he following year, my father’s shop went under. Well, no, it wasn’t just his shop, it was his entire business. As the Japanese grew more affluent, so too grew demands for imported confections of higher and higher quality, and consumers began to ignore the cheap candies that were my father’s specialty. Father closed his shop. He had to sell off everything in order to meet his outstanding debts. Obviously, he had to let the mountain cabin go. He even had to sell off our little house in North Shinagawa, our car, everything.

Once he closed his business, Father decided to return to Switzerland to try to make a new start. His younger brother, Karl, had a hosiery manufacturing business in Bern and needed help in managing the accounts, so it was decided that we would all move to Switzerland. This decision came just as I was preparing for the high school entrance exams. I had set my sights on entering a top-level school, the kind of school that would never enroll a dimwit like Yuriko. I’m talking about the school that Kazue and I attended. Let’s just call it Q High School for Young Women, shall we? It was the elite preparatory school affiliated with Q University.

I asked my father to let me move in with my mother’s father, who lived in P Ward, so that I could at least try to pass the high school exam. And if I did pass, I could commute to school from my grandfather’s place. At any rate, I was determined to foil any attempt to ship me off to Switzerland with Yuriko.

Father frowned at my request at first, complaining that Q High School for Young Women was expensive and would cost way more than we could afford. But since Yuriko and I hardly spoke to each other—ever since the incident at the cabin—he decided my plan was the best course to follow. I had him sign an agreement stating that if I made it into the school of my choice, he would promise to provide the funds I would need to cover the cost of my schooling up through graduation. Even though he was my father, he couldn’t be relied on without a written agreement.

It was decided that I would continue living in P Ward with my maternal grandfather, who lived alone in a government-funded apartment complex. He was sixty-six years old. A short man, his arms and legs were delicate and his physique small. There was no mistaking him as my mother’s father. He was the kind of person who struggled to appear fashionable, even though he had no money, so no matter where he went he always wore a suit, and he slicked back his salt-and-pepper hair with pomade. The smell of pomade so permeated his tiny apartment, it almost made me choke.

I’d never really seen much of my grandfather until then, and I was nervous about the prospect of living with him. I had no idea what to say to him. But once I actually moved in, my fears became moot. My grandfather talked nonstop in a high-pitched voice all day long. It wasn’t as if he needed me around for conversation, he mostly just talked to himself. That is, he repeated the same thing over and again, chattering on and on. I suspect he was delighted to share his home with someone as taciturn as myself. I was nothing more than a receptacle for his endless prattle.

Surely my grandfather found it inconvenient to have a granddaughter suddenly deposited on his doorstep. But there can be little doubt that he was grateful for the allowance my father provided. At the time, my grandfather was living off his pension. From time to time he’d make a little extra cash by doing odd jobs around the neighborhood; he was a sort of resident handyman. But I suspect he hardly had enough to live on.

What was my grandfather’s occupation? Well, that’s hard to say. When we were children, my mother told us that when Grandfather was young he’d been good at catching watermelon thieves, so he decided to join the police force and be a detective. That’s why I was certain he’d be strict, and I was afraid of him at first. But in fact, the opposite was true. My grandfather had not been a detective. What had he been? Well, that’s what I’ll explain next. It might take some time, so please bear with me.

“It’s not easy for us to go visit your grandfather, because he’s a police detective,” my mother would say. “He’s very busy. Besides, he’s always got a lot of people around him who have done bad things. But that doesn’t mean your grandfather is bad. No indeed. It often happens that bad people are drawn to good people. Well, for example, people who’ve broken the law will come by your grandfather’s place to apologize and to talk about how they plan to mend their ways. But there’s always someone who’s just bad to the bone. That person might hold a grudge against your grandfather for arresting him, so when he comes to visit he comes for revenge. It would be dangerous for children to be around if that happened.”

Listening to these stories as if Mother were describing something in a distant land, I’d get excited, imagining a scene from a television crime drama. My grandfather’s a police detective! I’d brag about it whenever one of my friends stopped by. But Yuriko never looked very impressed and would always ask Mother why grandfather was a detective. I guess she didn’t think having a detective for a grandfather was particularly thrilling; I have no idea what went on in her head. But my mother’s answer was always the same. “Your grandfather was very good at catching watermelon thieves. His father owned giant fields in Ibaraki Prefecture—that’s where the thieves lurked.”

I passed the entrance exam to Q High School for Young Women just before my parents and Yuriko set off for Switzerland, so I loaded up a little truck with my futon, desk, school supplies, and clothes and moved from North Shinagawa to my grandfather’s apartment in the government housing project. P Ward is in the scruffier part of downtown Tokyo, in the so-called Low City. It’s mostly flat there, with hardly any tall buildings. A number of large rivers run through the ward, slicing it into smaller sections. The large levees along the rivers obstruct one’s line of vision. The surrounding buildings are not very high but, because of the levees, they look oppressive. It is in fact a very peculiar area. Just beyond the levees, an immense volume of water flows by at a normally languid pace. Whenever I’d climb the banks of the levees to gaze down into the brownish water of the river below, I’d imagine all the different life-forms swirling around beneath the surface.

On the day I moved in, my grandfather bought two cream puffs from the local shop. They weren’t the kind you’d get at a bakery, but the kind with the hard puff pastry shell and the custard filling that I hate. I didn’t want to hurt Grandfather’s feelings, so I finished it, pretending to savor each bite. As I ate I studied Grandfather’s face, trying to figure out what about him resembled my mother. Although they shared the same slight build, their faces looked nothing alike.

“Mother doesn’t look like you, Grandfather. Who does she take after?”

“Oh, she takes after no one, that mother of yours. Some relative long dead must have been the one to pass his looks along to her.”

Grandfather pulled the cardboard cake box apart, as he answered, and folded it flat according to the directions on the outside of the carton. He tucked it, along with the paper wrapping and string, atop the shelf in the kitchen.

“I don’t look like anyone either,” I said.

“Well, we’ve got that kind of characteristic in our family.”

Grandfather was a man of habit. He rose punctually at five every morning and began tending to the bonsai trees that cluttered the veranda and the narrow space of the entry hall. Cultivating bonsai trees was his hobby. He’d spend over two hours each morning tending to them. Next he’d clean the room, and after that he’d have his breakfast.

As soon as he woke he’d start prattling in the Ibaraki dialect of his hometown. Even while I was washing my face or brushing my teeth, he’d be chattering away.

“Oh, now this is a nice trunk. Look here! The strength! The age! Any number of pines like this line the Tokaid Highway, no doubting that. How fortunate I am to have such lovely bonsai. Or maybe I’ve my own talent to thank. I’m sure that’s it. Must be my talent. A genius has to be fanatic with a little bit of humor. Yes, that’s me.”

I’d glance in his direction, thinking he was talking to me, but he’d be staring at his bonsai and conversing with himself. And every morning he’d say just about the same thing.

“People who aren’t really fanatics can try all they want, but they’ll never have the talent and their bonsai won’t look anything like those that have been raised by an old fool like me! What’ll be different? Well, let me see…”

I finally stopped turning around when I heard him begin to talk. I had realized he wasn’t talking to me. He’d pose a question and then answer it himself. I was thrilled to have passed the entrance exam and to be on my way to a new life. I couldn’t care less about bonsai trees! I’d flip through the pages of the high school guide and give myself over to intoxicating images of how my life would be in my beloved Q High School for Young Women.

I left Grandfather where he was and went to the kitchen to fix a slice of toast—which I then slathered generously with butter, jam, and honey. My father wasn’t here to scold me for using too much jam. I felt completely liberated! My father was such a miser he was always warning us about what and how much we ate. We could have up to two lumps of sugar in our tea, but that was all. And we could only have a thin smear of jam on our bread. If we wanted honey, all we could have was honey. And his ideas about table manners were equally rigid. No talking at the table. Elbows in and back straight. No laughing with food in your mouth. No matter what I did he’d find grounds for complaint. But even if I sat slouched and bleary-eyed over the table eating my breakfast, Grandfather took no notice. He stood on the veranda talking to his plants.

“It takes inspiration, you know. That’s essential. Inspiration. ‘To be infused with spirit.’ Go ahead, look it up in the dictionary, why don’t you. You’ll see it’s not just a question of possessing elegance. Elegance will animate your work, no doubt about that. But you can’t just pick it up. You have to have talent too. Those who succeed have talent. And so I say, I’ve got the talent. I’ve been inspired.”

My grandfather scribbled the Chinese ideographs for inspiration in the air in front of his face. And then he drew the characters for fanatic. I drank my tea and watched wordlessly. After a long time my grandfather noticed me sitting at the kitchen table.

“Is there any left for your grandpa?”

“There is, but it’s cold now.” I pointed to the toast. Grandfather set on the cold dry toast with great delight and gnawed at it with his false teeth, sending crumbs flying. As soon as I saw this, I knew the stories my mother told about his being a detective were lies. I don’t know quite how to explain it, but even to my sixteen-year-old eyes it was clear what kind of person Grandfather was. He was the kind who thought only of himself. There’s no way he ever could have chased down another man and charged him with a crime.

Grandfather’s dentures were ill-fitting, and it seemed difficult for him to chew, so he dunked his toast into his tea until it was soft and soggy. Some of the bread melted away into the tea, but my grandfather gulped it down anyway.

I summoned up my courage and asked, “Grandfather, do you think Yuriko is inspired?”

Grandfather looked out over the veranda at the large black pine and answered in no uncertain terms.

“Not whatsoever. Yuriko-chan is just too pretty a girl for that. She might be a garden plant. A pretty flower. But she’s no bonsai.”

“So, a flower, no matter how pretty, is not inspired?”

“That’s right. Inspiration is the bonsai’s trump card. But it’s a person who makes it that way, you know. Look over there, at the black pine. Now that’s inspiration. See there? An old tree gives us a lesson in life. Strange, isn’t it? The tree may look withered, but it’s living just the same. A tree can withstand the passage of time. Humans are the only ones who are at their most beautiful when they’re young. But a tree, no matter how many years go by, you train it and train it, and though the tree itself would naturally resist, gradually it bends to your will. And when it does? Why then it’s as if life has sprung forth anew, isn’t it? Inspiration resides at that point when you begin to feel the miraculous. That’s the word for it in English, right? Miracle?”

“I suppose so.”

“What about in German?”

“I don’t know.”

Here we go again, I thought to myself, and I only pretended to look back at the veranda where he was standing. I could hardly understand a thing my grandfather talked about, and listening to him grew tiresome. All my grandfather really cared about was the dried-up old pine tree that he’d plopped down smack in the middle of the veranda. The roots were gnarled and hideous and the branches were crisscrossed with wires. With the needles bunching up like helmets, the tree was in the way of everything. It had the shape of one of those old twisted pines that you see in any run-of-the-mill samurai movie. Yet it was inspired, and the gorgeous Yuriko wasn’t! What could have been more perfect? I adored my grandfather for saying what he’d said. And I prayed I’d be able to go on living with him like this forever.

My grandfather, being who he was, also gained by having me around. I was soon to discover why. There were days when he’d run around in a panic putting all the bonsai in the closet. On the third Sunday of every month at eleven o’clock in the morning, a neighborhood man came to call on my grandfather. It was like clockwork. Grandfather had marked the third Sunday of the month on his calendar with a bright red circle so he would not forget. On those Sundays, as soon as he’d finished conversing with his bonsai, he would start rearranging things in his closet and moving his junk here and there. Regardless of whether it was cloudy or threatening rain at any minute, he’d have me drag my futon out and hang it on the drying pole on the veranda—so as to make more room in the closet. And then he’d start scrambling to carry the bonsai into the space he’d made. There were hordes of the things crowded onto the tiny veranda. What he couldn’t squeeze into the closet, he’d carry over to the apartments of the friends who also lived in our government-funded apartment complex. For a time I was mystified by Grandfather’s behavior. Why would he want to hide the things that clearly brought him so much pride?

The visitor Grandfather received on the third Sunday of every month was an old man with a gentle face. His thinning white hair was combed neatly back, and his gray shirt and brown jacket blended tastefully. Only his eyeglass frames—heavy and black—were overly conspicuous. Even though he always apologized perfunctorily for calling on Grandfather empty-handed, he never once brought over the customary visitor’s gift. When the old man arrived, my grandfather would sit up straight and receive him with the most dignified posture. For some reason, he never wanted me to be around. When anyone else came to call, he would always insist on having me by his side and would go on at great length about me, clearly proud to have a granddaughter who was half European and a student at the elite Q High School for Young Women to boot. My grandfather had lots of acquaintances. There was the insurance sales-woman, the security guard, the apartment superintendent, and all the other old men who liked bonsai. They were always stopping by to visit. But it was just this old gentleman that he didn’t want me to be around. I couldn’t help but find this peculiar.

On the days this visitor was expected, Grandfather was nervous. He’d ask me if I had homework to do. I’d set the tea out and then pretend to return to my room, but I’d eavesdrop from the other side of the sliding door partition. Cutting short the pleasantries, the old man would start prying.

“How’re things these days?”

“I’m managing. Please don’t worry on my account. I’m terribly sorry you had to come all the way out to this dirty old apartment. Really, my granddaughter’s come to stay with me, and we’re having a good time watching our pennies and keeping things simple. Sure, we have our disagreements—she’s a high school student and I’m a tottering old fool; what would you expect? But we’re getting along fine.”

“Your grandchild, you say? Well, you don’t look much alike, do you? I wanted to ask you about her but then I thought—well, what if she’s your young mistress? I’d be pretty embarrassed if that were the case, and I didn’t want to be caught prying….”

The old man’s tone was brisk and insinuating. He and my grandfather laughed together. “Eee-hee-hee-hee!”

So that’s it, then? I get my laughter from my grandfather? Grandfather’s speaking voice was high-pitched, but his laugh was surprisingly low, even a bit lewd. My grandfather quickly lowered his voice.

“No, no, she’s my daughter’s child. Her father’s a foreigner, you see.”

“Ah, an American?”

“No. European. My granddaughter’s fluent in German and French and all sorts of other languages, but she decided she wanted her education to be in Japanese. She said she was Japanese, and she intended to study in Japanese and reach her adulthood in Japan. So she insisted on staying behind when her family left. My son-in-law is with the Swiss Foreign Ministry. That’s right, he’s second only to the ambassador. Such a fine son-in-law he is, what a pity he can’t speak a word of Japanese. Still, he says he can communicate through signs and telepathy. It’s real, you know, telepathy. My son-in-law knows exactly what I’m thinking. Why, just the other day he sent me two watches from Switzerland. They’re the product of inspiration, you see. Do you know the derivation for this word inspiration? The ideographs for it are written this way.”

I bit back my laughter as I listened to my grandfather’s lies.

The visitor sighed. “No, I don’t believe I’m familiar with the derivation.”

“I suppose you could say it’s derived from a reference to that which is animated by divine or supernatural influence—a combination of elegance and strength.”

“Well, then, it’s a very good word, isn’t it? But tell me about your granddaughter’s family. Where are they now?”

“The fact is, the Swiss government sent for my son-in-law and his family and brought them back to Switzerland.”

“Very impressive.”

“No, not really. A job with the United Nations or with a bank would be even more prestigious, you know.”

“Well, this news sets my mind at ease—at least for the time being. I’d heard that you’d started doing odd jobs, but I trust you’ll behave yourself. You’re not going to start swindling people again, are you? You have your granddaughter to think of now.”

“No, no, no chance of that. I’ve mended my ways. Just look around you. Not a bonsai in sight. No, I’ll never touch another bonsai again.”

Grandfather spoke with great contrition. When I heard this I realized that in the past Grandfather must have used bonsai in some kind of scam and the older gentleman must be some kind of probation officer. He visited Grandfather once a month to ensure he wasn’t resorting to his old tricks, whatever they had been.

Now that I look back on it, I realize that Grandfather was out on parole and the presence of a studious high-school-age granddaughter in his household must have helped make him seem more trustworthy in the eyes of this monitor. My grandfather wanted to hoodwink his probation officer, and I wanted to stay in Japan. We needed each other to accomplish our goals, so in a way we were partners in crime. To top it off, I was able to talk to my grandfather about all of Yuriko’s shortcomings. These were truly the happiest days of my life.

I unexpectedly crossed paths with the probation officer shortly after that Sunday. It was during the spring Golden Week holidays, and I was on my way back from the grocery store on my bicycle. A sightseeing bus was stopped alongside an old landed estate, and the gentleman I’d seen at Grandfather’s house was waving good-bye to the passengers as they boarded. Each one was elderly, and each clutched a bonsai with a look of great satisfaction. My eye was drawn to the sign hanging nearby: garden of longevity. So this is where they cultivated bonsai? I gazed at the sign, my interest captivated by the sight of the little trees. When the bus pulled away, the old man noticed me.

“Oh, what a stroke of luck to run into you here,” he said. “Actually, I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

I got down from my bike and bowed politely. Glancing at the estate through the roofed gateway—which was as imposing as one you might see at the entrance to a temple—I glimpsed a magnificent house constructed in the understated elegance of the rustic sukiya style. Next to the house was a lovely teahouse. There was also a vinyl-paned greenhouse on the grounds, where a number of young men inside watered plants with hoses and turned up the soil. It was hardly a nursery; the Garden of Longevity had more the look of a well-kept park. The buildings, the grounds: all were sumptuous. Even I could tell that they were the result of a lavish outlay of money. The probation officer, with his crisp navy-blue apron strapped over his shirt and necktie, looked somewhat out of place, like the town mayor dressed for a day of pottery. He had traded his earlier dark-rimmed glasses for a pair of dark-green sunglasses in light tortoiseshell frames.

The officer began to grill me about my family. I assumed he was trying to verify my grandfather’s story. Had my parents really moved to Switzerland? he inquired, a tinge of worry in his voice. I assured him that they had.

“What does your grandfather do all day?”

“He seems quite busy with his handyman jobs.”

That was the truth. For whatever reason, after I arrived my grandfather was inundated with requests from the neighbors.

“Well, that’s good to hear. What kind of jobs is he doing?”

“Oh, he gets rid of the dead stray cats people find, looks after places while the residents are away, waters plants: that kind of thing.”

“Well, so long as your grandfather doesn’t fool with bonsai I have no complaint. He doesn’t know a thing about bonsai and has no business pretending he does. He stole pots from others, you know, and then sold them as his own. Some he bought cheap at the night market and then turned around and sold them for exorbitant prices. He stirred up a lot of trouble and bilked a lot of people out of well over fifty million yen.”

I rather suspected that those bilked out of their money were somehow connected to the probation officer. He was most likely a bonsai cultivator himself, or at least an employee at this estate. And it was probably from here that my grandfather had stolen the bonsai. Maybe he started out negotiating with the estate to broker their bonsai and then ended up bilking them of their money. This old man had probably been assigned to keep an eye on my grandfather, to be sure he didn’t get involved with bonsai again. It was likely that he was going to keep watching him for a long time to come. I felt sorry for Grandfather.

Hundreds of bonsai were lined up with careful precision along thick wooden planks throughout the estate grounds. Among them was a large pine that resembled the tree my grandfather prized so dearly. In my estimation, it was much too impressive and expensive even to begin to compare to the one my grandfather had.

“I’m sorry to ask, but does my grandfather really know nothing of bonsai?”

“He’s a rogue amateur.” The probation officer snorted with contempt, his genial expression suddenly darkening.

“But if my grandfather tricked people, they must have been extremely wealthy.”

I was thinking that if there were people who were so rich they were susceptible to my grandfather’s scheme, their lack of appreciation for the bonsai he adored must have made him blind with anger. I could hardly imagine that people would actually be willing to spend so much on a single bonsai; it seemed to me that the swindled were worse than the swindler. Of course, the probation officer didn’t see it that way. He was furiously poking his hand though the air around him.

“Plenty of people in this area got rich off the compensation money paid when they lost their fishing grounds. This whole area used to be under the ocean, you know.”

“Under the ocean?” I gasped in spite of myself, completely forgetting the bonsai. I suddenly realized that the love that had been ignited between my mother and father, and the energy it had generated, dissipated the moment conception took place. The new life-form that was to become me ought to have been released then and there into the sea that opened up between them. I’d thought that for a long time. And now at last I had found my release in this new life that I shared with my grandfather, a life that was the sea itself. My decision to live with my grandfather in his tiny pomade-permeated apartment, the fact that I had to listen to his ceaseless chatter and live in a room surrounded by bonsai, was for me the sea, the very sea itself. This coincidental congruence made me happy, and that’s what led me to decide to stay in the area.

When I got home, I told Grandfather about meeting the probation officer at the Garden of Longevity. Surprised, my grandfather began to question me.

“What did he say about me?”

“That you were a bonsai amateur.”

“Shit!” my grandfather growled. “That bastard doesn’t know shit! That ‘true oak’ of his that won the Ward Prize was a joke. Ha! Just thinking of it makes me want to bust a gut! Anybody can throw money around and buy a good tree. Let him boast about his five million yen. You just look, he doesn’t know about inspiration.”

From that day on my grandfather spent the entire day on the veranda talking to his bonsai.

I didn’t learn this until later, but the probation officer used to work for the ward office. He took a position as a guide at the Garden of Longevity, when he retired, and volunteered to monitor my grandfather’s probation. He’s dead now. As soon as he died, my grandfather and I felt as if a huge boulder had been lifted off our heads.

My grandfather? He’s still alive, but he’s a senile old man who sleeps most of the day. He has no idea who I am. I change his diapers and work like crazy to look after him, but he just points at me and asks me who I am. Occasionally he’ll call my mother’s name, and say things like, “Better do your homework or you’ll end up a thief!” Each time I’m tempted to respond, “Yeah, well, look who’s talking! You’re the one who turned out to be the thief.” As long as grandfather is alive, I can continue to live in his government-sponsored apartment, so I can’t come down on him too hard.

Oh, yes, I want my grandfather to live a long and frugal life. It seems the word inspiration has completely evaporated from his brain. I wore myself out two years ago trying to take care of him, so I had to put him in the ward-managed Misosazai Nursing Home.

My grandfather really did work as a handyman, and I did more than just answer the phone for him. When I could I was happy to help him with his jobs. I really enjoyed it, especially since I hadn’t had a lot of contact with people until then. Hardly anyone came to visit us when I was little. My father preferred to associate with people from his own country, but even then he rarely included his family. My mother didn’t associate with others in the neighborhood. She didn’t have a single friend. She never came to meet our teachers or sit in on our classes. Needless to say, she didn’t belong to the Parent-Student Association. That’s the kind of family I had.

I never thought Yuriko would return to Japan and ruin everything. But four months after moving to Switzerland, my mother committed suicide. Before she died I’d gotten a number of letters from her, but I hadn’t sent her a single note in return. That’s right. Not one.

I have a few of her letters still with me and will be happy to show them to you. As much as I read them, I never imagined she’d commit suicide. That’s because I never dreamed Mother had such a hidden store of pain. Until she actually chose suicide, I never even noticed that she wanted to bid this world farewell. But what really surprised me was that Mother had the courage to take her own life.

How are you? The three of us are well. How are you getting along with your grandfather? He’s much more decisive than me, so I suspect the two of you are hitting it off. I wanted to let you know, though, that you don’t have to give Grandfather a single yen more than the ¥40,000 that we’ve promised to pay each month. You have to take care of things at your end and can’t rely on us. But I’m transferring a small sum to your bank account. This is to be your own spending money, so keep it secret from your grandfather. And if he manages to wheedle a loan out of you, be sure to get him to write out a promissory note. These are your father’s instructions that I’m passing along.

By the way, how’s your schoolwork? I can’t believe you made it into such an elite high school! I brag about you whenever I run into another Japanese person here. And although Yuriko has yet to say anything, I’m sure she is furious with jealousy. Please keep up your studies; it’s great incentive for Yuriko! You can always better her with your brains.

I suppose the cherry blossoms have all but fallen in Japan. I miss the Yoshino cherries. They must have been so beautiful when the blossoms were at their peak. I’ve not seen any cherry trees in Bern. I’m sure they must be blooming somewhere, so the next chance I get, I’m going to ask a member of the Japanese Citizens Association. Though your father isn’t really keen on my joining the Japanese Citizens Association—or the Japanese Women’s Group, for that matter.

It’s still cold here: you can’t go out without a coat. The wind off the Aare River is chilly, and the cold so bitter it makes me lonely. I’m wearing the beige coat that we bought on sale at the Odaky Department Store. I’m sure you remember. It’s really too light for this weather, but I’m constantly getting compliments on it. Some people even ask me where I bought it. The people here really dress well. They carry themselves properly and always seem dignified.

Bern is as pretty as a fairy tale but it’s much smaller than I had imagined, and this really surprised me at first. I was also surprised to find people from so many different countries living here. When we first arrived I walked through the streets amazed at everything I saw, but lately I’ve grown a little tired of it. Most of our money is going toward your allowance and school fees, so we can’t really buy anything and have to live as frugally as possible. Yuriko is angry and claims it’s all because you got to stay behind in Japan. But don’t worry about it. You’ve got to rely on your brains to get ahead.

Our house is in a new area of the city. Karl’s hosiery factory is one building over. Across from us is a building with tiny apartments, and alongside that is an empty lot. Your father’s pleased because we are within the city limits, but it feels like we’re on the outskirts to me. If I bring it up, however, it makes your father furious. Wherever you go in Bern the streets are orderly, and all you find are tall people speaking an incomprehensible language. Moreover, everyone is really aggressive. This has been quite a lesson for me.

Just the other day I had this experience. I’m always careful to obey the traffic signals when I cross the street, but still you have to watch for turning vehicles. As I was crossing, a car came so close to hitting me that the hem of my coat was caught on the bumper and the lining tore slightly. The woman who was driving stopped and got out of the car. I thought she was coming to apologize but she started yelling at me instead. I didn’t understand what she was saying, but she kept pointing at my coat and railing on and on. Maybe she was saying it was my fault for trying to cross the street with my coat flapping open! I told her I was sorry for the trouble I had caused and went home. When I told your father about it that night he was furious with me. “You should never admit to being in the wrong!” he said. “The minute you do, you’ve lost the battle. You should have at least gotten money to mend your coat!” That’s when it dawned on me that your father’s refusal to accept blame comes from living in this country, and so this too has been a lesson.

Three months have passed since we got here. All the furniture we shipped has finally arrived, and this has offered me a bit of relief. But the furnishings don’t really suit the modern apartment we have. Your father is out of sorts about it. “We ought to have just bought furniture here!” he complains. “This Japanese furniture is worthless.” I tell him there’s no way he can get money for new furniture, so he should just stop going on about it. But then he gets even angrier and says we ought to have discussed it beforehand. I think your father’s gradually reverting to his old self. He’s always angry. Now that he’s back in his own country, he’s even more concerned about doing things the right way, and he gets aggravated by all the mistakes I make.

Recently he and Yuriko have been going out together a lot without me. This seems to make Yuriko very happy. She gets along well with Karl’s oldest son (he also works in your uncle’s factory) and they spend a lot of time together.

I was really surprised to find how expensive everything is here. Much higher than I expected. If we eat out it costs more than ¥2,000 a person, and the food isn’t even that good. Something as basic as natt, the fermented soybeans that I like, costs as much as ¥650! Can you believe it? Your father says it’s due to tariffs. But it seems the people here all have very good salaries.

On another note, your father’s new job does not seem to have taken off quite as he hoped. I don’t know if it’s because he’s not getting along with the other employees or if your uncle Karl’s business isn’t very sound at the moment, or what. But he sulks around the house as soon as he gets home, and when I ask him about his work he won’t answer. If you were here with us I suspect the two of you would be fighting all the time. So it’s good that you are where you are. Yuriko pretends that she doesn’t notice anything.

The other day we went to your uncle Karl’s for a visit. I made a plate of chirashi-zushi, a chilled rice dish, to take along. Karl’s wife, Yvonne, is French. They have two children. There’s the son who works in the factory. He’s twenty, and his name is Henri. Then they have a daughter in high school. They told me her name, but I’ve forgotten it. She looks just like Yvonne. She has light blond hair and a beakish nose. She’s fat and not pretty at all. When Yvonne and Karl saw Yuriko, they were shocked. Karl said something like, “So, if you marry an Oriental you can have pretty daughters like this?” Yvonne just looked sulky.

That reminds me. Whenever your father and I go out for walks with Yuriko, we get strange reactions. The people we meet in the park stare at us with curiosity, every one of them. Finally someone asked us what country we adopted Yuriko from. There are people here from all kinds of other countries, and apparently adoption is quite popular. When I tell them that Yuriko is my own child, they don’t seem to believe me. I guess they can’t accept that a shabby-looking Oriental like me could ever produce a beauty like Yuriko, and the thought makes them very angry. “You’re overreacting!” your father will tell me. But I can’t help it. That’s what I believe. I think they just can’t accept that a member of the yellow race could give birth to something so perfect. It gives me some satisfaction to be able to say, No, Yuriko is not adopted. I gave birth to her myself.

Please write and tell me how you are. Your father needs to send you an update as well. Please give my best to Grandfather.