that no one would lay a hand on her again.

  After a few more minutes, Akira sent her off. “Go play,” he said, motioning her towards the door. “I need to practice for nationals.”

  Nori was torn between disappointment and relief that she didn’t have to flounder through pieces far too difficult for her anymore. “Can’t I stay and watch, Oniichan?”

  “No,” he quipped smartly, without looking at her. “You get a ridiculous look on your face and it’s distracting.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know. What normal children do.”

  This meant absolutely nothing to her. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Then go stare at the wall for all I care, Nori. I can’t entertain you all the time.”

  She bit back a retort and left the room. She spotted Akiko lingering not too far away.

  “Done with your lessons already, little madam?”

  “I got kicked out,” she grumbled, knowing that she sounded petulant but too frustrated to care. “He has to practice for some stupid competition.”

  Akiko’s upper lip curled upwards in a smile. “Your brother is the defending national champion for his age bracket. It is a matter of great pride for him.”

  “Pride, pride, pride,” Nori grumbled. “That’s all anyone ever talks about in this house.”

  “Pride is largely a male thing, Ojosama. You may never fully understand it.”

  “But Obaasama talks about it all the time too and she’s not a man.”

  Akiko snorted. Her hand flew to cover her mouth and she looked down, clearly restraining further laughter. “Your esteemed grandmother is . . . not like most women, little madam.”