Michiko or Mrs.Belmont's Brownstone on Brooklyn Heights. Clay Lancaster

when they see the red lights,” Mrs. Sakurai explained.

      “I don’t blame them. The red lights are pretty,” remarked Michiko. Then she added, “But why do they run so fast from the green cats’ eyes—are they afraid of them?”

      “Of course not,” laughed Mrs. Sakurai. “It’s because green means ‘go’ in America.”

      Michiko slid back in her corner of the seat and looked at the shop windows.

      The taxi sped past a large group of government buildings. Some were large and ominous, with massive porticoes overhanging the street. Others were low and spreading, set in pleasant little parks. The taxi entered the approach to a bridge. The bridge had immense stone towers at each end, and swung between them were great webs that must have been spun by an enormous spider. Away to the right, in the middle of the harbor, stood a giant green lady holding what looked like the stub of a parasol over her head. Mrs. Sakurai said that the figure was a copper statue representing the Goddess of Liberty. Michiko was reminded of another big statue she had seen, the Buddha at the Temple of Kamakura, who sat serenely on a broad platform, his hands folded in his lap. Michiko had been taken to visit him once, in a school bus back in Japan. She thought of the classmates she had known and wondered if they ever thought of her, now that she was so far away.

      The cab crossed the bridge and passed along a wide avenue. It circled a white building with a round dome and then darted into a narrow side street lined with stores. Mrs. Sakurai told Michiko that this part of the city was called the Heights. A few blocks farther, the cab turned into another street that was tree-shaded and had fine houses set close to the sidewalk, with rows of steep steps leading up to doorways with carved enframements. The taxi pulled over to the curb in front of one and stopped.

      “Here we are, Michiko,” Mrs. Sakurai smiled, as she leaned forward to pay the driver. She picked up Michiko’s box tied in the blue handkerchief and got out of the cab. Michiko followed. They stood for a moment looking up at the steps facing them. The sun shining through the leaves cast bright patterns on the stairs and on the brown wall of the house. Upon reaching the front door, Mrs. Sakurai pushed a button and somewhere deep inside the big house a bell was heard ringing. Soon the door was opened by a young woman in a black dress with white collar and cuffs, and a short white apron.

      “Mrs. Sakurai?” she asked, and added: “Do come in. I’ll tell Mrs. Belmont you’re here.”

      Michiko reached for Mrs. Sakurai’s hand as they passed from the vestibule into the hall with its dark walnut staircase rising in the shadows to one side. Michiko slipped off her red lacquered geta, wearing only the white sock-like tabi on her feet, as they entered the somber parlor. The room had tall columns flanking the wide doorway to the dining room behind, and both rooms had marble mantels and were filled with massive pieces of furniture. There was deep carpeting on the floor, mirrors and blackened paintings on the walls, and heavy hangings at the windows. Michiko took the box in the blue handkerchief from Mrs. Sakurai and placed it on the floor next to a low stool.

      Footsteps were heard descending the walnut staircase, and a tall grayhaired woman in a long slim dress glided into the parlor. She shook hands with Mrs. Sakurai and queried in a low voice: “So this is Michiko, Taka’s little daughter?”

      Michiko felt sad at mention of her mother’s name. She recalled her mother’s having told her of hiding an American in her house during the war, and realized at this moment that the American had been Mrs. Belmont’s son. She did not know the details; it had happened long before she was born. She only knew that Mrs. Belmont was alone, as she herself was alone now, and that Mrs. Belmont had sent for her. Michiko suddenly remembered her manners and bowed to Mrs. Belmont, the same low bow she had performed at the airport earlier for Mrs. Sakurai.

      Mrs. Belmont came over and patted Michiko on the head and took her little round hand in her own long bony one. It was a queer sort of greeting, Michiko thought, but she decided she would just have to accept Mrs. Belmont’s ways. The two women sat down on the sofa and talked, and Michiko seated herself on the stool and looked around the sumptuous interior. It certainly was different from the unassuming rooms she had known in Japan.

      Mrs. Belmont got up and tugged a brocaded bellpull. “Marie,” she said to the maid when she reappeared at the hall door, “would you show Michiko her room?” Marie picked up the lacquered sandals in the hall and came into the parlor to get the blue cloth-bound box. Michiko followed her up the staircase. It was a long flight of steps, and it reminded the little girl of a climb to a mountaintop shrine.

      The bedroom that was to be hers was not large, but it had a high ceiling, like the other big rooms that opened off the upper hall. Michiko’s room was at the back of the house, and its tall window looked out onto the treetops of a well-kept garden. She peered out at the view first and then examined all the things in the room, the ample bed, a winged armchair, a heavy dresser with a set of blue-and-white-striped bottles on its marble top, and a number of framed pictures hanging on the walls. These were watercolors of scenery, with cows grazing in rolling countryside. Michiko was beginning to feel lonely. She wished she could escape into one of the pastoral scenes.