Chorus of Mushrooms : 20th Anniversary Edition

Hiromi Goto

Description

Winner of the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book (Caribbean and Canadian Region)!

Co-winner of the Canada-Japan Book Award!

Hiromi Goto’s debut novel has become a Canadian classic. It is a powerful narrative of three generations of Japanese Canadian women on the Canadian prairies.

Funny, scandalous, and melancholic, this superlative narrative is filled with echoes and retellings, memories and Japanese folk tales. From The Tale of Genji to the Calgary Stampede, from sharing of recipes to hitchhiking the Trans-Canada highway, it weaves a story that slides between histories, countries, and desire. It is a timeless exploration of immigration and belonging.

This twentieth anniversary reprinting of the landmark novel includes an Afterword by Larissa Lai (When Fox is a Thousand, Salt Fish Girl) and an interview with the author.

Winner of the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book (Caribbean and Canadian Region)!

Co-winner of the Canada-Japan Book Award!

Hiromi Goto’s debut novel has become a Canadian classic. It is a powerful narrative of three generations of Japanese Canadian women on the Canadian prairies.

Funny, scandalous, and melancholic, this superlative narrative is filled with echoes and retellings, memories and Japanese folk tales. From The Tale of Genji to the Calgary Stampede, from sharing of recipes to hitchhiking the Trans-Canada highway, it weaves a story that slides between histories, countries, and desire. It is a timeless exploration of immigration and belonging.

This twentieth anniversary reprinting of the landmark novel includes an Afterword by Larissa Lai (When Fox is a Thousand, Salt Fish Girl) and an interview with the author.

Sujets

• Magical Realism
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: NeWest Press
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 4
• EAN13: 9781927063491
• Langue: English

Extrait

PRAISE FOR CHORUS OF MUSHROOMS
Hiromi Goto expertly layers the experiences of a Japanese immigrant woman, her emotionally estranged daughter and her beloved granddaughter into a complex fabric and compelling story.
OTTAWA CITIZEN
Such a love for words is evident in Chorus of Mushrooms , which contains passages of breathtaking beauty.
THE GLOBE AND MAIL
Hiromi Goto, a Japanese-Canadian writer, has written a masterpiece of our times The readability of the text is attributable to the author s craftsmanship, and one feels like reading it over and over again.
THE HERALD (HARARE, ZIMBABWE)
Not only is Goto s language precise and evocative, she has crafted a complex and poetic text that weaves realities and mysteries into a subtle pattern.
EDMONTON JOURNAL
NUNATAK FICTION:
Nunatak is an Inuktitut word meaning lonely peak, a rock or mountain rising above ice. During Quaternary glaciation in North America these peaks stood above the ice sheet and so became refuges for plant and animal life. Magnificent nunataks, their bases scoured by glaciers, can be seen along the Highwood Pass in the Alberta Rocky Mountains and on Ellesmere Island.
Nunataks are especially selected works of outstanding fiction by new western writers. Notable Nunatak titles include Icefields , by Thomas Wharton, Moon Honey , by Suzette Mayr, Fishing for Bacon , by Michael Davie, Dance, Gladys, Dance , by Cassie Stocks and The Shore Girl , by Fran Kimmel.
20 TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION
CHORUS OF
MUSHROOMS
HIROMI GOTO
Copyright 1994, 2014 Hiromi Goto
Copyright 2014 Larissa Lai (afterword)
Copyright 2014 Smaro Kamboureli and Hiromi Goto (interview)
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication - reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system - without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Goto, Hiromi, 1966-, author
Chorus of mushrooms / Hiromi Goto. - 20 th anniversary edition.
(Nunatak first fiction series ; 5)
Includes bibliographical references.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927063-48-4 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927063-49-1 (epub).-
ISBN 978-1-927063-54-5 (mobi)
I. Title. II. Series: Nunatak first fiction ; 5
PS8563.O8383C5 2014 C813 .54 C2013-907195-4
C2013-907196-2
Editor for the Board: Rudy Wiebe
Editor of 20th Anniversary Edition: Smaro Kamboureli
Cover and Interior Design: Justine Ma
Author Photo: Kiely Ramos


No bison were harmed in the making of this book.
Printed and bound in Canada
First printing: April 2014

No. 201, 8540 109 Street, Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6
t. 780.432.9427 w. newestpress.com
For Kiyokawa Naoe. I love you Ob chan.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chorus of Mushrooms
Afterword by Larissa Lai
Permutations: The Many Stories in Chorus of Mushrooms
Smaro Kamboureli interviews Hiromi Goto
The legend is believed, it is remarkable, and also it is local.
Folk Legends of Japan
We lie in bed, listen to the click of blinds, watch a thin thread of dusty cobweb weave back and forth, back and forth, in the waves of air we cannot see. The blankets and sheet are a heap at the foot of the bed, and we are warm only where skin is touching skin. My shoulder, my arm, the swell of my hip. The curve of my thigh. Lean lightly into you. My fingertips are icy, but I am too comfortable to move. To bother getting up and arrange the blankets. I only want to savour the quiet of skin on skin. The murmur of our blood beneath our surface touch. Our breathing unconsciously falls into a pattern, follows the movement of the strand of cobweb that weaves above our heads. You lift your hand to rest its weight, the palm rough, just beneath my breast.
Will you tell me a story? you ask. Eyes on the strand of dust.
Yes.
Will you tell me a story about your Ob chan?
Yes, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Slowly.
Will you tell me a true story? you ask, with unconscious longing.
A lot of people ask that. Have you ever noticed? I roll onto my side. Prop my elbow and rest my chin, my cheek, into the curve of my hand. It s like people want to hear a story, and then, after they re done with it, they can stick the story back to where it came from. You know?
Not really, you say, and slide a little lower, so that your head is nestled beneath my chin. Your face in my neck. But will you still tell me?
Sure, but bear with my language, won t you? My Japanese isn t as good as my English, and you might not get everything I say. But that doesn t mean the story s not there to understand. Wakatte kureru kashira? Can you listen before you hear?
Trust me, you say.
I pause. Take a deep breath, then spiral into sound.
Here s a true story.

Muk shi, muk shi, mukashi . . .
PART ONE
NAOE
Ahhhhh this unrelenting, dust-driven, crack your fingers dry wind has withered my wits, I m certain. Endless as thought as breath-ha! Not much breath left in this set of bellows, but this wind. Just blows and blows and blows. Soon be blowing dust over my mummy carcass and beetles won t find the tiniest bit of soft flesh to gnaw on, serves them right. Dust in my joints dry as rust and I creak. Well worn, I am. Well worked. Can t stoop to sweep up the dust swirling in the corners of the rooms. Dust swells and eddies, motes linger to parch my nose, my mouth. Don t bother dusting, I say. It ll come back, surely. Let the piles of dust grow and mound and I ll plant daikon and eggplant seeds. Let something grow from this daily curse. But no. Keiko just looks at me from the corners of her eyes. I know. I know. Never mind. No matter. Just let Ob chan sit in her chair in the hall so she can see who comes and goes. My back to the staircase, and I can see who comes through the front door. People have to pass me to get inside this house. Don t try to sneak by, I might stick out my foot. If I look straight ahead I can watch what goes on in half the living room. Turn my head to the right and I see all from the kitchen to the laundry room to the bathroom door. If I tip my head upward, I can see anyone who tries to creak down the stairs. No one moves in this house without meeting my eyes. Hearing my voice. Take no notice, I say. I ll try not to stare. I ll nod and smile. Welcome! Welcome! Into this pit of dust. This bowl of heat. Ohairi kudasai! D zo ohairi kudasai. Talk loudly and e-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-e. I might be stupid as well as deaf. How can they think a body can live in this country for twenty years and not learn the language? But let them think this. Let them think what they will, for they will. Solly, Ob chan no speeku Eeenglishu. Maybe I m the fool, but stubborn I am and will remain. Keiko glances at me these days. More often than before with that curl of sour tofu curds lingering in her mouth. I m not blind. I ve heard the talk. I think we should start looking for a h-o-m-e. As if I can t spell. Eighty-five years old and cast from my home. Ahhh, at least the dust here is familiar. Every grain, every mote as familiar as the smell of my body. No time now to learn new dust in a new home. Let me just sit here. Let me sit here in the hall by the door. There are no windows here to torment me. I can only hear the muffled roar of the wind through the insulated walls and I can drown out the incessant swirl of dust, of chaff, with words. Little songs. And hum.
I mutter and mutter and no one to listen. I speak my words in Japanese and my daughter will not hear them. The words that come from our ears, our mouths, they collide in the space between us.
Ob chan, please! I wish you would stop that. Is it too much to ask for some peace and quiet? You do this on purpose, don t you? Don t you! I just want some peace. Just stop! Please, just stop.
Gomennasai. Waruine, Ob chan wa. Solly. Solly.
Ha! Keiko, there is method in my madness. I could stand on my head and quote Shakespeare until I had a nosebleed, but to no avail, no one hears my language. So I sit and say the words and will, until the wind or I shall die. Someone, something must stand against this wind and I will. I am.
I mustn t nod off like that. I must keep this vigil. No, he is still there. Damnit. When did he begin to bother me, this wind? He has always been there, yet I m certain he did not trouble me so much many years ago. When my hair was still dark and long enough to snap smartly like a flag in the wind. And now? Now my hair is short and silver, in tight little curls like a lamb. No wind in here. If I turn my head too quickly, the silver curls tinkle against each other like little bells. Outside, the wind howls and I am silent no longer. Bitter fruit of unripe persimmons. Am I that bitter? No, I am an old woman and I must speak.
Of course there was wind in Japan. I remember so well, the soft spring breeze rustling midori green bamboo leaves. Sara sara sara. Gentle as wish, as thought and certainly no need to challenge it with my voice. A breath of leaves. My sticky child feet slapping bata bata the freshly laid tatami sweet as straw. My brother and I drank miso-shiru from black lacquer bowls and crunched daikon left over from the pickling bins. Still as a pool of water, we were waiting. Waiting for Ok san to bring our rice and Ot san to come home. For the cicadas to cry tsuku tsuku boshi, tsuku tsuku boshi and the cat to jump up on the verandah. We were waiting as children. Waiting for everything.
Shige and I gathered soft white cloth, string and a crayon. We pressed cotton stuffing into a ball and twisted the material of the cloth around the ball and tied it so there was a smooth round head and the skirt of the cloth, the body. Just like a little white ghost. We drew in two eyebrows and two eyes, so he would be able to see. Our teru teru b zu