by Mori Ogai
Otama had been visiting him about once a week, but there was never a time when she would stay for much longer than an hour. He was simply unforgivable. He was always so kind to her. He always had something delicious there, he always made tea. But once that was over he asked her to leave—and it was not simply the shortening of temper that comes with old age. Ever since he gave her away to Suezo, he decided it was not right for her to spend her time at his house. The second or third time she visited him, she explained that Suezo never came around before noon, so it was all right for them to spend some leisurely time together. Her father was not prepared for the news. “Right, right. Well, maybe he hasn’t come by before, but perhaps some special errand comes up and he stops by? Certainly, if you discuss it with him beforehand and make special arrangements to come over here there’d be no problem, but for you to just stop by when you’re out shopping and spend the whole afternoon? What would Suezo think if you just vanished for hours without explanation?”
Otama was always worried about what her father would do or say if he were to discover Suezo ’s actual occupation, and so every time she came by she studied him closely. It seemed he still had no idea. And how would he? Ever since his move to the lake he filled his days with books on loan, and every time she saw him he had a pair of glasses perched on his nose. The books were always biographies and historical accounts. Presently he was reading Mikawa-go-fudoki. The book was separated into many volumes and would keep him busy for a long time. The bookshop would often recommend fiction to him, which he would scoff at as “full of lies.” When evening fell his eyes grew tired, and he put aside the books and went to the theater. When at the theater he cared little if the stories were true or not. He’d watch stand up comedy, he’d watch debates. As for the endless lectures at Hirokoji, he’d only visit if the speaker was someone he was deeply interested in. So was the extent of his leisure. He did not speak to strangers, and therefore made no friends. And so he had yet to discover the circumstances behind Suezo’s fortune.
But with time people began to wonder who the beautiful woman coming and going from the mansion was. They assumed she belonged to a powerful loan shark. Now if the old man were to be surrounded by gossips and muckrakers, he would never have been able to maintain his composure, despite, perhaps, his best efforts. Their words would have reached him. Fortunately for the old candy-seller, his neighbor on one side was a man who had thrown himself whole-heartedly into the study of calligraphy, leaving no time for neighborhood speculation. The neighbor on his other side was a bit odd, a man who carved wooden blocks for printmaking but would never think of carving a stamp or seal for anyone, as he was not fond of the traditional style. Regardless, neither of them posed a significant threat to his quiet peace.
At the time there was very little in the area. Among the houses there sat Renkyokuan, a noteworthy soba shop, and a rice-cracker maker. If one were to follow the street a little further in the direction of Hirokoji there was a little comb shop, called The Thirteenth . At the time, these three stores were essentially all there was in the area.
Her father, despite seeing no one through the window, would hear the soft clopping of her geta down the path and know that Otama had come. Setting aside his fuudoki, he removed his glasses and waited for her arrival. This action, this setting aside the book removing his glasses, repeated time and time again, acquired an air of ritual. It was a ritual that signified the approach of his beloved daughter, the owner of the most lovely face he’d ever known. He removed his glasses that day as well. In truth, he could see her better with them on, but he did not like feeling a pane of glass between them. He always had a large store of things he wanted to talk about with her, and each time he saw her off he would remember topics he’d forgotten to bring up. But he never forgot to ask about Suezo’s health and spirit.
That day Otama saw her father in good spirits. They spoke of achanotsubane, and went out for a light lunch in Oosenju. “Are you sure you don’t need to head back yet?” her father asked.
Otama laughed. “It’s fine!” she said, and the two of them talked until near noon. She thought he would grow more insistent if she were to speak of Suezo’s recent habit of appearing at uncommon hours. Inwardly, she grew lazy, and opted to push thoughts of his sudden arrival from her mind. The worry would do her no good.
Chapter Twenty One
The days grew colder, and the planks that ran the length of the gutters of Otama’s house were buried under the dirt, and in the morning they were covered in white frost. The twisted rope that dangled deep into the well was very cold and, feeling sorry for Ume and thinking they might help, Otama purchased a pair of gloves and presented them to her. However, taking the gloves off and slipping them back on time and time again throughout the day rendered the simplest of tasks difficult enough that Ume eventually folded them nicely and shut them away in the cupboard before returning to draw water from the well barehanded. But the drawing of water and the washing of dishes and all the little tasks soon took their toll on Ume’s skin, prompting Otama to say, “You can’t just leave your hands wet that way after you’ve finished something. Once you pull them from the water you have to wipe them dry as soon as possible. Remember to wash and dry your hands,” she said, and went so far as to buy Ume a personal bar of soap to help remind her. But Ume’s hands still got worse, the skin rougher, and Otama worried all the more. Otama’s own hands had never had a comparable amount of trouble in the winter, and certainly not when she’d been Ume's age.
Otama, always so quick and energetic in the mornings, now often stayed wrapped in her blankets much later than usual. “The gutters are frozen over,” Ume often explained. “Better to stay in bed a little while longer, Ma'am.” Educators always tell their students to wake early, and to leave their beds once they wake. It keeps the mind from unhealthy daydreams, or so they say. When the young spend too much time in the warmth, beneath the covers, strange images present themselves to the mind, poisonous flowers set to flame. Otama experienced this very same effect, and in the warmth of her bed her imagination grew fertile and active. When it came over her, her face flushed, as if drunk on sake, and her cheeks grew full and red.
The previous night saw the sky clear, the stars sharp and bright, and in the morning saw white frost over everything. Otama had been lazing under her blankets for a while then, but Ume had long ago lurched open the front window, and the light streaming through it finally encouraged Otama to leave her bed. She slipped into a light jacket and walked to the porch where she produced a toothpick and made to clean a tooth when she heard the front lattice door slide open. Ume chirped “Oh, good to see you!” Someone’s shoes clattered in the entrance, and Otama heard them enter the house.
It was Suezo. “Ooof, overslept again?” he said, slumping down before the brazier.
“Pardon me,” blushed Otama as she quickly threw away the toothpick and spit into a bucket. “Aren’t you early today?” She straightened herself and flashed him a shy smile. It was the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen. Since she’d moved to Muenzaka, why—she’d grown more beautiful by the day! At first she’d been a cute girl, and he’d loved her for that, but her charm had changed, and watching it do so had been a great joy for Suezo. He had discovered the way he loved her, and he felt richer for having figured it out. But Suezo’s perceptive eyes saw little but love that day, and he remained unaware of Otama’s fragile state of mind. In the beginning she’d been as obedient and supplicating as she’d imagined Suezo to require, though with the tumultuous circumstances at hand she’d come to think more about, and for, herself. It was in doing so that she came to allow herself more relaxation, much in the way that women often change after learning the ways of men. There was a level-headed composure brewing within.
Watching her, a niggling feeling manifested as pleasant stimulation in his heart. With Otama’s relaxation deepening he felt as though her sloth was bringing her closer to him, and he felt more attracted to her through it. He did not understand the root o
f it, but it impacted him profoundly.
Otama stooped next to him and, pulling a metal basin before her said, “Would you be so kind as to look over that way for a moment?”
“Why?” Suezo asked, setting flame to a cigarette.
“Because I want to wash my face, of course.”
“So? Just wash it.”
“I can’t wash up if you are watching.”
“Well that makes things tough,” he said blowing a cloud of smoke and turning his back to the porch. Inwardly he smiled at her innocence. “How’s that?”
Otama undid her collar and rushed to wash her face. She was not taking care with her makeup, but her secrets were safe, and the coverage was flawless, so there was no great loss if she was seen.
Suezo had turned his back, but at some point had slowly revolved to face her again. When she was washing up she hadn ’t noticed, but when she moved before the mirror to touch up her makeup his face, cigarette pinched between his lips, was reflected there behind her.
“You’re terrible!” She said, but quickly returned to arranging her hair. Her arms were raised high in the air, and her kimono slipped slightly from her shoulders, the long triangle of white visible down her back. The sleeves slipped from her arms as she did her hair, and Suezo sat back watching them move, his eyes locked, enraptured, on her plump elbows. He suddenly realized that his silent gaze might cause her to rush, and so he began to speak, languidly and kindly.
“You don’t need to rush on my account. I didn’t come early today for any particular reason or anything like that. I know we’d talked about me coming by tonight, but it looks like there’s some business I have to take care of in Chiba. If everything goes well I should be back by tomorrow—but it might take another day or so.
Otama stopped brushing her hair for a moment and turned to him. “You can’t mean it!” she said, frowning.
He smiled and, half joking, said, “Be a good girl and wait for me,” before shutting away his cigarette case and making for the door.
“At the very least have some tea,” said Otama, nearly throwing her comb into its box. She ran to the entrance to see him off, but when she got there he’d already opened the door and was on his way out.
* * *
Ume, entering from the kitchen, carried a tray of breakfast and set it before Otama before nodding a soft, “I’m sorry about that, Ma'am.”
Otama was sitting by the brazier, brushing aside the ashes that had begun to dust over the hot coals. She smiled. “Now, now. What could you possible have to apologize about?”
“I was late with the tea.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I mentioned it to him, and he thought nothing of it at all. Nothing to worry about,” she said, taking a pair of chopsticks in hand.
Ume watched Otama ’s face closely, and while she was always the slow-to-anger sort, that day she seemed in especially high spirits. When she’d said, “What could you possible have to worry about?” her smile had been large and bright across her red cheeks. It would be wrong to say that Ume did not wonder at the source of this ebullience, but she was a simple girl, and the question did not set roots down in her mind. The joy simply infected her as well, and she felt very fine that morning.
Otama looked Ume in the eyes and, smiling ever wider, said, “Hey there, why don’t you go home?”
Ume looked suspicious. During the Meiji era, laws regarding servants and the houses they kept were more strict than they are now, and the suggestion that a servant simply run along home for the night was a rarity to be doubted.
“Suezo won’t be coming over tonight, so why don’t you go stay with your family? You can come back in the morning,” Otama added by way of clarification.
“Are you sure you mean it, Ma'am?” asked Ume, not because she doubted Otama’s resolve, but because she felt it was far too kind an offer.
“What do you mean? Of course I mean it! Am I the type of woman to lie to my beloved servant? You don’t even need to clean up after breakfast, just run on home, spend the whole day with your family, and spend the night. All I ask is that you come back early in the morning.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ume, her face flushing red. And she thought of her house and her father, who was a driver and kept two or three carts parked before their entrance each day, and how wonderful it would be to put cushions down around the brazier and sit with him, and her mother would be there too, her hair as it always was, hanging down past her cheeks and brushing the collar of her kimono which she was always wearing. All the images rushed into her little head and filled it with reminisces.
They had finished eating, so Ume carried away the trays. Otama had said she didn ’t need to clean up, but she felt, at the very least, that the dishes needed to be done, so she began to load them into the sink. As she was filling it with hot water, and the dishes were clattering about, Otama appeared beside her holding something carefully wrapped in delicate paper. “Of course, you’re cleaning up—but we can’t have you doing all these dishes, now can we? I’ll do them. You did your hair all nice last night, so you can go just like that, can’t you? Go and change into your nice kimono. I realize you don’t have anything prepared to bring your family, so please just take this to them,” she said as she handed Ume the paper. Folded inside was a half-yen bill, crisp as a playing card.
* * *
After sending Ume out the door Otama quickly tied up her kimono sleeves and made for the kitchen where, as though investing herself in some fascinating endeavor, she set about washing the dishes. While she ’d had much practice in the past, and should have been able to finish the task much quicker than Ume could hope to, Otama washed slowly and calmly, like a child with a toy. She raised a plate to her eye and did not release it for five minutes. Her face was blushed and filled with vitality, but her eyes seemed empty.
Her mind was filled with pleasant images. Women are thrown into confusion and emotion until they ’ve made up their mind to do something, but once they have decided on the matter they do not vacillate the way that men do. Rather, like a horse suddenly stricken mad, they charge violently in their chosen direction. A thoughtful man will rush forward until he discovers an object blocking his path. To a woman, that object is nothing but a leaf in the street. They give it no heed, rushing forward where a man may show hesitation, and, unexpectedly, this often brings them great success. When Otama realized she wanted to grow closer to Okada she was thrown into confusion and hesitation, which any onlooker would have thought the beginning of a tortured madness, but when Suezo had said, that very morning, that he would be in Chiba that night, she felt as though the time had come at last, and, like a ship with its sail unfurled and taut with wind, she rushed ahead to her destined shore. She’d sent Ume back to her parents, which was the right thing to do. Suezo would not be around to cause problems. Ume was staying the night out also. Realizing that, for the remainder of the day she was responsible only to herself, she was immediately filled with an irrepressible joy. And it was hard for her not to think the tempo of the day an omen, presenting her with opportunity after opportunity. There was certainly no chance of Okada not passing by that evening. There were days when he passed by twice, there and back, and so even if she missed him the first time, there was little chance the night would pass without a meeting. No matter the sacrifice, she would not let the night pass without speaking with him. If she simply called to him, he would stop and turn to her. He had to. “I am a bought woman, a fallen women. Even worse, I’m owned by a loan shark. But while I may have grown more beautiful with age, I haven’t lost any grace in the process.” She had also slowly come to learn what men look for in women, much like the unexpected joy that comes to miserable creatures. Could Okada find her unacceptable? No! Certainly not. If he found her so wretched, he would not take the trouble to greet her when he passed by. He’d even stopped by and killed a snake for her. Was she to imagine he would do the same thing for just any old house? “But it was my house. For someone he hadn’t known, for an unfami
liar face, would he have stopped?” Besides, if she was thinking so much about it then, even if not everyone was aware, some of her thoughts must reach him. Of course they would. Better then to act. Enough with the planning.
As she sat there, thinking over all these things, the water had gone completely cold, though she did not notice or care.
Otama put the tray away on the shelf and returned to sit at the brazier, but she appeared unsettled and anxious. Ume had removed ashes from the coals before she ’d left, and Otama quickly hit them about with a chopstick before jumping to her feet and rushing into a kimono. She would have her hair done by the Doumyouchou girl. She was always walking by and giving friendly greetings, But Otama had never been to see her.
Chapter Twenty Two
The collected stories of the Brothers Grimm contain a story called The Nail . I don’t remember all the specifics that well, but it typically involves a nail protruding from a merchant’s cart, and it causes ever greater trouble to the merchant’s son. In the story I’m relating to you now, a miso braised mackerel carries out this very same role.
Often, while fighting off starvation at the boarding house, a stench would waft from the kitchen, and it was so wretched it made my hair stand on end. No matter how pristine the room, no matter how effective the ventilation, nothing could have ameliorated the effect —its stench was eye-watering, and its pungency filled the room. The experience was indescribable. Boiled fish covered with a black seaweed and spongy gluten, the smell strong enough to cause hallucinations. It was mackerel braised in miso, and it stunk to high heaven.
One day that fish made its way to the plates at the Kamijo. I normally reach for chopsticks with the arrival of the tray, though that day my face showed hesitation substantial enough to prompt the servant to ask, “Do you not like mackerel?”