Page 10 of The Tainted and the Tamed
As she turned in this loop, a soft voice reached her ears.
“Are you sick?”
The question startled Murasaki. Ms. Tanabe stood in the doorway, a mantle around her shoulders. The white of her kimono collar peeked over it. She was still dressed in her uniform, as if her work day had not ended—or, more than likely, she’d fallen asleep in her clothes. Murasaki could not see well enough in the weak moonlight to tell whether the kimono was oddly creased.
“It’s nothing, Ms. Tanabe,” Murasaki replied as her heart sped up again, the evidence of her struggles plain in her voice. She was hoarse as could be.
“It doesn’t sound like it’s nothing. And if you aren’t sick, you will be after standing out there in bare feet and your night clothes.”
“I’m sorry,” Murasaki said, managing a bow.
Ms. Tanabe tisked. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I wondered what would bring a gainfully employed woman up from the city to our little town, when you’ve dozens of doctors to choose from there. Now I know.” Her words took on a more sympathetic tone. “The air is poison down there, is it not?”
“It is.” A bronchial cough emphasized this. “We didn’t know any better. It wasn’t until my fiancé grew sick—”
Again, Ms. Tanabe tisked. “It’s criminal, what they allow those factories to do. How long will it be, I wonder, before even our mountain air is tainted by their exhaust?”
As another cough threatened to bubble up, Murasaki struck her chest again. “My mother lived in Fusae town when she was young. She thought the air here would do me good.”
“And the physician Chairman Asami keeps in his employ was added incentive, no doubt. If I’d know this wasn’t the typical ailment, I would’ve insisted he see you right away.”
“I’m—” Murasaki’s attempt at an apology dissolved into a phlegmatic cough.
“Oh, dear.” Ms. Tanabe was at her side in an instant, patting her back in a motherly fashion. “I think it’s time we pay the good Dr. Setouchi a visit. Come in. I’ll fetch him straight away.”
“Right now?”
“I assure you, he’ll understand. Here. Take my mantle.”
As they entered the genkan, Ms. Tanabe slid the fur garment from her shoulders. Murasaki shook her head.
“I refuse to have you saddled with a cold or fever besides your current condition,” the housekeeper said. “Take it. This weather is not cold enough to disturb me.”
Murasaki relented, the musty smell of the mantle strong enough to worsen her congestion. She dug her fingers into the fur anyway, needing something to anchor her senses.
This mantle must be very old indeed. Like everything else here.
What if Murasaki had traded one bad situation for another? What if the age of the house, and all the dust she dealt with, was no better than what she encountered sweeping the factory floor?
Her mind raced as she waited for the doctor, her chest still too tight for comfort. The weight upon it was nearly unbearable.
In surprisingly little time, Ms. Tanabe returned, the doctor trailing behind her.
“And how long have you had the symptoms?”
“Like this? About two years,” Murasaki answered Dr. Setouchi, her voice still strained. “Although it worsened, a few months ago.”
The doctor, though brusque, had a kindness in his eyes she could not ignore. She kept expecting him to say something comforting.
He did not. Instead, he placed his stethoscope to her chest, listening and asking her to breathe deeply until she coughed.
When this was done, he placed two fingers upon her back, then began to tap them with two from his other hand. He moved about her back like this, the vibration bringing up a productive cough. His hand shot out, offering a handkerchief.
He examined its contents, checking for the blood that would indicate tuberculosis. Of course, there was none.
Murasaki’s stomach sank. Would he be no better than the rest of the physicians she’d seen?
“I have read of conditions like yours,” Dr. Setouchi said once the fit had subsided. “Chronic lung inflammation, due to the chemical off-put of the factories. There are workers younger than you in worse condition. What did your doctor in the city tell you?”
