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bothering to plant them properly. The community landscaper was furious. Johnson, of course, was delighted with the way the bamboo looked. I remember hearing my father scoff. “Well, leave it to an American to be satisfied with short-term remedies!”
    Johnsons wife was a Japanese woman who went by the name of Masami. It seems she had met Johnson while working as a flight attendant.
    She was a beautiful and vibrant person, but she still found time to be friendly to Yuriko and me. She was never without her perfectly applied makeup or her humongous diamond ring, even when she was out in the middle of the mountains. She wore these like armor—behavior that struck me as downright odd.
    When we got to the party, I found that the Japanese wives had left the main room where the party was and were squeezed into the tiny kitchen, a habit I found peculiar. One by one they were bragging about their own cooking. It almost sounded like they were quarreling with one another.
    Occasionally foreign women would visit one of the families in the resort. When they did, they would sit on the sofa in the living room, conversing elegantly, while the white men stood around the fireplace drinking whiskey and speaking in English. It was weird to see each group forming such perfectly separate spheres. Only one Japanese wife would ever enter the circle of laughing men: Masami. She’d stand at Johnson’s side, and occasionally I’d hear the cloying trill of her high-pitched voice cut across the monotonous murmurs of the men.
    When we got inside, Mother immediately headed toward the kitchen, as if eager to claim a spot. The men called my father to the fireplace and handed him a glass of liquor. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, so, 1 9
    N A T S U O K I R I NO
    at a loss, I trailed after Mother to the kitchen, squeezing my way into the circle of housewives clustered there.
    Yuriko latched on to Johnson, leaning against his knees as he perched in front of the fireplace. She was doing her best to play up to him.
    Masami’s diamond ring sparkled as it caught the glow of the fire and shot flecks of light across Yuriko s cheeks. Just then I was struck by a wild fantasy.
    What if Yuriko wasn’t really my sister? What if she was really Johnson and Masami’s daughter? They were both so handsome. I can’t explain it clearly, but if it were true, I could accept Yuriko. Even her monstrous beauty would take on a more human dimension. What do I mean by human? Well, that’s a good question. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it would have made her ordinary, as if she were just a sneaky litde pest, like a mole or something.
    But—unfortunately—Yuriko was the offspring of my own mediocre parents. Wasn’t that the very reason she had become a monster who possessed a too-perfect beauty? Yuriko glanced over at me with an air of self-satisfaction. Don’t look over here, you freak! I thought to myself. I had a sick feeling. When I lowered my head and let out a sigh, Mother shot me a sharp look. I imagined her saying from deep in her heart, You don’t look a thing like Yuriko, do you!
    Without warning I began to laugh hysterically. When I didn’t stop, the women gathered in the kitchen all turned to stare at me in shock. It’s not that I don’t look like her! It’s that she doesn’t look like me, isn’t it? This response, I felt certain, was the perfect counter to my mothers statement.
    Yuriko’s existence had forced my mother and me to take up enemy positions. I laughed when I realized this. (I have no idea if my junior high school laugh was the same low laughter that Mr. Nonaka of the Sanitation Bureau referred to or not.)
    After the clock struck midnight and everyone toasted in the New Year, my father told Yuriko and me to head home by ourselves. My mother was still in the kitchen and showed no signs of budging. She looked so imbecilic I was suddenly convinced that, if she was clamped to the spot, she would be able to five forever right where