A Certain Mr. Takahashi. Ann Ireland

      We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.

      Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

       J. Kirk Howard, President

      Printed and bound in Canada.

       Acknowledgments:

      Thanks to the following for editorial advice during the long life of this manuscript: Cynthia Holz, Juli Trapp (Amaro), Cathy Ford, Bill and Tekla, Tim, and Margaret Woollard.

      Grateful acknowledgment is also made to Warner Bros. Inc. for permission to quote from “Steel Rail Blues” by Gordon Lightfoot, ©1966 Warner Bros. Inc. All rights reserved.

       Chapter One

      When I was sent upstairs after singing a sudden brilliant chorus of “God Shave The Queen”, Colette knew what to do. My bedroom was on the third floor facing the street, so it was natural to perch on the sill and look out at what I was missing. The laughter of children echoed louder and gayer than ever. Across the road, Yoshi Takahashi’s black Thunderbird lay sleekly in the driveway. He had already been out once during the day and had returned packing a mysterious blue box.

      Suddenly, there was my sister, Colette, on the sidewalk, calling up through the funnel of an empty toilet-paper roll.

      “Je-ean!” she sang, a clear soprano.

      Delighted, we chatted, finding much to say from the new perspective. After a time Colette got a crick in her neck so, hold on, I tossed a blanket out the window, then a pillow. Spreading both on the cement she lay down, delicately resting her head on the pillow. It was nearly perfect. Soon I devised a system of passage: the long string from my kite was knotted around the window frame and tied to a basket, and before long I was lowering comic books, MAD magazines, pencils, and paper, anything to keep her with me. For a time we were quite silent, like two children lying side by side on the rug solemnly colouring.

      Then I had a brief, sharp thought. Was she lying there hoping Yoshi would emerge from his house, perhaps to mail a letter or put out the garbage? Would he see her lying there and wave her over for a visit? I, of course, would be trapped above, able to do nothing but watch.

      There were three short tugs on the string. I hoisted up the basket and unfolded the little note.

      “I have a plan!” it said.

      I nodded and looked down. Colette had pushed aside the blanket, pillow, and magazines and lay awkwardly sprawled on the bare pavement. We waited for a car to pass.

      Sure enough, this being a “family” street, the first car slowed down, animal-like, and the driver leaned out the window.

      “You okay?”

      Not a sound. Not a muscle stirred.

      “Hey, kid, anything wrong?”

      The car nosed its way to the curb. Sensing the moment, Colette stood up slowly and, like a sleepwalker or a ghost, slid inside the house. All done with exquisite control. Meanwhile, from my bleacher seat I was clapping and laughing my guts out. Colette counted to twenty or so — until the car had taken off down the street—then came out again. Once more she fell crumpled on the sidewalk, to await the next victim.

      Suddenly, to my horror, the yellow door across the street swung open. Yoshi stepped outside, a thick score tucked under an arm, and turned to lock the door. He skittered down the cement stairs two at a time in his bright red sneakers, watching Colette all the way.

      She snapped to a sitting position, palms flat against the pavement.

      “Hello, how are you?” He waved the score in the air.

      “Fine, I’m fine!” she returned. Her back was twisted so I could only hear the smile in her voice.

      For a moment I was sure she was going to get up and follow him, a sleepwalker still, into the black Thunderbird.

      Leaning out the window of my crow’s nest I began to signal wildly: “Hello, hello!” but my salute was collared by a gust of wind and vanished without a trace.

      Soon the car door crunched shut, and the Thunderbird cruised lazily down the street like a black beetle, sunlight glinting off its rear window.

      Colette began gathering up her things, making a little pile of the blanket, pillow, magazines—everything I’d ferried down. She didn’t send them back up in the basket. Instead she hoisted them inside the house like a sack of laundry, leaving only a comic book to flap on the curb.

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