Читать книгу Cherry Blossom Winter - Jennifer Maruno - Страница 8

SOYA SAUCE

After a day of sewing, helping with customers, and managing Hiro, Michiko’s mother flopped into the wicker chair. A present from Mrs. Morrison, it groaned whenever anyone sat. Her mother’s face was lined and her eyes puffy.

“Do you want me to make dinner?” asked Michiko.

Her mother nodded with gratitude.

Michiko measured the rice carefully. She washed it in a big bowl of water, rubbing the grains gently. She drained it and repeated. When the water ran clear she put it on to boil. That much she knew how to do. But they couldn’t just eat rice. She opened the door and stared at the single lump of brown waxy paper in the icebox. Rice and bacon would have to do.

“Yoo-hoo,” a woman’s voice called out from the bottom of the staircase.

Michiko ran to open the apartment door for Mrs. Morrison. A yellow straw hat brimming with daisies sat askew on her cloud of carrot-coloured curls. The woman looked up and smiled. Her cheeks were pink from exertion. Behind her gold-rimmed spectacles, small blue eyes peeked out of a fleshy face. She put her dimpled hand on the frame of the door when she reached it. Her bosom heaved. The effort to get up the stairs took all of her breath.

“Is your mother here?” she asked blinking behind her spectacles. “If not I’ll have to wait for her. I can’t do those stairs more than once a day,” she puffed.

“I’m here,” Michiko’s mother said rising from the chair. “This is a nice surprise.”

Mrs. Morrison raised her string bag in salute. Michiko’s mother took her by the arm and walked her to the kitchen. Edna placed the bag on the kitchen table — she never came to their house empty-handed. A jar of homemade pickles or jam, a cooking utensil, eggs; she brought anything that helped make their life easier.

“I’m making dinner,” Michiko told her proudly. “I’ve already washed the rice and I’m going to chop up some bacon.”

“Good thing I brought a cabbage,” Mrs. Morrison replied, “and an onion.”

“And add a touch of shoyu,” her mother said. “Not much, be careful.”

The shortage of soya sauce was becoming a problem for everyone who ate Japanese food. Miso, the special bean paste that most people used every day, was also in great demand. Her father had hung a hand-printed card reading THIS IS NOT A GROSHERY STORE in the drugstore window to stop people from asking.

Michiko filled the kettle and put it on the stove. The smell of frying onion filled the kitchen.

“I just left the church meeting,” Edna began, reaching for the sugar bowl. It was one of her mother’s china cups that had lost its handle. “While I was in town I thought I would visit.” She rummaged about in her purse. “I need to take advantage of your sewing talents.”

“A new dress?” her mother asked.

“Curtains,” Edna replied. She opened her purse and pulled out a small brown paper bag. “One for each of us, and two for my little Heero,” Edna said, referring to the oatmeal cookies.

Michiko smiled. Mrs. Morrison always pronounced her little brother’s name incorrectly. She just couldn’t get the inflection. She handed one to Hiro. He took it, examined it, then broke off a chunk and stuffed it into his mouth.

Mrs. Morrison explained the troubles she had getting the right material for new curtains. “I asked for poppy-coloured material, but they sent me scarlet, then wine, then purple.” She took a sip of tea. “By the way, the church is thinking of having a bazaar.”

“What’s a bazaar?” Michiko asked. For some reason tents and elephants came to mind.

“It’s like a fair,” Edna said. “The town hasn’t had one in some time,” she told them.

“Why do people have them?” Michiko wanted to know.

“To raise money,” Mrs. Morrison replied. “I’m sure the children in your school could do with some more books.”

“The children need electricity first,” Michiko’s mother said. She picked up the teapot and filled her guest’s cup. “Even if they had books, they would have to read them by oil lamp. Their eyes will be ruined if the electricity isn’t installed.”

“Perhaps I’ll write the Red Cross,” Edna suggested, sipping her tea.

Michiko thought about Kiko’s news. How would they build a bathhouse if there wasn’t any electricity? How would they heat the giant tub?

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll see if Geechan wants some tea.”

“Tell him there is a cookie,” Mrs. Morrison called out behind her.

Geechan squatted in the garden wearing a white handkerchief headband, pulling weeds. Dirt caked his big black rubber boots.

“Geechan,” Michiko said to him, “Mrs. Morrison has a treat for you.”

Her grandfather stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands. A huge grin crept across her grandfather’s chestnut face.

“I have a question,” Michiko said. She kicked a clump of earth with the toe of her shoe. The upturned earth smelled fresh. “How much water does it take to fill up an ofuro?”

Her grandfather scratched his head. Not always ready with an English reply, he made a large circular motion with his arms to explain.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” she said.

He nodded again and again.

“I have another question,” she said.

He undid the bandana from the back of his head and used it to wipe his brow. Then he put it in his back pocket and waited for her to speak.

“Why would they build an ofuro where there’s no electricity?”

He shrugged his shoulders and went into the house.

Michiko followed him inside. She went into the drugstore to see if her father had time for tea, but stopped when she saw him reach for the bottle of chocolate syrup. He’s making a milkshake, she thought as he poured it into the metal container. He added three large spoonfuls of malt powder, and a glub of milk. As he fixed the container to the mixer, a boy stepped out from behind the magazine rack.

Michiko caught her breath at the sight of the familiar fringed cowboy vest and slingshot sticking out of the back pocket. George King was the first person she met when she walked to town. He almost ran her down with his bicycle. George King called her a dirty Jap.

Michiko turned to leave just as he looked up and spotted her.

“Hello,” he said with a fake cowboy drawl, “fancy meeting you here.”

Michiko faced his cold hard gaze with a smile. “Hello, George,” she said politely. George had a loud voice and used it anytime someone did not agree with him. The moment he raised his voice, most people gave in, except Michiko. She always spoke to him in a pleasant tone, which infuriated him.

George took a dollar from his pocket and slapped it on the counter. Her father put out his hand to take it, but George pressed his finger to the edge of the bill. “Don’t even think of trying to rob me,” he said. There was no mistaking the scorn flashing from his cold blue eyes.

Michiko’s father didn’t answer. He returned with the change, and placed it coin by coin in front of the boy. “Have a good day,” he said and went to the other side of the store.

The pasty-faced boy finished his shake in long noisy slurps and belched. Then he left his stool and walked to the door. He squinted at the little hand-printed sign hanging from the doorknob and yanked it off. “Nobody wants this stupid English in their face,” he told Michiko. “Your kind doesn’t belong here, you know,” he said, tossing the small square of cardboard onto the floor. He yanked the door open. “My dad’s going to see to that.”