An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘Indeed, Sensei,’ someone said, ‘we must all remember that. We must all endeavour to rise above the sway of things.’

  ‘And I think we here around this table,’ I went on, ‘have a right to be proud of ourselves. The grotesque and the frivolous have been prevalent all around us. But now at last a finer, more manly spirit is emerging in Japan and you here are part of it. In fact, it’s my wish that you should go on to become recognized as nothing less than the spearhead of the new spirit. Indeed’– and by this point, I would be addressing not just those around the table, but all those listening nearby – ‘this establishment of ours where we all gather is a testimony to the new emerging spirit and all of us here have a right to be proud.’

  Frequently, as the drinking got merrier, outsiders would come crowding round our table to join in our arguments and speeches, or simply to listen and soak in the atmosphere. On the whole, my pupils were ready enough to give strangers a hearing, though of course, if we were imposed on by a bore, or by someone with disagreeable views, they would be quick to squeeze him out. But for all the shouting and speechmaking that went on into the night, real quarrels were rare at the Migi-Hidari, all of us who frequented that place being united by the same essential spirit; that is to say, the establishment proved to be everything Yamagata had wished; it represented something fine and one could get drunk there with pride and dignity.

  I have somewhere in this house a painting by Kuroda, that most gifted of my pupils, depicting one such evening at the Migi-Hidari. It is entitled: ‘The Patriotic Spirit’, a title that may lead you to expect a work depicting soldiers on the march or some such thing. Of course, it was Kuroda’s very point that a patriotic spirit began somewhere further back, in the routine of our daily lives, in such things as where we drank and who we mixed with. It was his tribute – for he believed in such things then – to the spirit of the Migi-Hidari. The picture, painted in oils, shows several tables and takes in much of the colour and décor of the place – most noticeably, the patriotic banners and slogans suspended from the rails of the upper balcony. Beneath the banners, guests are gathered around tables in conversation, while in the foreground a waitress in a kimono hurries with a tray of drinks. It is a fine painting, capturing very accurately the boisterous, yet somehow proud and respectable atmosphere of the Migi-Hidari. And whenever I happen to look at it today, it still brings me a certain satisfaction to recall that I – with whatever influence my reputation had gained in this city – was able to do my small part in bringing such a place into being.

  Quite often these days, in the evenings down at Mrs Kawakami’s, I find myself reminiscing about the Migi-Hidari and the old days. For there is something about Mrs Kawakami’s place when Shintaro and I are the only customers there, something about sitting together up at the bar under those low-hung lights, that puts us in a nostalgic mood. We may start discussing someone from the past, about how much he could drink perhaps, or some funny mannerism he had. Then before long we will be trying to get Mrs Kawakami to recall the man, and in our attempts to jog her memory, we will find ourselves remembering more and more amusing things about him. The other night, after we had been laughing over just such a set of reminiscences, Mrs Kawakami said, as she often will do on these occasions: ‘Well, I don’t recall the name, but I’m sure I’d recognize his face.’

  ‘Well in truth, Obasan,’ I said, remembering, ‘he was never a real customer here. He used to always drink across the street.’

  ‘Oh yes, at the big place. Still, if I saw him, I may recognize him. But then again, who knows? People change so much. Every now and then, I see someone in the street, and I think I know them and I should greet them. But then I look at them again and I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Why, Obasan,’ Shintaro put in, ‘just the other day, I greeted someone in the street, thinking it was someone I knew. But the man obviously thought I was a madman. He walked away without replying!’

  Shintaro seemed to regard this as an amusing story and laughed loudly. Mrs Kawakami smiled, but did not join in his laughter. Then she turned to me and said:

  ‘Sensei, you must try and persuade your friends to start coming back to these parts. In fact, perhaps each time we see an old face from those days, we should be stopping him and telling him to come here to this little place. That way we could start rebuilding the old days.’

  ‘Now that’s a splendid idea, Obasan,’ I said. ‘I’ll try and remember to do that. I’ll stop people in the street and say: “I remember you from the old days. You used to be a regular around our district. Well, you may think it’s all gone, but you’re wrong. Mrs Kawakami’s is still there, the same as ever, and things are slowly building back up again.”’

  ‘That’s it, Sensei,’ Mrs Kawakami said. ‘You tell them they’ll be missing out. Business will start to improve then. After all, it’s Sensei’s duty to bring back the old crowd. Everyone always looked up to Sensei as the natural leader around here.’

  ‘A good point, Obasan,’ Shintaro said. ‘In olden times, if a lord had his troops scattered after a battle, he’d soon go about gathering them together again. Sensei is in a similar position.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘That’s right, Sensei,’ Mrs Kawakami went on, ‘you find all the old people again and tell them to come back. Then after a while, I’ll buy the place next door and we’ll open up a grand old place. Just like that big place used to be.’

  ‘Indeed, Sensei,’ Shintaro was still saying. ‘A lord must gather his men again.’

  ‘An interesting idea, Obasan,’ I said, nodding. ‘And you know, the Migi-Hidari was just a small place once. No bigger than this place here. But then in time we managed to turn it into what it was. Well, perhaps we’ll just have to do the same thing again with this place of yours. Now things are settling a little, the custom ought to be coming back.’

  ‘You could bring in all your artist friends again, Sensei,’ Mrs Kawakami said. ‘Then before long, all the newspaper men will follow.’

  ‘An interesting idea. We could probably pull it off. Except I wonder, Obasan. You may not be able to handle such a big place. We wouldn’t want you getting out of your depth.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Kawakami said, putting on an offended look. ‘If Sensei will hurry up and do his part, you’ll see how well things will be managed around here.’

  Recently we have had such conversations over and over. And who is to say the old district will not return again? The likes of Mrs Kawakami and I, we may tend to make a joke about it, but behind our bantering there is a thread of serious optimism. ‘A lord must gather his men.’ And so perhaps he should. Perhaps, when Noriko’s future is once and for all settled, I will give some serious consideration to Mrs Kawakami’s schemes.

  I suppose I might mention here that I have seen my former protégé, Kuroda, just once since the end of the war. It was quite by chance on a rainy morning during the first year of the occupation – before the Migi-Hidari and all those other buildings had been demolished. I was walking somewhere, making my way through what was left of our old pleasure district, looking from under my umbrella at those skeletal remains. I remember there were workmen wandering around that day, and so at first I paid no attention to the figure standing looking at one of the burnt-out buildings. It was only as I walked by that I became aware the figure had turned and was watching me. I paused, then looked around, and through the rain dripping off my umbrella, saw with a strange shock Kuroda looking expressionlessly towards me.

  Beneath his umbrella, he was hatless and dressed in a dark raincoat. The charred buildings behind him were dripping and the remnant of some gutter was making a large amount of rainwater splash down not far from him. I remember a truck going by between us, full of building workers. And I noticed how one of the spokes of his umbrella was broken, causing some more splashing just beside his foot.

  Kuroda’s face, which had been quite round before the war, had hollowed out around the cheekbones, and what looked like hea
vy lines had appeared towards the chin and the throat. And I thought to myself as I stood there: ‘He’s not young any more.’

  He moved his head very slightly. I was not sure if it was the beginning of a bow, or if he was just adjusting his head to get out of the splash of rainwater from his broken umbrella. Then he turned and began to walk off in the other direction.

  But it was not my intention to dwell on Kuroda here. Indeed, he would not be on my mind at all had his name not turned up so unexpectedly last month, during the chance meeting on the tram with Dr Saito.

  It was the afternoon I eventually took Ichiro to see his monster film – a trip he had been denied the previous day by Noriko’s stubbornness. In fact, my grandson and I went by ourselves, Noriko refusing to come and Setsuko again volunteering to remain at home. It was, of course, simple childishness on Noriko’s part, but Ichiro had his own interpretation of the women’s behaviour. As we sat down to lunch that day, he continued to say:

  ‘Aunt Noriko and Mother aren’t coming. It’s much too scaring for women. They’d be much too scared, isn’t that right, Oji?’

  ‘Yes, I expect that’s right, Ichiro.’

  ‘They’d be much too scared. Aunt Noriko, you’d be far too scared to see the film, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Noriko said, pulling a frightened face.

  ‘Even Oji’s scared. Look, you can see even Oji’s scared. And he’s a man.’

  That afternoon, as I was standing at the end of the entryway waiting to leave for the cinema, I witnessed a curious scene between Ichiro and his mother. While Setsuko was strapping up his sandals, I could see my grandson continually trying to say something to her. But whenever Setsuko said: ‘What is it, Ichiro, I can’t hear,’ he would glare angrily, then cast a quick glance towards me to see if I had heard. Finally, once the sandals had been put on, Setsuko bent down so that Ichiro could whisper into her ear. She then nodded and disappeared into the house, returning a moment later with a raincoat, which she folded and handed to him.

  ‘It’s unlikely to rain,’ I remarked, looking out beyond the front entrance. Indeed, it was a fine day outside.

  ‘All the same,’ Setsuko said, ‘Ichiro would like to take it with him.’

  I was puzzled by this insistence on the raincoat. Then once we were out in the sunshine, and making our way down the hill towards the tram stop, I noticed the swagger with which Ichiro walked – as though the coat slung through his arm had transformed him into someone like Humphrey Bogart – and concluded it was all in imitation of some comic-book hero of his.

  I suppose we were almost at the bottom of the hill when Ichiro declared loudly: ‘Oji, you used to be a famous artist.’

  ‘I expect that’s right, Ichiro.’

  ‘I told Aunt Noriko to show me Oji’s pictures. But she won’t show me.’

  ‘Hmm. They’re all tidied away just for the moment.’

  ‘Aunt Noriko’s disobedient, isn’t she, Oji? I told her to show me Oji’s pictures. Why won’t she show me?’

  I laughed and said: ‘I don’t know, Ichiro. Perhaps she was busy with something.’

  ‘She’s disobedient.’

  I gave another laugh, saying: ‘I suppose so, Ichiro.’

  The tram stop is ten minutes’ walk from our house; down the hill to the river, then a little way along the new concrete embankment, and the northbound circuit joins the road just beyond the site of the new housing schemes. That sunny afternoon last month, my grandson and I boarded there for the city centre, and it was on that journey we encountered Dr Saito.

  I realize I have said very little so far about the Saito family, the eldest son of which is presently involved in marriage talks with Noriko. The Saitos are, all in all, a very different sort of prospect from the Miyakes of last year. The Miyakes were, of course, decent enough people, but they could not, in all fairness, be called a family of any prestige, whereas the Saito family, without exaggeration, is just that. In fact, although Dr Saito and I were not properly acquainted before, I had always known of his activities in the world of the arts, and for years, whenever we had passed in the street, we had exchanged greetings politely to acknowledge our familiarity with each other’s reputations. But of course, on the occasion on which we met last month, things had become very different.

  The tram does not become crowded until it has crossed the river at the steel bridge opposite Tanibashi Station, and so, when Dr Saito boarded one stop after us, he was able to take a vacant seat beside me. Inevitably, our conversation began a little uncomfortably; for the negotiations were at an early, delicate stage, and it did not seem proper to discuss them openly; but then it would have been absurd to pretend they were not going on. In the end, we both praised the merits of ‘our mutual friend, Mr Kyo’ – the go-between in the proposal – and Dr Saito remarked with a smile: ‘Let us hope his efforts bring us together again shortly.’ And that was as close as we came to discussing the matter. I could not help noticing the marked contrast between the assured way Dr Saito had responded to the slightly awkward situation, and the nervous, clumsy way the Miyake family had handled things from start to finish last year. Whatever the eventual outcome, one does feel reassured to be dealing with the likes of the Saito family.

  Otherwise, we talked mainly of small things. Dr Saito has a warm, genial manner, and when he leaned forward to ask Ichiro how he was enjoying his visit, and about the movie we were about to see, my grandson showed no inhibitions about conversing with him.

  ‘A fine boy,’ Dr Saito said to me, approvingly.

  It was shortly before his stop – he had already put his hat back on – that Dr Saito remarked: ‘We have another mutual acquaintance. A certain Mr Kuroda.’

  I looked at him, a little startled. ‘Mr Kuroda,’ I repeated. ‘Ah, no doubt that would be the same gentleman I once supervised.’

  ‘That’s right. I came across him recently and he happened to mention your name.’

  ‘Is that so? I haven’t come across him for some time. Not since before the war, certainly. How is Mr Kuroda these days? What is he up to?’

  ‘I believe he is about to take up an appointment at the new Uemachi College, where he will teach art. This was how I came across him. I was kindly asked by the college to advise on the appointments board.’

  ‘Ah, so you don’t know Mr Kuroda well.’

  ‘Indeed not. But I hope to see more of him in future.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I said. ‘So Mr Kuroda still remembers me. How good of him.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. He mentioned your name when we happened to be discussing something. I’ve not had the opportunity to talk to him at any length. But should I see him again, I’ll mention that I saw you.’

  ‘Ah, indeed.’

  The tram was crossing the steel bridge and the wheels made a loud clanging noise. Ichiro, who had been kneeling on his seat to see out of the window, pointed out something down in the water. Dr Saito turned to look, exchanged a few more words with Ichiro, then got to his feet as his stop approached. He made a last allusion to ‘the efforts of Mr Kyo’ before bowing and making his way to the exit.

  As usual, many people crowded on at the stop after the bridge, and the rest of our journey was rather uncomfortable. When we got off just in front of the cinema, I could see the poster prominently displayed at the entrance. My grandson had achieved a close likeness in his sketch of two days earlier, though there was no fire in the picture; what Ichiro had remembered were the impact lines – resembling streaks of lightning – which the artist had painted in to emphasize the ferocity of the giant lizard.

  Ichiro went up to the poster and burst into loud laughter.

  ‘It’s easy to see that’s a made-up monster,’ he said, pointing. ‘Anyone can see that. It’s just made up.’ And he laughed again.

  ‘Ichiro, please don’t laugh so loudly. Everyone’s looking at you.’

  ‘But I can’t help it. The monster looks so made up. Who’d be scared of a thing like that?’

  It was
only once we were seated inside, and the film had begun, that I discovered the true purpose of his raincoat. Ten minutes into the film, we heard ominous music and on the screen appeared a dark cave with mist swirling about it. Ichiro whispered: ‘This is boring. Will you tell me when something interesting starts to happen?’ And with that, he threw the raincoat over his head. A moment later, there was a roar and the giant lizard emerged from the cave. Ichiro’s hand was clutching at my arm, and when I glanced at him his other hand was holding the raincoat in place as tightly as possible.

  The coat continued to cover his head for more or less the whole duration of the film. Occasionally, my arm would be shaken and a voice would ask from underneath: ‘Is it getting interesting yet?’ I would then be obliged to describe in whispers what was on the screen until a small gap appeared in the raincoat. But within minutes – at the slightest hint that the monster would reappear – the gap would close and his voice would say: ‘This is boring. Don’t forget to tell me when it gets interesting.’

  When we got home, though, Ichiro was full of enthusiasm for the film. ‘The best movie I’ve ever seen,’ he continued to say, and he was still giving us his version of it when we sat down to supper.

  ‘Aunt Noriko, shall I tell you what happened next? It gets very scary. Shall I tell you?’

  ‘I’m getting so frightened, Ichiro, I can hardly eat,’ Noriko said.

  ‘I’m warning you, it gets even more frightening. Shall I tell you more?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure, Ichiro. You’ve got me so frightened already.’

  It had not been my intention to make heavy talk at the supper table by bringing up Dr Saito, but then it would have been unnatural not to mention our meeting when recounting the day’s events. So, when Ichiro paused a moment, I said: ‘Incidentally, we met Dr Saito on the tram. He was travelling up to see someone.’