From the award-winning, psychologically astute author of In the spring of 1972, twelve-year-old Tomoko leaves her mother behind in Tokyo and boards a train alone for Ashiya, a coastal town in Japan, to stay with her aunt’s family. Tomoko’s aunt is an enigma and an outlier in her working-class family, and her magnificent home--and handsome, foreign husband, the president of a soft drink company--are symbols of that status. The seventeen rooms are filled with German-made furnishings; there are sprawling gardens, and even an old zoo where the family’s pygmy hippopotamus resides. The family is just as beguiling as their mansion--Tomoko’s dignified and devoted aunt, her German grandmother, and her dashing, charming uncle who confidently sits as the family’s patriarch. At the center of the family is Tomoko’s cousin Mina, a precocious, asthmatic girl of thirteen who draws Tomoko into an intoxicating world full of secret crushes and elaborate storytelling.; ; ; ; In this elegant jewel box of a book, Yoko Ogawa invites us to witness a powerful and formative interlude in Tomoko’s life, which she looks back on briefly from adulthood at the novel’s end. Behind the family''s sophistication are complications that Tomoko struggles to understand--her uncle’s mysterious absences, her German grandmother’s experience of the second world war, her aunt’s misery. Rich with the magic and mystery of youthful experience, <Mina’s Matchbox <is an evocative snapshot of a moment frozen in time--and a striking depiction of a family on the edge of collapse.

Autorentext

YOKO OGAWA has won every major Japanese literary award. Her fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, A Public Space, and Zoetrope: All-Story. Her works include The Memory Police, The Diving Pool, a collection of three novellas; The Housekeeper and the Professor; Hotel Iris; and Revenge. She lives in Ashiya, Japan.

Klappentext

From the award-winning, psychologically astute author of The Memory Police, here is a hypnotic, introspective novel about an affluent Japanese family navigating buried secrets, and their young house guest who uncovers them.

In the spring of 1972, twelve-year-old Tomoko leaves her mother behind in Tokyo and boards a train alone for Ashiya, a coastal town in Japan, to stay with her aunt’s family. Tomoko’s aunt is an enigma and an outlier in her working-class family, and her magnificent home—and handsome, foreign husband, the president of a soft drink company—are symbols of that status. The seventeen rooms are filled with German-made furnishings; there are sprawling gardens, and even an old zoo where the family’s pygmy hippopotamus resides. The family is just as beguiling as their mansion—Tomoko’s dignified and devoted aunt, her German grandmother, and her dashing, charming uncle who confidently sits as the family’s patriarch. At the center of the family is Tomoko’s cousin Mina, a precocious, asthmatic girl of thirteen who draws Tomoko into an intoxicating world full of secret crushes and elaborate storytelling. 
      In this elegant jewel box of a book, Yoko Ogawa invites us to witness a powerful and formative interlude in Tomoko’s life, which she looks back on briefly from adulthood at the novel’s end. Behind the family's sophistication are complications that Tomoko struggles to understand—her uncle’s mysterious absences, her German grandmother’s experience of the second world war, her aunt’s misery. Rich with the magic and mystery of youthful experience, Mina’s Matchbox is an evocative snapshot of a moment frozen in time—and a striking depiction of a family on the edge of collapse.

Leseprobe
The first vehicle I ever rode in was a baby carriage that had been brought across the sea, all the way from Germany. It was fitted out in brass and draped all around with bunting. The body of the carriage was elegantly designed, and the interior was lined with handmade lace, soft as eiderdown. The metal handle, the frame for the sunshade, and even the spokes of the wheels all glittered brilliantly. The pillow was embroidered in pale pink with the characters for my name: Tomoko.

The carriage was a gift from my mother’s sister. My aunt’s husband had succeeded his father as the president of a beverage company, and his mother was German. None of our other relatives had any overseas connections or had even so much as flown in an airplane, so when my aunt’s name came up in any context, she was always referred to as “the one who had married a foreigner”—­as if the epithet were actually part of her name.

In those days, my parents and I were living in a rented house on the outskirts of Okayama City, and the carriage was more than likely the most valuable object among our possessions. A photograph from the period shows how out of place it looked in front of the old wooden house. It was far too large for the tiny garden, and it was far more eye-­catching than the baby herself, presumably the subject of the picture. I’m told that when my mother pushed the carriage in the neighborhood, passersby turned to look at it. If they were acquaintances, they’d invariably come up to touch it, commenting ecstatically on how beautiful it was before moving on, without any mention of the baby inside.

Unfortunately, I have no memory of riding in the carriage. By the time I became aware of what was happening around me, that is, by the time I’d grown too big to ride in the carriage myself, it had already been relegated to the storage shed. Still, though the lace had yellowed a bit and was spotted with milk I had spit up on it, the carriage had lost none of its former elegance. Even surrounded by kerosene jugs and tattered blinds, it still gave off the aroma of foreign places.

Breathing in that smell, I’d let my imagination stray in my childhood. I’d daydream that I was, in reality, a princess from a distant land, abducted by a treacherous servant who had subsequently abandoned me, along with the carriage, deep in a forest. If you unstitched the embroidered Tomoko on the cushion, you would no doubt find some trace of my real name—­Elizabeth, or perhaps Angela . . . The carriage always played a starring role whenever I invented these sorts of stories.