“Oh, have a heart,” said Waverhouse, “and anyway isn’t it about time for your own good lady to come home?” He had hardly started his usual style of teasing when from the direction of the other room there came the sound of Mrs. Sneaze calling sharply for the maid.
“I say, that’s torn it,” Waverhouse whispered. “Had you realized she was back?”
My master permitted himself a spasm of muffled laughter. “What’s it matter if she is?”
But Waverhouse was not to be dissuaded. “Oh, Mrs. Sneaze,” he called, “how long have you been home?”
Answer, as the poets put it, came there none.
“Did you happen to hear what your noble spouse was just telling us, Mrs. Sneaze?”
Still no answer.
“I hope you understand he wasn’t speaking his own thoughts. Just reading out the opinions of a Mr. Nashe from the sixteenth century.
Nothing personal. Please don’t take it to heart.”
“It hardly matters to me,” came the curt response in a voice so faint and distant that Mrs. Sneaze might well have been away in the sixteenth century pursuing the issue with Mr. Nashe himself. Coldmoon giggled nervously.
“Well, of course it hardly matters to me, either. I’m sorry to have mentioned it.” Waverhouse was now laughing out loud when we heard the sound of the outside gate being opened and heavy footsteps entering the house. Next moment, and with no further announcement, the sliding door of the room was yanked aside and the face of Tatara Sampei peered in through the gap.
Sampei hardly looked himself. His snow-white shirt and his spanking new frock-coat were surprises in themselves but he was also carrying, their necks string-tied together, a clutch of bottles of beer. He set the bottles down beside the dried bonitos, and himself, without even a nod of greeting, hunkered down heavily on his hams with all the self-confident resolution of a warrior. “Mr. Sneaze, sir,” he immediately began, “has your stomach trouble gotten any better lately? It’s all this staying at home, you know; it does you no good.”
“I haven’t said whether my stomach was better or worse,” my master tartly objected.
“No, I know you haven’t. But your complexion speaks for itself. It’s not good, yellow like that. This is the right time of year to go fishing.
Why not hire a boat at Shinagawa? Bracing. I went out last Sunday.”
“Did you catch anything?”
“No, nothing.”
“Is it any fun when you don’t catch a sausage?”
“The idea is to buck yourself up, to get the old juices flowing again.
How about all of you? Have you ever been out fishing? It’s terrific fun.
You see,” he began speaking to them as a group, somewhat loftily as though to a ring of children, “you set off in this tiny boat across the vast blue ocean. . .”
“My preference,” said the irrepressible Waverhouse, “would be to set off in a vast blue boat across the smallest possible ocean.”
“I can see no point,” said Coldmoon in his most detached voice, “no fun at all in setting off on a fishing expedition unless one expects to catch at least a whale. Or a mermaid.”
“You can’t catch whales from cockleshells and mermaids don’t exist.
You scribbling men of letters have no common sense whatever.”
“I’m not a man of letters.”
“No? Then what the devil are you? I’m a businessman, and for us businessmen the one thing you must have is common sense.” He turned toward my master and addressed him directly. “You know, sir, over the last few months I have amassed a very great stock of common sense. Of course, working as I do in a great business center, it’s only natural that I should become like this.”
“Like what?”
“Take, for instance, cigarettes. One can’t expect to get very far in business if one goes around smoking trashy brands like Shiki-shima or Asahi.” At this point, he produced a pack of Egyptian cigarettes, selected a gold-tipped tube, lit it ostentatiously and began to puff its scented smoke.
“Can you really afford to chuck your money around like that? You must be rolling in the stuff.”
“No. No money yet, but something will turn up. Smoking these cigarettes builds one’s image, confers considerable prestige.”
“It’s certainly an easier way to gain prestige than by polishing glass balls. A real short cut to fame. Far less troublesome than all your labors, wouldn’t you say, Coldmoon?”
Waverhouse had scarcely closed his mouth, and before Coldmoon could utter a syllable, Sampei turned and said, “So, you are Mr.
Coldmoon. The chap who’s given up on his doctorate. For which reason it’s become me.”
“You’re studying for a degree?”
“No, I’m marrying Miss Goldfield. To tell the truth, I felt rather sorry for you, missing a chance like that, but they pressed me so hard that I’ve agreed to marry her. Nevertheless, I can’t help feeling that somehow I’ve wronged Mr. Coldmoon. Can you follow my feelings, Mr. Sneaze?”
“But please, my dear sir,” said Coldmoon, “you are most welcome to the match.”
“If she’s what you want,” my master mumbled vaguely, “then I suppose you might as well marry her.”
“How absolutely splendid,” burbles Waverhouse. “All’s well that ends well, and all that. It just goes to show that nobody need ever worry about getting his daughters married. Wasn’t I saying only just now that someone suitable would quickly come along and, sure enough, she’s already found this very cool customer to be her unblushing bridegroom.
Think of it, Beauchamp, and rejoice. It’s a gift of a theme for one of your new-style poems. Waste no time. Get going.” Waverhouse was off again.
“And are you,” asked Sampei somewhat obsequiously, “the poet Mr.
Beauchamp? I should be deeply grateful if you would deign to compose something for our wedding. I could have it printed right away and have it sent out to all concerned. I will also arrange for it to be printed in the daily press.”
“I’d be happy to oblige. When would you like to have it?”
“Any time. And any piece which you already have on hand would do.
And for that I’ll invite you to our wedding reception. We’ll be having champagne. Have you ever tried it? It tastes delicious. I’m planning, Mr.
Sneaze, to hire an orchestra, a small one, for the occasion. Perhaps we could get Mr. Beauchamp’s poem set to music and then it could be played while the guests are eating. How about that, Mr. Sneaze? What do you think?”
“You do as you like.”
“But Mr. Sneaze, could you write the musical setting for me?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Isn’t there anyone among you who could handle the music?”
“Mr. Coldmoon, the unsuccessful marriage candidate and failed ball polisher, happens also to be a fine violinist. Ask him if he’ll oblige. But I doubt if he’ll squander his wealth of soul in return for a mere sipping of champagne.”
“But there are champagnes and champagnes. I shan’t be offering anything cheap or nasty. No filthy pops. Nothing but the best.
Won’t you help me out?”
“Of course, and with pleasure. I’ll write the music even if your champagne is mere cider. Indeed, if you like, I’ll do the job for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to aid me unrewarded.
If you don’t enjoy champagne, how about this for payment?” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Sampei pulled out some seven or eight photographs and scattered them on the floor-matting. One was half-length, one was full-length, one standing, another sitting, one dressed somewhat casually, another very correctly in a long-sleeved kimono and yet another wearing a formal Japanese hairdo. All of them were photographs of young girls.
“Mr. Sneaze, sir, these were all prospective brides in whom I am, of course, no longer interested. But if any of these marriage candidates happened to interest Mr. Coldmoon or Mr. Beauchamp, I would gladly, in recognition of their assistance to
myself act as their agent in effecting introductions to any of these fanciable ladies. How about this one here?” he asks, thrusting a photograph under Coldmoon’s nose.
“Oh nice,” says Coldmoon, “very nice. I rather fancy that one.”
“And how about this?” He shoves another picture into Coldmoon’s hand.
“Very nice, too. Quite charming. Yes, I certainly fancy her.”
“But which one do you want?”
“I don’t mind which.”
“You seem a bit feckless,” Sampei commented dryly. Then, turning to my master, he went on with his sales pitch. “This one, actually, is the niece of a doctor.”
“I see.”
“This next one is extremely good-natured. Young, too. Only seventeen. . . And this one carries a whacking great dowry. . . While this one here is a daughter of a provincial governor.” All alone with his imaginings, Sampei rattles on.
“Do you think I could marry them all?”
“All? That’s plain gluttonous. Are you some kind of polygamist or something?”
“No, not a polygamist. But a carnivore, of course.”
“Never mind what you are. Sampei, put those snaps away at once.
Can’t you see,” said my master in a tone of sharp scolding, “that he’s only leading you on?”
“So you don’t want an introduction to any of them,” said Sampei, half in question and half in statement, as, one by one, slowly, giving Beauchamp and Coldmoon a last chance to relent, he put the pictures back into his pocket.
There was no response.
“Well now, what are those bottles for?”
“A present. I bought them just now at the dramshop on the corner so that we might drink to my forthcoming marriage. Come, let’s start.”
My master clapped his hands for the maid and asked her to open the bottles. Then the five of them, my master, Waverhouse, Singleman, Coldmoon, and Beauchamp, solemnly lifting their glasses, congratulated Sampei on his good fortune in love. Sampei fairly glowed with self-esteem and assured them, “I shall invite you all to the ceremony. Can all of you come? I do hope so.”
“No,” my master answered promptly. “I shan’t.”
“Why ever not? It’ll be the grandest once-in-a-lifetime day of my life.
And you won’t attend it? Seems a bit heartless.”
“I’m not heartless. But I won’t attend.”
“Ah, you haven’t got the things to wear? Is that the snag?
I can gladly arrange for the right kit to be made available. You really ought to go out more and meet people. I’ll introduce you to some well-known persons.”
“That’s the very last thing I would wish.”
“It might even cure your stomach troubles.”
“I don’t care if they never get better.”
“Well, if you can’t be budged, you can’t. But how about you others?
Will you be able to come?”
“Me? I’d love to,” said Waverhouse. “I would even be delighted to play the role of the honored go-between. A verse leaps to my lips:
Evening in spring:
The marriage rite
And nuptial bonds made champagne-tight.
“What’s that you said? Suzuki’s going to be the go-between? I might have known it. Well, in that case, I’m sorry, but there it is. I suppose that it really would be a bit too much to have two lots of go-betweens. So I’ll attend your party as an ordinary human being.”
“And how about you? Will you come with your friends?”
“Me?” said Singleman apparently surprised.
“Having this fishing rod to be my friend,
I live at ease in nature and am free
Of every care the red-dust world might send
Like some hooked promise to entangle me.”
“And what the hell is that?” asked Waverhouse. “Something from the hallowed guide on how to write a poem in Chinese?”
“I really can’t remember where I picked it up.”
“You really can’t remember? How tiresome for you. Well, come if your fishing rod can spare you. And you, Mr. Coldmoon, I hope I may count on you. After all, you have a special status in this matter.”
“Most certainly I’ll be there. It would be a pity to miss the chance of hearing my own music played by an orchestra.”
“Of course. And what about you, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Well, yes. I’d like to be there to read my new-style poem in front of the couple themselves.”
“That’s wonderful. Mr. Sneaze, sir, I’ve never before in all my life felt so pleased with the world. And, to mark the moment, I’ll have another glass of that beer.” He filled a tumbler to the brim and sank it at one go.
Slowly his face turned shining red.
The short autumn day has grown dark. The charcoal fire in the brazier has long ago burnt out and its crust of ash is studded and strewn with an ugly mess of cigarette ends. Even these happy-go-lucky men seem to have had enough of their merriment and in the end it was Singleman who, climbing stiffly to his feet, remarked, “It’s getting late.
Time to be on our way.” The others followed suit and, politely apopemptic, vanished into the night. The drawing room grew desolate, like a variety hall when the show is over.
My master ate his dinner and went off into his study. His wife, feeling the autumn chill, tightens her collar, settles over her sewing box, and gets on with her remodeling of a worn-out kimono. The children, lying in one row, are fast asleep. The maid has gone out to a bathhouse.
If one tapped the deep bottom of the hearts of these seemingly lighthearted people, it would give a somewhat sad sound. Though Singleman behaves as though enlightenment had made him a familiar of the skies, his feet still shuffle, earthbound, through this world. The world of Waverhouse, though it may be easy-going, is not the dreamworld of those painted landscapes which he loves. That winsome donzel Coldmoon, having at last stopped polishing his little globes of glass, has fetched from his far home province a bride to cheer his days. Which is pleasant and quite normal, but the sad fact is that long-continued, pleasant normality becomes a bore. Beauchamp too, however golden-hearted he is now, will have come in ten years’ time to realize the folly of giving away for nothing those new-style poems that are the essence of his heart. As for Sampei, I find it difficult to judge whether he’ll finish up on top of the pile or down the drain, but I’d like to think he’ll manage to live his life out proud and happy in the ability to souse his acquaintance in champagne. Suzuki will remain the same eternal groveling creeper. Grovelers get covered in mud, but, even so be-sharned, he’ll manage better than those who cannot creep at all.
As for me, I am a cat, still nameless though born two years ago, who has lived his life among men. I have always thought myself unique in my knowledge of mankind, but I was recently much surprised to meet another cat, some German mog called Kater Murr, who suddenly turned up and started sounding off in a very high-falutin’ manner on my own special subject. I subsequently made enquiries and discovered that my visitor was in fact the ghost of a cat who, though he’d been in Hell since dying a century ago, had become so piqued with curiosity about my reputation that he rematerialized for the express purpose of upsetting me. This cat, I learned, was a most unfilial creature. On one occasion when he was going to meet his mother, he was carrying a fish in his mouth to give her as a present. However he failed to control his animal appetites and broke his journey to guzzle the fish. His combination of talents and greed was such as to make him virtually human, and he even once astonished his master by writing a poem. If such a feline culture-hero was already demonstrating superior cat skills so long as a century ago, perhaps a good-for-nothing specimen like me has already outlived its purpose and should no more delay its retirement into nothingness.
My master, sooner or later, will die of his dyspepsia. Old man Goldfield is already doomed by his greed. The autumn leaves have mostly fallen. All that has life must lose it. Since there seems so little point in
living, perhaps those who die young are the only creatures wise. If one heeds the sages who assembled here today, mankind has already sentenced itself to extinction by suicide. If we don’t watch out, even cats may find their individualities developing along the lethal crushing pattern forecast for these two-legged loons. It’s an appalling prospect.
Depression weighs upon me. Perhaps a sip of Sampei’s beer would cheer me up.
I go around to the kitchen. The backdoor is half-open and rattles in the autumn wind. Which seems to have blown the lamp out, for the room’s unlit. Still, there are shadows tilting inward through the window.
Moonrise, I suppose. On a tray there are three glasses, two of them half-filled with a brownish liquid. Even warm water, if kept in a glass, looks cold. Naturally this liquid, standing quietly beside the jar of charcoal existinguisher, looks, in the icy moonlight, chill and uninviting.
However, anything for experience. If Sampei, as I recall, could after drinking it become a bright, warm red and start breathing as heavily as a man who’s run a mile, perhaps it’s not impossible for a cat that drinks it to feel livelier. Anyway, some day I, too, must die so l might as well try everything before I do. Once I’m dead, I tell myself, it will be too late in the grave to regret that I never tasted beer. So, take courage and drink up!
I flicked my tongue into the stuff but, as I began to lap, I got a sharp surprise. The tip of my tongue, as though it had been pricked with needles, stung and tingled painfully. What possible pleasure can human beings find in drinking such unpleasant stuff? I’ve heard my master describe revolting food as not fit for a dog, but this dark drink is truly not fit for a cat. There must be some fundamental antipathy between cats and beer. Conscious of danger, I quickly withdrew my tongue. But then, on reflection, I remembered that men have a pet saying about good medicines always tasting filthy and that the drafts they down to cure their colds invariably make them grimace with disgust. I’ve never worked out whether they get cured by drinking muck or whether they’d get well anyway without the face-making business. Now’s my chance to find out. If drinking beer poisons my entire intestines, well, that will be just too bad: but if like Sampei, I grow so cheerful as to forget everything around me, then I’ll accept the experience as an unexpected joy and even, perhaps, I’ll teach all the cats of the neighborhood how sweet it is to drown one’s woes in drink. Anyway, let’s take a chance and see.
I Am a Cat Page 61