F-0027 Postcards from someone who was taught the password and still wasn't let in

(Said to be copies of the text of three postcards, from the same sender to the same recipient.)

(First postcard)

Thank you for sending the chestnuts. I simmered them in their inner skins and offered some at the family altar too. How is your knee? Here the equinox has passed, and mornings and evenings call for a jacket now.

At Etsuko’s, the two of them work late, and the child minds the house alone. There was some unsettling talk around the school, they say, and since last year there has been a password rule at the front door. Even someone sent on an errand is to say the password from outside the door before the door is opened. The other day I went around with some simmered vegetables, said it just as I had been taught, and was told: that’s wrong. And the door did not open. It’s Grandma, I said, and was told: password first. While I stood in front of the door, I heard, from the inside, the sound of the peephole cover moving. If I can be seen, you would think the door could be opened; but with that child, the word comes before the face. There was nothing for it, so I hung the bag on the handle and went home. When I telephoned Etsuko afterward, she laughed: what I taught you is right, the child’s just remembering it wrong. I didn’t know whether to be proud or cross. Rules are rules, apparently.

(Second postcard)

The cherry trees here are still in bud. Spring is kindest to the knees, isn’t it. The other day I went again to Etsuko’s with a delivery. This time I telephoned in the morning and made sure of the current password before I went. It was the name of a spring plant, easy enough for the child to remember, I thought; but from beyond the receiver it was, again: that’s wrong. I gave my name, and after that there was no reply. Again I left only the bag and went home. On the stairs I passed a young person, so perhaps a visitor had been and gone just ahead of me. A person with a clean, pleasant bow. Now that I think of it, when I called in the autumn, I believe I passed someone much the same. A building that gets many visitors.

Etsuko only says, I’m sorry, and doesn’t seem to press the child about it. It’s nothing to scold anyone for; the child is keeping the rules, and that is as it should be. Only — through that receiver, my voice too may sound like just some other old woman’s. That alone leaves me feeling a little forlorn.

(Third postcard)

It is the season for pickling kabura-zushi. I got hold of some good kōji, so I will pickle a share for you too and send it along soon.

These days I have given up saying anything at the door. First, from the foot of the outside stairs, I call the child’s name and wave. A face comes to the window and looks at me, very still, for a little while. Then the wave comes back, and the front door is unlocked and the child waits for me there. A face is more certain than a word. Come to think of it, not once have I gone with the password as taught and had it come up right. Ever since we were children, you were always the lucky one at lotteries, weren’t you. Even so, on my way up, out of habit, I say the newly taught password once, inside my mouth. A word that goes unused feels like something wasted, and on the way home too, I find myself saying it over, twice, three times. Isn’t it a strange thing. The cold is coming. Take care of that knee.