An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  Often, she would come home from her office and immediately make some remark like: ‘What have you been doing all day, Father? Just moping around as usual, I expect.’ Far from ‘moping around’, as it happened, I would have been busy in my efforts to secure a good outcome to the marriage negotiations. But because at that time I believed it important not to worry her with details of how matters were proceeding, I would talk only vaguely concerning my day, thus allowing her to continue with her insinuations. In retrospect, I see that our not openly discussing certain matters may well have made Noriko all the more tense, and a franker approach on my part may well have prevented many of the unpleasant exchanges that took place between us around that time.

  I recall one afternoon, for instance, Noriko arriving home as I was pruning some shrubs out in the garden. She had greeted me from the veranda in a perfectly civil way, before disappearing again into the house. Then a few minutes later I was sitting on the veranda, looking out at the garden to assess the effect of my work, when Noriko, now changed into a kimono, appeared again with some tea. She put the tray down between us and seated herself. It was, as I recall, one of the last of those splendid autumn afternoons we had last year, and a tender light was falling across the foliage. Following my gaze, she said:

  ‘Father, why have you cut the bamboo like that? It looks unbalanced now.’

  ‘Unbalanced? Do you think so? I think it looks balanced enough. You see, you have to take into account where the younger shoots are dominant.’

  ‘Father tends to meddle too much. I think he’s going to ruin that bush too.’

  ‘Ruin that bush too?’ I turned towards my daughter. ‘Whatever do you mean? You’re saying I’ve ruined others?’

  ‘The azaleas have never regained their looks. That’s what comes of Father having so much time on his hands. He ends up meddling where it’s not required.’

  ‘Excuse me, Noriko, I don’t quite see your point. You’re saying the azaleas are unbalanced too?’

  Noriko looked at the garden again and gave a sigh. ‘You should have left things as they were.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Noriko, but to my eyes, both the bamboo and the azaleas are much improved. I’m afraid I don’t see your “unbalanced” aspect at all.’

  ‘Well then, Father must be going blind. Or perhaps it’s just poor taste.’

  ‘Poor taste? Now that’s curious. You know, Noriko, people have not on the whole associated poor taste with my name.’

  ‘Well, to my eyes, Father,’ she said tiredly, ‘the bamboo is unbalanced. And you’ve spoiled the way the tree hangs over it too.’

  For a moment, I sat gazing at the garden in silence. ‘Yes,’ I said, eventually, and gave a nod. ‘I suppose you might see it that way, Noriko. You never did have an artistic instinct. Neither you nor Setsuko. Kenji was another matter, but you girls took after your mother. In fact, I remember your mother used to make just such misguided comments.’

  ‘Is Father such an authority on how to cut shrubs? I didn’t realize that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I didn’t claim to be an authority. It’s simply that I’m a little surprised to be accused of poor taste. It’s an unusual accusation in my own case, that’s all.’

  ‘Very well, Father, I’m sure it’s all a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Your mother was rather like you, Noriko. She had no bones about saying whatever came into her head. It’s quite honest, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m sure Father knows best about such things. That’s beyond dispute, no doubt.’

  ‘I remember, Noriko, your mother would sometimes even make her comments while I was painting. She would try to make some point and make me laugh. Then she’d laugh, too, and concede she knew little about such things.’

  ‘So Father was always right about his paintings too, I suppose.’

  ‘Noriko, this is a pointless discussion. Besides, if you don’t like what I’ve done in the garden, you’re welcome to go out there and do what you like to set things right.’

  ‘That’s very kind of Father. But when do you suggest I do it? I don’t have all day long as Father does.’

  ‘What do you mean, Noriko? I’ve had a busy day.’ I glared at her for a moment, but she went on looking at the garden, a weary expression on her face. I turned away and gave a sigh. ‘But this is a pointless discussion. Your mother at least could say such things and we would laugh together.’

  At such moments, it was indeed tempting to point out to her the extent to which I was in fact exerting myself on her behalf. Had I done so, my daughter would no doubt have been surprised – and, I dare say, ashamed at her behaviour towards me. That very day, for instance, I had actually been to the Yanagawa district, where I had discovered Kuroda was now living.

  It had not, in the end, been a difficult task to discover Kuroda’s whereabouts. The art professor at Uemachi College, once I had assured him of my good intentions, had given me not only the address, but an account of what had been happening to my former pupil over these past years. Kuroda, it seemed, had not fared at all badly since his release at the end of the war. Such are the ways of this world that his years in prison gave him strong credentials, and certain groups had made a point of welcoming him and seeing to his needs. He had thus experienced little difficulty finding work – mainly small tutoring jobs – or the materials to recommence his own painting. Then, towards the early part of last summer, he had been given the post of art teacher at Uemachi College.

  Now, it may seem somewhat perverse of me to say so, but I was pleased – and indeed rather proud – to hear Kuroda’s career was progressing well. But then it is only natural after all that his former teacher should continue to take pride in such things, even if circumstances have caused teacher and pupil to become estranged.

  Kuroda did not live in a good quarter. I walked for some time through little alleys filled with dilapidated lodging houses before coming to a concrete square resembling the forecourt of a factory. Indeed, across the square, I could see some trucks had been parked, and farther on, behind a mesh fence, a bulldozer was churning up the ground. I recall I was standing watching the bulldozer for some moments before realizing the large new building above me was in fact Kuroda’s apartment block.

  I climbed to the second floor, where two small boys were riding a tricycle up and down the corridor, and searched out Kuroda’s door. My first ring was not answered, but I was by then firmly resolved to go ahead with the encounter and rang again.

  A fresh-faced young man of around twenty opened the door.

  ‘I’m very sorry’ – he spoke very earnestly – ‘but Mr Kuroda isn’t home at present. I wonder, sir, are you perhaps a work associate?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. There were a few matters I wished to discuss with Mr Kuroda.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps you’d be so good as to come in and wait. I’m sure Mr Kuroda will not be gone long, and he would very much regret it if he were to miss you.’

  ‘But I don’t wish to put you to any bother.’

  ‘Not at all, sir. Please, please come in.’

  The apartment was small, and like many of these modern affairs, had no entryway as such, the tatami starting a little way inside the front door with only a shallow step up. There was a tidy look to the place, and a number of paintings and hangings adorned the walls. Plenty of sunlight came into the apartment through the large windows, which I could see opened on to a narrow balcony. The noise of the bulldozer could be heard coming from outside.

  ‘I hope you were not in a hurry, sir,’ the young man said, placing a cushion for me. ‘But Mr Kuroda would never forgive me if he returned to learn I had let you go. Please allow me to make you some tea.’

  ‘How very kind,’ I said, seating myself. ‘You are a student of Mr Kuroda’s?’

  The young man gave a small laugh. ‘Mr Kuroda is kind enough to refer to me as his protégé, although I am myself doubtful if I am worthy of such a title. My name is Enchi. Mr Kuroda used to tutor me, and now, despite his heavy
commitments at his college, he most generously continues to take an interest in my work.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  From outside came the noise of the bulldozer at work. For a moment or two, the young man hovered awkwardly, then excused himself, saying: ‘Please, I will prepare some tea.’

  A few minutes later, when he reappeared, I pointed to a painting on the wall, saying: ‘Mr Kuroda’s style is quite unmistakable.’

  At this, the young man gave a laugh and looked awkwardly towards the painting, the tea tray still in his hands. Then he said:

  ‘I’m afraid that painting is far from Mr Kuroda’s standards, sir.’

  ‘It isn’t Mr Kuroda’s work?’

  ‘I’m afraid, sir, that is one of my own efforts. My teacher has been so good as to deem it worthy of display.’

  ‘Really? Well, well.’

  I went on gazing up at the painting. The young man put the tray down on a low table near me, and seated himself.

  ‘Really, that is your own work? Well, I must say you have much talent. Much talent indeed.’

  He gave another embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m very fortunate in having Mr Kuroda for a teacher. But I fear I still have much to learn.’

  ‘And I was so sure it was an example of Mr Kuroda’s own work. The brush strokes have that quality to them.’

  The young man was fussing rather clumsily with the teapot, as though unsure how to proceed. I watched him lift up the lid to peer inside.

  ‘Mr Kuroda is always telling me,’ he said, ‘I should try and paint in a style more distinctly my own. But I find so much to admire in Mr Kuroda’s ways, I can hardly help mimicking him.’

  ‘It’s no bad thing to mimic one’s teacher for a while. One learns a lot that way. But all in good time, you’ll develop your own ideas and techniques, for you’re undoubtedly a young man of much talent. Yes, I’m sure you have a most promising future. It’s no wonder Mr Kuroda takes an interest in you.’

  ‘I cannot begin to tell you, sir, what I owe to Mr Kuroda. Why, as you can see, I am now even lodging here in his apartment. I have been here for almost two weeks. I was thrown out of my previous lodgings, and Mr Kuroda came to my rescue. It is impossible to tell you, sir, all he has done for me.’

  ‘You say you were thrown out of your lodgings?’

  ‘I assure you, sir,’ he said, with a small laugh, ‘I paid my rent. But you see, as much as I tried, I could not avoid getting paint on the tatami, and eventually the landlord threw me out.’

  We both laughed at this. Then I said:

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be unsympathetic. It’s just that I remember just such problems myself when I was starting out. But you’ll soon acquire the right conditions to work if you persevere, I assure you.’

  We both laughed again.

  ‘You’re very encouraging, sir,’ the young man said, and began to pour the tea. ‘I don’t suppose Mr Kuroda will be long now. I beg you not to hurry away. Mr Kuroda will be most glad for the opportunity to thank you for all you have done.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘You think Mr Kuroda wishes to thank me?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I was assuming you are from the Cordon Society.’

  ‘The Cordon Society? I’m sorry, what is that?’

  The young man glanced towards me, some of his earlier awkwardness returning. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s my mistake. I assumed you were from the Cordon Society.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not. I’m simply an old acquaintance of Mr Kuroda’s.’

  ‘I see. An old colleague?’

  ‘Indeed. I suppose you could say that.’ I gazed up again at the young man’s painting on the wall. ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘Very talented. Very talented indeed.’ I had become aware that the young man was now looking at me carefully. Eventually, he said:

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but may I ask your name?’

  ‘I’m sorry, you must think me most rude. My name is Ono.’

  ‘I see.’

  The young man rose to his feet and went over to the window. For a moment or two, I watched the steam rising from the two cups on the table.

  ‘Will Mr Kuroda be long now?’ I asked, eventually.

  At first, I did not think the young man was going to reply. But then he said, without turning from the window: ‘Perhaps if he has not returned soon, you should not detain yourself further from your other business.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll wait a little longer, now that I’ve made the journey out here.’

  ‘I will inform Mr Kuroda of your visit. Perhaps he will write to you.’

  Out in the corridor, the children seemed to be banging their tricycle against the wall not far from us and shouting at each other. It struck me then how much like a sulking child the young man at the window looked.

  ‘Forgive me for saying this, Mr Enchi,’ I said. ‘But you are very young. Indeed, you could only have been a boy when Mr Kuroda and I first knew each other. I would ask you not tojump to conclusions about matters of which you do not know the full details.’

  ‘The full details?’ he said, turning to me. ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you yourself aware of the full details? Do you know what he suffered?’

  ‘Most things are more complicated than they appear, Mr Enchi. Young men of your generation tend to see things far too simply. In any case, there seems little point in the two of us debating such matters at this moment. I will, if you don’t mind, wait for Mr Kuroda.’

  ‘I would suggest, sir, you delay yourself no further from your other business. I will inform Mr Kuroda when he returns.’ Until this point, the young man had managed to maintain a polite tone in his voice, but now he seemed to lose his self-control. ‘Frankly, sir, I am amazed at your nerve. To come here as though you were simply a friendly visitor.’

  ‘But I am a friendly visitor. And if I may say so, I think it is for Mr Kuroda to decide whether or not he wishes to receive me as such.’

  ‘Sir, I have come to know Mr Kuroda well, and in my judgement it is best you leave. He will not wish to see you.’

  I gave a sigh and rose to my feet. The young man was again looking out of the window. But as I was removing my hat from the coat stand, he turned to me once more. ‘The full details, Mr Ono,’ he said, and his voice had a strange kind of composure. ‘It is clearly you who are ignorant of the full details. Or else how would you dare come here like this? For instance, sir, I take it you never knew about Mr Kuroda’s shoulder? He was in great pain, but the warders conveniently forgot to report the injury and it was not attended to until the end of the war. But of course, they remembered it well enough whenever they decided to give him another beating. Traitor. That’s what they called him. Traitor. Every minute of every day. But now we all know who the real traitors were.’

  I finished lacin***y shoes and started for the door.

  ‘You’re too young, Mr Enchi, to know about this world and its complications.’

  ‘We all know now who the real traitors were. And many of them are still walking free.’

  ‘You will tell Mr Kuroda I was here? Perhaps he will be so good as to write to me. Good day, Mr Enchi.’

  Naturally, I did not allow the young man’s words to upset me unduly, but in the light of Noriko’s marriage negotiations, the possibility that Kuroda was as hostile to my memory as Enchi had suggested was indeed a disturbing one. It was, in any case, my duty as a father to press on with the matter, unpleasant though it was, and on returning home that afternoon, I composed a letter to Kuroda, expressing my desire that we should meet again, particularly since I had a matter of some delicacy and importance to discuss with him. The tone of my letter had been friendly and conciliatory, and so I was disappointed by the cold and offensively brief reply I received a few days later.

  ‘I have no reason to believe a meeting between us would produce anything of value,’ my former pupil had written. ‘I thank you for your courtesy in calling the other day, but I feel I should not trouble you further to fulfil such obligations
.’

  This matter with Kuroda did, I confess, cast something of a shadow over my mood; it certainly marred my optimism concerning Noriko’s negotiations. And though, as I have said, I kept from her the details of my attempts to meet with Kuroda, my daughter undoubtedly sensed the matter had not been resolved satisfactorily, and this no doubt contributed to her anxiety.

  On the actual day of the miai itself, my daughter seemed so tense, I became concerned as to the impression she would make that evening in front of the Saitos – who were themselves bound to display a smooth and relaxed assurance. Towards the latter part of the afternoon, I felt it would be prudent to try and lighten Noriko’s mood somewhat, and this was the impulse behind my remarking to her as she passed through the dining room where I was sat reading:

  ‘It’s astonishing, Noriko, how you can spend the whole day doing nothing but preparing your appearance. You’d think this was the marriage ceremony itself.’

  ‘It’s just like Father to mock then not be properly ready himself,’ she snapped back.

  ‘I’ll only need a little time to be ready,’ I said, with a laugh. ‘Quite extraordinary, your taking the whole day like this.’

  ‘That’s Father’s trouble. He’s too proud to prepare properly for these things.’

  I looked up at her in astonishment. ‘What do you mean, “too proud”? What are you suggesting, Noriko?’

  My daughter turned away, adjusting her hairclasp.

  ‘Noriko, what do you mean, “too proud”? What are you suggesting?’

  ‘If Father doesn’t want to make a fuss over something as trivial as my future, then that’s quite understandable. After all, Father hasn’t even finished his newspaper yet.’