What the Fire Never Took

One long climb puts the whole city in a single view. There is the castle on its hill, with pale roofs and long walls. There is the dark green garden beside it. There is the low roof of the market among taller buildings. Across the river lies the small wooden grid of the teahouse street. Beyond it all, the sea is flat and silver.

What survives here is not really the monuments. Many cities have those, rebuilt in concrete after the war. What survives in Kanazawa is ordinary. A market that still sells fish to people who cook it. A craft with real customers. A street where someone practises upstairs because there is work that night. The city kept its habits as well as its buildings.

Rain came in off the sea, as it does almost every day. It arrived first as a smell, then as a wall of water on the tiled roofs. People here say you may forget your lunch box, but never your umbrella. Polly waited under a roof edge.

When the rain eased, she flew low over the water. Behind her, the gold was still being beaten thinner.