Rainy Mornings

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· To Shiho

It has been a long time since Donald returned from Japan. On rainy mornings, he still thought of the sky of Yamashita park reflected over Yokohama Bay. It was often cloudy and dark in his dreams. Yet, as he recollected carefully, Yokohama was usually sunny, and bright.

He was happy there in Japan, even he didn’t have anything. Back home, in Dublin, there was always the large, old house his parents had left for him. It was left empty all year round. His career as a reporter kept him out of Ireland most of the time. He could have rented it out, but he couldn’t bear the thought of a stranger in the main living room, where he used to read as a child; and mother’s piano - How could he imagine anybody sitting there but her, playing tenderly in his childhood’s reveries.

In Yokohama, he lived in a tiny 27-square meter apartment. The massive white bed stared at him whenever he opened the door. Disappeared in the dark corner was the kitchen, and the sink. Sometimes he didn’t think they were there at all. Through the little opening of the sliding glass door, he could see a small patch of blue sky amidst cramped skyscrapers. Yes, it was always sunny in Yokohama, even in his loneliest days.

In his dreams, when it rained in Japan, it was always at night. Maybe he always wanted to remember the mornings there as bright and sunny. On so many of such nights, he had walked home from Kannai station. The mobile phone in his brief case had ring, and her voice had come across cheerful, brilliantly clear. He let the reflections of neon lights upon the wet pavements guide him home. The narrow street of Isezaki-Cho shopping mall was deserted, but it embraced him warmly.

She spoke to him in broken English. Her voice sounded like a child’s. She spoke of the injustice that had happened to her daily life. Every of her words dripped into Donald’s world like autumn leaves falling into a quiet, still pond. He loved that kittenish voice, the way she said “Crazy!” when she described the mistreatment she received. One time Donald had giggled, and she had felt offended as if he didn’t take her story seriously. How could he take her misfortune seriously when he was too much in love with her voice. Her stories had scrolled across like a novel, as if he had watched a sad movie, and had fallen in love with the leading female character.

Donald had tried very hard not to fall victim to infatuation. He knew well the symptoms. He was allowed lots of time and space between himself and her. For a long time, his job required him to stay in Europe. He had sent her letters, and postcards from every city he stayed, from Paris, to Geneva. Did he really think of her, or he was just merely bragging about his traveling. Whatever the reason, he was glad he did send her those letters. She had said they gave her hopes in her darkest days after her divorce. She often mentioned about them in later years after she got married. It was almost as if those correspondence were responsible for her being happily remarried. Donald wasn’t sure she meant it that way when he first heard it, but later on, he was glad he did send her those letters, and postcards. She should re-marry any way. That was what she wanted. It seemed to make her happy. Had it been him in Japan all those years instead of the postcards, he might have very possibly been her husband now. They probably both imagined that. But perhaps it is better now that he isn’t, and she is again happily married.

After he met her in Takeshiba Pier, and left Japan, she had met a young Architect student. He had asked her to marry him. It took her by surprise because he was a few years younger than she was, but she accepted. When Donald looked at their Honey Moon picture taken in Hawaii, he saw a tall, handsome man, with a rather reserved, and shy look. But she looked almost like a different woman from the girl he knew. Her eyes gleamed with prospect, and happiness. It was when he saw those eyes that he knew she was miserable all those years before, when he was drifting from St-Michel, to Yokohama.

He didn’t forget those eyes. That brilliance of a child’s pupils. He had stared into those sparkling diamonds across the dinner table for long period of time until she grew anxiously aware. She was always smiling when she saw him staring at her. Why didn’t he ever tell her about what he saw from her eyes? She had disputed that he couldn’t possibly love her because he hardly knew her. But she must know that utterly he loved her! A woman always knows when a man falls in love with her. What was she thinking? Was she happy then? Didn’t she ask herself why he wanted to be there with her? Wasn’t she ever curious of the way he looked at her?

He knew he couldn’t understand her, although he wanted very much to. She had gone on to marry someone who could understand her. Now, when Donald came to think of it, it didn’t matter whether he had understood her or not. He didn’t come back to Japan to understand her. He came back because he wanted to be with her.

She used to wait for him at Funabashi station. He remembered the first time he saw her there waiting for him after he just returned to Japan. It was very cold that night. The station was full of people. It was his first time arriving at Funabashi Station. She stood at the large column supporting the platform, right in front of the automatic gate. A thick, and formal cashmere coat covered her. She was staring intensely at the ground like a frightening but defiant child. Her hair was short. That was one time he always recalled her full figure. Other time he only recalled her eyes, her face. In his memory, she was always the most beautiful when he remembered her at the gate of Funabashi station.

Donald looked outside the windows checking on the rain. He wondered now what time it was in Funabashi; Was it cold; Was it raining there; How many people were there today on the platform; Would there be another young man stumbling down the platform stairs searching through the crowd for the familiar face of a girl he didn’t know he was to fall in love with.

Donald reached out to the window, and pulled the curtains shut. It had gotten dark. Outside, the rain had quietly stopped.

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· California, January 4 1998.