An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘Women’s work,’ Ichiro said, his feet still waving.

  ‘So Ichiro won’t help me? Now that’s a problem. The table’s so heavy I’m not strong enough to put that away on my own. I wonder who could help then?’

  This brought Ichiro abruptly to his feet, and he went striding indoors without glancing back at us. Noriko laughed and followed him in.

  Setsuko glanced after them, then lifting the teapot, began refilling my cup. ‘I had no idea things had come so far,’ she said, her voice lowered. ‘I mean as regards Noriko’s marriage negotiations.’

  ‘Things haven’t come far at all,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘In fact, nothing’s settled at all. We’re still at an early stage.’

  ‘Forgive me, but from what Noriko said just a moment ago, I naturally supposed things were more or less …’ She trailed off, then said again: ‘Forgive me.’ But she said it in such a way that a question was left hanging in the air.

  ‘I’m afraid this isn’t the first time Noriko’s spoken like that,’ I said. ‘In fact, she’s been behaving oddly ever since these present negotiations began. Last week, we had a visit from Mr Mori – you remember him?’

  ‘Of course. He’s well?’

  ‘Well enough. He was just passing and called to pay his respects. The point is, Noriko began to talk about the marriage negotiations in front of him. She took much the same attitude as just now, that everything was settled. It was most embarrassing. Mr Mori even congratulated me as he was leaving, and asked me the groom’s occupation.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Setsuko said, thoughtfully. ‘It must have been embarrassing.’

  ‘But it was hardly Mr Mori’s fault. You heard her yourself just now. What was a stranger supposed to think?’

  My daughter did not reply, and we sat there in silence for a few moments. Once, when I glanced over at her, Setsuko was gazing out at the garden, holding her teacup in both hands as though she had forgotten it was there. It was one of several occasions during her visit last month when – perhaps because of the way the light caught her, or some such thing – I found myself contemplating her appearance. For there can be no doubt, Setsuko is becoming better looking as she gets older. In her youth, her mother and I had worried that she was too plain to make a good marriage. Even as a child, Setsuko had rather masculine features, which seemed only to grow more pronounced with adolescence; so much so that whenever my daughters quarrelled, Noriko was always able to get the better of her elder sister by calling her ‘Boy! Boy!’ Who knows what effect such things have on personalities? It is no coincidence, surely, that Noriko should have grown up so headstrong, and Setsuko so shy and retiring. But now, it seems, as she approaches her thirties, Setsuko’s looks are taking on a new and not inconsiderable dignity. I can recall her mother predicting this – ‘Our Setsuko will flower in the summer,’ she had often said. I had thought this merely my wife’s way of consoling herself, but then several times last month, I was struck by how correct she in fact had been.

  Setsuko came out of her reverie, and cast another glance inside the house. Then she said: ‘I would suppose what happened last year greatly upset Noriko. Much more perhaps than we supposed.’

  I gave a sigh and nodded. ‘It’s possible I didn’t pay enough attention to her at the time.’

  ‘I’m sure Father did all he could. But of course, such things are a terrible blow to a woman.’

  ‘I have to admit, I thought she was play-acting a little, the way your sister does sometimes. She’d been insisting it was a “love match”, so when it fell through, she’d be obliged to behave accordingly. But perhaps it wasn’t all play-acting.’

  ‘We laughed at the time,’ Setsuko said, ‘but perhaps it really was a love match.’

  We fell silent again. From inside the house, we could hear Ichiro’s voice shouting something repeatedly.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Setsuko said, in a new voice. ‘But did we ever hear any further as to why the proposal fell through last year? It was so unexpected.’

  ‘I have no idea. It hardly matters now, does it?’

  ‘Of course not, forgive me.’ Setsuko seemed to consider something for a moment, then she spoke again: ‘It’s just that Suichi persists in asking me from time to time about last year, about why the Miyakes should have pulled out like that.’ She gave a little laugh, almost to herself. ‘He seems convinced I know some secret and that we’re all keeping it from him. I have to continually reassure him that I have no idea myself.’

  ‘I assure you,’ I said a little coldly, ‘it remains equally a mystery to me. If I knew, I wouldn’t keep it from you and Suichi.’

  ‘Of course. Please excuse me, I didn’t mean to imply …’ Again, she trailed off awkwardly.

  I may have appeared a little short with my daughter that morning, but then that was not the first time Setsuko had questioned me in such a way concerning last year and the Miyakes’ withdrawal. Why she should believe I am keeping something from her, I do not know. If the Miyakes had some special reason for withdrawing like that, it would stand to reason they would not confide in me about it.

  My own guess is that there was nothing so remarkable about the matter. True, their withdrawal at the last moment was most unexpected, but why should one suppose from this that there was anything peculiar in it? My feeling is that it was simply a matter of family status. The Miyakes, from what I saw of them, were just the proud, honest sort who would feel uncomfortable at the thought of their son marrying above his station. Indeed, a few years ago, they would probably have withdrawn more promptly, but what with the couple claiming it was a ‘love match’, and with all the talk these days of the new ways, the Miyakes are the kind of people who would become confused as to their correct course. No doubt the explanation is no more complicated than that.

  It is possible, too, that they were confused by my apparent approval of the match. For I was very lax in considering the matter of status, it simply not being my instinct to concern myself with such things. Indeed, I have never at any point in my life been very aware of my own social standing, and even now, I am often surprised afresh when some event, or something someone may say, reminds me of the rather high esteem in which I am held. Just the other evening, for instance, I was down in our old pleasure district, drinking at Mrs Kawakami’s place, where – as happens increasingly these days – Shintaro and I had found ourselves the only customers. We were as usual sitting up at the bar on our high-stools, exchanging remarks with Mrs Kawakami, and as the hours had gone by, and no one else had come in, our exchanges had grown more intimate. At one point, Mrs Kawakami was talking about some relative of hers, complaining that the young man had been unable to find a job worthy of his abilities, when Shintaro suddenly exclaimed:

  ‘You must send him to Sensei here, Obasan! A good word from Sensei in the right place, your relative will soon find a good post.’

  ‘What are you saying, Shintaro?’ I protested. ‘I’m retired now. I have no connections these days.’

  ‘A recommendation from a man of Sensei’s standing will command respect from anyone,’ Shintaro had persisted. ‘Send the young man to Sensei, Obasan.’

  I was at first a little taken aback by the conviction of Shintaro’s assertions. But then I realized he was remembering yet again that small deed I had performed for his younger brother all those years ago.

  It must have been in 1935 or 1936, a very routine matter as I recall – a letter of recommendation to an acquaintance in the State Department, some such thing. I would have given the matter little further thought, but then one afternoon while I was relaxing at home, my wife announced there were visitors for me at the entryway.

  ‘Please show them in,’ I had said.

  ‘But they insist they won’t bother you by coming in.’

  I went out to the entryway, and standing there were Shintaro and his younger brother – then no more than a youth. As soon as they saw me, they began bowing and giggling.

  ‘Please step up,’ I said, but they continued simply
to bow and giggle. ‘Shintaro, please. Step up to the tatami.’

  ‘No, Sensei,’ Shintaro said, all the time smiling and bowing. ‘It is the height of impertinence for us to come to your house like this. The height of impertinence. But we could not remain at home any longer without thanking you.’

  ‘Come on inside. I believe Setsuko was just making some tea.’

  ‘No, Sensei, it is the height of impertinence. Really.’ Then turning to his brother, Shintaro whispered quickly: ‘Yoshio! Yoshio!’

  For the first time, the young man stopped bowing and looked up at me nervously. Then he said: ‘I will be grateful to you for the remainder of my life. I will exert every particle of my being to be worthy of your recommendation. I assure you, I will not let you down. I will work hard, and strive to satisfy my superiors. And however much I may be promoted in the future, I will never forget the man who enabled me to start on my career.’

  ‘Really, it was nothing. It’s no more than you deserve.’

  This brought frantic protests from both of them, then Shintaro said to his brother: ‘Yoshio, we have imposed enough on Sensei as it is. But before we leave, take a good look again at the man who has helped you. We are greatly privileged to have a benefactor of such influence and generosity.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the youth muttered, and gazed up at me.

  ‘Please, Shintaro, this is embarrassing. Please come in and we’ll celebrate with some sake.’

  ‘No, Sensei, we must leave you now. It was the greatest impertinence to come here like this and disturb your afternoon. But we could not delay thanking you for one moment longer.’

  This visit – I must admit it – left me with a certain feeling of achievement. It was one of those moments, in the midst of a busy career allowing little chance for stopping and taking stock, which illuminate suddenly just how far one has come. For true enough, I had almost unthinkingly started a young man on a good career. A few years earlier, such a thing would have been inconceivable and yet I had brought myself to such a position almost without realizing it.

  ‘Many things have changed since the old days, Shintaro,’ I pointed out the other night down at Mrs Kawakami’s. ‘I’m retired now, I don’t have so many connections.’

  But then for all I know, Shintaro may not be so wrong in his assumptions. It may be that if I chose to put it to the test, I would again be surprised by the extent of my influence. As I say, I have never had a keen awareness of my own standing.

  In any case, even if Shintaro may at times display naïveté about certain things, this is nothing to be disparaged, it being no easy thing now to come across someone so untainted by the cynicism and bitterness of our day. There is something reassuring about going into Mrs Kawakami’s and finding Shintaro sitting up there at the bar, just as one may have found him on any evening for the past seventeen or so years, absent-mindedly turning his cap round and round on the counter in that old way of his. It really is as though nothing has changed for Shintaro. He will greet me very politely, as though he were still my pupil, and throughout the evening, however drunk he may get, he will continue to address me as ‘Sensei’ and maintain his most respectful manner towards me. Sometimes he will even ask me questions relating to technique or style with all the eagerness of a young apprentice – though the truth is, of course, Shintaro has long ceased to be concerned with any real art. For some years now, he has devoted his time to his book illustrations, and his present speciality, I gather, is fire engines. He will work day after day up in that attic room of his, sketching out fire engine after fire engine. But I suppose in the evenings, after a few drinks, Shintaro likes to believe he is still the idealistic young artist I first took under my supervision.

  This childlike aspect of Shintaro has frequently been a source of entertainment for Mrs Kawakami, who has a somewhat wicked side to her. One night recently, for instance, during a rainstorm, Shintaro had come running into the little bar and begun squeezing his cap out over the doormat.

  ‘Really, Shintaro-san!’ Mrs Kawakami had shouted at him. ‘What terrible manners!’

  At this, Shintaro had looked up in great distress, as though indeed he had committed an outrageous offence. He had then begun to apologize profusely, thus leading Mrs Kawakami on further.

  ‘I’ve never seen such manners, Shintaro-san. You seem to have no respect for me at all.’

  ‘Now stop this, Obasan,’ I had appealed to her after a while. ‘That’s enough, tell him you’re just joking.’

  ‘Joking? I’m hardly joking. The height of bad manners.’

  And so it had gone on, until Shintaro had become quite pitiful to watch. But then again, on other occasions, Shintaro will be convinced he is being teased when in fact he is being spoken to quite earnestly. There was the time he had put Mrs Kawakami in difficulties by declaring cheerfully of a general who had just been executed as a war criminal: ‘I’ve always admired that man since I was a boy. I wonder what he’s up to now. Retired, no doubt.’

  Some new customers had been present that night and had looked at him disapprovingly. When Mrs Kawakami, concerned for her trade, had gone to him and told him quietly of the general’s fate, Shintaro had burst out laughing.

  ‘Really, Obasan,’ he had said loudly. ‘Some of your jokes are quite extreme.’

  Shintaro’s ignorance of such matters is often remarkable, but as I say, it is not something to disparage. One should be thankful there are still those uncontaminated by the current cynicism. In fact, it is probably this very quality of Shintaro’s – this sense that he has remained somehow unscathed by things – which has led me to enjoy his company more and more over these recent years.

  As for Mrs Kawakami, although she will do her best not to allow the current mood to affect her, there is no denying she has been greatly aged by the war years. Before the war, she may still have passed for a ‘young woman’, but since then something inside her seems to have broken and sagged. And when one remembers those she has lost in the war, it is hardly any wonder. Business too has become increasingly difficult for her; certainly, it must be hard for her to believe this is the same district where she first opened her little place those sixteen or seventeen years ago. For nothing really remains of our old pleasure district now; almost all her old competitors have closed up and left, and Mrs Kawakami must more than once have considered doing likewise.

  But when her place first appeared, it was squeezed in amidst so many other bars and eating houses, I remember some people doubting if it could survive long. Indeed, you could hardly walk down those little streets without brushing against the numerous cloth banners pressing at you from all sides, leaning out at you from their shop fronts, each declaring the attractions of their establishment in boisterous lettering. But in those days, there was enough custom in the district to keep any number of such establishments thriving. On the warmer evenings particularly, the area would fill with people strolling unhurriedly from bar to bar, or just standing talking in the middle of the street. Cars had long ceased to venture through, and even a bicycle could only be pushed with difficulty past those throngs of uncaring pedestrians.

  I say ‘our pleasure district’, but I suppose it was really nothing more than somewhere to drink, eat and talk. You would have had to go into the city centre for the real pleasure quarters – for the geisha houses and theatres. For myself though, our own district was always preferable. It drew a lively but respectable crowd, many of them people like us – artists and writers lured by the promise of noisy conversations continuing into the night. The establishment my own group frequented was called ‘Migi-Hidari’, and stood at a point where three side streets intersected to form a paved precinct. The Migi-Hidari, unlike any of its neighbours, was a large sprawling place with an upper floor and plenty of hostesses both in Western and traditional dress. I had played my own small part in the Migi-Hidari’s coming to so dwarf its competitors, and in recognition of this, our group had been provided with a table in one corner for our sole use. Those who drank with me the
re were, in effect, the élite of my school: Kuroda, Murasaki, Tanaka – brilliant young men, already with growing reputations. They all of them relished conversation, and I remember many passionate arguments taking place around that table.

  Shintaro, I should say, was never one of that select group. I would not myself have objected to his joining us, but there existed a strong sense of hierarchy amongst my pupils, and Shintaro was certainly not regarded as of the first rank. In fact, I can recall one night, shortly after Shintaro and his brother had paid that visit to my house, my discussing that episode around our table. I remember the likes of Kuroda laughing at how grateful the brothers had been over ‘a mere white-collar appointment’; but then they all listened solemnly as I recounted my view on how influence and status can creep up on someone who works busily, not pursuing these ends in themselves, but for the satisfaction of performing his tasks to the best of his ability. At this point, one of them – no doubt it was Kuroda – leaned forward and said:

  ‘I have suspected for some time that Sensei was unaware of the high regard in which he is held by people in this city. Indeed, as the instance he has just related amply illustrates, his reputation has now spread beyond the world of art, to all walks of life. But how typical of Sensei’s modest nature that he is unaware of this. How typical that he himself should be the most surprised by the esteem accorded to him. But to all of us here it comes as no surprise. In fact, it may be said that respected enormously as he is by the public at large, it is we here at this table who alone know the extent to which that respect still falls short. But I personally have no doubt. His reputation will become all the greater, and in years to come, our proudest honour will be to tell others that we were once the pupils of Masuji Ono.’

  Now there was nothing remarkable in all this; it had become something of a habit that at some point in the evening, when we had all drunk a little, my protégés would take to making speeches of a loyal nature to me. And Kuroda in particular, being looked on as a sort of spokesman for them, gave a fair proportion of these. Of course, I usually ignored them, but on this particular occasion, as when Shintaro and his brother had stood bowing and giggling in my entryway, I experienced a warm glow of satisfaction.