by Frank Wynne
To those who did not know how poor he was, Sangorō shrugged off his everyday cotton clothes. “Couldn’t get a matching kimono made in time.”
He was the eldest of six children. Their father contrived to feed them all by clinging to the handles of a rickshaw. True, he worked the prosperous street in front of the quarter, lined with the teahouses. But somehow the wheels of his cart never turned a real profit. Fast as they spun, they only kept the family going hand-to-mouth.
“Now that you’re thirteen. I’m counting on you to help out boy,” Sangorō’s father had told him the year before last. He went to work at the printing shop over in Namiki but, in his lackadaisical way, in ten days he had tired of the job. Seldom did he last more than a month anywhere. From November to January he worked part-time making shuttlecocks for the New Year’s games. In summer he helped the iceman near the hospital. Thanks to the comical way he had of soliciting customers, the two of them did a brisk business. A born hawker, the iceman said.
Ever since he had pulled a float last year at the Yoshiwara carnival, his disapproving friends had dubbed him “Mannenchō.” He was as bad, they said, as the jesters from that lowliest of slums. But everyone knew Sangorō was a buffoon. No one disliked him; this was his one advantage.
The pawnshop Shōta’s people ran was a lifeline for Sangorō and his family, whose gratitude toward the Tanakas was no small thing. True, the daily interest rates they were obliged to pay bordered on the exorbitant; yet without the loans they could scarcely have kept going. How, then, could they begrudge the moneylender his due?
“Sangorō,” Shōta and the main-street gang were forever urging him, “come over to our street and play.” And how could he refuse Shōta, to whose family they were all indebted? On the other hand, he was born and raised in the back streets, he lived on land belonging to Ryūge Temple, Chōkichi’s father owned their house. It wouldn’t do to turn his back openly on Chōkichi. When in the end he quietly went over to the main street, the accusing looks were hard for him to bear.
Shōta sat down in the paper shop, tired of waiting for Midori, and began to sing the opening lines of “Secret Love.”
“Listen to that!” laughed the shopkeeper’s wife. “Singing love songs already—we’ll have to keep an eye on this one.”
Shōta’s ears turned red. “Let’s go!” he called to the others in a loud voice he hoped would cover his embarrassment. But as he ran out of the shop, he bumped into his grandmother.
“Shōta—why haven’t you come home for dinner? I’ve been calling and calling, but you’re so busy playing you don’t even listen. You can all play again after dinner. Thanks,” she added in a curt word of parting to the shopkeeper’s wife.
Shōta had no choice but to follow her home.
Whenever he left, how lonely it seemed. Only one less person than before, and yet even the grown-ups missed Shōta. It was not that he was boisterous or always cracking jokes, like Sangorō. Such friendliness, though—you don’t usually find it in a rich boy.
“But did you see the nasty way his grandmother has?” housewives gossiped on the street corner. “She’s sixty-four if she’s a day. And her hair done up like a young floozy! At least she doesn’t wear all that powder any more.”
“You ought to hear her purr and coax to get her loans back. Nothing stops her. You watch—the borrower could die, and she’d be at the funeral to collect. She’s the kind who’ll try to take her money with her when she goes.”
“We can’t even hold our heads up to her—that’s the power of money.”
“Don’t you wish you had a little of it?”
“They say she even lends to the big houses in the quarter.”
What they wouldn’t give to know how much the old crone had.
*
“How sad it is for one who waits alone by the midnight hearth.” The love songs do have a way of putting things.
The breeze felt cool on that summer evening. In the bath Midori had washed the heat of the day away, and now she stood before her full-length mirror getting ready. Her mother took charge of repairing the girl’s hairdo. A beauty, even if she did say so, the woman thought, inspecting her daughter from every angle. “You still don’t have enough powder on your neck.” They had chosen for the occasion a silk kimono in a cool, pale blue. Her straw-colored sash was flecked with gold threads and custom-made to fit her tiny waist. It would be some time, though, before they could begin deciding on the proper sandals.
“Isn’t she ready yet?” Sangorō was losing his patience. He had circled the garden wall seven times. How much longer could he go on yawning? The mosquitoes around here were a local specialty, no sooner had he brushed them away than they would buzz back again. A bite on the neck, a bite on the forehead. Just as he had had about all he could take, Midori finally appeared.
“Let’s go,” she said.
He pulled her sleeve without answering her and began to run.
Midori was soon out of breath. She could feel her heart pounding. “Well, if you’re in such a hurry about it, go on ahead.”
Sangorō arrived at the paper shop just before her. Shōta, it appeared, had gone home for dinner.
“This isn’t going to be any fun. We can’t start the lantern show without Shōta,” Midori complained, turning to the shopkeeper’s wife. “Any checkers? Cut-outs? We’ll need something to keep us busy till he comes.”
“Here we are.” The girls immediately began to cut out the paper dolls the shop lady handed them.
The boys, with Sangorō in the lead, replayed entertainments from the Yoshiwara carnival. Their harmony was odd, but they knew the melodies:
Come see the thriving quarter—
The lights, the lanterns under every eave,
The gaiety of all five streets!
In fact, they remembered perfectly the songs and dances of a year, two years before. They didn’t miss a beat; they had every gesture down. A crowd gathered at the gate outside to watch the ten of them, carried away by their own side show.
“Is Sangorō there?” called a voice from among the onlookers. “Come here a minute, quick.” It was Bunji, the hairdresser’s boy.
“Just a second,” yelled Sangorō without a care.
No sooner did he run through the doorway than someone punched him in the face. “You double-crosser! This’ll teach you! Who do you think I am? Chōkichi! I’ll make you sorry you ever made fun of us!”
Sangorō was dumbfounded. He tried to escape, but they grabbed him by the collar.
“Kill him! Shōta too! Don’t let the chicken get away. And Donkey from the dumpling shop—don’t think you’re going to get off so easy!”
The uproar swelled like the rising tide. Paper lanterns came crashing down from the eaves.
“Mind the lamp. You mustn’t fight in front of the shop.” The woman’s yell was loud enough, but who was listening?
There were fourteen or fifteen of them in the attack, streamers round the heads, their oversize lanterns swinging. Blows were struck in all directions, things trampled underfoot. The outrage of it! But Shōta—the one they were after—was nowhere to be found.
“Hide him, will you? Where is he? If you don’t tell us, you’ll answer for it.” They closed in around Sangorō, hitting and kicking, until Midori couldn’t stand to watch. She pushed her way to the front, past the restraining hand of the shopkeeper’s wife.
“What are you taking it out on him for? If you want to fight with Shōta, fight with Shōta. He didn’t run away and he’s not hiding. He’s not here, that’s all. This is our place. Why do you have to go sticking your noses in? You’re such a creep, Chōkichi. Why don’t you leave Sangorō alone? There—you’ve knocked him down. Now stop it! If you want to hit someone, hit me. Don’t try to hold me back,” she turned to the shopkeeper’s wife, shouting abuse at Chōkichi all the while she tried to free herself.
“Yeah? You’re nothing but a whore, just like your sister,” Chōkichi shot back. He stepped around from behind the othe
rs and grabbed his muddy sandal. “This is all you’re worth.” He threw it at Midori.
With a splatter, it struck her square on the forehead. She turned white, but the shopkeeper’s wife held her back. “Don’t. You’ll get hurt.”
“Serves you right,” Chōkichi gloated. “By the way, guess who’s joined our side. Nobu from Ryūge Temple! So try and get even any time you want.” He left Sangorō lying in the shop’s front door. “You fools! Weaklings! Cowards! We’ll be waiting for you. Be careful when you walk through the back streets after dark.”
Just then he heard the sound of a policeman’s boots. Someone had squealed on them. “Come on!” As fast as they could, Ushimatsu, Bunji, and the ten or so others all scattered in different directions, crouching in hiding places among the alleyways until the coast was clear.
“Damn you, Chōkichi! You bastard. Damn you! Damn you, Bunji! Damn you, Ushimatsu! Why don’t you just kill me? Come on. Just try and kill me. I’m Sangorō—and maybe it’s not so easy! Even if you did kill me, even if I turned into a ghost, I’d haunt you for the rest of your lives. Remember that, Chōkichi!” Sangorō began to sob. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He looked as if he must be aching. His sleeves were torn. His back and hips were covered with dirt.
The force of his anger, beyond his power to control, kept the others back. But the shopkeeper’s wife rushed over to him. “It’s all right,” she soothed him with a pat and helped him to his feet. She brushed the gravel from his clothes. “Don’t be upset. There were just too many of them, the rest of us weren’t much help, not even a grown-up could do anything. It wasn’t a fair match—don’t be ashamed. It’s lucky you weren’t hurt, but you won’t be safe going home alone. I’ll feel much better if the policeman takes you; it’s a good thing he’s come. Officer, let me tell you what happened.”
As she finished her account, the policeman reached for the boy’s hand in his professional way. “I’ll take you home.”
“No. I’m all right. I can go by myself.” He seemed to cringe with shame.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll just take you as far as your house. Don’t worry.” He smiled at Sangorō and patted him on the head.
But Sangorō shrank back farther. “If my father hears about the fight, I’ll get in terrible trouble. Chōkichi’s father owns our house.”
“How about if I take you as far as the front gate? I won’t say anything to get you into trouble.” He managed to coax the downcast Sangorō and led him off toward home.
The others felt relieved. But as they watched the two depart, at the corner leading to the back streets, for some reason Sangorō shook loose and broke into a run.
*
It was as rare as snow falling from a summer sky, but today Midori couldn’t brook the thought of school. She wouldn’t eat her breakfast. Should they order something special? It couldn’t be a cold, she had no fever. Too much excitement yesterday, probably. “Why don’t you stay home?” her mother suggested. “I’ll go to the shrine for you.”
Midori wouldn’t hear of it. It was her vow to Tarō-sama for her sister’s success. “I’ll just go and come right back. Give me some money for the offering.”
Off she went to the shrine among the paddy fields. She rang the bell, shaped like the great mouth of a crocodile, and clasped her hands in supplication. And what were they for, these prayers of hers? She walked through the fields with her head downcast, to and from the shrine.
Shōta saw her from a distance and called out as he ran toward her. He tugged at her sleeve, “Midori, I’m sorry about last night.”
“That’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But they were after me. If Grandmother hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have left. And then they wouldn’t have beaten up Sangorō the way they did. I went to see him this morning. He was crying and furious. I got angry just listening to him talk about it. Chōkichi threw his sandal at you, didn’t he? Damn him, anyway! There are limits to what even he can get away with. But I hope you’re not mad at me, Midori. I didn’t run away from him. I gulped my food down as fast as I could and was just on my way back when Grandmother said I had to watch the house while she went for her bath. That’s when all the commotion must have started. Honest, I didn’t know anything about it.” He apologized as if the crime were his, not Chōkichi’s. “Does it hurt?” Shōta examined Midori’s forehead.
“Well, it’s nothing that will leave a scar,” Midori laughed. “But listen, Shōta, you mustn’t tell anyone. If Mother ever found out, I’d get a real scolding. My parents never lay a hand on me. If they hear a dolt like Chōkichi smeared mud on my face with his filthy sandal—.” She looked away.
“Please forgive me. It’s all my fault. Please. Come on, cheer up. I won’t be able to stand it if you’re mad at me.” Before they knew it, they had reached the back gate of Shōta’s house. “Do you want to come in? No one’s home. Grandmother’s gone to collect the interest. It’s lonely by myself. Come on, I’ll show you those prints I told you about the other day. There are all kinds of them.” Shōta wouldn’t let go of her sleeve until Midori had agreed.
Inside the dilapidated gate was a small garden. Dwarf trees were lined up in their pots and from the eaves hung a tiny trellis of fern with a windbell, Shōta’s memento from the holiday market. But who would have picked it for the wealthiest house in the neighborhood? Here alone by themselves lived an old woman and a boy. No one had ever broken in: there were cold, metal locks everywhere, and the neighboring tenements kept an eye on the place.
Shōta went in first and found a spot where the breeze blew. “Over here,” he called to Midori, handing her a fan. For a thirteen-year-old, he was rather too sophisticated. He took out one color print after another. They had been in his family for generations, and he smiled when Midori admired them. “Shall I show you a battledore? It was my mother’s. She got it when she worked for a rich man. Isn’t it funny? It’s so big. And look how different people’s faces were in those days. I wish she were still alive … My mother died when I was three, and my father went back to his own family’s place in the country. So I’ve been here with Grandmother ever since. You’re lucky, Midori.”
“Look out. You’ll get the pictures wet. Boys aren’t supposed to cry.”
“I guess I’m a sissy. Sometimes I get to thinking about things … It’s all right now, but in the winter, when the moon is out and I have to make the rounds in Tamachi collecting the interest, sometimes when I walk along the ditch, I sit down on the bank and cry. Not from the cold. I don’t know why … I just think about things. I’ve been doing the collecting ever since year before last. Grandmother’s getting old. It’s not safe for her at night. And her eyes aren’t so good any more. She can’t see what she’s doing when she has to put her seal on the receipts. We’ve had a lot of different men working for us. But Grandmother says they all take us for fools—when it’s only an old lady and a boy they have to answer to. She’s just waiting for the day when I’m a little older and we can open the pawnshop again. We’ll put the family sign out in front, even if things aren’t as good as they used to be. Oh, I know people say Grandmother’s stingy. But she’s only careful about things for my sake. It really bothers me, to hear them talk that way. I guess the people I collect from over in Tōrishinmachi are pretty bad off, all right. I suppose it’s no wonder they say things about her. When I think about it, though, sometimes I just can’t help it if I cry. I guess I am a weakling. This morning when I went to see Sangorō, he was sore all over, but he still went right on working so his father wouldn’t find out about last night. I didn’t know what to say. A boy looks pretty silly when he cries, doesn’t he? That’s why the back street makes fun of Sangorō.” He seemed ashamed at his own unmanliness.
Occasionally their eyes would meet.
“You looked so handsome yesterday, Shōta. It made me wish I were a boy. You were the best dressed of them all.”
“I looked good! You were beautiful! Everybody said you were prettie
r than any of the girls in the quarter, even your sister Ōmaki. Boy, I’d be proud if you were my sister! I’d hold my head up with a girl like you alongside me. But I don’t have any brothers or sisters. Hey, Midori, what do you say we have our picture taken? I’ll wear what I did yesterday and you can put on one of your best striped kimonos, and we’ll have Katō in Suidōjiri take our picture! Won’t Nobu be jealous! He’ll turn white, he’ll be so envious—a milquetoast like him wouldn’t know how to turn red. Or maybe he’ll just laugh at us. Who cares? If Katō takes a big one, he might use our picture in the window! What’s the matter? Don’t you like the idea? You don’t look very excited.” The boy’s impatience was disarming.
“What if I look funny? You might not like me any more.” Her laugh had a beautiful ring, her spirits had obviously improved.
The cool of the morning had given way to the summer sun. It was time for Midori to be going: “Shōta, why don’t you come over this evening? We can float candles on the pond and chase the fish. It’ll be easy now that the bridge is fixed.”
Shōta beamed as he saw her out. What a beauty Midori was.
*
Nobu of Ryūge Temple and Midori of the Daikokuya both went to school at the Ikueisha. It had all started at the end of last April, at the spring athletic meet in Mizunoya-no-hara. The cherries had fallen and the wisteria was already in bloom in the shade of the new green leaves. They played their games of tug-of-war and catch and jump rope with such ardor that no one seemed to notice the sun going down. But what had come over Nobu? He had lost his usual composure. He stumbled over the root of a pine by the pond and landed hands-first in the red mud.