Fifty Words for Rain(58)

It was different from before. She was not resigned. She would not submit herself to the knowledge that her life had been worthless and her death would be worthless too. She didn’t know what she had to look forward to, or if she had anything to look forward to at all. But she wanted to find out.

Not yet. Mada mada. I can’t . . . leave . . . yet . . .

Her brain felt like a light that was struggling to stay on, flicking off, then back on, but growing weaker every time. Even still, Kiyomi’s words bubbled to the surface.

Think what kind of woman you could be.

The hands tightened. The spots were gone now, and she could see nothing but blackness.

And then, in a single moment of clarity, she heard it: Akira’s voice. A sharp crack, like thunder, and then the mountain howled like a baited bear and let her go.

The first breath was like inhaling a box of needles. Tears emerged at the corners of her eyes, and then someone was holding her head, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

“Nori!”

She couldn’t speak. Her throat had all but caved in. She clawed blindly for Akira, and he pulled her head into his lap, seizing hold of both her hands.

“It’s all right,” he soothed her, his voice frantic. “It’s all right, Nori.”

Ayame’s voice again: “Oh, my God . . . Obocchama, he’s bleeding. He’s really bleeding.”

Akira’s voice was flinty. “I don’t care. Get him out of here. Get them both out of here, now.”

Yuko now: “Kohei! I told you not to let her bait you! I warned you what she was like, the filthy creature—she is her mother’s child.”

Akira raised his voice. “GET THEM OUT!”

Nori tried to sit up, but the ringing in her ears was too much and she fell back. For the next several moments, she heard and saw nothing.

When her vision returned, she saw that the table had been knocked over. Pieces of broken porcelain and shattered glass lay all around her.

And a few feet away, a candelabra stained with blood.

Akira’s face hovered in front of hers. “It’s okay, Nori,” he hummed, and she did not know which one of them he was trying to convince. “They’re gone now. They’re gone.”

She still could not speak. She looked into his eyes, searching, reaching out with her soul and hoping that he could hear her question.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“Yes,” he whispered, and she knew that he had heard her, as clearly as if she’d spoken directly in his ear. “We’ve made our point. For now, Nori, we have won.”





CHAPTER TWELVE


    THE ONLY THING IMMORTAL




Tokyo, Japan

December 1953

It was several weeks before she could speak normally again. She knitted herself a scarf to hide the unsightly bruising on her neck and chest, but there was nothing to be done about the ruptured blood vessels in her eyes. She became dizzy if she stood up too quickly, and there was a splitting pain on the left side of her head. She tried to conceal her pain, but Akira’s gaze was all-seeing.

He could barely look at her. Though he came to her room every morning to check on her, he found excuses to be away from her for the rest of the day. She accepted this with as good a grace as she could muster.

She had nearly gotten herself killed twice in the span of a month. She supposed he was allowed to be bitter.

Akira drew up a list of servants to let go. Without the allowance, they had to cut down on expenses if they wanted to make Akira’s modest inheritance last for the next two years. It was a hard day when he turned a half dozen men and women away, including the cook.

“I can cook,” Akira had declared pompously.

Of course, he never even attempted to boil water. Nori took over the duty of cooking their meals without a word.

She was allowed to go to the market, but only if Ayame went with her. She blushed to feel eyes on her, but no one was ever unkind. She haggled over fish and filled her cloth sack with seasonal fruits. She had convinced Akira to get her a few cookbooks, and she liked to spend hours in the kitchen, obsessing over the perfect balance of spices or just the right texture for pastry crust.

Cooking, it turned out, quieted her mind. She very much enjoyed it.

Akira had announced his plans to complete his last year of school in the New Year, back at his old school in Tokyo. The school was under the patronage of his late father and would allow him almost anything. Besides, everyone knew Akira was a tensai—a genius. No one wanted to stand in his way.

For now, Akira busied himself with his music, spending hours poring over new pieces in his bedroom. Though he refused to let her inside, she sat outside the door to listen to him play.

She had a feeling that he knew she was out there.

Nori waited as long as she could. But on the morning of Christmas Eve, she tapped on Akira’s door.

“Ayame-san?” he called out.

“It’s me.”

She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. Then, after a beat: “Fine.”

She went in. There was music everywhere; he had literally plastered the walls with pages ripped from scores. He had written all over them in his neat, curly script. Her eyes were drawn to a blank score, with just a few notes written in. But the notes were written in Akira’s own hand.

“Are you composing something?” she asked.