by Allen Say
TEN
The two evenings a week I spent in the life drawing class put a strain on my study time, so my visits to the inn were limited to weekends. I longed for the summer to come. I was full of good intentions: I would study hard to bring my grades up, write something in my diary every day, use up at least ten sketchbooks. But when the vacation began all my resolutions were quickly forgotten. I spent most of my days at the inn.
In the morning, when there was no work, Tokida and I would scan the paper to see what was happening in the city to plan our excursions.
Tokyo is a city of department stores, and that summer one of them installed an escalator, the first to be installed after the war. Tokida and I decided to go there on the grand opening day and try it out. But as it turned out we weren't the only ones. When we arrived, a huge mob was already massed around the entrance. A young woman, wearing what appeared to be a bus conductor's uniform, stood by the escalator greeting the riders, warning them to watch their step and to hold on to the railings.
"What a fool thing that is," said Tokida in amazement. "Look at her, Kiyoi, she has to stand there and bow to all these idiots who are too lazy to wait for the elevators."
"I don't see how she can stand it," I agreed. "Maybe it's only for today, though."
The escalator seemed like such a big waste to me. I could have run up the staircase faster than those moving steps.
"Let's go down and try it again," said Tokida when we got to the third floor.
"Are we the lazy idiots you spoke about?"
"Only one more time, but let's say hello to her this time."
We went down the staircase and once again waited behind the long line, and when our turn came we bowed to the woman and said hello. She bowed and greeted us mechanically, without even looking up.
"She's a bowing machine," I said.
"She didn't see us," said Tokida. "How would you like to do that all day long? I'd go mad in an hour. They can make a machine to do that, a robot with a loudspeaker sucking out of its mouth."
"But if you worked for someone you'd have to do what he told you," I said, remembering all the clerks who worked for my father.
"I say it's wrong to make people do something like that. I tell you, Kiyoi, I'm never going to work for anybody. I'll shine shoes first."
"I'm not either. I'll shine shoes with you."
We went up to the fourth floor and walked among counters that displayed all kinds of glassware and crystal. Women clerks were arranging and rearranging their wares, trying to look busy. Tokida went up to a large display stacked with fancy glasses on top of one another. There was a mirror behind it and the glass pyramid glittered under the strong light.
"What would you do if I ran my hand along the bottom and brought the whole thing down?" asked Tokida.
"I'd tell them I'd never laid eyes on you before."
"It's good to know you're a friend of mine. Wouldn't it be fun to break everything in a place like this? What do you think the clerks would do?"
"They'd send you back to Osaka, handcuffed this time."
"Don't you ever feel like going crazy sometimes, like smashing something just for the hell of it?"
"Sure, when I'm angry I feel like breaking things, and sometimes I do."
"I must be mad all the time then. It sure is fun to smash glasses. Just the sound of it makes me feel good. Crash!"
"Hey, let's get out of here before you go crazy. Let's go see the van Gogh show; it's around the corner from here."
"All right, let's. Maybe I'll slash some paintings."
The gallery was mobbed but we bought our tickets anyway. A narrow path had been roped off along the walls and we shuffled along with the crowd. We couldn't stop to study a painting, for the guards kept telling us to move on. It was a miserable way to look at the works of a master, but still the paintings fascinated me. I had seen a lot of reproductions on postcards, calendars, books, and such, but never an original. The difference was the comparison between seeing nude paintings and then seeing a live model for the first time. They were the clumsiest paintings I had ever seen, but there was something about all those violent swirls of paint that made my heart beat fast. I looked at Tokida. He was lost to the world. He had his head up against one of van Gogh's self-portraits—the one with a bandage wrapped around his head after he'd slashed his ear with a razor. Tokida was holding up the traffic but didn't seem to be aware of it. That was one thing I was beginning to find out about Tokida. When he got involved in something the world around him seemed to disappear. He had his glasses off and was scanning the painting, square inch by square inch, as though reading fine print.
"We'd better move on, Tokida; we're blocking the way," I whispered to him.
In the end I had to drag him outside. He would have lingered there till closing time.
"How do you expect to see anything with all those idiots climbing all over you?" he complained. "I'm coming back here tomorrow when they first open. I've never seen paintings like those."
"They're nothing like the reproductions, are they?"
"Did you see those eyes?"
"How could I? You were hogging the painting most of the time."
"You really don't have to have a great deal of technique, I guess."
"What do you mean?"
"I never painted portraits because I always thought eyes were too hard to paint. Eyelashes, eyelids, and all that. But he painted them like anything else. I mean he painted everything in the same way, do you know what I mean? He sort of drew them in with the brush, no smoothing out the edges, no fancy strokes. I want to start painting. We ought to talk to Sensei about it."
"I thought you weren't interested in becoming a painter."
"I'm not. But there's nothing wrong in painting a few pictures. I want to paint in oils for a while; it's so different from watercolor."
"I've never used oils either. They say it's easier than doing watercolors. If you make a mistake you can go right over it. Let's ask Sensei about it."
We walked along the main boulevard until we came to the Kabuki theater.
"Have you ever seen a Kabuki play?" asked Tokida.
"Once, the one about the famous yakuza. I couldn't understand a word of what they were saying. They speak in old Japanese."
"Sensei says even the old-timers can't make out what they say," he said and looked up at the tiers of tiled roofs on the tall theater. "Did you know that Delacroix said an artist has to be able to draw a man falling from the top of an opera house and finish it by the time the man hits the ground?"
"That's kind of hard on the model, isn't it?" I asked. Tokida burst out laughing.
"That's a good one, Kiyoi; we have to tell it to Sensei. Hard on the model!" I didn't think it was that funny, but it was good to see him laugh.
After lunch we took a trolley and got off by the Imperial Palace and walked along the moat.
"Let's go to the park and draw trees or something," I said, and we headed toward the Hibiya Park.
The day was bright and hot, and it was pleasant to stroll by the deep moat and watch the water birds. The area was one of the few places in Tokyo where you had the feeling you were in a wide open space. It was lunchtime, and office workers in shirtsleeves were eating lunch on the grass.
Suddenly we heard sirens. First a policeman on a white motorcycle sped by, then two police cars, and two more after that, followed by a caravan of open trucks loaded with battle-ready policemen, wearing helmets and holding long wooden staffs straight up in the air like lances. In the distance we heard people shouting and singing. The noise was coming from the direction of the park entrance.
"It might be a riot," Tokida said. "Let's go and see."
"What do you want to see a riot for?"
"Who says it's a riot? It's probably a demonstration."
"What's the difference? They always turn into bloody riots."
"Don't be a coward. Don't you want to see some action? Have you ever seen a demonstration?"
"I've
never been in one, if that's what you mean. And I don't intend to get mixed up in one."
"Don't be stupid; nothing is going to happen to us. And if you're afraid to come, I'll go by myself. I want to see what it's like."
"All right." I gave in. "But if you join them I'll leave."
"Of course I'm not going to join them. Let's go."
A huge crowd was gathering in front of the park entrance. They were mostly university students in white shirts and black trousers. There were also quite a few women milling around and I felt a little better. Many were waving placards and signs denouncing the government and the prime minister. Several men with rolled-up sleeves and headbands were directing the crowd, shouting through megaphones and telling the people the route they were to take, not to be afraid of the police, to keep calm, and so on. A convoy of trucks was parked nearby and the policemen were lining up along the boulevard like infantry soldiers before a big assault. They looked grim and ominous in their spotless black uniforms.
"It's a protest march," said Tokida.
"What are they protesting?" I asked.
"Who knows? I think they want to put the Socialist party in power. That's what they're always talking about anyway."
More and more demonstrators converged around the gate like bits of iron filings toward a magnet. Suddenly I realized that Tokida and I were inside the large circle of policemen. They kept their distance, but they had surrounded the demonstrators, and us. It probably wasn't too late for me to walk across the police line to the other side, but I was afraid to be confronted by those fearful policemen with their six-foot riot sticks. Tokida, also realizing that we were surrounded, grasped me by the arm and started to walk toward the crowd.
"What are you doing?" I cried in alarm. "I don't want to join these people," I said, and heard my voice crack.
"Look, nothing is going to happen to us, understand? It's just a protest march," he assured me.
Feeling angry and helpless, I looked over my shoulder and saw news photographers readying their big press cameras, safely behind the police line. My God, what if Grandmother sees my picture in the paper, I thought in a panic. What if Mother finds out I was demonstrating with university students? And what would they think of me at school? They wouldn't think. They'd throw me out before I could open my mouth. I felt a raging anger at Tokida. It was all his fault. Why had I listened to him?
But it was too late.
I was in it now, like a loach inside a bean cake. I had to get away from those photographers in a hurry. I had no choice but to join the crowd and get lost in it.
And how serious they looked! They were humming and singing as if to work up courage. The smell of hair oil and perfume in the hot sun nauseated me, but I felt safe with all those bodies jostling around me. Tokida stood with his body pressed against my side, but I was too angry to talk to him. We stood in the tightly packed crowd for a good half hour, and I was beginning to worry about a place to urinate when the men with the megaphones shouted at us to move. The crowd stirred and surged forward. Three thousand? Five thousand? Maybe more, I had no idea. We took our first step awkwardly, like some gigantic centipede trying to coordinate its many legs. I was a dot in the sea of a faceless crowd. No camera would pick me out now. Why am I here? I kept asking myself. "Keep in line!" the leaders boomed at us. "Link up your arms! Don't break formation! Let's go!"
My sketchbook got in the way but somehow I managed to link arms with Tokida on my right and a university student to my left. For the first time I noticed Tokida was wearing his tennis shoes instead of the usual wooden clogs. Our linked arms were tense with excitement and I felt something like electricity run through my body. Soon we got into the rhythm of marching, the leaders keeping time with their silver whistles. The streets leading into the boulevard had been blocked off by the police, and we marched down the middle of the road and through the traffic lights. The white and yellow lines that divided the roads and the traffic signs that ordered the city life lost meaning. Common sense was forgotten; we were shouting in cadence in a thundering unison, like the men who carry the portable shrine during a summer festival. We zigzagged the width of the wide boulevard, weaving from sidewalk to sidewalk, unstoppable like the flow of lava, the marching army ants, mindless and devastating. There were faces sticking out of every window, and the sidewalks were lined with spectators. We were moving at half trot now, shouting at the top of our lungs, snaking like one enormous Chinese dragon, working up a frenzy. Nothing could stop us now. My pulse beat in time with the thousands of hearts all around me. There was a fever in my head, and I stopped thinking. I shouted till my lungs ached, though I didn't know why, and I could not hear my voice. I no longer had control over my own mind and body. Caught in the tremendous excitement and the power of the mob, I no longer knew who I was, and didn't care.
It seemed we marched for a long time, going around the city in a vast circle. We weaved between tall buildings, our shouting echoing like thunder. We poured out into a wide open space and the sky seemed suddenly to clear up. Straight ahead of us I saw the Diet building, the seat of Japanese government, looming above the sea of black heads and white headbands swaying and waving like the rolling of the sea. Policemen were stretched out in a long line in front of the building, their helmets shining in the sun, their staffs held like bayonets. We charged at them, almost running. I felt the terrible power of the stampeding mob.
But the police held their ground, barring our way with their sticks. The crowd spread out, cursing and yelling denouncements, thousands of bodies piling up from the rear.
"Bring out the prime minister!" I shouted with them. We pushed against the police and the police pushed back. Suddenly the immense mass of bodies staggered forward. The police line broke. Like water gushing out of a broken dam, the demonstrators burst through the gap and rushed toward the Diet building. Policemen were everywhere. Furiously they swung their sticks and the air was filled with the sound of heavy blows, screaming, and groaning. The man who had been linking arms with me stumbled forward as Tokida yanked away violendy. My sketchbook fell to the ground and was instantly trampled. There was no more formation, no more order, no more cadence. People scattered and ran and tripped over one another. Some were throwing rocks and pebbles, anything they could get their hands on. Policemen jabbed and rammed their sticks. Blood flowed. I was crying from fear. Stricken with terror and confusion, I couldn't even move. From the corner of my eye I saw Tokida. His face was white. His cap was gone and he didn't have his glasses on. A thought flashed in my head: The fool can't see a thing without his glasses! Something glinted in his hand. The switchblade knife! Without thinking I leaped at him. "It's me, it's me! Drop that thing, you fool!" I screamed in his ear, grabbing his arm with both hands. I pulled him frantically, trying to change direction in the mad stampede. I knew instinctively that if we fell, we'd be trampled to death. I held on to Tokida with one hand and with the free arm swung at anybody who came our way. It was like fighting in a dream—there was no strength in my arm. But my grip on Tokida was like the grasp of an iron vise. Because of my height I could see where the police were; I shoved and elbowed and kicked our way, changing direction when I saw a helmet gleaming. The rioters were retreating now, dragging the wounded, women screaming, blood flowing bright on white shirts.
Abruptly the police stopped chasing the mob, as if on a cue, but kept their distance and began to regroup. The men with megaphones began to shout again, taunting the police and urging their comrades to get back into formation. I wouldn't have any of it. I kept running in the opposite direction, dragging blind Tokida by the arm.
"Let go! You're hurting my arm!" he shouted. "Let me put my glasses on, will you."
So he hadn't lost his glasses; he had taken them off when he saw the fight coming. But how could he see without them? I'd forgotten about the incident at the cutlery shop. Then I remembered Tokida's comment about slashing van Gogh's paintings. I should have known then he had a knife. As Tokida took out his glasses from his trouse
r pocket I saw blood on his hand.
"What's that from?" I pointed at his hand, feeling sick to my stomach.
"Thanks to you, I nearly lopped off another finger. When you grabbed me like an idiot and started to drag me, I tried to fold back the blade and the stupid thing cut me," he said, sucking on his index finger.
"Did you stab somebody?"
"Don't talk like a fool. Of course I didn't stab anybody."
"Why don't you try a sword next time, the kind you open up your belly with."
"Don't be an idiot. I was trying to protect you."
"Me! Protect me? Next time just worry about yourself. I never wanted to join those idiots. You could've killed somebody."
"What are you talking about? Do you know those brutes were ready to kill us? Stop talking so noble. Look at yourself; you've peed all over yourself."
I looked down at myself and sure enough I'd wet my pants and didn't even know it. But I was too angry to care.
"Who wanted to be in the demonstration in the first place? And what about that stupid knife of yours? You promised me you weren't going to buy it. You're a liar!"
"I promised you nothing. And if it wasn't for you grabbing me, I'd still have the knife."
"Why did you join them? What the hell were they demonstrating about anyway? Tell me that!"
"Wait a minute, Kiyoi, wait just one minute. I don't have to stand here and listen to a thirteen-year-old lecture me."
"I'm going to be fourteen in a few days."
"I beg your pardon," he sneered. "So tell me, old man, what's wrong with demonstrations? Or strikes? What's wrong with people wanting better jobs, more money, or a better government? Maybe you were raised with everything you ever wanted, but most people aren't that lucky. What's wrong with people trying to change this stupid world? Remember that woman at the department store? How would you like to do that for ten hours every day? You wouldn't last a day. Did you ask for the war? Did you ask your ma and pa to get a divorce? You think I asked to be born into this world, with a father as vicious as one of those brutes out there? Do you think my old man and ma thought about me when they first had sex? I don't give a damn about any of them; I hate them all! Sensei's the only good man I know."