The Involuntary Sojourner

by S. P. Tenhoff

  After dinner Sojiro bowed and thanked Oike for his assistance. But the more he thought about Oike’s role in “the cucumber seed incident” (as he’d come to think of it), the more disturbing it became. Certainly Oike had helped. Yet wasn’t there something odd in his ability to so easily pacify his father? A few whispered words . . . It seemed to hint at some inexplicable power of control . . . He had, of course, had reservations about Oike from the beginning, particularly once he was given a place in their home; but it had seemed a harmless enough if uncharacteristic indulgence on his father’s part, as if he had decided to take in a three-legged stray found hobbling outside the garden. And Oike was nothing if not innocuous. He never spoke out of turn. He rarely spoke at all; meek and inoffensive, one could almost forget he was there. At least until his father began coddling the creature like a belated third son. Sojiro had hardly known what to make of it . . . Only now, though, did he begin to see something sinister in Oike’s presence there. Upon consideration, wasn’t it true that his father’s decline had coincided with Oike’s arrival? It would be easy to go too far with this: he considered and rejected as improbable, for instance, the notion that Oike might have been polluting his father’s mind with a potion slipped into his food or drink. Still, might there not be some species of psychological poisoning, some malevolent influence? . . . Words whispered like a spell . . . At the very least, Oike’s arrival had signaled bad luck, as if he were an omen. Or a curse.

  The cucumber seed incident, if nothing else, established irrefutably the need for action regarding his father. Like a tongue tapping compulsively at a sore on the roof of the mouth, Sojiro’s mind kept returning against its will to that painful moment; and he found that each successive tap brought greater certainty concerning what was required of him: he felt himself moving into closer alignment with a force—or rather a presence (familiar to him, although he couldn’t yet identify it)—ready to direct and counsel him . . . If he had believed himself to be acting on his own, it all would have been overwhelming; but he began to sense that he was only an instrument of that unnamed presence, and this realization helped immeasurably as he began making what would otherwise have been difficult decisions in the days that followed . . .

  The first step was to inform the public that Master Kurobe had taken ill. The nature of the illness, of course, was left unmentioned. Sojiro reported the news without gravity, describing it as a minor complaint which, however, required him to remain in bed. As a result, his father had to be kept at home, and his walks restricted to the garden; but this turned out not to be a problem—his father showed little interest now in going out in any case. Sojiro hadn’t anticipated, though, the number of neighbors, theater performers, and assorted important figures who would come to pay their respects. They had to be told that his father was refusing to take visitors. Old Mogi the narrator was especially insistent, nearly demanding to be let in. These scenes left Sojiro humiliated; but his victory in subduing the guests with courtesy gave him courage. It was the presence he had discovered within him: it was lending him the strength to face such indignities.

  The next step was the naming of a successor; Sojiro, of course, would need to make this decision on his father’s behalf. He knew that he was the more capable of the brothers; still, he was reluctant to put himself forward in his brother’s place, however much Genzo might have wished for such a thing. It seemed dishonorable. Besides, the public would expect the title to pass to Genzo, and not only because he was the eldest. Sojiro was well aware that his brother was considered the more talented of the sons. Years before, he had overheard his father talking one day to Mogi. The narrator had just finished praising Genzo’s natural ability, and his father had said: “Well yes, he might have the talent, that one; but that’s about all he has. And I don’t need to tell you, it takes more than just raw talent to amount to anything as an artist.”

  No matter how qualified the compliment, his father’s words had surprised him. Where was this talent everyone spoke of? In knowledge, in mastery of technique, he was clearly his brother’s superior. And what was puppetry if not the gradual and orderly accumulation of expertise? It was an art, some might say. But it had always seemed to Sojiro that art was simply a word people used when they were unable to properly define something. When they spoke of his brother’s talent, people were really trying to give a name to some capricious quality they imagined might mysteriously surface in his brother when he wasn’t drunk or distracted. Perhaps his father—perhaps everyone—saw Sojiro’s own talents as uninspired by comparison; but can a career be built, let alone sustained, on caprice and mystery?

  Such thoughts had continued to trouble him long after hearing his father’s words. Now, though, it all seemed like childish nonsense. He was no longer interested in aesthetic arguments or sibling rivalry; his only concern was his obligation to the family name and business. The most important consideration was continuing to fill the theater now that his father was gone; and whatever one might say about his brother and his abilities—call it raw talent or art or simply charisma—he certainly knew how to attract attention. His reputation, even his infamy, might very well draw crowds. Nevertheless, allowing Genzo control of the theater, and particularly its finances, would be catastrophic. With his habits it would only be a matter of months before the business was driven into the ground and the Kurobe name disgraced. At first it seemed as though there was no solution; then an answer appeared, and it was so obvious that it seemed as though it had been present, waiting to be discovered, all along.

  His father’s stamp, an announcement to the public, a brief ceremony, and it was over: this was all it took for title to pass from father to son. Succession, in the end, amounted to nothing more than that. The difficult part had been persuading his brother. Impossible, Genzo kept repeating, eyes as frantic as those of a child who knows he must take his medicine but still feverishly hopes for escape. “You know me. Master Puppeteer? . . . No. No: impossible. Don’t you realize? I’ll ruin everything.” He said this hopelessly, shaking his head with self-hatred; but Sojiro understood that it was also a threat.

  He immediately set about reassuring his brother: Sojiro would manage all of the mundane tasks necessary to keep the theater operating: the finances, the advertising, the practical details and the formal niceties, the supervision of performers and crew—Genzo needn’t concern himself with any of that. Freed from these responsibilities, Genzo could concentrate instead on the theater’s artistic direction. In other words, he could expect to receive all of the honors associated with the rank of Master Puppeteer, honors to which he was after all entitled as elder son; the actual duties, however, would be shared equally between the brothers.

  Genzo’s mouth squirmed.

  “All right,” he said finally, his body sagging, though it was unclear whether from relief or surrender. “And I can count on you, little brother?”

  “Of course. Always.”

  If Sojiro had been tempted, however briefly, to inform his father and seek his blessing, the man, he reminded himself, showed no interest now in his legacy or in the fate of his theater; he was content to sit vacantly for hours, Oike like an ever-present parasite fattening beside him, slowly draining him of his wits. Sojiro had come to realize that this man was no longer in any real sense his father at all; he had become an impostor, a trespasser in their home no less than Oike himself. Though there were still times when he behaved exactly as their father had, times when he seemed perfectly reasonable, this was no more than a kind of deception. Sojiro had finally identified the nameless presence that had been guiding him ever since the cucumber seed incident: it was his father, it had been his father all along—his real father—or rather the essence of him, his wishes and his wisdom, directing Sojiro’s actions as surely as if his father’s spirit had risen out of the empty-eyed remnant there on the mat and come to inhabit Sojiro instead.

  Preparations were made for the theater’s reopening. Now that Genzo had been p
romoted to control of the puppet’s head and right hand, another puppeteer took over the task of operating the left hand; Sojiro remained in charge of the feet. Genzo had suggested that Sojiro himself move up to the more prestigious left-hand position, but he preferred to stay where he’d always been, leading the steps of the Kurobe puppets in the proper direction.

  For the moment at least, Genzo appeared willing enough to take on his new duties; during rehearsals, he even seemed excited by the role of lead puppeteer. Sojiro’s concern, as always, was his brother’s carousing. In due course a suitable wife would need to be chosen for him; it would be unseemly for a Master Puppeteer to remain unmarried. Besides, there was the important statement that a marriage would make: the formerly wayward son had settled into his new responsibility, marrying and—Sojiro hoped—eventually providing a son to carry on the family tradition. As to his brother’s excessive spending, Sojiro had already taken the step of placing him on a limited allowance, explaining the need for frugality until the theater reestablished itself in the eyes of the public. But such measures could provide only a partial solution. And there was still the issue of Genzo’s outstanding debt: word had reached Sojiro that his brother owed an enormous amount as a result of his gambling.

  Sojiro had never met Shinoda. In the past, he had paid off his brother’s debts through intermediaries; but he knew the man by reputation, and was prepared for the worst when he finally arranged to see him. Shinoda was younger than Sojiro had expected, and far more gracious. He had a particular manner about him—affable yet without any trace of presumption. While an assistant poured tea, he said: “Thank you for coming. I know your theater must keep you very busy. Let me express, right from the outset, my willingness to resolve this. After all, the present situation benefits no one. As I’m sure you’d agree.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d actually hoped to talk with your brother, but . . .” He paused tactfully, then went on: “We haven’t been graced by his presence in the quarter these days. But now that you’ve kindly come in his place, to hear my proposal . . .”

  “I am not here in my brother’s place. In fact he doesn’t know I’ve come. I’m here out of duty to my family’s interests.”

  “Of course. I completely understand,” Shinoda said, eyeing him with a peculiar grin. “So: to business?”

  Sojiro had come ready to pay off Genzo’s debt, or at least to negotiate a reasonable payment schedule. It soon became clear, though, that the “business” Shinoda referred to concerned more than just his brother’s gambling—it concerned Oike, of all people. It seemed that Oike had gained a reputation in the quarter, was even in great demand for a certain exotic act he took part in, and Shinoda believed he could make profitable use of Oike’s unique qualities and talents in an entertainment venture he was at that moment developing. Shinoda, in short, saw Oike as a valuable commodity, and was prepared to offer complete forgiveness of Genzo’s debt in return for possession of Oike along with all performance rights.

  Sojiro was about to correct Shinoda, who had somehow arrived at the ridiculous conclusion that Oike belonged to the Kurobe family; but was it really so far-fetched to claim that his family had—if in an admittedly rather indirect way—essentially arrived at something akin to ownership of the creature? They provided him, after all, with food and lodging, and allowed him every benefit normally reserved only for the immediate family itself. And all without any compensation. If not for them, Oike would still be a street tramp. Surely there had been an understanding between the creature and his father, a sort of unwritten contract: proper care in exchange for loyal companionship and all the privileges of possession. How else to explain the strange bond between the two?

  Nevertheless, the idea of what they appeared to be discussing was so nonsensical that Sojiro had to resist a rare impulse to laugh out loud. It was all too absurd to be taken seriously. But the laugh he suppressed was not unmixed with terror: Shinoda didn’t want money; Shinoda wanted Oike. Still, wouldn’t Sojiro—if he’d thought of it—in fact have been willing to offer Oike at no cost, or even to pay to have his family rid of the creature? All debt forgiven. Yes; but beyond that: a curse lifted, the house swept clean, the little demon exorcised once and for all. Of course it was mad; but in the playacting that this meeting had become (for that was what it was; what else could it be?) he felt emboldened to take on the part of Shrewd Haggler. The premise: Oike as a valuable commodity. A thought occurred to him: even if the debt were forgiven, it was only a matter of time before his brother would return to the quarter to dig himself an even deeper hole. But if . . . He began to speak tentatively, as if thinking aloud: assuming for the moment that an arrangement regarding Oike were possible: if he could suggest something in the way of a provision, so to speak: if his brother were to be banned from Shinoda-san’s various places of business—that is to say, banned in perpetuity—it would prevent any potential recurrence of the present unpleasantness . . . Only now did he glance across the table, feeling suddenly that the playacting had gone too far; but Shinoda assented instantly with a dismissive flick of the hand, seeming both contemptuous and embarrassed, as if Sojiro had committed some fundamental breach of business etiquette by bringing up a mere detail in the midst of serious negotiations.

  The nature of the proposed agreement appeared now all at once before Sojiro like a document prepared far in advance; there was no paper—Shinoda insisted there was no need for it between honorable men—but what was being presented to him felt nevertheless as tangible, as unquestionably real, as a page placed in his hand for final approval: his brother’s debt, including accrued interest, would be canceled forthwith, and in addition Genzo would be permanently barred from any and all of Shinoda’s businesses; in exchange, legal ownership of Oike would pass to Shinoda within a twenty-four-hour period.

  Agreed?

  Sojiro felt himself nod. And then, in a sort of panic, as if he had just pressed down the family stamp and then thought of an amendment, he began hurriedly begging for assurances that Shinoda’s man would be discreet and kindly wait in the garden—excuse the rudeness—since Sojiro hoped to invite, or not invite, of course, but order, quietly order Oike out into the garden, but quietly, that was the point, everyone must act quietly, so as not to alert or, rather, alarm his family needlessly . . .

  “Discretion: that goes without saying,” Shinoda said. He produced a bottle of sake and two cups. “Speaking of which. Allow me to throw in a final gift, just to seal our arrangement: your brother, I can promise you, will never know about your part in any of this.”

  He made the offer casually as he set the cups on the table. Sojiro had intended to refuse the sake—he never drank—but upon hearing Shinoda’s words, he was so overcome with relief and gratitude that he found himself allowing his cup to be filled.

  “To brothers and brotherhood!” Shinoda cried.

  Afterward, Sojiro stepped out into the afternoon, dazzled by the sunlight and strangely elated. He couldn’t quite define to himself how he felt since it was entirely unfamiliar, but if he could have given it a name he might have said that he felt free. It had been his intention to return home as soon as his business was concluded, but instead he allowed himself to wander the quarter for the first time. The shops were still shuttered, the streets empty except for the occasional deliveryman pulling carts of food and sake for the coming night’s revelry; but, peering through a gate’s slats at a teahouse recessed in shadow, plunging on impulse into a mossy maze of alleys, the soft gurgle of water always elusively near, gazing up at the wooden sign-blocks dangling above a doorway, each bearing the fanciful stage name of a geisha—Silken Wing; Moon Blossom; Silent Song—he was able to imagine the splendors of the quarter at night, when this would all be transformed, everything hidden here revealed under the pink lanterns twirling overhead . . .

  He wandered for a long time, until it was nearly evening. Then he abruptly stopped; remembered himself; and, reddening, turned an
d hurried home, already scolding himself for having wasted half the day.

  ***

  After Oike’s disappearance, Kurobe rarely left his room. His time was spent alone, staring out the window at his garden. He didn’t react when his daughter-in-law set a tray down before him; he didn’t respond when asked hesitantly if he needed anything. He had ignored Chiyo often enough in the past as well, but now he seemed to find her presence there an unforgivable intrusion.

  She did her best to act as if nothing had changed: she used the same honorific language as always; she bowed when she entered; bowed again when she left. After a month of this, she was almost glad to hear once more the familiar sound of orders barked from his room—“Tangerines!” or “Tea!” or “Where is my dinner?”

  He finally began to leave his room on occasion, if only to wander the house as though searching for something. Her husband, encountering him by chance in a hallway or on the stairs, found his behavior especially disturbing. Sometimes she would find her father-in-law’s window flung wide open, the room empty; he would be in the garden, gazing furiously into the pond. There was a concern that he might try to go out through the garden gates and end up lost in the streets. The gate could be sealed; but what was to keep him from climbing over the wall? . . . And then, one afternoon, he was discovered thrashing in the carp pool, soaking wet, apparently intent on snatching one of the fish from the water. When questioned about it, he refused to answer. He was—or so it seemed to Chiyo—becoming crafty in his silence, so that it was hard to know how much of him remained.