An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So then, Ono. What is it that worries you?’

  ‘Worries me, Sensei? Why, nothing at all.’

  ‘Can it be that you find something a little offensive about old Gisaburo?’

  ‘Not at all, Sensei.’ I laughed self-consciously. ‘Why, not at all. A most charming gentleman.’

  For a little time after that, we talked of other matters, of anything which came to mind. But when Mori-san had turned the conversation back once more to my ‘worries’, when it became clear he was prepared to sit there waiting until I unburdened myself, I finally said:

  ‘Gisaburo-san does indeed appear to be the most good-hearted gentleman. He and his dancers have been most kind to entertain us. But then I cannot help thinking, Sensei, we have been visited by their like so often these past few months.’

  Mori-san gave no reply, so I continued:

  ‘Forgive me, Sensei, I mean no disrespect to Gisaburo-san and his friends. But at times I am a little puzzled. I am puzzled that we artists should be devoting so much of our time enjoying the company of those like Gisaburo-san.’

  I believe it was around this point that my teacher rose to his feet and, lantern in hand, made his way across the floor towards the back wall of the storeroom. The wall had previously been in darkness, but as he held the lantern up to it, three wood-block prints, hung one below the other, became sharply illuminated. Each of these portrayed a geisha adjusting her coiffure, each seated on the floor and viewed from the back. Mori-san studied the pictures for a few moments, moving the lantern from one to the next. Then he shook his head and muttered to himself: ‘Fatally flawed. Fatally flawed by trivial concerns.’ A few seconds later, he added without turning from the pictures: ‘But one always feels affection for one’s early works. Perhaps you’ll feel the same one day for the work you’ve done here.’ Then he shook his head again, saying: ‘But these are all fatally flawed, Ono.’

  ‘I cannot agree, Sensei,’ I said. ‘I think those prints are marvellous examples of how an artist’s talent can transcend the limitations of a particular style. I’ve often thought it a great shame Sensei’s early prints should be confined to such rooms as these. Surely they should be open to display along with his paintings.’

  Mori-san remained absorbed by his pictures. ‘Fatally flawed,’ he repeated. ‘But I suppose I was very young.’ He moved his lantern again, causing one picture to fade into shadow and another to appear. Then he said: ‘These are all scenes from a certain geisha house in Honcho. A very well-regarded one in my younger days. Gisaburo and I often used to visit such places together.’ Then after a moment or two, he said again: ‘These are fatally flawed, Ono.’

  ‘But Sensei, I cannot see what faults even the most discerning eye would see in these prints.’

  He continued to study the pictures for a few moments more, then began to come back across the room. It seemed to me that he took an inordinate amount of time negotiating his way through the objects on the floor; at times, I would hear him mumbling to himself and the sound of his feet pushing away a jar or box. Indeed, I once or twice thought Mori-san was actually searching for something – perhaps more of his early prints – amidst the chaotic piles, but eventually he seated himself back on the old wooden chest and drew a sigh. After a few further moments of silence, he said:

  ‘Gisaburo is an unhappy man. He’s had a sad life. His talent has gone to ruin. Those he once loved have long since died or deserted him. Even in our younger days, he was already a lonely, sad character.’ Mori-san paused a moment. Then he went on: ‘But then sometimes we used to drink and enjoy ourselves with the women of the pleasure quarters, and Gisaburo would become happy. Those women would tell him all the things he wanted to hear, and for the night anyway, he’d be able to believe them. Once the morning came, ofcourse, he was too intelligent a man to go on believing such things. But Gisaburo didn’t value those nights any the less for that. The best things, he always used to say, are put together of a night and vanish with the morning. What people call the floating world, Ono, was a world Gisaburo knew how to value.’

  Mori-san paused again. As before, I could see his form only in silhouette, but it was my impression he was listening to the sounds of the merrymaking from across the yard. Then he said: ‘He’s older and sadder now, but he’s changed little in many respects. Tonight he’s happy, just as he used to be in those pleasure houses.’ He drew a long breath, as though he were smoking tobacco. Then he went on: ‘The finest, most fragile beauty an artist can hope to capture drifts within those pleasure houses after dark. And on nights like these, Ono, some of that beauty drifts into our own quarters here. But as for those pictures up there, they don’t even hint at these transitory, illusory qualities. They’re deeply flawed, Ono.’

  ‘But Sensei, to my eyes, those prints suggest most impressively these very things.’

  ‘I was very young when I prepared those prints. I suspect the reason I couldn’t celebrate the floating world was that I couldn’t bring myself to believe in its worth. Young men are often guilt-ridden about pleasure, and I suppose I was no different. I suppose I thought that to pass away one’s time in such places, to spend one’s skills celebrating things so intangible and transient, I suppose I thought it all rather wasteful, all rather decadent. It’s hard to appreciate the beauty of a world when one doubts its very validity.’

  I thought about this, then said: ‘Indeed, Sensei, I admit what you say may well apply in respect to my own work. I will do all I can to put matters right.’

  Mori-san appeared not to hear me. ‘But I’ve long since lost all such doubts, Ono,’ he continued. ‘When I am an old man, when I look back over my life and see I have devoted it to the task of capturing the unique beauty of that world, I believe Iwill be well satisfied. And no man will make me believe I’ve wasted my time.’

  It is possible, of course, that Mori-san did not use those exact words. Indeed, on reflection, such phrases sound rather more like the sort of thing I myself would declare to my own pupils after we had been drinking a little at the Migi-Hidari. ‘As the new generation of Japanese artists, you have a great responsibility towards the culture of this nation. I am proud to have the likes of you as my pupils. And while I may deserve only the smallest praise for my own paintings, when I come to look back over my life and remember I have nurtured and assisted the careers of all of you here, why then no man will make me believe I have wasted my time.’ And whenever I made some such statement, all those young men congregated around the table would drown each other out in protest at the way I had dismissed my own paintings – which, they clamoured to inform me, were without doubt great works assured of their place in posterity. But then again, as I have said, many phrases and expressions which came to be most characteristic of me I actually inherited from Mori-san, and so it is quite possible that those were my teacher’s exact words that night, instilled in me by the powerful impression they made on me at the time.

  But again I have drifted. I was trying to recall the lunch I had at the department store with my grandson last month following that annoying conversation with Setsuko in Kawabe Park. In fact, I believe I was remembering in particular Ichiro’s extolling of spinach.

  Once our lunch had arrived, I recall, Ichiro sat there preoccupied with the spinach on his plate, sometimes prodding at it with his spoon. Then he looked up and said: ‘Oji, you watch!’

  My grandson proceeded to pile as much spinach as possible on to the spoon, then raised it high into the air and began pouring it into his mouth. His method resembled someone drinking the last dregs from a bottle.

  ‘Ichiro,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure that’s such good manners.’

  But my grandson continued putting more spinach into his mouth, all the time chewing vigorously. He put down his spoon only when it was empty and his cheeks were full to bursting. Then, still chewing, he fixed a stern expression on his face, thrust out his chest and began punching at the air around him.

  ‘What are you doi
ng, Ichiro? You tell me now what you’re up to.’

  ‘You guess, Oji!’ he said, through the spinach.

  ‘Hmm. I don’t know, Ichiro. A man drinking sake and fighting. No? Then you tell me. Oji can’t guess.’

  ‘Popeye Sailorman!’

  ‘What’s that, Ichiro? Another of your heroes?’

  ‘Popeye Sailorman eats spinach. Spinach makes him strong.’ He thrust out his chest again and threw more punches at the air.

  ‘I see, Ichiro,’ I said, laughing. ‘Spinach is a wonderful food indeed.’

  ‘Does sake make you strong?’

  I smiled and shook my head. ‘Sake can make you believe you’re strong. But in reality, Ichiro, you’re no stronger than before you drank it.’

  ‘Why do men drink sake then, Oji?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ichiro. Perhaps because for a little while, they can believe they’re stronger. But sake doesn’t really make a man stronger.’

  ‘Spinach makes you really strong.’

  ‘Then spinach is much better than sake. You go on eating spinach, Ichiro. But look, what about all these other things on your plate?’

  ‘I like drinking sake too. And whisky. At home, there’s a bar I always go to.’

  ‘Is that so, Ichiro. I think it’s better you go on eating spinach. As you say, that makes you really strong.’

  ‘I like sake best. I drink ten bottles every night. Then I drink ten bottles of whisky.’

  ‘Is that so, Ichiro. Now that’s real drinking indeed. This must be a real headache for Mother.’

  ‘Women never understand about us men drinking,’ Ichiro said, and turned his attention to the lunch in front of him. But soon he looked up again and said: ‘Oji’s coming for supper tonight.’

  ‘That’s right, Ichiro. I expect Aunt Noriko will prepare something very nice.’

  ‘Aunt Noriko’s bought some sake. She said Oji and Uncle Taro will drink it all up.’

  ‘Well, we may do indeed. I’m sure the women will like a little too. But she’s right, Ichiro. Sake’s mainly for the men.’

  ‘Oji, what happens if women drink sake?’

  ‘Hmm. There’s no telling. Women aren’t as strong as we men are, Ichiro. So perhaps they’ll get drunk very quickly.’

  ‘Aunt Noriko might get drunk! She might have a tiny cupful and get completely drunk!’

  I gave a laugh. ‘Yes, that’s quite possible.’

  ‘Aunt Noriko might get completely drunk! She’ll sing songs then fall asleep at the table!’

  ‘Well, Ichiro,’ I said, still laughing, ‘we men had better keep the sake to ourselves then, hadn’t we?’

  ‘Men are stronger, so we can drink more.’

  ‘That’s right, Ichiro. We’d best keep the sake to ourselves.’

  Then, after I had thought for a moment, I added: ‘I suppose you’re eight years old now, Ichiro. You’re growing to be a big man. Who knows? Perhaps Oji will see to it you get some sake tonight.’

  My grandson looked at me with a slightly threatened expression, and said nothing. I smiled at him, then glanced out at the pale grey sky through the large windows beside us.

  ‘You never met your Uncle Kenji, Ichiro. When he was your age, he was as big and strong as you are now. I remember he had his first taste of sake at around your age. I’ll see to it, Ichiro, you get a small taste tonight.’

  Ichiro seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he said:

  ‘Mother might be trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry about your mother, Ichiro. Your Oji will be able to handle her.’

  Ichiro shook his head wearily. ‘Women never understand men drinking,’ he remarked.

  ‘Well, it’s time a man like you tasted a little sake. Don’t you worry, Ichiro, you leave your mother to Oji. We can’t have the women bossing us around now, can we?’

  My grandson remained absorbed in his thoughts for a moment. Then suddenly he said very loudly:

  ‘Aunt Noriko might get drunk!’

  I laughed. ‘We’ll see, Ichiro,’ I said.

  ‘Aunt Noriko might get completely drunk!’

  It was perhaps fifteen minutes or so later, as we were waiting for ice-cream, that Ichiro asked in a thoughtful voice.

  ‘Oji, did you know Yujiro Naguchi?’

  ‘You must mean Yukio Naguchi, Ichiro. No, I never knew him personally.’

  My grandson did not respond, apparently absorbed by his reflection in the glass pane beside him.

  ‘Your mother,’ I went on, ‘also seemed to have Mr Naguchi on her mind when I was speaking with her in the park this morning. I take it the adults were discussing him at supper last night, were they?’

  For a moment, Ichiro went on gazing at his reflection. Then he turned to me and asked:

  ‘Was Mr Naguchi like Oji?’

  ‘Was Mr Naguchi like me? Well, your mother for one doesn’t seem to think so. It was just something I said to your Uncle Taro once, Ichiro, it was nothing very serious. Your mother seems to have picked it up far too earnestly. I hardly remember what I was talking to Uncle Taro about at the time, but Oji just happened to suggest he had one or two things in common with people like Mr Naguchi. Now you tell me, Ichiro, what were the adults all saying last night?’

  ‘Oji, why did Mr Naguchi kill himself?’

  ‘That’s hard to say for sure, Ichiro. I never knew Mr Naguchi personally.’

  ‘But was he a bad man?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t a bad man. He was just someone who worked very hard doing what he thought was for the best. But you see, Ichiro, when the war ended, things were very different. The songs Mr Naguchi composed had become very famous, not just in this city, but all over Japan. They were sung on the radio and in bars. And the likes of your Uncle Kenji sang them when they were marching or before a battle. And after the war, Mr Naguchi thought his songs had been – well – a sort of mistake. He thought of all the people who had been killed, all the little boys your age, Ichiro, who no longer had parents, he thought of all these things and he thought perhaps his songs were a mistake. And he felt he should apologize. To everyone who was left. To little boys who no longer had parents. And to parents who had lost little boys like you. To all these people, he wanted to say sorry. I think that’s why he killed himself. Mr Naguchi wasn’t a bad man at all, Ichiro. He was brave to admit the mistakes he’d made. He was very brave and honourable.’

  Ichiro was watching me with a thoughtful expression. I gave a laugh and said: ‘What’s the matter, Ichiro?’

  My grandson seemed about to speak, but then turned again to look at his face reflected in the glass.

  ‘Your Oji never meant anything by saying he was like Mr Naguchi,’ I said. ‘It was a sort of joke he was making, that’s all. You tell your mother that, the next time you hear her talking about Mr Naguchi. Because from what she was saying this morning, she’s picked the whole thing up quite wrongly. What’s the matter, Ichiro? Suddenly so quiet.’

  After lunch we spent some time wandering around shops in the city centre, looking at toys and books. Then, towards the latter part of the afternoon, I treated Ichiro to another ice-cream at one of those smart refectories along Sakurabashi Street, before making our way to Taro and Noriko’s new apartment in Izumimachi.

  The Izumimachi area, as you may be aware, has now become very popular with young couples from the better backgrounds, and there is certainly a clean, respectable atmosphere there. But most of the newly-built apartment blocks that have drawn these young couples seem to me unimaginative and constrictive. Taro and Noriko’s apartment, for instance, is a small two-room affair on the third floor: the ceilings are low, sounds come in from neighbouring apartments and the view from the window is principally of the opposite block and its windows. I am sure it is not simply because I am accustomed to my more spacious, traditional house that even after a short time I begin to find the place claustrophobic. Noriko, however, seems very proud of her apartment, and is forever extolling its ‘modern’ qualities. It is, apparently, very e
asy to keep clean, and the ventilation most effective; in particular, the kitchens and bathrooms throughout the block are of Western design and are, so my daughter assures me, infinitely more practical than, say, the arrangements in my own house.

  However convenient the kitchen, it is very small, and when I stepped inside it that evening to see how my daughters were progressing with the meal, there seemed no space for me to stand. Because of this, and because my daughters both seemed busy, I did not remain chatting with them long. But I did remark at one point:

  ‘You know, Ichiro was telling me earlier he’s keen to taste a little sake.’

  Setsuko and Noriko, who had been standing side by side slicing vegetables, both stopped and glanced up at me.

  ‘I gave it some thought and decided we could let him have a small taste,’ I went on. ‘But perhaps you should dilute it with some water.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Setsuko said, ‘but you’re suggesting Ichiro drink sake tonight?’

  ‘Just a little. He’s a growing boy after all. But as I say, you’d best dilute it.’

  My daughters exchanged glances. Then Noriko said: ‘Father, he’s only eight years old.’

  ‘There’s no harm so long as you mix it with water. You women may not understand, but these things mean a great deal to a young boy like Ichiro. It’s a question of pride. He’ll remember it for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Father, this is nonsense,’ said Noriko. ‘Ichiro would just be sick.’

  ‘Nonsense or not I’ve thought this over carefully. You women sometimes don’t have enough sympathy for a boy’s pride.’ I pointed to the sake bottle standing on a shelf above their heads. ‘Just a small drop will do.’

  With that, I began to leave. But then I heard Noriko say: ‘Setsuko, it’s out of the question. I don’t know what Father can be thinking.’

  ‘Why all this fuss?’ I said, turning at the doorway. Behind me, from the main room, I could hear Taro and my grandson laughing over something. I lowered my voice and continued:

  ‘Anyway, I’ve promised him now, he’s looking forward to it. You women sometimes just don’t understand about pride.’