MICHIKO
or
MRS. BELMONT’S BROWNSTONE
ON BROOKLYN HEIGHTS
MICHIKO
or
MRS. BELMONT’S BROWNSTONE
ON BROOKLYN HEIGHTS
written and illustrated by
CLAY LANCASTER
CHARLES E. TUTTLE COMPANY
Rutland, Vermont & Tokyo, Japan
Representatives
Continental Europe: BOXERBOOKS, INC., Zurich
British Isles: PRENTICE-HALL INTERNATIONAL, INC., London
Australasia: PAUL FLESCH & CO., PTY. LTD., Melbourne
Published by the Charles E. Tuttle Company, Inc.
of Rutland, Vermont & Tokyo, Japan
with editorial offices at
Osaki Shinagawa-ku, Tokyo 141-0032
Copyright in Japan, 1965
by Charles E. Tuttle Co., Inc.
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 65-25469
ISBN: 978-1-4629-1616-0 (ebook)
First printing, 1965
[email protected] www.tuttlepublishing.com
Book design and typography by F. Sakade
Printed in Japan
CONTENT
MICHIKO’s eyes were usually long and narrow, but at the moment they were round with wonderment. They were as round as the big plane’s porthole through which she was gazing down at the tall towers reaching skyward in the crowded city far below. Michiko was on her knees in the seat in order to get the best possible view of the strange place she was to make her new home. She half expected the plane to light on top of one of the tall buildings, like an eagle on its nest in the mountains near the village where she had lived in Japan, but the plane passed over the heart of the city.
Michiko felt her stomach sink when the motors were turned off and the plane nosed downward for the landing. There was a flat gray area on the ground ahead, and she held her breath as the plane approached the earth. She closed her eyes, too, and only popped them open when the wheels touched the landing strip. The plane taxied in a wide arc and came to a stop near the terminal.
“Come, Michiko,” called the stewardess, for the little girl’s face was still glued to the windowpane. Michiko turned around and took the hand held out to her. Together they made their way off the plane, the tall stewardess in a dark blue uniform and the tiny Japanese girl in a bright pink kimono.
Mrs. Sakurai, the wife of the minister of the Japanese Church, had come to the airport to meet the newcomer. She stepped forward to greet the little girl, but the child was expecting someone dressed like herself. Instead, Mrs. Sakurai was wearing a tailored tweed suit, and Michiko did not at first recognize her as being Japanese.
“Michiko!” Mrs. Sakurai called.
Suddenly realizing who she was, Michiko bowed deeply in the Japanese manner, her hands placed on her thighs. Mrs. Sakurai bowed in return, but it was brief and awkward.
“Did you have a nice trip, dear?” Mrs. Sakurai asked.
“Oh, yes, everything was very good,” replied the little girl.
Michiko bid good-bye to the stewardess and took Mrs. Sakurai’s hand. Her red lacquered geta, or wooden clogs, went clack, clack, on the pavement. As they walked toward the terminal, Michiko told Mrs. Sakurai about the city she had just seen from the air.
“I am glad you studied English in Japan,” Mrs. Sakurai remarked. “You will get along so much better in this country since you can speak our language.” Michiko looked up into Mrs. Sakurai’s face, puzzled over her use of the words “our language.” Yes, although Mrs. Sakurai’s face was Japanese, everything else about her was thoroughly American, Michiko decided.
They entered the building and went to the desk where passengers claimed their luggage. Michiko spied her own. It was different from the others, being a square box of wood tied in a blue cotton handkerchief with black and white Japanese characters on it. The porter handed it over to its owner without having to look at the identification tag.
Mrs. Sakurai led the way through several long corridors to the front of the building. They got into a taxi cab. Mrs. Sakurai spoke to the driver. The taxi started off down the curved ramp and Michiko fell over sideways. She had hardly righted herself when the car swung into the main drive and she keeled over in the opposite direction. Looking over at Mrs. Sakurai, who seemed to be keeping her balance, and following her example, Michiko braced herself with her arms on the seat when the cab turned into the highway leading to the city. This way she remained reasonably upright.
The highway passed through a continuous village. The buildings became larger and larger and drew closer and closer together.
“Do people live in all these houses?” asked Michiko.
“Yes. Most of these buildings are apartment houses,” Mrs. Sakurai answered.
“How many people?” inquired the little girl.
“About eight million,” was the reply.
Michiko tried to imagine a figure “8” followed by an endless chain of zeros and studied the row upon row of houses with greater interest.
The highway left the residential section and for awhile ran along the bank of a broad river. Mrs. Sakurai said it was called the East River. Then the cab crossed over a street spanning the river and plunged into the congestion of the city. The sun appeared to have gone down, but it was only because of the exceedingly tall buildings, which rose like great cliffs on either side of a narrow canyon. Cars