Everyone knew Chiyo was sleeping with Hina’s husband. Chiyo had the face of a sparrow, two tiny cheeks that swelled in both size and color when she laughed, creating the image of light-heartedness. It was deceiving. Hina looked at her own face in the bathroom mirror and cursed the severe lines of her jaw and cheeks. Hers was a face almost manly, an image that was only enhanced by the cropped hairstyle she had taken to when long hair became a hindrance.
When Akimitsu fell down one day on the front lawn, his slippers still wet from morning dew, Hina froze as she looked through the window of their living room overlooking a leafy street in Midori-ku. She watched her husband lay face down for the longest time before she placed her teacup on the countertop, holding the sides of the sink until the cold steel bit through any warmth left in her hands.
The day blurred in front of her, creating a vortex of sound Hina wished she could have closed herself off from, but there were expectations to fulfil, people to please with her attention to tradition, to what was expected of her. She forced the fright of being left alone from her with a deliberate shove, her face remaining dry, which only confused her neighbors expecting a devastated widow.
The next morning, the doorbell disturbed Hina’s morning tea.
‘There must be a mistake. I did not order anything,’ Hina said to the wide-eyed delivery boy with a black and white bandana holding his hair back, revealing a forehead so smooth, Hina momentarily forgot about the irritation, mesmerized by the glow of his skin.
‘No. It is clearly meant for you,’ he said, forcing a smile and then the long package into her hands before turning towards a side pouch that revealed a scanner that he quickly looped out and proceeded to hold above the box. The device made a high-pitched squeak before he held another screen in front of her that she knew she had to sign so that he could be on his way.
Hina left the package on the dining room table and busied herself with the preparation for the wake, forcing herself not to look at the shrine that was now covered in a white cloth. It felt like a ghost was watching her every move, judging her lack of speed or worse, lack of emotion.
There was thankfully a cottonwool-like silence in the house since she decided to pull the telephone cord from the wall. The ringing had been incessant. It forced her to answer calls she knew would only duplicate each other. Everyone said the same thing, over and over again. She felt like her head was in a washing machine, the sentences spinning her head on a cycle that was meant to clean, but only brought on tiredness. But she had forgotten to turn off her mobile phone. When the screen lit up, she looked at it, seeing the name in bright white letters. She answered after the third ring.
‘Good. You’re still answering, so you’re still breathing.’
Masao’s dry tone felt like balsam compared to the other sad voices she had been forced to listen to all of yesterday.
‘I am. So, now you can go about your day, and I can go about mine.’
‘Did you receive my package?’
Hina looked over at the cardboard box, still untouched. Her eyes swung back to the telephone book, the names alphabetized, an A to Z of impending pity she would have to force herself through like legs being pulled through quicksand.
‘Yes. It’s here.’
‘Have you opened it?’
‘No.’
There was a long sigh, one so typical that it soothed Hina somehow. The predictability was something she could latch on to even if it was only momentary.
‘Well, open it. They need water.’
Hina stopped flipping through the address book. She knew what his words meant.
‘You didn’t send me…’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Masao. I don’t have the time or the energy for any of that.’
‘The show is next month. I know you haven’t forgotten.’
Hina had not. She had simply chosen to push it to the back of her mind where it sat alongside the dreaded funeral. Two discarded dolls in need of affection.
‘If you don’t put them in water, they will die. I just thought…’
‘What?’ she snapped, her anger flaring up suddenly like red-hot fireworks waking a lazy black sky.
‘Nothing.’
‘No, go on. Say it,’ she said with more force.
‘I thought you would appreciate the gesture…you always found such happiness in flowers.’
‘And this has nothing to do with the show? The one I am supposed to curate and lend my hand to?’
His silence was unnerving. She knew it was terrible cornering him.
‘I know you were the one person who championed my work. You saw my ikebana style for more than the hobby of a bored and attention-starved housewife.’
‘I simply saw the intricacy there…the way every element held a purpose other than being merely pretty.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I know that what has happened is terrible.’
‘You know nothing,’ Hina said in a cold voice.
Another sigh. This time the ensuing silence lingered a fraction longer.
‘I will ignore that one, Hina. You know better than to be rude. It is not in your nature to be hurtful. Have you chosen your mofuku yet?’
Hina looked over at the black dress that had a series of shiny jet buttons running down the front. The rounded collar made her look matronly, but she liked how the Crêpe de Chine skimmed her waist in a flattering way, the hem landing above her knee, exposing just enough skin to be elegant and yet playful.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve just sent you a juzu.’
‘I have one.’
‘I’ve seen yours. It’s not black.’
Hina had to admire his sense of elegance. Her red and green Buddhist rosary would have clashed with the hard color she was now forced to wear for the man who had betrayed her, turning her into the talk of the neighborhood for the wrong reasons.
‘Have you called a priest to recite kyō?’
‘I…’
‘I know someone. I can give him a call.’
‘You’re in Tokyo. How do you know someone here?’
‘Repeat that question and then you will realize how silly it sounds.’
Hina could see his eyes now, two brown pinpricks that reminded her of a smiling cocker spaniel. It was impossible for her not to giggle even though she felt it inappropriate. She hated how anything she now did had to be weighed up in her mind before it was determined good or bad. She hated herself even more for giving in to the weight of respectability.
‘I will be in Chiba tomorrow morning…I am looking forward to using the monorail again,’ he sighed and Hina could hear the smile elongating itself through his words.
‘Small things…’
‘Yes, I know…see you tomorrow,’ he said before hanging up.
Hina turned towards the box. She knew what to expect when she pulled the string loose, hearing the familiar sound of leaves and stems springing free from their confined space. There, nestled between white tissue paper were the whitest lilies, framed by two oversized white hydrangeas. The blooms were so full, they reminded her of the sponges her mother had brought back from their sea trips when she was a child.
She knew why Masao had sent them. For weeks she had not been answering his calls about the show. She had not looked at any of her ikebana tools. She had to restrain herself from running her fingers along the spikes of the pincushion-like kenzans lining the low wall of the garage, where she also kept her scissors, the one with a swooping black handle that was so highly lacquered, it looked like it had fallen in water.
Hina knew why she stopped taking an interest in the floristry that had made her famous. It was that moment when she saw her husband’s gaze fall on Chiyo at a charity event. It wasn’t that he looked at her. It was the way his eyes stayed focused on the woman who was supposed to be one of her closest friends. When Chiyo lifted her eyes coquettishly, Hina knew they were lovers. That afternoon, after coming home alone, Hina faced her little work studio, the next series of flowers waiting their turn to be trimmed and placed into exact theatrical positions. She stood in the doorway, looking at the bench that held what her life had become and took three quick strides towards the window, wiping an arm across the surface, sending everything crashing to the floor. Would she had done it if Akimitsu were home? Would she have stood still as the water dripped slowly from the bench, creating a tiny pool that shone like quicksilver in the darkening light of the garage? Maybe not. But Akimitsu was not home. Like most evenings, he had called to let her know that he was still working, that she could start dinner without him. He was foolish not to know that she recognized the hesitation in his voice that always prefaced a lie. How could he think thirty years of marriage presented no code that a partner could easily decipher? She hated that he underestimated her intelligence, something he had praised her for when they had started dating.
The priest that Masao found was kind. He did not try to soothe Hina with some inspirational text that was bound to irritate. He was bent over by age, his skin tightening whenever he smiled, which was often, despite the occasion. Hina appreciated this the most. She would have hated someone pretending to be sad over someone they had never met. That type of pretense would have felt stifling in an already claustrophobic situation. When the guests filtered in, she saw Chiyo walk in, dressed in a black pantsuit that made her look even more the widow. Her carefully tied chignon gave her an austerity that made the other women gravitate towards her, especially when she wiped away a tear.
Hina took an aggressive step forward, but Masao gripped her wrist, stopping her. She looked from his hand to his imploring eyes and realized he knew. Her surprise made him lessen his grip but only slightly.
‘Don’t,’ he said.
‘She’s standing there like she’s the widow.’
‘No. Akimitsu is the one who really wronged you. He swore fidelity.’
‘And she didn’t? Would you betray a friend like that?’
Masao eyes fell, his round face now bowed as if he had offended her.
‘But you’re better…than everyone in this room,’ he said slowly. ‘Don’t make yourself the topic of gossip.’
Hina crimsoned at the plea. She wanted to rip her arm free, to walk over and push Chiyo out of the room, away from the open casket that she still could not look into.
‘Let’s just get through the wake and then the funeral,’ he said slowly, giving her wrist an added squeeze as he nodded.
Hina felt the rage take a step back as she looked out the window that offered a view of the garden her husband had been particularly fond of. He would tend to the maple tree with such dedication that she wondered how he could not take her ikebana seriously. The swaying timber bamboo now caught her eye and she realized with a jolt of surprising pain that she would now have to get someone in to trim it back before her irritable neighbor, Mrs. Agawa, complained, like she always did when the leaves inched above the boundary wall.
Chiyo was the last to leave the wake, as if sensing this would unnerve Hina. She paused in the hallway, her eyes focusing on the careful and almost timid arrangement of lilies and hydrangeas. She opened her mouth to say something but then closed her rose-colored lips that only made her more beautiful in the dimming afternoon light.
‘What?’ asked Hina, as she noticed Chiyo’s wandering eyes.
‘Nothing,’ she said, touching Hina’s arm.
‘No, tell me.’
‘The flowers. They are not arranged in your usual style.’
‘You mean ikebana?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s troubling you?’
‘No, it’s just…different,’ Chiyo said.
Both of them turned to the sound of footsteps. It was Masao walking by with a few stacked plates in his hands.
‘I can’t deal with ikebana at the moment. I have other things to tend to.’
‘Of course.’
Chiyo’s bowed head made Hina want to scream. She could feel the start of a headache, the loss of smooth openness in her body replaced by a slow constriction that she knew would only increase as she stood in the woman’s company.
‘Well, I will be on my way. The wake was lovely. Akimitsu would have approved.’
Chiyo raised her chin and for a moment, Hina held her breath as she saw the confidence flash in her friend’s eyes. It was a rare, unfiltered moment where Chiyo’s beauty was suddenly replaced by something harder, determined almost.
‘I think if anyone knows what my husband would have approved of, it would be me.’
Chiyo flinched, reminding Hina of the neighbor’s cat who had foolishly misjudged a puddle in her garden the day before, slipping on a wet rock. The raised hair and yelp could not save the animal from losing her footing and wetting her fur.
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘No, of course you didn’t, Chiyo.’
Hina’s eye caught Masao watching her intently from the darkened kitchen.
‘You never mean anything you do.’
‘What—’
‘I think we both know that our friendship is over,’ Hina said flatly.
‘What?’
‘We have nothing left to share…since the person we shared is now dead.’
Chiyo blinked back tears as she stood in front of her friend, the one who now looked colder than before, a feat considering the immense strain she was under after the wake and impending funeral.
‘Don’t punish me because he loved me, Hina.’ Chiyo said, lifting her chin higher, the sheen in her eyes now narrowing as if the light was being swallowed by something greater than she was.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt he did. I am no fool. I lived with the man for longer than I can remember. But you…you’re a different story. You stamp on the friendship given to you only in kindness, Chiyo.’
The tears were unexpected, along with the crushing sigh as Chiyo pinned her handbag under her arm before she turned towards the door, opening it, allowing the late autumn wind a chance to unsettle the lace curtain in the hallway window.
Masao placed a hand on Hina’s shoulder after the door closed silently, so silently that neither of them heard the click of the lock.
‘What do you want to do?’ he asked her, turning her body towards his with a purposeful shove.
‘I want to take apart that awful flower arrangement on the table.’
Masao walked off, returning with Hina’s garden basket in his arms. He spread out the hessian tablecloth on the dining room table before lifting the vase and placing it in the center. From the basket he pulled out the scissors and the earthenware flat-based ikebana vase he knew she enjoyed working with. Hina walked over slowly, watching his skilled hands lift the flowers from the vase with such care, hardly a bloom wobbled.
‘It’s like riding a bike,’ he said, placing the metal kenzan into the palm of her hand like a gift.
Hina closed her fist, feeling the sharp metal points press into her skin. She placed it off center in the vase and set about trimming the flowers in varying lengths, leaving the hydrangeas longer because they would be the last she would arrange.
‘Do you know in ancient times, people performed ikebana to invite the gods into their homes?’ Masao asked as he watched her press a lily into position, bending the stem to such a degree that it could have snapped, but it didn’t.
‘I did know that.’
‘Do you know when I started?’
‘Yes. It was after your mother died.’ Hina said, not looking at him.
‘And do you know why?’
‘You told me it brought a clarity to everything; it led you out of the darkness.’
‘I tell you way too much.’
‘Maybe. But I am all the wiser for it.’
Hina arranged the lilies in three hooped formations, the flowers appearing as if they were leaping across the water, like the spray one would expect in a fountain.
‘Why did you give me white flowers? I am not having a housewarming.’
Masao grinned at this before handing her another hydrangea for the clear moribana design she was working on.
‘To prevent the fire from spreading. You know white is symbolic only of keeping fire away.’
‘I take it Chiyo is the fire.’
‘Well…there was always a risk everything would flare up and where better than at a wake?’
‘Akimitsu was cruel. He could have told me,’ Hina said sadly as she arranged the last hydrangea that now towered over the looping lilies like a guardian.
‘You know he was never the strong one.’
At the funeral, Hina felt the entire room watch her as she lifted the incense powder between three fingers, bringing it towards her forehead before allowing the powder to fall on the burner in front of her. She nodded at the priest who was so hunched over, she wanted to offer him a chair. When the last of the mourners pushed a black and silver envelope into her hands, Masao walked up to her, nodding towards the priest who bowed slightly before leaving.
‘What are you going to do with all that money?’
Hina pressed the envelopes tighter into the open handbag that snapped shut with a loud click.
‘Well, for starters, I am going to have that maple tree in my garden uprooted. I think I have looked at enough memory of Akimitsu.’
Masao sighed lightly before a loud screech made him look up suddenly.
‘What’s that?’
‘A cat that will never learn.’
–
Bookseller, blogger, writer, avid traveller, street food victim and dedicated follower of fashion, Anil Classen spent his first twenty-one years in the seaside city of Port Elizabeth, South Africa. Winner of the Writing District and Parracombe Prize, his work has been shortlisted for The Letter Review and Wells Festival of Literature Competition. Now living in Switzerland, he is working on that elusive perfect first draft of a novel centred around food and family.
© 2025, Anil Classen
Halfway Down the Stairs 