"Niki," the name we finally gave to my youngest daughter, is not a nickname; it was a compromise solution that we reached with her father. Surprisingly, he was the one who wanted to give her a Japanese name, and I – perhaps due to an egocentric desire not to be reminded of the past – insisted on an English one. In the end, he agreed to "Niki," believing that this name carried an vague echo of the East. He came to see me earlier this year, in April, when the days were still cold and rainy. Maybe he planned to stay longer; I don't know. However, my cottage and the tranquility surrounding it caused her concern, and I soon realized she was eager to return to her life in London. She eagerly listened to my classical music records, flipping through my many magazines. The phone rang regularly for her, and she would cross the room walking on the rug, her slender silhouette shrinking within her tight clothes, making sure to close the door behind her so I wouldn't eavesdrop. She left after five days.
She didn't mention Keiko until the second day. It was a gray, wind-battered morning, and we moved the armchairs closer to the windows to watch the rain falling into my garden. "Were you expecting me?" she asked. "To come? I mean, to the funeral." "No, probably not. I don't think I was expecting you to come." "I was upset when I found out, I almost came." "I didn't expect you to come." "People didn't know what had happened to me," she said. "I didn't tell anyone. I was probably ashamed. They wouldn't understand, they wouldn't understand how I felt about the event. Sisters are supposed to be close to you. You may not like them very much, but they are still your family. However, it wasn't like that with us. Now I don't even remember her face." "Yes, it's been a while since you last saw her." "I only remember that she was someone who made me feel bad. That's what I remember about her. Still, I was saddened when I found out." Maybe it wasn't just the tranquility that made my daughter return to London.