Ayumi nodded as if she understood, but suddenly stopped the truck and pushed the clutch into reverse, the wheels spinning loudly on the wet dirt.
“I missed the road,” she said. “It’s so hard to see between these trees at night.” Ayumi drove fast down the narrow road but pulled up when they could just make out a light in the distance. “That’s the Moris’ house there,” she said, pointing. “If you don’t mind, I’ll let you out here and help you with your bags. We had rain yesterday and Mr. Mori isn’t known for keeping his road . . . well, I’ll let you out here.”
The two women got out of the truck and between them hauled Emi’s large suitcases the rest of the way. Their shoes and pant legs were covered in mud by the time they reached the house, where the only visible light was a single lantern sitting on the front step.
“I’ll go now,” said Ayumi, backing away. “Let you three get acquainted.”
Emi thanked Ayumi repeatedly as she headed down the road, bowing at her before she disappeared into the wooded darkness. She turned and looked at the house, which was two stories high, but much smaller than Emi’s family’s house in Tokyo. It had large sliding windows, which was nice for a summer house but not, she imagined, ideal in winter. The entire structure was covered in stacked, stained wood tiles, and its pointed, clay roof, layered in waved shingles, gave it a more European look than many of the houses in Tokyo.
Emi looked down at her feet, which were wet and growing cold. The bottoms of both her suitcases were covered in mud, too, as neither she nor Ayumi had been strong enough to lift them very high. She stood there and wished that her amah or her mother and father were with her.
She knocked on the door and waited. After a minute, she tried again, but still no one came. When she had knocked for almost five minutes, she reached for the handle and was relieved to find it open. She made her way inside and looked at the narrow staircase off to the right of the entry. Struggling to find a light first near the stairs, then in the living room, she almost tripped over a body on the floor, right in front of the fireplace, which held the last glowing embers of an evening fire. Emi looked down and saw, in the very dim light, that there were two bodies hidden under piles of blankets on two futons in front of the fireplace. They were as close to it as possible without being in it. She could make out the bodies only slightly, seeing a small protuberance under each blanket. She looked for the top of their heads, and soon realized that both the Moris’ hair was covered by zukin, a thick fireproof hood that many now owned and Emi assumed was imperative if one slept with their head nearly in a fire.
Emi bent down, feeling very disrespectful, but having no other choice, and whispered, “Excuse me . . .” When neither husband nor wife moved, she cleared her throat, kneeled beside them, and spoke loudly. “Excuse me!” she nearly shouted, standing up quickly so that she would not be on eye level with her hosts when they awoke.
Both roused, Emi stepped back and explained, before they stood up, who she was.
“Emiko Kato, of course,” said Jiro Mori in a deep, sleep-filled voice. He removed four blankets and stood slowly. “I’m terribly embarrassed,” he said, bowing. “We must not have woken in time to pick you up at the train station. Yuka,” he added turning to his wife. “Were you not to rouse me when it was time to drive to the station to fetch Emiko?”
Emi was shocked at the sight of Mr. Mori. Not because he was in his sleeping clothes—he was far too bundled up to make anyone feel embarrassed—but because he was very old, much older than Emi had guessed from the way her parents had spoken about him, and frighteningly thin. Even though she couldn’t make out the lines of his body, she could tell from his hollow face that he was gaunt everywhere. Emi had expected a distinguished gentleman, in good health, and just past retirement age. Someone very much like her father. Instead, the man standing before her, his head covered by the thick zukin, looked like he would be lucky to squeeze a few more months out of life.
Looking flustered, Mrs. Mori stood, too, similarly outfitted, and gazed at Emi like she was a ghost.
“How awful of us,” she finally said, bowing to her guest, who bowed back much deeper. “I was to stay awake until your train arrived, but it seems sleep got the best of me. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Nonsense,” said Emi. “I should have taken an earlier train. It was rude of me not to think of the time.”
“You must be hungry,” said Mrs. Mori, stepping away from her futon and putting her hand on Emi’s. Despite all her layers and the presence of a just extinguished fire, her hands were stiff and cold. “I’m afraid we don’t have very much—we are at the end of our monthly rations—but there is some cold rice and fresh watercress.”
“Oh, no,” said Emi, ignoring the hunger pain in her stomach as Mrs. Mori switched on a light. Emi turned around and took the onigiris that she had bought during the train journey out of her bag and offered them to her hosts. “I have some food with me. Please,” she said, handing one each to them, the last she had. “You must be hungrier than I am.”
“Is this fish inside?” said Yuka, holding the paper-wrapped onigiri to her face.
“Salmon,” said Emi as Mr. Mori started to smile.
“Salmon!” he said laughing, until his shoulders started jumping. “Where did you find these? In Tokyo?”
“Not far from,” said Emi, thinking about her train journey. “Don’t you . . . is there no fish here?” she asked.
“Not salmon,” said Mrs. Mori. She bit hungrily into the onigiri. “But let’s not worry about that now. If you aren’t hungry, you must be very tired,” she said. “I will show you the washroom upstairs and Jiro will set up your futon by the fire. Or what’s left of it.”
Emi couldn’t hide her surprise and Mrs. Mori revised her statement. “There are bedrooms upstairs—private rooms—but it is very cold and you might be more comfortable downstairs with us.”
“If you don’t mind—perhaps just for tonight—I would like to sleep upstairs,” Emi said, thinking that the only people she had ever been forced to share a room with were her mother and the Kuriyamas, and that was the American government’s doing.
“Whatever will make you the most comfortable,” said Mrs. Mori, finally untying her zukin. She started to walk up the stairs, very slowly, almost folded in half as she held on to the railing and made the short climb. Emi took one of her suitcases and followed the elderly woman up, one hand out in case she had to break her fall.