By Katsuhiro Otomo
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Additional resources for Akira Vol. 1, No. 3
Mrs. Kobayashi, as if thinking along these same lines, sighed. ” Sarah felt a stab of jealousy. Little Yashiko, her tan accentuated by a white tank top, eyed Sarah’s pale arms with timid curiosity. ” she asked. “Yes, of course,” said Sarah. ” The girls looked mystified. Mrs. Kobayashi and Mrs. Rexford and even their own mother were every bit as white as Sarah, but in their youth they had all been brown. It was a rite of passage: Japanese girls stayed in the sun until adulthood, upon which they switched standards and adopted pale makeup and shielded their complexions with parasols.
What are you doing later? ” Little Yashiko, who had sidled over to sit beside her big sister, murmured that she had once tasted lemon custard cake, and she had liked it. Having thus reestablished their friendship, the three girls were content to fall silent and eat chocolates out of the tin, all the while following the adults’ conversation. “…a mere toddler! He was kicking that ball, running after it, kicking it, running after it, so excited…” Mrs. Kobayashi was reminiscing about one of their neighbors’ sons, a young man who had recently moved to Berlin to study under the famous conductor Seiji Ozawa.
As a child, all she cared about was that her grandpa was related to her by blood, even though he wasn’t technically her grandfather. Her thoughts drifted to the attic, silent now, emptied of snakes and black-market rice and the energy of a turbulent past. She thought of the war that polite people never mentioned—the war that had brought illegal rations into this house, caused her grandmother’s second marriage, and somehow contributed to her aunt’s adoption. In the shadowy rafters, the brutality of those times seemed to still linger.