An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  I was making to leave again, when this time it was Setsuko who spoke.

  ‘It is very kind of Father to consider Ichiro’s feelings so carefully. However, I wonder if it wouldn’t perhaps be best to wait till Ichiro is a little older.’

  I gave a small laugh. ‘You know, I remember your mother protesting in just the same way when I decided to let Kenji have a taste of sake at this age. Well, it certainly did your brother no harm.’

  I regretted immediately introducing Kenji into such a trivial disagreement. Indeed, I believe I was momentarily quite annoyed with myself, and it is possible I did not pay much attention to what Setsuko said next. In any case, it seems to me she said something like:

  ‘There is no doubt Father devoted the most careful thought to my brother’s upbringing. Nevertheless, in the light of what came to pass, we can perhaps see that on one or two points at least, Mother may in fact have had the more correct ideas.’

  To be fair, it is possible she did not say anything quite so unpleasant. Indeed, it is possible I misinterpreted entirely what she actually said, for I distinctly recall Noriko not reacting at all to her sister’s words other than to turn wearily back to her vegetables. Besides, I would not have thought Setsuko capable of introducing so gratuitously such a note to the conversation. Then again, when I consider the sort of insinuations Setsuko had been making in Kawabe Park earlier that same day, I suppose I have to admit the possibility that she did say something along such lines. In any case, I recall Setsuko concluding by saying:

  ‘Besides, I fear Suichi would not wish Ichiro to drink sake until he is a little older. But it is most kind of Father to have given such consideration to Ichiro’s feelings.’

  Conscious that Ichiro might overhear our conversation, and not wishing to put a cloud over what was a rare family reunion, I let the argument rest there and left the kitchen. For a while after that, as I recall, I sat in the main room with Taro and Ichiro, exchanging enjoyable talk as we awaited supper.

  We eventually sat down to eat an hour or so later. As we were doing so, Ichiro reached over to the sake flask on the table, tapped it with his fingers and looked over at me knowingly. I smiled at him, but said nothing.

  The women had prepared a splendid meal and the conversation was soon flowing effortlessly. At one point, Taro had us all laughing with the story of a colleague of his at work, who through a mixture of misfortune and his own comical stupidity, had gained a reputation for never meeting deadlines. Once, while relating this story, Taro said:

  ‘Indeed, things have got to such a state it seems our superiors have taken to calling him “the Tortoise”. During a meeting recently, Mr Hayasaka forgot himself and actually announced: “We’ll hear the Tortoise’s report, then break for lunch.”’

  ‘Is that so?’ I exclaimed with some surprise. ‘That’s very curious. I myself once had a colleague who had that nickname. For much the same reasons, it would seem.’

  But Taro did not seem particularly struck by this coincidence. He nodded politely, and said: ‘I remember at school, too, there was a pupil we all called “the Tortoise”. In fact, just as every group has a natural leader, I suspect every group has its “Tortoise”.’

  With that, Taro returned to the relating of his anecdote. Of course, now I come to think of it, I suppose my son-in-law was quite correct; most groups of peers would have their ‘Tortoise’, even if the name itself is not always used. Amongst my own pupils, for instance, it was Shintaro who fulfilled such a role. This is not to deny Shintaro’s basic competence; but when placed alongside the likes of Kuroda, it was as though his talent lacked an entire dimension.

  I suppose I do not on the whole greatly admire the Tortoises of this world. While one may appreciate their plodding steadiness and ability to survive, one suspects their lack of frankness, their capacity for treachery. And I suppose, in the end, one despises their unwillingness to take chances in the name of ambition or for the sake of a principle they claim to believe in. Their like will never fall victim to the sort of grand catastrophe that, say, Akira Sugimura suffered over Kawabe Park; but by the same token, notwithstanding the small sorts of respectability they may sometimes achieve as school-teachers or whatever, they will never accomplish anything above the mediocre.

  It is true, I grew quite fond of the Tortoise during those years we spent together at Mori-san’s villa, but then I do not believe I ever respected him as an equal. This had to do with the very nature of our friendship, which had been forged during the days of the Tortoise’s persecution at Master Takeda’s firm and then through his difficulties in our early months at the villa; somehow, after a time, it had cemented itself into one in which he was perpetually indebted to me for some undefined ‘support’ I gave him. Long after he had grasped how to paint without arousing the hostility of the others at the villa, long after he had come to be generally well liked for his pleasant, obliging nature, he was still saying to me things like:

  ‘I’m so grateful to you, Ono-san. It’s due to you I’m treated so well here.’

  In one sense, of course, the Tortoise was indebted to me; for clearly, without my initiative, he would never have considered leaving Master Takeda’s to become Mori-san’s pupil. He had been extremely reluctant to take such an adventurous step, but once having been compelled to do so, he had never doubted the decision. Indeed, the Tortoise held Mori-san in such reverence that for a long time – for the first two years at least – I cannot recall his being able to hold a conversation with our teacher, other than to mumble: ‘Yes, Sensei’ or ‘No, Sensei.’

  Throughout those years, the Tortoise continued to paint as slowly as he ever did, but it did not occur to anyone to hold this against him. In fact, there were a number of others who worked just as slowly, and this faction actually had a tendency to mock those of us with faster working habits. I remember they labelled us ‘the engineers’, comparing the intense and frantic way we worked once an idea had struck with an engine driver shovelling on coal for fear the steam would at any moment run out. We in turn named the slow faction ‘the backwarders’. A ‘backwarder’ was originally a term used at the villa for someone who, in a room crowded with people working at easels, insisted on stepping backwards every few minutes to view his canvas – with the result that he continually collided with colleagues working behind him. It was of course quite unfair to suggest that because an artist liked to take time with a painting – stepping back, as it were, metaphorically – he was any more likely to be guilty of this antisocial habit, but then we enjoyed the very provocativeness of the label. Indeed, I recall a lot of good-humoured bantering concerning ‘engineers’ and ‘backwarders’.

  In truth, though, just about all of us were prone to be guilty of ‘backwarding’, and because of this, we would as far as possible avoid crowding together when working. In the summer months, many of my colleagues would set up easels spaced out at points along the verandas, or else out in the yard itself, while others insisted on reserving large numbers of rooms because they liked to circulate from room to room according to the light. The Tortoise and I always tended to work in the disused kitchen – a large, barn-like annex behind one of the wings.

  The floor as one entered was of trodden earth, but towards the back was a raised boarded platform, wide enough for our two easels. The low crossbeams with their hooks – from which once hung pots and other kitchen utensils – and the bamboo racks on the walls, proved most useful for our brushes, rags, paints and so on. And I can recall how the Tortoise and I would fill a large old blackened pot full of water, carry it on to the platform and suspend it on the old pulleys so that it hung at shoulder height between us as we painted.

  I remember one afternoon, we were painting in the old kitchen as usual, when the Tortoise said to me:

  ‘I’m very curious, Ono-san, about your present painting. It must be something very special.’

  I smiled without taking my eyes from my work. ‘Why do you say that? It’s just a little experiment of mine, that’s all.�
�

  ‘But Ono-san, it’s a long time since I’ve seen you working with such intensity. And you’ve requested privacy. You haven’t requested privacy now for at least two years. Not since you were preparing “Lion-dance” for your first exhibition.’

  I should perhaps explain here that occasionally, whenever an artist felt a particular work would be hampered by comments of any sort before its completion, he would ‘request privacy’ for that work, and it was then understood that no one would attempt to look at it until such time as the artist with-drew his request. This was a sensible arrangement, living and working as we did so closely, and gave one room to take risks without fear of making a fool of oneself.

  ‘Is it really so noticeable?’ I said. ‘I thought I was hiding my excitement rather well.’

  ‘You must be forgetting, Ono-san. We’ve been painting side by side for almost eight years now. Oh yes, I can tell this is something quite special for you.’

  ‘Eight years,’ I remarked. ‘I suppose that’s right.’

  ‘Indeed, Ono-san. And it’s been a privilege to work so close to one of your talent. More than a little humbling at times, but a great privilege nonetheless.’

  ‘You exaggerate,’ I said, smiling and continuing to paint.

  ‘Not at all, Ono-san. Indeed, I feel I would never have progressed as I have over these years without the constant inspiration of seeing your works appearing before my eyes. No doubt you’ve noted the extent to which my modest “Autumn Girl” owes itself to your magnificent “Girl at Sunset”. One of many attempts on my part, Ono-san, to emulate your brilliance. A feeble attempt, I realize, but then Mori-san was good enough to praise it as a significant step forward for me.’

  ‘I wonder now.’ I ceased my brush strokes for a moment and looked at my work. ‘I wonder if this painting here will also inspire you.’

  I continued to regard my half-finished painting for a moment, then glanced across to my friend over the ancient pot suspended between us. The Tortoise was painting happily, unaware of my gaze. He had put on a little more flesh since the days I had first known him at Master Takeda’s, and the harassed, fearful look of those days had been largely replaced by an air of childlike contentment. In fact, I recall someone around that time comparing the Tortoise to a puppy who had just been petted, and indeed, this description was not inappropriate to the impression I received as I watched him paint that afternoon in the old kitchen.

  ‘Tell me, Tortoise,’ I said to him. ‘You’re quite happy with your work at present, are you?’

  ‘Most happy, thank you, Ono-san,’ he replied immediately. Then glancing up, he added hastily with a grin: ‘Of course, it has a long way to go before it can stand alongside your work, Ono-san.’

  His eyes returned to his painting and I watched him working for a few more moments. Then I asked:

  ‘You don’t consider sometimes trying some … some new approaches?’

  ‘New approaches, Ono-san?’ he said, not looking up.

  ‘Tell me, Tortoise, don’t you have ambitions to one day produce paintings of genuine importance? I don’t mean simply work that we may admire and praise amongst ourselves here at the villa. I refer to work of real importance. Work that will be a significant contribution to the people of our nation. It’s to this end, Tortoise, I talk of the need for a new approach.’

  I had watched him carefully as I said all this, but the Tortoise did not pause in his painting.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Ono-san,’ he said, ‘someone in my humble position is always trying new approaches. But over this past year, I believe I’m beginning to find the right path at last. You see, Ono-san, I’ve noticed Mori-san looking at my work more and more closely this past year. I know he’s pleased with me. Who knows, sometime in the future, I may even be permitted to exhibit alongside yourself and Mori-san.’ Then at last he looked across to me and laughed self-consciously. ‘Forgive me, Ono-san. Just a fantasy to keep me persevering.’

  I decided to let the matter drop. I had intended to try again at some later date to draw my friend into my confidence, but as it turned out, I was pre-empted by events.

  It was a sunny morning a few days after the conversation I have just recounted, when I stepped into the old kitchen to discover the Tortoise standing up on the platform at the back of that barn-like building, staring towards me. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the shade after the brightness of the morning outside, but I soon noticed the guarded, almost alarmed expression he was wearing; indeed, there was something in the way he raised an arm awkwardly towards his chest before letting it fall again that suggested he expected me to attack him. He had made no attempt to set up his easel or otherwise prepare for the day’s work, and when I greeted him he remained silent. I came nearer and asked:

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Onο-san …’ he muttered, but said no more. Then as I came up to the platform, he looked nervously to his left. I followed his gaze to my unfinished painting, covered over and stacked faced against the wall. The Tortoise gestured nervously towards it and said:

  ‘Ono-san, is this a joke of yours?’

  ‘No, Tortoise,’ I said, climbing up on to the platform. ‘It’s no joke at all.’

  I walked over to the painting, pulled off the drapes and turned it around to face us. The Tortoise immediately averted his eyes.

  ‘My friend,’ I said, ‘you were once brave enough to listen to me and we took together an important step in our careers. I’d ask you now to consider taking another step forward with me.’

  The Tortoise continued to hold his face away. He said:

  ‘Ono-san, is our teacher aware of this painting?’

  ‘No, not yet. But I suppose I may as well show it to him. From now on, I intend to always paint along these lines. Tortoise, look at my painting. Let me explain to you what I’m trying to do. Then perhaps we can again take an important step forward together.’

  At last he turned to look at me.

  ‘Ono-san,’ he said, in a near whisper, ‘you are a traitor. Now please excuse me.’

  With that, he hurried out of the building.

  The painting which had so upset the Tortoise was one entitled ‘Complacency’, and although it did not remain in my possession for long, such was my investment in it at that time that its details have stayed imprinted on my memory; indeed, had I the desire to do so, I feel I could quite accurately recreate that painting today. The inspiration behind it had been a small scene I had witnessed some weeks previously, something I had seen while out walking with Matsuda.

  We were, I recall, on our way to meet some of Matsuda’s colleagues from the Okada-Shingen Society to whom he wished to introduce me. It was towards the end of summer; the hottest days were past, but I can recall following Matsuda’s steady stride along the steel bridge at Nishizuru, mopping the sweat from my face and wishing my companion would walk more slowly. Matsuda was dressed that day in an elegant white summer jacket and, as ever, wore his hat slanted down stylishly. For all his pace, his strides had an effortless quality with no suggestion of hurry. And when he paused, half-way across the bridge, I saw he did not seem even to be suffering from the heat.

  ‘You get an interesting view from up here,’ he remarked. ‘You agree, Ono?’

  The view below us was framed by two factory plants looming one to our right, the other to our left. Wedged in between was a dense muddle of roofs, some of the cheap shingled variety, others improvised out of corrugated metals. The Nishizuru district still has today a certain reputation as a deprived area, but in those days, things were infinitely worse. Viewed from the bridge, a stranger may well have assumed that community to be some derelict site half-way to demolition were it not for the many small figures, visible on closer inspection, moving busily around the houses like ants swarming around stones.

  ‘Look down there, Ono,’ Matsuda said. ‘There are more and more places in our city like this. Only two or three years ago, this was not such a bad place. But now it’s growi
ng into a shanty district. More and more people become poor, Ono, and they are obliged to leave their houses in the countryside to join their fellow sufferers in places like this.’

  ‘How terrible,’ I said. ‘It makes one want to do something for them.’

  Matsuda smiled at me – one of his superior smiles which always made me feel uncomfortable and foolish. ‘Well-meaning sentiments,’ he said, turning back to the view. ‘We all utter them. In every walk of life. Meanwhile, places like these grow everywhere like a bad fungus. Take a deep breath, Ono. Even from here, you can smell the sewage.’

  ‘I’d noticed an odour. Is it really coming from down there?’

  Matsuda did not reply, but continued to look down at that shanty community with a strange smile on his face. Then he said:

  ‘Politicians and businessmen rarely see places like this. At least if they do, they stand at a safe distance, as we are now. I doubt if many politicians or businessmen have taken a walk down there. Come to that, I doubt if many artists have either.’

  Noticing the challenge in his voice, I said:

  ‘I wouldn’t object if it won’t make us late for our appointment.’

  ‘On the contrary, we will save ourselves a kilometre or two by cutting through down there.’

  Matsuda had been correct in supposing the odour derived from the sewers of that community. As we climbed down to the foot of the steel bridge and began making our way through a series of narrow alleys, the smell grew ever stronger until it became quite nauseous. There was no longer a trace of wind to combat the heat, the only movement in the air around us being the perpetual buzzing of flies. Again, I found myself struggling to keep up with Matsuda’s strides, but this time felt no desire for him to slow down.

  On either side of us were what might have been stalls at some marketplace, closed down for the day, but which in fact constituted individual households, partitioned from the alleyway sometimes only by a cloth curtain. Old people sat in some of the doorways, and as we went past gave interested, though never hostile, stares; small children appeared to be coming and going in all directions, while cats too seemed forever to be scurrying away from around our feet. We walked on, dodging blankets and washing hung out along coarse pieces of string; past crying babies, barking dogs and neighbours chatting amiably across the alleyway to each other, seemingly from behind closed curtains. After a while, I grew increasingly aware of the open-sewer ditches dug on either side of the narrow path we were walking. There were flies hovering all along their length and as I continued to follow Matsuda, I had the distinct feeling the space between the ditches was growing more and more narrow, until it was as though we were balancing along a fallen tree trunk.