I wonder if I’m imagining things?
As O-Nobu pursued her thoughts, the lady shifted her attention back to her.
“Nobuko-san looks dismayed. Because I’m talking so much.”
Taken by surprise, O-Nobu felt overwhelmed. Heretofore she had never found herself at a loss for something appropriate to say to Tsuda, but at this moment her wisdom failed her. A hollow smile was all she could bring to filling the emptiness of the moment. But that was merely a display of counterfeit charm that served no purpose.
“Not at all. It’s been fascinating,” she said finally, realizing that the moment had come and gone. A bitter feeling of having bungled it again rose in her throat. She had told herself that today would be the day to restore herself in Mrs. Yoshikawa’s good graces; now her resolve withered. The lady in question, changing her tone so swiftly it seemed cruel, turned at once to Okamoto.
“Okamoto-san, it’s been some time, hasn’t it, since you returned from your travels in foreign countries.”
“Well, past history certainly.”
“When you say past history, what year are we talking about?”
“Let me think—in the Western calendar—”
Was it to be expected or just an accident? O-Nobu’s uncle deliberated pretentiously.
“Around the time of the Franco-Prussian War?”*
“Are you joking? I happen to remember taking your good husband here on a guided tour of London.”
“So you weren’t behind the barricades in Paris?”
“Certainly not.”
Having wound up at a suitable juncture Miyoshi’s exploits in foreign lands, Madam had quickly shifted the subject to another, closely related topic that obliged her husband to ally himself with Okamoto.
“At any rate, automobiles had just come out, and every time one rattled by people would turn and stare at it.”
“It was in the days when those beastly slow buses were popular.”
While beastly slow buses meant nothing to the others, who had never availed themselves of this mode of transportation, it appeared that the friends reminiscing about the past were vaguely stirred by the memory of them. Okamoto, looking from Tsugiko to Miyoshi, turned to Yoshikawa with a wry smile.
“We’ve aged, you and I. I don’t notice it normally, I carry on as if I were still young, but when I sit here beside my daughter it gets me thinking—”
“Then you should always be sitting at this child’s side.”
O-Nobu’s aunt turned at once to her uncle. And her uncle replied at once.
“You’re right. When I came back from Europe she was only—”
Pausing, he reflected and spoke again.
“How old was she, anyway?”
When O-Nobu’s aunt remained silent, the look on her face seeming to say that such a careless question didn’t merit a reply, Yoshikawa spoke up from the side.
“It won’t be long now until they’re calling you ‘the old man.’ You’d better watch out.”
Tsugiko colored and cast her eyes down. Madam immediately looked at her husband.
“But at least Okamoto-san is lucky enough to have a living watch that keeps track of his age. But you have no device for self-reflection, so you’re always acting up.”
“Maybe so, but the good news is I stay young forever.”
At this the table laughed aloud.
* The Franco-Prussian War was fought from 1870 to 1871.
[ 54 ]
OTHER DINERS, smaller groups than theirs and, accordingly, relatively quiet, glanced from time to time at O-Nobu’s table where, as though the theater had been entirely forgotten, an apparently relaxed conversation was proceeding. The moment arrived when those who had purposely ordered a light meal to save time were preparing to leave even before they had their coffee, and still one new dish after the other was being laid out in front of O-Nobu. They could hardly throw their napkins down in the middle of the meal. Nor, it appeared, were they inclined to rush. They took their time, feeling that they had come to the theater to enjoy themselves more than to see a play.
“Has it started?”
Having glanced around the dining room, suddenly quiet, Uncle Okamoto posed the question to a white-jacketed waiter.
“The curtain just went up.”
“Let it! Just now our mouths are more important than our eyes.”
O-Nobu’s uncle commenced at once an attack on a chicken thigh with the skin still on it. Across the table, Yoshikawa appeared largely unconcerned with what was happening on stage. Following Okamoto’s lead, ignoring the subject of the play, he spoke of food.
“You still revel in what you eat—Mrs. Okamoto, have you heard the story about your husband riding piggyback on a foreigner in the days when he ate more and was even fatter than he is now?”
O-Nobu’s aunt shook her head. Yoshikawa posed Tsugiko the same question. Tsugiko hadn’t heard either.
“I’m not surprised. It’s not exactly an admirable story, so I suppose he’s been hiding it.”
“What story?”
Looking up from his plate, Okamoto eyed his friend warily. Madam Yoshikawa spoke up from the sidelines.
“You must have been too heavy for the foreigner and crushed him.”
“At least that would have given him something to brag about. He was clinging to that big man’s shoulders for dear life, in the middle of a London crowd, with everybody staring at him with weird expressions on their faces. So he could see a parade.”
O-Nobu’s uncle had yet to crack a smile.
“What an imagination! When was this supposed to have happened?”
“At the coronation of Edward VII. You were standing in front of Mansion House to watch the parade, but since we weren’t in Japan everybody was taller than you, and you were so distressed you asked the proprietor of your boarding house who had come along with you if you could climb on his shoulders—that’s what I heard.”
“Balderdash! You’re confusing me with someone else. I know a fellow who did ride piggyback but it wasn’t me—it was that ‘Monkey.’”
Uncle Okamoto was unmistakably in earnest about his explanation; the sudden, vehement utterance of the word “Monkey” brought a laugh from everyone at once.
“Of course. Now I can see it. No matter how gigantic the English are, there was something not quite right about the picture with you in it. But Monkey was an absolute dwarf.”
Whether he was just pretending to be mistaken or had actually been ignorant of the facts, Yoshikawa sounded convinced at last, repeating the party in question’s nickname, Monkey, as a spur to the hilarity of the assembled company.
The question Madam Yoshikawa posed was part curiosity and part impatience.
“So who in the world was Monkey?”
“No one you would know.”
“Madam needn’t worry in the slightest. Even if he were here at the table he’s the sort of person who wouldn’t mind if we came right out and called him Monkey to his face. Besides, he’d be calling me Piggy in the same spirit.”
From start to finish, O-Nobu was unable to secure for herself a portion of this meandering conversation that should have been her due as a member of the party. An opportunity to recommend herself to Madam Yoshikawa failed to present itself no matter how long she waited. Madam paid no attention to her. More properly, she avoided her. It was to Tsugiko in particular, seated two places away, that she addressed herself. Her efforts to draw her out for even just a minute were distinctly visible. Tsugiko, unable to take advantage of these attempts, appeared annoyed rather than grateful, and each time she displayed her annoyance openly to the table, O-Nobu, always inclined to compare herself with her cousin, felt a ripple of envy in her heart.
If I were in her position …
The thought occurred to her frequently during the meal. Afterward, she secretly lamented Tsugiko’s lack of worldliness. In the end, as always, thinking how pitiful she was, she felt disdain.
[ 55 ]
BY THE time they lef
t the table, an inch or so of white ash had accumulated on the men’s postprandial cigars. The words from someone’s mouth, “What time is it getting to be?” had the incidental effect of producing at that moment a change in O-Nobu’s position. Seizing an opportunity in the instant just before they rose, Madam Yoshikawa suddenly addressed her.
“And how is Tsuda-san doing?”
Without waiting for O-Nobu’s reply, she continued at once.
“I’ve been meaning to ask ever since we sat down, but I got so caught up in my own prattling—”
O-Nobu judged this excuse to be false. Her doubt had not arisen from the lady’s manner of speaking just now. O-Nobu would have said that her surmise was based on more substantial evidence. She remembered distinctly her own words of greeting to the lady on first entering the dining room. She had spoken less for herself than on behalf of her husband. Dipping her head respectfully, she had said, “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for Tsuda.” At that moment, however, Madam had said nothing about Tsuda. Since O-Nobu was the last member of the party to exchange greetings with her, there would have been ample time to speak, yet Madam had turned immediately away. She appeared to have forgotten entirely the visit she had received from Tsuda just days before.
O-Nobu didn’t interpret this conduct to signify merely that she was disliked. She believed there was something else at work in addition. Otherwise, she felt certain, even Madam Yoshikawa would have no reason to go out of her way to avoid mentioning Tsuda to the woman to whom he was married. She was well aware that the lady was very fond of her husband. But why should the fact that she was a patron of sorts create reluctance to introduce him into a conversation with his wife?
O-Nobu didn’t understand. During dinner she had hoped to display in front of Madam Yoshikawa her singular charm as a woman, natural gifts that were impossible not to appreciate, and her failure to launch herself from a platform provided by Tsuda, who seemed to represent the only common ground between them, was due in part to this clot in her understanding. To have the subject broached at last by the other party just as they were rising from the table left O-Nobu doubting more than simply Madam Yoshikawa’s excuse for having waited too long. She wondered if something more than mere social convention might not be lurking beneath the lady’s decision to express concern about her husband’s illness only now.
“Thank you so much—he’s doing nicely.”
“He’s had his operation?”
“Today.”
“Just today? How extraordinary that you were able to get away for something like this!”
“He really isn’t very ill.”
“But he is in bed?”
“Yes. He’s resting.”
Madam appeared to be thinking “And that doesn’t concern you?” At least in her silence that was how she appeared to O-Nobu. She had the feeling that Madam Yoshikawa, who comported herself in other company with a masculine absence of reserve, emerged as an entirely different person when dealing with her.
“He’s in the hospital?”
“It’s not really a hospital—the second floor above the doctor’s office happens to be available, and they’re letting him stay there to rest for five or six days.”
Madam asked for the doctor’s name and the address. Though she said nothing about intending to pay a visit, O-Nobu, who suspected she had brought Tsuda up with that purpose in mind, felt that she had some notion of what the lady was about for the first time.
Yoshikawa, who, unlike his wife, had given no indication that Tsuda was particularly in his thoughts, now mentioned him abruptly.
“When we spoke, he said he was suffering from the same thing as last year. Young as he is, it’s terrible that he’s sick so much. There’s no reason he should limit himself to five or six days, tell him he should take as long as he needs to recover.”
O-Nobu thanked him.
In the corridor outside the dining room, the party of seven separated into two groups.
[ 56 ]
THE REST of the time O-Nobu spent with her aunt’s family was unperturbing. A phantom picture of her husband lying abed in his night clothes and quilted jacket did, however, take shape in her mind as she raptly followed the play. The phantom she imagined had put down a book he had been reading and appeared to be observing her from the distance as she sat here in the theater. This made her happy; but in the instant when she essayed to meet his gaze, his eyes flashed a message at her: Don’t fool yourself. I was just taking a peek out of curiosity—you won’t find me having anything to say to a woman like you.
For allowing herself to be deceived, O-Nobu felt foolish. Whereupon the phantom Tsuda vanished like a ghost. At his second appearance, it was O-Nobu who declared, I’m not going to think about a person like you any longer! When Tsuda floated before her eyes a third time, she was inclined to dismiss him with a tsk of her tongue. Since her husband hadn’t entered her thoughts even once before she went to the dining room, O-Nobu would have said that she was experiencing this relentless activity in her mind after dinner for the first time. She tried comparing these two different versions of herself. And she was unable to avoid silently naming Madam Yoshikawa as the party responsible for the dramatic change. Somewhere in her mind she felt certain that this troubling phantom would not have materialized had they not dined tonight at the same table. However, asked to identify what it was about the lady that had acted as a fermenting agent in brewing this bitter liquor, or in what manner it had made its way into her brain, O-Nobu would have been helpless to provide cogent answers. Her data were simply unclear. Nonetheless she had reached a comparatively clear conclusion. Undaunted by the insufficiency of her data, she saw no reason to suspect that her conclusion might be flawed. She firmly believed that Madam Yoshikawa was at fault.
O-Nobu feared encountering Madam again when the play ended and they gathered once again at the teahouse. But she also felt inclined to probe deeper. Though she was resigned to the fact that no opportunity would present itself in that brief moment of milling confusion when everyone was hurrying away, her curiosity peeked out from the shadow of her desire to avoid another meeting.
Happily, the Yoshikawas had chosen a different teahouse, and there was no sign of Madam Yoshikawa. As Uncle Okamoto wrapped himself in a heavy-looking cloak with a fur collar, he turned back to O-Nobu, who was pulling on her own coat.
“Why not stay with us tonight?”
“Oh—that’s kind of you.”
Neither accepting nor declining the invitation, O-Nobu glanced at her aunt with a smile. Her aunt glared at her uncle as if to say, “Not a care in the world—it’s appalling.”
Perhaps he didn’t notice, or perhaps he noticed but didn’t care, but Okamoto repeated the invitation in a more serious tone than before.
“Please stay if you’d like—no need for formality with us.”
“Listen to Mr. Hospitality. Do you realize they have only one maid and she’s waiting for this child to come home? She can’t just stay out!”
“No, I suppose you’re right. Not with one maid all alone in the house.”
Okamoto abandoned his idea readily; it seemed clear he had asked merely for the sake of asking and had been unconcerned with the outcome from the beginning.
“I haven’t stayed over one night since I married Tsuda.”
“Is that so? You’re a paragon of virtue.”
“I certainly hope not—Yoshio hasn’t stayed out either, not once.”
“That’s how it ought to be. Side by side as a couple, never faltering.”
“No greater joy, no sweeter bliss.”
Repeating in a small voice one of the lines from the play, Tsugiko, as though dismayed at her own forwardness, turned bright red. On purpose, Okamoto nearly shouted.
“What’s that?”
Embarrassed, Tsugiko walked briskly toward the gate, pretending she hadn’t heard. The others followed her outside.
As he was stepping into his rickshaw, O-Nobu’s uncle spoke to her.
“If you can’t stay with us that’s fine, but do drop over sometime in the next few days. There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
“I have something to ask you as well, and I want to thank you for today. Tomorrow maybe, would that be convenient?”
“Oh-yes-please!”
As if this English were a signal, the four rickshaws sped on their way.
[ 57 ]
THE OKAMOTO residence was a considerable distance but in the same general direction as Tsuda’s house, which meant that O-Nobu, whose “rubber wheel” had followed theirs, was able to accompany them all the way to her side street. As they parted at her usual corner, O-Nobu called from under her hood to the others as they passed, but before she had ascertained whether her voice had reached them, her rickshaw had turned off the main street. Moving down the hushed side street, O-Nobu was struck suddenly by a kind of loneliness. Like a person who has been circling until now within a group and, misstepping without realizing it, has fallen as from a tree outside the domain of the community all alone, O-Nobu entered her house with a sense, however pallid, of abandonment.
The maid did not emerge in response to the rattling of the lattice door. In the sitting room the lamps were shining brightly, but that was all—even the iron kettle was not rattling cheerily as usual. O-Nobu surveyed the room, unchanged since morning, with eyes that had changed. Chilliness was beginning to wrap around her forlorn mood. The moment passed, and as simple loneliness began to transform into anxiety, O-Nobu, exhausted by the pleasure of her social outing, was on the verge of collapsing in front of the brazier when she turned abruptly toward the kitchen and called the maid’s name, “Toki, Toki!” At the same time she opened the door to the maid’s room to one side of the kitchen.
O-Toki was slumped over the sewing she had strewn across the two-tatami-mat floor. Lifting her head, she responded with a “Yes, Missus—” and abruptly stood up. Rising, she struck her disheveled head against the shade of the lamp, which she had purposely lowered to sew by, and became even more flustered as the bulb threw a wobbling wash of light against the rear wall. O-Nobu didn’t smile. Nor did she feel like scolding. It didn’t even occur to her to wonder how she might have reacted in a similar situation. At this moment, even the presence in the room of the maid befuddled with sleep was reassuring.
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