A Dictionary of Mutual Understanding Read Free

press against the lever with a plastic tumbler and watch the chunks of ice clatter down. ‘America,’ he declared that first time, shaking his head in wonder. ‘What will you think of next?’ I had planned to feed him good meat and fresh vegetables but in those last weeks he wanted nothing more than processed food in tins. Macaroni and cheese, SpaghettiOs and corned beef delighted him the most. His last meal before he went into hospital had been vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. He watched me from the kitchen table as I squirted Reddi-wip into the bowl and brought him his dessert. We sat across from each other and heldhands while he ate a few shaky spoonfuls. A drop of cream rested on his unshaven chin. ‘Good?’ I asked. ‘Good,’ he replied. I could not help myself, I leaned forward and wiped the white blob away with my thumb. ‘Let me give you a shave, you look like a wild man.’ He shook his head. ‘My skin hurts.’
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    â€˜I bring you good news.’ Those were the words the man had used. I looked at the white envelope in front of me, the thick paper,
Amaterasu Takahashi
printed in neat black ink. The last time I had seen my name written in kanji was eight years after we left Japan, in a letter sent by my former maid, Misaki Goto. Her daughter was getting married, we were invited, she would be so happy if we could make the journey from America to Nagasaki. I was delighted for her but sent my sincere apologies. I hope she understood why I could not go back. Instead I shipped off a painting of the Rocky Mountains, even though Kenzo and I had never visited. We moved from California to Pennsylvania not long after receiving the invitation and Misaki and I lost touch. I had kept in contact with no one else, which forced me to ask the question: who could be writing to me?
    I glanced up to a picture framed in black wood on the wall. The sun had bleached the figures but you could still see Hideo dressed in his school uniform, standing between his parents, Yuko and Shige. On August 9, every year, Kenzo would bring out his best malt, imported from Scotland, in preparation for the day. We would work our way through the bottle, the peat flavour smoky on our tongues, and my husband would create new stories for our dead grandson. Some years he was a sailor, in othersa lawyer, or sometimes a poet who lived in the mountains. He was handsome and kind and witty. He had a brood of solid children or a mistress from France. His life was joyful and exotic and full of adventure. The man at my door did not fit this movie-house picture. This was not the ending I wanted for any of us. Here was another monster raised from the rubble of Nagasaki. I did not believe him. This envelope could not contain good news and yet still I walked to the cutlery drawer, retrieved a small knife and returned to my chair. The blade slid too easily through the paper. I took out the note, laid it flat on the table and read the signature. Two words rocketed toward me, only two words, but what words: Natsu Sato. The doctor’s wife. Sweat prickled across my body. I walked to the window, and even though the street was empty, I drew down the blinds. I could have thrown Natsu’s letter in the garbage; I could have turned on the TV too loud and drowned out the possibilities of its contents, but instead I sat back in the kitchen chair and began to read.
    To Amaterasu Takahashi,
    Firstly, I must apologise for the shock of this revelation. The man that you have no doubt just met is your grandson, Hideo Watanabe. I can confirm this. You may have little reason to believe me, but I do not lie. Hideo didn’t die that day, he survived. Is that not marvellous to know? But as you will have seen, he was severely wounded during pikadon. So injured in fact that the authorities could not identify him. He was sent away from the city a year after the end of the war to an orphanage for