American Stories

by Nagai Kafu

  “Yes,” Kishimoto answered, pulling the neckbands of his kimono closer together.

  “Are you planning to enter some university?”

  “Well, I’d like to, but right now I don’t have the language and don’t quite understand how things work. . . .”

  “Do you see, Yanagida? Kishimoto has left Japan in order to pursue his studies, even at the expense of leaving his wife and child behind.” As I said this, Yanagida leaned forward and asked, “Kishimoto, do you already have a child?”

  “Yes,” was all Kishimoto said, blushing a little.

  “Then you must really have made a great commitment.”

  “Well, I would like to think I made a big effort when I left the country. There were some relatives and others who were violently opposed to my plans.” This time it was Kishimoto’s turn to tell his story.

  He had also worked for a company in Tokyo; however, not only did he have little prospect for career advancement, he was constantly being pushed down by others, the reason presumably being, he thought, that he had not graduated from any school and therefore had no degree. While he was pondering these facts, his company undertook a reorganization, and he was going to be dismissed. Luckily for him, since his wife had inherited a considerable fortune, he was spared the plight of an ordinary person under the same circumstances. On the contrary, his wife actually seemed happy and thought that this was a good turn of events, telling him that they should leave the noise of Tokyo behind with their sweet little child and move to some quiet countryside and live in peace and comfort, making use of her money.

  But Kishimoto was not about to yield to his wife’s gentle words. Instead, he told her that, if possible, he would like to make use of the property she had inherited from her late father and study in the United States for a couple of years. She, however, was firmly opposed, not because she begrudged him the money but because she simply did not want to part from the husband she loved dearly. She told him that she didn’t want him to strain himself to succeed for her sake, that he should not feel embarrassed that he was being passed over by former houseboys with bachelor’s degrees, and besides, wasn’t it enough for everyone to act according to his ability and live a peaceful life every day? Yet, faced with her husband’s resolute entreaties, in the end she yielded and tearfully saw Kishimoto go off to a faraway land.

  “So, I am hoping to shorten my stay as much as possible and go home with whatever degree I may obtain from a school. A diploma will be the best present to show my wife.”

  Having said this much, Kishimoto gulped down a mouthful of whisky while making a face, as if to cheer himself up.

  “Yes, I really feel for you. At the same time, though, I congratulate you on your daring decision with all my heart.” Yanagida raised his glass after him, then changed his tone. “But you must be reminded of your wife all the time, even though I myself don’t know yet what it’s like to have a wife.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha. I can’t be so spineless now that I have come this far . . . ha, ha, ha, ha.” Kishimoto forced a laugh but looked quite distressed.

  Just then, the clanging of the bell could be heard once again. The waves and the winds were still raging outside the porthole, barely kept out by a single pane, but inside the closed cabin it was already too warm, with the aroma of alcohol and cigarette smoke. We had grown a little weary of talking and, as if for the first time, looked at the electric lights that were brightening up every corner of the cabin. Before long Yanagida pulled out his watch, as though he suddenly remembered something, and said, “It’s already eleven o’clock.”

  “Is that right? Forgive me for having stayed for such a long time. I shall be going now.” Kishimoto stood up first.

  “Oh, please stay.”

  “Thank you. I have really enjoyed myself tonight, thanks to you. It will be nice to spend tomorrow like this again. I must be going.”

  Opening the door, Yanagida said “Good night” in English, and while he mumbled some unintelligible English poem, his footsteps soon faded away in the direction of his cabin. In the cabin next door, in the meantime, I could hear the faint sound of the bed curtain being drawn. Kishimoto, who had also left my cabin, must already be lying down in his lonely bed.

  (November 1903)

  A Return Through the Meadow

  If I remember correctly, it was already the last Saturday of October in Tacoma, where I was staying at that time.

  Fall was coming to an end, and just about all the leaves—from those on the rows of maple trees planted on both sides of the streets to those on the trees that had provided cool shade in the parks and people’s gardens during the summer—had fallen after the previous night’s dense fog. Not just here in Tacoma but along the Pacific Coast of the United States, it would be the sad month of November in less than a week. From then till next May it would be rainy and foggy practically every day, and it would be next to impossible to see clear skies. People said the day’s cloudless weather might give us the last chance this year to look at a blue sky. So, on the advice of a friend who knew the local conditions very well, I decided to spend the day bicycling in late autumn’s prairies with him.

  Leaving the house, we ride toward the east along a straight road uptown called Tacoma Avenue. The city of Tacoma faces Puget Sound, an inland sea with very heavy traffic, and is built on a sharp incline, so that, as we turn around, we can see the whole city in one glance—countless roofs and chimneys, vast landfills, docks, several ships at anchor, trains belonging to the Northern Pacific Railway. And atop the mountain range beyond the bay, the snow-clad Mount Rainier, called “Tacoma Fuji” by the Japanese, rises majestically, now with one side dyed deep red by the late-rising sun of the north country.

  In no time we crossed a couple of bridges built over a large ravine at the edge of the city, and we cycled on for about four miles along a wide, specially built bicycle path; we passed a small village called South Tacoma, then came at once upon a vast field that we biked through, going uphill or downhill as the road went, feeling as if we were small ships being rocked by waves, until we finally reached the end and entered an oak woods. The road became somewhat steeper, and the straight pine trees that form dark and dense forests everywhere in this region, particularly in Washington State, in no time blocked our way, just as the oak woods had. We managed to find a moss-covered trail and, following its lead, took a short rest by a lake in the forest called the American Lake. Then we again changed course and finally arrived at a solitary village on a promontory called Stillcome.

  My companion then said, “I’ll take you to the lunatic asylum on top of this hill on our way back. It’s the state asylum of Washington, so it’s pretty well known around here.”

  So I followed him and climbed up the hill; we could readily identify the tall and wide brick building as the asylum, against the background of cheerful meadows far away and solid forest in the foreground.

  The spacious compound was enclosed by a low white picket fence and completely covered by a bright green lawn, except for a footpath that displayed a dazzlingly fresh color against the trees with delicate branches and the various flowers planted on it. At the rear of the building, the glass roof of a huge greenhouse could be seen, and there were benches here and there along the path, while in the shade of the trees in the open space there were swing seats. But silence reigned all around, and not a single person could be seen.

  We pedaled at a leisurely pace along the dirt road in front of the iron gate and started going downhill toward the meadow from which we had come. On our way back, my friend explained various things to me and mentioned casually, “There are two or three Japanese confined in this asylum.”

  For some reason this seemed like a rather serious matter. Then my friend added immediately, “They are all immigrant workers.”

  I cannot help but be agitated anew by the words, “immigrant workers.” It is all too easy to recall how I felt looking at these workers from the upper deck while taking a walk, on my voyage last year from my nati
ve land to this country.

  They are being treated less as humans than as cargo and are loaded to capacity in a small, dirty, and smelly hole; when they notice good weather, they come up to the deck from the bottom of the ship, like so much rising smoke, and stare at the boundless sky and ocean. But unlike the rest of us, oversensitive souls, they do not seem particularly struck by any feeling; they gather in groups of three or four, five or six, and after talking loudly for a while about something, they smoke tobacco with kiseru [long-stemmed straight pipes] they have brought from Japan and scatter ashes on the deck till reprimanded by one of the crew who happens to go by. Or, later, on moonlit nights, they begin singing some provincial popular songs that reveal their native places. I can never forget one of them, a white-haired old man who appeared proud of his voice.

  Sustained by the vision alone, that three years of hard work abroad sow the seeds of ten years’ wealth and happiness after they go back home, they leave behind the farmland where their ancestors were born and died, bidding farewell to the eastern skies more beautiful than those in Italy, remain patient all through humiliations such as immigration regulations and health examinations, and arrive in this new continent.

  But no matter where one goes in this world, drudgery is everywhere. How many of these people will ever be able to attain their wishes? Such sad thoughts occurred to me as I looked at the meadows, which until now had appeared to epitomize peace and comfort but which all of a sudden impressed me with their loneliness. And the dark and deep pine forests seemed like hiding places of terror and secrecy.

  I took the opportunity presented by my friend, who had pulled up his bicycle to the shade of a tree, and approached him asking, “But why did they lose their sanity, do you know?”

  “Oh . . . you mean the laborers?” My friend replied after a while, as if understanding my question for the first time, “In most instances, loss of hope is the reason, but in the case of one of them, there were other causes as well. . . . A really sad case. But such cases are not unusual in America.”

  “Do explain what you mean.”

  “I heard about him from someone else . . . even in the pretty lawless Japanese society, this was extreme. He told me that it happened already six or seven years ago,” my friend began, taking a tobacco pouch from his inside pocket and skillfully rolling his cigarette with his fingertips.

  At that time, Japanese had just begun arriving in large numbers in Seattle and Tacoma; things were not as settled as today, and many crimes were pretty openly committed. Old-timers from Japan, such as ruffians wandering up from California or sailors of dubious origin who had crossed some ocean and then turned labor bosses, vied with each other for the lifeblood of the uninformed newcomers. To such a dangerous, hellish place he—that is, one of the inmates at the asylum—had come from Japan with his wife to earn a living.

  Now, the biggest reason why laborers aspire to come to America is that they hear exaggerated stories told by people who have just returned home. And this man was certainly one of those. He had been living in the fields of Kishû where buckwheat flowers bloomed, but it happened that a man had returned from Hawaii after fifteen years and bragged about America where, as he put it, there were gold-bearing trees everywhere. So our man decided, on impulse, to go to this unseen paradise, particularly since he was told that women earned higher wages than men. So the couple undertook their trip to America—landing in Seattle, a city whose name they could not even pronounce—a land about which they knew nothing. On the wharf, the ship was greeted by employment brokers, agents from lodging houses, smugglers of prostitutes—all with sharper eyes than most, who used all their power to capture their prey and toss them into their nets. One such man who identified himself as a guide for an inn led the couple through dirty streets covered by huge wagons and evil-looking American laborers to an alley, pushed open a dark doorway, and, instead of going upstairs, took them to a dimly lit underground room.

  Here, after they paid an exorbitant commission, it was decided that the wife would work at a laundry in the city while the husband was to be hired as a woodcutter in a forest on a mountain about ten miles out of the city. As he was taken to a lone house, dark even in daytime, in the forest, he found three other Japanese working as woodcutters. One of them, perhaps the leader, said, “We only have each other to trust in a foreign country. Let’s be like brothers and work together from now on.” Our man felt quite relieved and started working hard every day with this group under the supervision of a white boss.

  [One day,] returning from work to this lonely log cabin, the fellows prodded the newcomer to tell them about his life. . . . As he did so, the leaderlike, strongest-looking man raised his voice as if taken aback, looking around at his other companions with flashing eyes.

  “You mean you left your old woman behind in Seattle? What a stupid thing to do!”

  “But, you know, once in this country, I have to earn money, so it’s nothing to live apart from my wife,” said the newcomer, sounding sad nevertheless, to which the other man responded, “That’s not what I mean. Of course, you’ve got to be prepared for such a life, since you came here to make money. What I mean is that it’s more dangerous to leave a woman alone in Seattle than to let a child play at the edge of a river.”

  “Oh? But why?”

  “It’s natural you don’t know, since you just got here. But in Seattle . . . of course, it’s not limited to Seattle, in America generally, they will never leave a woman alone, safely. If she is raped, that’s the least of your problems. In the worst case, you may never be able to see your old woman again.”

  “That’s true. You’d better be careful,” another fellow added. The first fellow remained silent and cunningly scrutinized the newcomer, who looked as if he wanted to cry.

  Puffing once at his large pipe, the leader said first, “In this country, any broad, as long as she is a woman, is a treasure chest worth a thousand ryô, I mean a thousand dollars. So, procurers called pimps are on the lookout for women, and sometimes they do pretty ruthless things. I’ll tell you a true story. Once, while a couple were walking down a street, a guy came from behind, knocked the husband down, grabbed the wife, and disappeared. It’s a big country, this America. Who knows? If you go far away and sell a woman as a whore, you can easily earn a thousand dollars. You too had better watch out before something terrible happens.”

  The newcomer’s eyes were already filled with tears, but what could he do, given his situation? The first fellow then looked at the other two, and, after exchanging some glances with them and everyone seemed to be in agreement, he told the newcomer, “How about this? Why don’t you bring your wife here?”

  “But how on earth can I do such a thing?”

  “Don’t tell me you can’t do it. True, I don’t know how it would look, but there are only three of us Japanese in this isolated hut in the woods, so there is nothing to worry about. If she can agree to get over here, you’ll be able to be with your wife every day, and besides, she can help with cooking and laundry. The addition of one woman wouldn’t add to the cost of meals if the four of us share it.”

  Such was the proposal, but he had neither the strength to agree nor the requisite status to express disagreement, so that everything happened at once, the way the other fellow had suggested. That is to say, on the very next day, he and the other man went to the city and brought back the wife to the cottage in the woods.

  The first four or five days were eventless, and he lived happily with his wife, but one day, which happened to be a Sunday, it rained from morning on and they were not able to get out for fun. So they began a party, drinking and singing, and before they knew it, it was already late in the evening. As it was time for bed, the man [leader] called back the newcomer, who was about to leave. Saying, “Hey, I just want to have a talk with you,” he exchanged glances with the others.

  The deep forest surrounding the cottage was roaring with the rain and wind.

  “What is it?” The newcomer turned around imp
assively.

  “I want to ask a favor of you.”

  “What is it?”

  “What else? I want to borrow your old woman for the night. . . .” “Ha, ha, ha, ha. You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?”

  “Listen, I’m not saying this because I’m drunk. It’s not a joke or a jest. I just want to consult with you. How about it?”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha,” came a forced laugh from the newcomer.

  “Why are you laughing, when we are consulting you?” another man said this time.

  “What do you think? This is among brothers. Can’t you lend her to the three of us just for tonight?”

  “. . . .”

  “Let’s talk about it. How about it? You still don’t want to do it? It’s all right if you are against the idea, but think hard about it. Aren’t you really bothered that on this mountain, where all four of us work together, only you are having a good time? If there is a mountain fire on a windy night, which happens frequently, we four will all have to die together . . . we can’t leave one of us behind and run away; and if the worst happens, and no food reaches us from the main office, we’ll have to share what we’ve got to eat. All men are brothers. Don’t think that only you can have a good time. Listen, we’ve been in this America for five years, but we haven’t even once felt a soft hand. We know your treasure is nobody else’s but yours. So we aren’t saying we are going to take it away by force and make it ours. Mind you, we are just begging you to lend it to us.”