Early in February, Sachiko sent the printed post card off to Tokyo. To her older sister she wrote a brief note: for all their hopes that they would soon have to call Yukiko back to Osaka, the old year had passed without a single proposal, and here it was February; although there was no real business at the moment, Sachiko wanted very much to see Yukiko, and she was sure that Yukiko would by now be feeling a little homesick; if there were no particular objection, might Yukiko not be allowed to visit Ashiya for a time?—there happened to be a Yamamura recital, the announcement of which she was enclosing, and Taeko, who was dancing, wanted Yukiko to be present. To Yukiko she wrote in more detail: with the crisis in China, dance recitals were becoming rare, and this might well be the last for a very long time; Koi-san, quite out of practice, had at first refused the surprise invitation to dance, and had at length accepted because such an opportunity might not come again and because she felt she must offer something in memory of the teacher; it was just possible that this would be Yukiko’s last chance to see Koi-san in a recital; unable to learn a new dance on such short notice, Koi-san had hastily set about releaming “Snow”, which she had danced the year before; she would at least have to have a different kimono, however, and the kimono Sachiko had had dyed at the Kozuchiya (it had a delicate, unobtrusive pattern) seemed to fit the order; Koi-san was being trained by a leading disciple of the old teacher, a woman who had a studio in Osaka; Koi-san was thus her usual busy self, what with practice every day in Osaka, and more practice in the evening to Sachiko’s accompaniment, and her doll-making and all; Sachiko was kept busy at the koto (she had no confidence that she could do “Snow” on the samisen); although Sachiko found it hard to be angry with so diligent a worker, still Koi-san had been a great trial to her, and there were incidents of which she could not write in a letter, but which she would recount in detail when she saw Yukiko; and Etsuko insisted that Yukiko, who had missed the last recital, must be present this time. There was no answer from either Tsuruko or Yukiko. They began to think that the latter would again arrive unannounced. Late on the afternoon of February 11—a holiday, the anniversary of the founding of the Empire—Taeko was having a dress rehearsal in the parlor.
“Yukiko!” Etsuko was the first to hear the bell.
“Come in, come in,” O-haru followed Etsuko to the door. “They are all in the parlor.”
The furniture had been cleared away except for one sofa, and the rug was rolled up. In the center of the room stood Taeko, parasol in hand, her Japanese-style coiffure tied up with bright pink ribbons. Her kimono was the one Sachiko had described, a bronze-purple with a fine pattern of snow-covered camellias and plum blossoms. In a corner of the room, Sachiko sat on a cushion, her koto before her. It was decorated with chrysanthemums in gold lacquer.
“I thought I would find you all at this.” Yukiko nodded to Teinosuke, who sat on the sofa in a winter kimono, his long underwear showing at the hem. “I could hear the koto from outside.”
“We wondered what could have happened to you.” Sachiko’s hands rested on the koto. Yukiko liked noise and gaiety for all her apparent melancholy, and Sachiko saw a wave of emotion cross the white face (possibly Yukiko was tired).
“You came on the Swallow?”
Yukiko did not answer Etsuko’s question. She turned instead to Taeko. “Is that a wig you have on?”
“Yes. They finally had it ready today.”
“It looks wonderful on you, Koi-san.”
“I thought I might want to wear it sometimes myself,” said Sachiko. “Koi-san and I had it made together.”
“You can wear it too, Yukiko.”
“When you get married.”
“Listen to the woman! Do you really think it would fit me?”
Yukiko laughed happily at Sachiko’s joke. But she was right: because of the rich hair, one did not notice that she had an extremely .small head.
“You came at just the right time,” said Teinosuke. “With Koi-san’s wig ready, we thought we would have her dance in full costume. A special performance for me. The twenty-first is a Tuesday, and I am not at all sure I can go.”
“And I have to be in school,” said Etsuko.
“They should have made it a Sunday.”
“That would have attracted too much attention. It would not do to attract attention at a time like this.”
“Would you go over that passage again please?” Taking the parasol in her right hand, Taeko held it with the handle upright.
“No, begin at the beginning,” said Teinosuke.
Etsuko too was in favor of beginning again for Yukiko.
“But Koi-san will be exhausted, going through it twice.”
“Think of it as practice, and do it again,” said Sachiko. “Of course I am freezing, here on the bare floor. You may not have noticed.”
“How about a pocket-warmer,” suggested O-haru. “It will make a great difference if you sit on a pocket-warmer.”
Tcssibly I should.”
“I can have a rest while you fuss about your pocket-warmer.” Taeko put down the parasol and, sweeping aside the long skirts, walked over to the sofa. “May I have one too?” She lighted the cigarette Teinosuke gave her.
“And I,” said Yukiko, leaving for the bathroom, “ought to wash my hands.”
“This sort of thing always makes Yukiko so happy. I know: you can take us out to dinner. Yukiko came all the way from Tokyo, and Koi-san has been dancing for us.”
“And I am the one who pays?”
“Of course. It is your duty. There is not a thing in the house, and I have meant all along to be taken out to dinner.”
“I would be happy with almost any kind of feast,” said Taeko.
“Would you like to go to the Yohei or the Oriental Grill?”
“Either one will do. We can ask Yukiko.”
“After all that time in Tokyo, she might want some good fish.”
“Suppose we have a bottle of white wine, then, and go on to the Yohei,” said Teinosuke.
“I will have to dance very hard to pay for my dinner.” As O-haru came in with the pocket-warmer, Taeko put out the lipstick-smeared cigarette and began arranging her skirts.
1 Colza or rape, an early-flowering brassicaceous herb.
28
ALTHOUGH IT SEEMED that Teinosuke, busy closing books for a certain company, might have to miss the whole concert, he telephoned from the office that morning asking Sachiko to let him know when Taeko would be dancing. At about two-thirty, Sachiko called to say that if he left then he would be just in time. Unfortunately a client appeared, and at a warning from O-haru, after he had wasted another half hour, that if he did not come at full speed he would be late, he swept the client from the room, and, without bothering to put on a hat, ran for the elevator and across the street to the Mitsukoshi Building. He arrived at the hall on the eighth floor to find that Taeko was already dancing. Since the recital was a private one limited to Taeko’s group, to the Osaka Society, and to readers of the latter’s newspaper, there should not have been a large audience. Such recitals were becoming rare, however, and with all sorts of people using their influence to get tickets, almost every seat was taken, and spectators were even standing at the back of the hall. Looking over their shoulders toward the stage, Teinosuke noticed, perhaps two yards from him, a man with a Leica raised to his face. There could be no doubt that it was Itakura. Pulling back into a corner, Teinosuke stole an occasional glance at the photographer, who had his overcoat collar turned up and who hardly looked away from the camera. No doubt he meant to hide his face, but the overcoat, a relic of his Los Angeles days, was so suggestive of the movies that it only attracted attention.
The dance went smoothly. Taeko had done this “Snow” a year before. But she had practiced only a month, and this was her first performance on a real stage—she had until then danced either on Mrs. Kamisugi’s portable stage or in the Ashiya house—and it was inevitable that there should be something a little inadequate about her dancing, as if s
he were trying to occupy too large a space. Aware of the danger, Taeko had sought to hide her defects behind the samisen accompaniment, and she had particularly asked the daughter of Sachiko’s koto teacher, Kikuoka Kengyō, to play for her. And yet there was no sign of stage fright. For all Teinosuke could see, she was as composed as ever. The calm deliberation with which she danced made it difficult to believe that but one month’s practice could have prepared her for so grand a stage. Perhaps the rest of the audience did not notice, but to Teinosuke there was a rather irksome feeling of defiance, of brazenness, almost, something that challenged the critic to praise or damn as he saw fit. Still, she was twenty-eight years old, an age at which a geisha would be well past her prime, and it was not strange that she should have this touch of bravado. He had thought when she danced the year before that the metal beneath the gilt was finally showing through—Taeko usually looked ten years younger than she was. Did the dress of long ago make women look older, then? Or only Taeko, because traditional dress offered such a contrast to her usual foreign brightness? Or was it this defiant manner that aged her?
The moment the dance ended, Itakura tucked his camera under his arm and hurried out. An instant later a man ran headlong through the audience and almost flung himself at the door through which the gaudy overcoat had disappeared. For a moment Teinosuke. did not realize that the second figure was Okubata. Teinosuke too ran out into the lobby.
“Why did you take Koi-san’s picture? Have you forgotten that you promised not to?” Okubata was trying to control his voice. Itakura looked at the floor, like a child being scolded. “Give me the camera.”
Okubata began searching his man as a detective would search a suspected criminal, running his hands over the pockets. He took the camera out briskly and put it into his own pocket. Then, reconsidering, he pulled at the lens with a trembling hand and threw the camera to the floor as hard as he could. It was the work of a moment. Okubata was gone by the time the other spectators noticed, and Itakura had picked up his camera and was walking dejectedly away. He had stood as if unable to raise his head before the son of his old master, and even when the Leica he prized as his very life was skidding across the floor he did not seem to think of resorting to the physical strength in which he had such confidence.
Teinosuke returned to his office after paying his respects backstage and complimenting Taeko. It was not until late that night, when Etsuko and his sisters-in-law were in bed, that he told his wife of the incident. Itakura, whether on his own initiative or at Taeko’s request, had apparently planned to slip in and to stay only long enough for pictures of “Snow.” Okubata, who had been hidden in the audience, intercepted him as he was hurrying off, mission accomplished. Though it was hard to say when Okubata had arrived, no doubt he had suspected that Itakura would be present. Like Teinosuke, he had been watching from afar. He would not let Itakura escape—such in any case was the only explanation Teinosuke thought possible. He could not tell whether they knew he had seen the little drama.
She had been afraid Okubata would be at the recital, said Sachiko, and she had dreaded having to speak to him. Koi-san assured her that he had not been informed; and besides, he had to spend two or three hours in the shop every afternoon except Sunday. Still Sachiko was uneasy. There had been two or three lines in the newspapers, and Okubata, if he saw them, might have guessed that Koi-san would be dancing. Having cast a worried eye over the audience from time to time, Sachiko was sure he had not been present before Taeko’s “Snow.” Yukiko, who spent more time in the audience than backstage and would have noticed, had said nothing. Perhaps Okubata had slipped in at about the same time as Teinosuke. Or perhaps he had been in disguise. Sachiko did not know about Koi-san, but she herself had not seen Itakura, and of course had had no intimation of what happened in the lobby.
“They were able to keep from being seen backstage. It would have been very awkward for them if we had noticed.”
“Itakura held himself back, and nothing came of it. But we cannot have two men fighting over Koi-san in public. We will have to do something before the rumors start.”
“Why do you refuse to worry with me, then?”
“I am worrying. Only it is not my place to interfere. Does Yukiko know about Itakura?”
“One reason I asked her down was that I wanted to talk to her. I have been looking for a chance.”
Sachiko had meant to wait until the recital was over, and two or three mornings later she was left alone with Yukiko after Taeko, who said that she wanted to have her picture taken in her dancing costume and would like to borrow Sachiko’s kimono again, had left in a taxi with her suitcase and wig box and parasol.
“I am sure she is going to Itakura’s.” Sachiko proceeded to summarize the events between that shocking letter from Okubata in September and the scene in the Mitsukoshi lobby.
“Was the Leica broken, then?”
“I wonder. Teinosuke says that the lens at least must have been damaged.”
“And they are taking pictures again because the film was spoiled?”
“Probably.” Sachiko saw that Yukiko had listened to the story calmly. “This time I really, really think I have been stabbed in the back. I am furious, more furious the more I think of it. There is no point in going into all the details, but I am not the only one. Has anyone been hurt as you yourself have, Yukiko?”
“Me? I have not been especially bothered… .”
“You are not to say that, Yukiko. Think of it all, since that newspaper affair. Maybe you would rather I changed the subject, but think of the trouble every time there is a chance of your getting married. And after the way I have protected her and taken her part—to go off and make such a promise to such a man and not say a word to me.”
“Have you spoken to Teinosuke?”
“Only after I could not keep it to myself any longer.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he did have opinions, but he would rather not be involved.”
“Why?”
“He finds Koi-san hard to understand. Frankly, he does not trust her, and he would rather have as little to do with her as possible. Just between the two of us, he really thinks it would be a mistake to interfere. He thinks someone like Koi-san should be left to do what she wants, even to marry Itakura. He says she can take care of herself, and we should let her. I feel just the opposite, and I have not been able to talk to him.”
“Maybe I should have a good talk with Koi-san.”
“I do wish you would, Yukiko. There is nothing for us to do but take turns trying to talk sense into her. She does say she will wait until after you are married, of course,”
“If it were any other man, I would not mind seeing her married first.”
“But Itakura is impossible.”
“Am I wrong in thinking there is something a little vulgar about Koi-san herself?”
“You may be right, I am afraid.”
“In any case, Itakura is no brother-in-law for me.”
Sachiko had expected Yukiko to understand, but for one so reserved to express herself so clearly suggested even stronger op position than Sachiko’s own. The two sisters agreed that they would be delighted to have Okubata marry into the family if he was the alternative to Itakura. Sachiko saw that her task must be to sell Okubata.
29
WITH YUKIKO back, the Ashiya house was gay and noisy again. Yukiko, so inarticulate that one hardly knew she was about, added little to the noise, but one could see from the difference she made that something bright was hidden behind that apparent melancholy and reserve. And it was like a spring breeze to have all the sisters under one roof. The mood would be broken if one of them were to go.
Someone had finally rented the Stolz house. Every night the kitchen blazed with light. The new renter, a Swiss, worked as adviser to a Nagoya company and was away from home most of the time. The house was managed by his young wife, who groomed herself like an Occidental but who had the face of a Chinese or a Filipino. Sinc
e there were no children, the place was far from being as lively as when the Stolzes were there. Still, it made a great difference to have someone in that Western-style house, so desolate and run-down that it had begun to look like a haunted house. Etsuko had hoped for a little girl to take Rosemarie’s place. She had many school friends, however, and they had already formed their own little set, inviting one another back and forth to tea parties and birthday parties and the like. Taeko, as busy as ever, spent more time away than at home. She had dinner out one night in three. Teinosuke suspected that she did not want to be where her sisters could argue with her. He feared a permanent breach, and in particular he was afraid that Yukiko and Taeko might turn away from each other. But one evening, looking for Sachiko in the Japanese room across from the bath, he slid the door open to find Yukiko sitting on the veranda with her knees tucked under her chin, while Taeko cut her toenails for her,
“Where is Sachiko?”
“She has gone to see Mrs. Kuwayama,” answered Taeko. “She should be back soon.”
Yukiko quietly pulled her bare feet out of sight and took a more lady-like posture. As he closed the door, Teinosuke saw Taeko kneel to gather up the shiny parings. It was only a glimpse, and yet there was a beauty in the scene, sister with sister, that left a deep impression on him. Though they might disagree, there would not often be serious conflicts between them.
One night early in March, Teinosuke dozed off to be awakened by his wife’s tears against his face. He could hear a faint sobbing in the darkness.
“What is the matter?”
“Tonight—tonight—it is exactly a year.” The sobbing was more distinct.
“I wish you would try to forget. It does you no good to remember.”
With the taste of tears in his mouth, Teinosuke thought how happy Sachiko had seemed when they went to bed. This flood of tears was too sudden. But it had been in March, he remembered, that Mr. and Mrs. Jimba invited them to meet Nomura, and perhaps, as Sachiko said, exactly a year had passed since the miscarriage. Natural though it was that his wife should continue to grieve after he himself had forgotten, these attacks were most puzzling. When the family had gone cherry-viewing the year before, and when they had gone to the Kabuki in the fall, he had seen just such a flood of tears, and he had seen too that Sachiko was her usual self immediately afterwards. This time it was the same. In the morning she looked as though nothing had happened.
The Makioka Sisters Page 33