A Family Supper

“My relationship with my parents had become somewhat strained around that period, and consequently I did not learn of the circumstances surrounding her death until I returned to Tokyo two years later. Apparently, my mother had always refused to eat fugu, but on this particular occasion she had made an exception, having been invited by an old schoolfriend whom she was anxious not to offend.”

The narrator explains his father’s decision not to tell him about the circumstances of his mother’s death. This speaks to the cycle of silence within the narrator’s family. The above quote also illuminates a trend wherein the narrator learns more about his mother through retellings and information provided to him by other members of his family. He does not seem to know or remember much of her at all. 

“‘I’ve come to believe now that there were no evil intentions in your mind,’ my father continued. ‘You were swayed by certain influences. Like so many others.’

‘Perhaps we should forget it, as you suggest.’

‘As you will. More tea?’”

The narrator’s father suggests that his son was swayed by foreigners and foreign ideologies to move abroad. Ishiguro does not provide concrete details as to what Father might mean, but this moment connects with the statement about the absurdity of foreign business practices. Both the narrator and his father talk around the sore subject of his absence. When things get uncomfortable, they quickly drop the subject, afraid to discuss it further.

“She always used to say to me how it was their fault, hers and Father’s, for not bringing you up correctly. She used to tell me how much more careful they’d been with me, and that’s why I was so good.”

Kikuko recounts how the siblings’ mother takes sole responsibility for the behavior of her children. She sees them as extensions of herself, devoid of independence. To the narrator’s parents, a ‘good’ child is obedient and present, while a ‘bad’ child is absent and disobedient. Though the narrator’s mother claims that the difference between the siblings is due to how they were raised, Ishiguro prompts the reader to wonder if it is because of their gender that they are allowed to behave so differently.

“‘Kikuko, come here and help.’

For some moments my sister did not move. Then she stepped forward and took an apron hanging from a drawer.

‘Just these vegetables need cooking now,’ he said to her. ‘The rest just needs watching.’ Then he looked up and regarded me strangely for some seconds. ‘I expect you want to look around the house,’ he said eventually. He put down the chopsticks he had been holding. ‘It’s a long time since you’ve seen it.’”

Father treats the narrator and Kikuko extremely differently. He orders Kikuko to help with dinner without asking her if she wishes to do so and does not consider her feelings on the matter. Father guesses that the narrator wants to look around the house. While he overlooks his daughter’s desires, his son’s wishes are in the forefront of his mind.

“I followed my father from room to room. I had forgotten how large the house was. A panel would slide open and another room would appear. But the rooms were all startlingly empty. In one of the rooms the lights did not come on, and we stared at the stark walls and tatami in the pale light that came from the windows.

‘This house is too large for a man to live in alone,’ my father said. ‘I don’t have much use for most of these rooms now.’”

The death of the narrator’s mother has left behind a void. This profound sense of loss and grief is manifested in her absence in the house, the emptiness that has begun to fill the space. The narrator’s father is a lonely man, and his repeated requests for his son to stay in Japan begin to make more sense to the reader.

“I hadn’t meant to tell you this, but perhaps it’s best that I do. It’s my belief that your mother’s death was no accident. She had many worries. And some disappointments.”

The narrator’s father does not go into detail as to what his mother may have worried about. He appears to suggest, however, that her profound disappointment in her son led to her decision to take her own life. While Father omits Watanabe’s murder of his family, he tells the narrator that the narrator’s absence may have caused his mother’s death. Though Ishiguro does not provide the reader with more detail, they are left to wonder, along with the narrator, if Father does this to guilt-trip him into staying in Japan.

“‘Surely,’ I said eventually, ‘my mother didn’t expect me to live here forever.’

‘Obviously you don’t see. You don’t see how it is for some parents. Not only must they lose their children, they must lose them to things they don’t understand.’ He spun the battleship in his fingers. ‘These little gunboats here could have been better glued, don’t you think?’”

The narrator’s parents fear losing their children to things they do not understand; though these things are unnamed, Ishiguro provides enough details for readers to hazard a guess. The narrator’s father repeatedly makes slights against foreigners, more specifically, America. Set after the war, it would be understandable that neither the narrator’s father nor mother could reconcile his wish to go to California with the horrors they saw in World War II. 

“‘During the war I spent some time on a ship rather like this. But my ambition was always the air force. I figured it like this. If your ship was struck by the enemy, all you could do was struggle in the water hoping for a lifeline. But in an aeroplane—well—there was always the final weapon.’ He put the model back onto the table. ‘I don’t suppose you believe in war.’

‘Not particularly.’”

The narrator’s father is resigned to the fact that his son is entirely different from him. While he had to serve in the war, his son has the luxury not to believe in it. The themes of death and suicide continue here, as Father suggests that he would rather die in a suicide bombing than in the water, waiting for someone to save him.

“‘It must feel strange for you, being back in Japan.’

‘Yes, it is a little strange.’

‘Already, perhaps, you regret leaving America.’

‘A little. Not so much. I didn’t leave behind much. Just some empty rooms.’

‘I see.’”

The narrator and his father share an understanding of loneliness. Their respective partners have left their lives in different ways, but they are both ultimately left with nothing but empty rooms. They are both going through a profound loss, grieving for women who have left them. Notably, their understanding of grief excludes Kikuko.

“Then my eye caught something at the back of the room. At first I continued eating, then my hands became still. The others noticed and looked at me. I went on gazing into the darkness past my father’s shoulder.

‘Who is that? In that photograph there?’

‘Which photograph?’ My father turned slightly, trying to follow my gaze.

‘The lowest one. The old woman in the white kimono.’

My father put down his chopsticks. He looked first at the photograph, then at me.

‘Your mother.’ His voice had become very hard. ‘Can’t you recognize your own mother?’

‘My mother. You see, it’s dark. I can’t see it very well.’”

Upon returning to Japan, the narrator sees a ghost. He is a stranger in his own native land, in his own home, and to his own family. He is surrounded by ghosts, by things that he should recognize, but ultimately fails to. In his absence, the things he used to know have been ravaged by time, and he, too, has become a ghost. He no longer belongs in Japan, nor in America.

“When we had finished the meal, my father stretched out his arms and yawned with an air of satisfaction.

‘Kikuko,’ he said. ‘Prepare a pot of tea, please.’

My sister looked at him, then left the room without comment.”

Ishiguro does not tell the reader how long it has been since Kikuko has been home to see her father. The narrator learns that she has been studying at university in Osaka, but not if she returns on the weekends, or during holidays. Though she has been away, her father does not hesitate to order her around. He does not, for a single moment, believe it in her capacity to say no, to be disobedient.

“‘Kikuko tells me Watanabe-San took his whole family with him.’

My father lowered his eyes and nodded. For some moments he seemed deep in thought. ‘Watanabe was very devoted to his work,’ he said at last. ‘The collapse of the firm was a great blow to him. I fear it must have weakened his judgement.’

‘You think what he did—it was a mistake?’

‘Why, of course. Do you see it otherwise?’

‘No, no. Of course not.’

‘There are other things besides work.’

‘Yes.’”

The narrator is surprised to learn that his father considers Watanabe’s murder of his family a mistake. The narrator appears to view his father as a man singularly obsessed with pride and honor, perhaps even over the lives of his family. Once again, Father says nothing of Watanabe’s family; they are seemingly insignificant to him.

“‘If you wish to stay here, I mean here in this house, you would be very welcome. That is, if you don’t mind living with an old man.’

‘Thank you. I’ll have to think about it.’”

The narrator’s father finally asks, in his own way, if the narrator would like to stay. Though the narrator has admitted to having nothing waiting for him back in California, he is still hesitant to agree. Unlike Kikuko, Father gives the narrator a choice to return.