Swallows, page 5
“What should we do?”
“What can we do?”
Mathieu had fallen asleep on Chimiko’s lap.
“If I had a child, the inheritance could be divided in half.”
“Of course. If anything, I’d like to leave it all to the child.”
Chimiko probably disliked the idea that Yuko would inherit her money, but there was nothing she could do about that. Motoi couldn’t afford to get divorced again, especially since his marriage to Yuko had damaged his reputation so badly. Maybe that was why their relationship felt so strained.
“I’ll talk to her again about the donor and surrogate options.”
Motoi wasn’t confident they’d have success with those, either. But there was no other recourse if they wanted to have their own kids.
“We’ll just have to make sure Yuko understands where we’re coming from.”
“But egg donation and surrogate mothers cost a lot of money, too.”
“How much?”
“They say around twenty million yen.”
Chimiko shrugged. “I’ll cover it. A grandchild is priceless.”
Then all that was left to do was convince Yuko. Motoi renewed his resolve.
“Yuko isn’t really the ballet type anyway,” Chimiko added in a whisper.
She meant that Yuko wasn’t genetically, physically, or intellectually inclined toward ballet. Motoi realized that it wasn’t just because of the inheritance that Chimiko didn’t like Yuko, but also because of her genes. Chimiko herself had given birth to the thoroughbred Motoi, and she didn’t like that Motoi had divorced his ex-wife, a ballet dancer.
“Well, we’d have the same issue even with a surrogate mother,” Motoi said, coming to his wife’s defense. But now, suddenly, having realized the real reason for Chimiko’s chilliness toward Yuko, he felt depressed.
1.4
In the image, a man was pressing down an adolescent girl’s pale stomach with both hands. She was about the size of a doll. Little fish eggs rolled out of her vagina onto a bowl of steaming white rice. She looked like a jar of furikake in the shape of a girl, but she was full of fish eggs, not furikake. The man’s rough hands looked quite realistic, as though he might pick up a pair of chopsticks at any moment and start shoveling the ikura rice into his mouth.
When Yuko first saw the illustration, she was captivated by the countless glittering beads of orange fish eggs. It wasn’t pornography, humor, or beauty that the image communicated, but something much more basic: the reminder that the same kind of eggs we eat also exist inside a woman’s body. It was uncomfortable to look at.
Her own eggs probably had none of the shiny, lustrous quality of the ikura in this picture. They had probably shriveled up a long time ago, settled in some corner of her body like sediment, and disappeared. When she was told she was infertile because her eggs were too old, Yuko was finally forced to accept the fact that she had aged.
But she barely had any signs of aging. Her skin was still taut and beautiful, and she didn’t have a single wrinkle on her face. Recently, the corners of her eyes, which naturally sloped down anyway, seemed to have gotten a little kinder-looking, but that was all. She had always been told she looked younger than she was, so she felt ashamed when she realized her time as a woman had come to an end.
“We should have frozen your eggs right after we got married,” Motoi said. It was easy to say in retrospect. Until she’d started fertility treatments, both Yuko and Motoi had no idea that freezing eggs was even a possibility. And even if they had they probably wouldn’t have gone through with it anyway. They had taken it for granted that Yuko would get pregnant if they just continued having sex. That had been immature thinking on their part.
Say, for example, that there was a young woman who was diagnosed with cancer. And that chemotherapy treatments might make her infertile. In that case, she would be entitled to a procedure to freeze her eggs in advance of the chemo treatment. They would call it “medical egg-freezing.”
But Yuko had heard that recently more and more women, even perfectly normal, healthy ones, were choosing to freeze their eggs: women who wanted to put off having kids until their careers were less intense, women who didn’t have a partner but might want children later in life. This was called “social egg-freezing.”
Female employees at Apple, Facebook, and other large IT companies even received subsidies to freeze their eggs. Yuko had been surprised to hear that this kind of “social egg-freezing” was completely normal in America.
Should Yuko, who had gotten married to Motoi at thirty-six, have had the foresight to go through with “social egg-freezing” before she turned thirty-five (or, ideally, before she turned thirty)? Having kids had been the last thing on her mind back then. She hadn’t even expected to find a partner and get married. She’d been resigned to the idea that she would just live a single, childless life.
She had numerous miscarriages after she got married. She’d tried IVF, but that only led to more miscarriages. She’d been told she might be infertile, that her eggs were too old, that getting pregnant was almost impossible. Though they’d tried IVF many more times after that, she never did manage to carry a child. Motoi was healthy—which obviously meant that she was the problem.
Eventually, Yuko accepted that they wouldn’t be having kids. There was nothing they could do.
They couldn’t have everything, and besides, plenty of couples were childless. Some wanted kids but couldn’t have them, and others intentionally chose not to. And they were the ones that seemed happiest. Of course, if one of them were to die, the other would have to live alone, and that would be sad and certainly lonely. But wasn’t it also important to face the fact that, ultimately, we all die alone?
The younger of Yuko’s two brothers, Noriyuki, was thirty-eight and single, and lived with their parents. Though he claimed to be a manga artist, she’d never actually seen his work, or heard of him selling any of it. Basically, he was just a middle-aged man who liked manga—a hikikomori.
Noriyuki would probably never get married or have kids. He rarely left the house and lived off the little money their parents gave him. When they died, he would have no choice but to live alone. Yuko had come to accept that this was Noriyuki’s fate.
Perhaps the average person, including Motoi and Chimiko, would blame Noriyuki for not trying hard enough. But it wasn’t Noriyuki’s fault. Some people were never rewarded, even if they worked hard, and some simply couldn’t work for whatever reason.
Yuko had come to accept that there were many kinds of people in the world—having a brother like Noriyuki had taught her that. But for Motoi, an only child from a small family, this was impossible to understand.
Noriyuki had attended Yuko’s wedding, determined to show his face despite his anxiety. The suit their mother had bought him was so tight the buttons wouldn’t fasten, and his necktie was tied incorrectly. He was pale and fat and looked extremely unhealthy. Yuko was happy and grateful that he’d come, knowing he’d had to overcome his fear of being in public. But Motoi and Chimiko were appalled.
Motoi seemed unwilling even to acknowledge Noriyuki as his brother-in-law. He’d disciplined his own body, cultivated his character through diligence, beat out other dancers in intense competitions. To Motoi, Noriyuki’s flabby flesh must have seemed like a reflection of its owner’s weak, undisciplined mind.
“Your brother should really go to the gym or something,” Motoi had whispered when Yuko introduced them. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt her brother to go to the gym. But she didn’t know how to make Motoi understand, so she just gave a forced smile. Noriyuki saw Motoi’s expression and intuited what he’d said. He kept his eyes lowered the rest of the time.
Yuko regretted not explaining to Motoi in that moment that Noriyuki was more sensitive than most people. It wasn’t because he was lazy that it was hard for him to go out in public, but because he was so affected by other people’s reactions. She’d been surprised by Motoi’s insensitivity. Perhaps that had been the beginning of the tension between them.
Motoi had become a ballet dancer under his parents’ guidance, just as they’d wanted. He had perfected his technique, practiced diligently every day, and restricted his food intake. He believed in hard work. Or, rather, he couldn’t not believe in it.
He understood better than anyone how judgmental other people could be—after all, he had to be aware of his audience at all times. That’s why he tried so hard to give a good impression. Successful people usually believe that their success is due to hard work.
Yuko hadn’t noticed all of this when she was first falling in love with Motoi. It was only after they’d gotten married and moved in together that she started to feel something shift between them.
Recently, Motoi had begun saying that he wanted to have kids again. He was strangely adamant about it, even though Yuko had long given up on the idea; in fact, they’d both agreed to abandon it. But now he insisted that it was still possible. He’d been researching all kinds of procedures on the internet, even forwarding her brochures from American agencies.
He said that they’d need to create a fertilized egg from Motoi’s sperm and some other woman’s eggs, which would then develop inside the uterus of another woman. So Yuko wouldn’t be involved in the process at all. Did Motoi suppose that he and Yuko would raise the child as their own even though Yuko wasn’t biologically related to it?
It didn’t make sense to her. But the more she felt ready to give up on having kids, the stronger Motoi’s desire to have them seemed to grow. They were increasingly at odds.
When she asked him why he wanted to have a child so badly, he’d say things like “So we can have our own family” or “So that I can pass on the Kusaoke family name.”
But Yuko knew the real reason. Motoi, who had reached the pinnacle of his ballet career through tenacity and persistence, wanted a child so that he could pass on his own genes. And he believed that, if he just tried hard enough, anything was possible.
Yuko had another brother, Masayuki, who was a year younger than her and worked at a family restaurant chain. He’d met a woman named Nao, who frequented the restaurant in Hiratsuka where he was a manager and eventually they got married.
Nao was a bit younger than Masayuki, and had just turned thirty-eight. She dyed her hair blond and dressed like a TV personality—her fashion sense wasn’t the best. But Yuko liked her candid sister-in-law and talked to her often. They texted each other all the time.
Yuko remembered how Motoi had recoiled when Masayuki and Nao showed up at their wedding. Nao was thirty at the time, but had straight-cut bangs and wore a short dress that made her look like a teenager. Motoi must have found Nao’s appearance off-putting, especially after seeing Noriyuki.
Masayuki and Nao had two daughters. The older one was in second grade; the younger one, who was four, had been diagnosed with delayed language development last year, during a routine health exam.
In other words, one of Yuko’s brothers was a recluse, and the other one had a daughter with a mental disability. Which was why she could accept that no family was perfect, and that it wasn’t the end of the world if a couple couldn’t have kids.
But for Motoi, the thoroughbred son who had come from a long line of illustrious ballet dancers, accumulating success after success, this was unacceptable.
Thinking about all of this made Yuko feel on edge. She wondered whether the two of them might not be compatible after all.
But she didn’t want to let go of her marriage. After all, she was the one who’d had an affair with Motoi and caused him to divorce his wife. That was her only point of pride as an outsider to the ballet world. She was sure people had done their fair share of gossiping, but at the end of the day, Motoi had chosen her.
When asked why she was attracted to him all Yuko could say was that she had been a die-hard fan of his. Even now, when she looked at his chiseled physique, she was moved by how beautiful his body was.
Motoi, on the other hand, preferred women whose bodies had some fat on them, and were not ballet-trained. They each wanted what they didn’t have—they were compatible that way.
But Yuko was well aware that Motoi sometimes looked at his ex-wife’s Facebook and Instagram. She did, too, sometimes. His ex-wife seemed to live a life of picture-perfect happiness.
Her new husband was a kind-looking man from Denmark, also a ballet dancer. They had two adorable, mixed-race children. Perhaps for Motoi, who had hurt her so deeply, it was reassuring to see her as a successful ballerina, living a fulfilling life. At the same time, maybe it made him feel his current life was lacking something. Yuko herself, however, felt that it had more to do with the woman’s pride.
She updated her Facebook every few days, like clockwork. According to her latest post, her husband had thrown her a party for her forty-first birthday.
There was a photo of her at a restaurant in a black dress, her cheek pressed to her husband’s, both of them raising champagne glasses. Her elegant necklace complimented her long, slender ballerina neck.
As she stared at the steel entryway of her studio, Yuko remembered how the ex-wife had once shown up here unannounced.
Visitors had to press the intercom to enter, and the person inside could see their image on the screen before unlocking the main entrance to the building. But that day, the woman had simply appeared outside the door to her studio.
Yuko had picked up the intercom, the monitor was blank. “Hello? Hello?” she’d called. Then, after a moment, she’d heard a tentative knock on the door. She realized then that the person had somehow bypassed the main gate. She thought maybe it was the owner of the apartment building or a housing contractor for one of the other apartments in the building. But when she opened the door, it was Motoi’s ex-wife.
It was raining that day. She was wearing a black raincoat that looked more like a trench coat; water was dripping from her plastic umbrella. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and Yuko noticed her straggly hair. Perhaps it was the lighting in the hallway that day, but she looked especially pale. For a moment, Yuko didn’t know who she was, though her face looked familiar.
“Hello, I’m Mrs. Kusaoke.”
“Ah, yes, Kana Kusaoke,” Yuko had replied. She wasn’t sure why she’d said the woman’s full name. “Would you like to come in?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine where I am,” Motoi’s ex-wife had said, shaking her head as she cast a glance into the cramped, one-room space.
Yuko followed the woman’s gaze. As she turned around, she saw her own desk, littered with papers, a mug of cold coffee, wads of used tissues. An online shopping site was open on her computer. This was a snapshot of what her office looked like when she was feeling lazy. She’d been playing music at full blast that day, though she couldn’t remember which CD she was listening to.
Motoi’s ex-wife observed the room for a moment before speaking.
“You know who I am, but I didn’t know who you were. I thought that was unfair, so I came to see what you looked like. To be honest, I have no idea why Motoi would be attracted to someone like you. Ballet people are usually drawn to other ballet people. It’s a small world. But I’m sure you have your good traits. Even if I can’t see them.”
Then, with a slight bow she excused herself, turned on her heel, and left.
Yuko never told Motoi about the visit—maybe because she had seemed to look down on Yuko, or because Motoi complained endlessly about how difficult it was to divorce her. He was the one who had betrayed her, yet it was clear his ex-wife had washed her hands of the whole situation a long time ago.
Yuko wasn’t sure why the incident stayed with her. She hadn’t shed any tears over it, but the woman had definitely given her a taste of her rage, and her cold condescension had sent Yuko into a depression for a while.
The intercom rang. What were the chances, just as she was thinking about Motoi’s ex-wife? Yuko looked at the monitor apprehensively.
Her friend Ririko Terao was waving to her from inside the screen. She was wearing a strange-looking beret, though Yuko couldn’t tell what color since the monitor showed only black and white.
She suddenly remembered that Ririko had texted her this morning, asking if she could stop by after running some errands. Yuko hastily closed Facebook. She couldn’t believe how late it was already.
“Sorry to bother you. Can I come in?” Ririko asked through the intercom. She sounded grumpy.
“No worries, come on up.”
Ririko was Yuko’s friend from art school, a painter who came from a family of traditional Japanese painters. She did almost no commercial work besides the solo exhibit she held once a year at a gallery in Harajuku. The reason she could live off of painting alone was that her family managed a hospital, and so had plenty of money. Ririko was single, and didn’t have kids or a partner.
“Come in, come in.”
Yuko opened the steel door for her. Ririko was thin, and she slipped inside effortlessly. Her beret, it turned out, was bright red. It looked good against her black hair. She was wearing a black blouse, black skirt, black socks—a completely black outfit. She wore no makeup at all, and looked somewhat witchlike with her pencil-thin eyebrows and slightly puffy eyelids.
“Sorry to interrupt you. I won’t stay long,” Ririko said as she walked into the room, holding a box of what looked to be desserts. She handed it to Yuko, then glanced at the galleys on her desk.
“What are these?”
“It’s for an author who asked me to do the illustrations for a bound copy,” Yuko replied. The author had found her in the directory of illustrators and ended up liking her work. In fact, he’d requested to work with her specifically, so Yuko wanted to come up with a really good concept for the drawings, but nothing was coming to her.
