The following is the Prologue from my first novel, La Pluie Rose, which I published previously in Japanese as ピンクの雨 (Pinku no Ame) in 2009. I’m currently making final edits to the English manuscript, planning to self-publish it in 2026.
My mother lay on the floor, wrapped in a blue plastic tarp.
‘Why a blue plastic sheet?’ I wondered.
‘The other people are wrapped in blankets.
Why is my mother the only one wrapped in a blue tarp?’
When I saw my mother there for the first time — on the floor, in the shelter for earthquake victims — those are the thoughts that came to my six-year-old head.
Flash!
Flash!
Lightning was striking in the darkness.
The flash of a camera.
Flash!
Flash!
On a freezing night,
In a dark gymnasium,
Lightning struck over my head again and again.
Soon, the lightning transformed into petals.
Pink petals fell behind my eyelids.
Petals of cherry blossoms.
I had gone to see the cherry blossoms for the first time when I turned six years old the previous spring.
My mother wore a pink dress and a sky-blue cardigan that day. I wore a pink dress and a sky-blue cardigan, matching my mother. My father wore a light blue shirt, a dark blue sweater, and brown trousers.
Under the cherry blossoms, my mother said, ‘We used to sit on a red carpet to enjoy the cherry blossoms. Now we use this blue tarp… It’s not romantic.’
I replied, ‘The petals are pretty — even on a blue tarp. Look!’
I gathered the petals scattered on the blue tarp with my small hands and tossed them over my mother’s head.
Pink petals fell on her shoulders, on her knees, and on the blue plastic tarp.
My mother smiled and said, ‘You’re right. They are pretty.’
My father added, ‘Pink rain, isn’t it?’
Then my mother murmured as if she were talking to herself.
‘Pink Rain…Pink Rain… La Pluie Rose…’
My mother had recently taken up French.
I pricked up my ears when I heard the words I had never heard before.
‘What? What did you say, Mother?’
‘La Pluie Rose, Mako. La Pluie Rose means Pink Rain in French.’
‘La Plu…?’
‘La Pluie Rose.’
‘Pluie Ose?’
‘La Pluie Rose.’
‘La Pluie…Rose?’
‘That’s right! Very good, Mako!’
My mother was so happy that she clapped.
She smiled and blushed. Her cheeks turned pink, just like the petals of the cherry blossoms.
Her smile was beautiful.
Nine months later, on 17th January 1995,
The day Kobe was broken…
My mother was wrapped in a blue plastic tarp.