Sumire looked around. The reception hall was large, but her father was tall, and she easily spotted him. He was sitting two tables away, his face turned sideways, talking with some short, elderly man in a morning coat. His smile was so trusting and warm it would melt a glacier. Under the light of the chandeliers, his handsome nose rose up softly, like a rococo cameo, and even Sumire, who was used to seeing him, was moved by its beauty. Her father truly belonged at this kind of formal gathering. His mere presence lent the place a flamboyant atmosphere. Like cut flowers in a large vase or a jet-black stretch limousine.
*
When she spied Sumire’s father, Miu was speechless. Sumire could hear the intake of breath. Like the sound of a velvet curtain being drawn aside on a peaceful morning to let in the sunlight to wake someone very special to you. Maybe I should have brought a pair of opera glasses, Sumire mused. But she was used to the dramatic reaction her father’s looks brought out in people—especially middle-aged women. What is beauty? What value does it have? Sumire always found it strange. But no one ever answered her. There was just that same immovable effect.
“What’s it like to have such a handsome father?” Miu asked.
“Just out of curiosity.”
Sumire sighed—people could be so predictable. “I can’t say I like it. Everybody thinks the same thing: What a handsome
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man. A real standout. But his daughter, well—she isn’t much to look at, is she? That must be what they mean by atavism, they think.”
Miu turned towards Sumire, pulled her chin in ever so slightly, and gazed at her face, as if she were admiring a painting in an art gallery.
“If that’s how you’ve always felt up till now, you’ve been mistaken,” she said. “You’re lovely. Every bit as much as your father.” She reached out and, quite unaffectedly, lightly touched Sumire’s hand that, lay on the table. “You don’t realize how very attractive you are.”
Sumire’s face grew hot. Her heart galloped as loudly as a crazed horse on a wooden bridge.
After this Sumire and Miu were absorbed in their own private conversation. The reception was a lively one, with the usual assortment of after-dinner speeches (including, most certainly, Sumire’s father), and the dinner wasn’t half bad. But not a speck of this remained in Sumire’s memory. Was the main course meat? Or fish? Did she use a knife and fork and mind her manners? Or eat with her hands and lick the plate?
Sumire had no idea.
The two of them talked about music. Sumire was a big fan of classical music and ever since she was small liked to paw through her father’s record collection. She and Miu shared similar tastes, it turned out. They both loved piano music and were convinced that Beethoven’s Sonata No. 32 was the absolute pinnacle in the history of music. And that Wilhelm Backhaus’s unparalleled performance of the sonata for Decca set the interpretive standard. What a delightful, vibrant, and joyous thing it was!
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“What do you do?” asked Miu, once their discussion of music had come to an end.
I dropped out of college, Sumire explained, and I’m doing some part-time jobs while I work on my novels. What kind of novels? Miu asked. It’s hard to explain, replied Sumire. Well, said Miu, then what type of novels do you like to read? If I list them all we’ll be here for ever, said Sumire.
Recently I’ve been reading Jack Kerouac. And that’s where the Sputnik part of their conversation came in.
