by Donald Keene
“No,” said Ryo. “No, I suppose not.”
Tsuruishi left the room and returned with a load of quilted bedrolls which he spread on the floor. At once the whole room seemed to be full of bedding. Ryo tucked up her son in one of the rolls, the boy sleeping soundly as she did so. Then she turned out the light, undressed, and lay down. She could hear Tsuruishi settling down at the other end of the room.
“I suppose the people in this inn think we’re married,” said Tsuruishi after a while.
“Yes, I suppose so. It’s not very nice of us to fool them!”
She spoke in jest, but now that she lay undressed in her bedroll, she felt for the first time vaguely disturbed and guilty. Her husband for some reason seemed much closer than he had for years. But of course she was only here because of the rain, she reminded herself. . . . And gradually her thoughts began to wander pleasantly afield, and she dozed off.
When she awoke it was still dark. She could hear Tsuruishi whispering her name from his corner, and she sat up with a start.
“Ryo, Ryo, can I come and talk to you for a while?”
“No, Tsuru,” she said, “I don’t think you should.”
On the roof the rain was still pattering down, but the force of the storm was over; only a trickle was dropping from the gutter into the yard. Under the sound of the rain she thought she could hear Tsuruishi sigh softly.
“Look Tsuru,” she said after a pause. “I’ve never asked you before, but are you married?”
“No. Not now,” Tsuruishi said.
“You used to be?”
“Yes. I used to be. When I got back from the army, I found that my wife was living with another man.”
“Were you—angry?”
“Angry? Yes, I suppose I was. Still, there wasn’t much I could do about it. She’d left me, and that was that.”
They were silent again.
“What shall we talk about?” Ryo asked.
Tsuruishi laughed. “Well, there really doesn’t seem to be anything special to talk about. That spaghetti wasn’t very good, was it?”
“No, one certainly couldn’t call it good. And they charged us a hundred yen each for it!”
“It would be nice if you and Ryukichi had your own room to live in, wouldn’t it?” Tsuruishi remarked.
“Oh yes, it would be marvelous! You don’t think we might find a room near you? I’d really like to live near you, Tsuru, you know.”
“It’s pretty hard to find rooms these days, especially downtown. But I’ll keep a lookout and let you know. . . . You’re such a wonderful person, Ryo!”
“Me?” said Ryo laughing. “Don’t be silly!”
“Yes, yes, you’re wonderful . . . really wonderful!”
Ryo lay back on the floor. Suddenly she wanted to throw her arms around Tsuruishi, to feel his body close to hers. She did not dare speak for fear that her voice might betray her; her breath came almost painfully; her whole body tingled. Outside the window an early morning truck clattered past.
“Where are your parents, Tsuru?” she asked after a while.
“In the country near Fukuoka.”
“But you have a sister in Tokyo?”
“Yes. She’s all alone, like you, with two kids to take care of. She’s got a sewing machine and makes Western-style clothes. Her husband was killed several years ago—in the war in China. War, always war!”
Outside the window Ryo could make out the first glimmer of dawn. So their night together was almost over, she thought unhappily. In a way she wished that Tsuruishi hadn’t given up so easily, and yet she was convinced that it was best like this. If he had been a man she hardly knew, or for whom she felt nothing, she might have given herself to him with no afterthought. With Tsuruishi it would have been different—quite different.
“Ryo, I can’t get to sleep.” His voice reached her again. “I’m wide awake, you know. I suppose I’m not used to this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Why—sleeping in the same room with a girl.”
“Oh Tsuru, don’t tell me that you don’t have girl friends occasionally!”
“Only professional girl friends.”
Ryo laughed. “Men have it easy! In some ways, at least. . . .”
She heard Tsuruishi moving about. Suddenly he was beside her, bending over her. Ryo did not move, not even when she felt his arms around her, his face against hers. In the dark her eyes were wide open, and before them bright lights seemed to be flashing. His hot lips were pressed to her cheek.
“Ryo . . . Ryo.”
“It’s wrong, you know,” she murmured. “Wrong to my husband. . . .”
But almost at once she regretted the words. As Tsuruishi bent over her, she could make out the silhouette of his face against the lightening sky. Bowed forward like that, he seemed to be offering obeisance to some god. Ryo hesitated for a moment. Then she threw her warm arms about his neck.
3
Two days later Ryo set out happily with her boy to visit Tsuruishi. When she reached the bomb site, she was surprised not to see him before his cabin, his red kerchief tied about his head. Ryukichi ran ahead to find out if he were home and came back in a moment.
“There are strangers there, Mamma!”
Seized with panic, Ryo hurried over to the cabin and peered in. Two workmen were busy piling up Tsuruishi’s effects in a corner.
“What is it, ma’am?” one of them said, turning his head.
“I’m looking for Tsuruishi.”
“Oh, don’t you know? Tsuruishi died yesterday.”
“Died,” she said. She wanted to say something more but no words would come.
She had noticed a small candle burning on the shelf for family gods, and now she was aware of its somber meaning.
“Yes,” went on the man, “he was killed about eight o’clock last night. He went in a truck with one of the men to deliver some iron bars in Omiya, and on their way back the truck overturned on a narrow bridge. He and the driver were both killed. His sister went to Omiya today with one of the company officials to see about the cremation.”
Ryo stared vacantly before her. Vacantly she watched the two men piling up Tsuruishi’s belongings. Beside the candle on the shelf she caught sight of the two bags of tea he had bought from her that first day—could it be only two weeks ago? One of them was folded over halfway down; the other was still unopened.
“You were a friend of his, ma’am, I imagine? He was a fine fellow, Tsuru! Funny to think that he needn’t have gone to Omiya at all. The driver wasn’t feeling well and Tsuru said he’d go along to Omiya to help him unload. Crazy, isn’t it—after getting through the war and Siberia and all the rest of it, to be killed like that!”
One of the men took down the postcard of the film actress and blew the dust off it. Ryo stood looking at Tsuruishi’s belongings piled on the floor—the kettle, the frying pan, the rubber boots. When her eyes reached the blackboard, she noticed for the first time a message scratched awkwardly in red chalk: “Ryo—I waited for you till two o’clock. Back this evening.”
Automatically she bowed to the two men and swung the rucksack on her back. She felt numb as she left the cabin, holding Ryukichi by the hand, but as they passed the bomb site, the burning tears welled into her eyes.
“Did that man die, Mamma?”
“Yes, he died,” Ryo said.
“Why did he die?”
“He fell into a river.”
The tears were running down her cheeks now; they poured out uncontrollably as she hurried through the downtown streets. They came to an arched bridge over the Sumida River, crossed it, and walked along the bank in the direction of Hakuho.
“Don’t worry if you get pregnant,” Tsuruishi had told her that morning in Asakusa, “I’ll look after you whatever happens, Ryo!” And later on, just before they parted, he had said, “I haven’t got much money, but you must let me help you a bit. I can give you two thousand yen a month out of my salary.” He had taken Ryuki
chi to a shop that specialized in foreign goods and bought him a baseball cap with his name written on it. Then the three of them had walked gaily along the streetcar lines, skirting the enormous puddles left by the rain. When they came to a milk bar, Tsuruishi had taken them in and ordered them each a big glass of milk. . . .
Now an icy wind seemed to have blown up from the dark river. A flock of waterfowl stood on the opposite bank, looking frozen and miserable. Barges moved slowly up and down the river.
“Mamma, I want a sketchbook. You said I could have a sketchbook.”
“Later,” answered Ryo. “I’ll get you one later.”
“But Mamma, we just passed a stall with hundreds of sketchbooks. I’m hungry, Mamma. Can’t we have something to eat?”
“Later. A little later!”
They were passing a long row of barrack-like buildings. They must be private houses, she thought. The people who lived there probably all had rooms of their own. From one of the windows a bedroll had been hung out to air and inside a woman could be seen tidying the room.
“Tea for sale!” called out Ryo softly. “Best quality Shizuoka tea!”
There was no reply and Ryo repeated her call a little louder.
“I don’t want any,” said the woman. She pulled in the bedroll and shut the window with a bang.
Ryo went from house to house down the row calling her ware, but nobody wanted any tea. Ryukichi followed behind, muttering that he was hungry and tired. Ryo’s rucksack dug painfully into her shoulders, and occasionally she had to stop to adjust the straps. Yet in a way she almost welcomed the physical pain.
4
The next day she went downtown by herself, leaving Ryukichi at home. When she came to the bomb site she noticed that a fire was burning inside the cabin. She ran to the door and walked in. By Tsuruishi’s stove sat an old man in a short workman’s overcoat, feeding the flames with firewood. The room was full of smoke and it was billowing out of the window.
“What do you want?” said the old man, looking round.
“I’ve come to sell some Shizuoka tea.”
“Shizuoka tea? I’ve got plenty of good tea right here.”
Ryo turned without a word and hurried off. She had thought of asking for the address of Tsuruishi’s sister and of going to burn a stick of incense in his memory, but suddenly this seemed quite pointless. She walked back to the river, which reflected the late afternoon sun, and sat down by a pile of broken concrete. The body of a dead kitten was lying upside down a few yards away. As her thoughts went to Tsuruishi, she wondered vaguely whether it would have been better never to have met him. No, no, certainly not that! She could never regret knowing him, nor anything that had happened with him. Nor did she regret having come to Tokyo. When she had arrived, a month or so before, she had planned to return to the country if her business was unsuccessful, but now she knew that she would be staying on here in Tokyo—yes, probably right here in downtown Tokyo where Tsuruishi had lived.
She got up, swung the rucksack on her back, and walked away from the river. As she strolled along a side street, she noticed a hut which seemed to consist of old boards nailed haphazardly together. Going to the door, she called out, “Tea for sale! Would anyone like some tea?” The door opened and in the entrance appeared a woman dressed far more poorly than Ryo herself.
“How much does it cost?” asked the woman. And, then, seeing the rucksack, she added, “Come in and rest a while, if you like. I’ll see how much money we’ve got left. We may have enough for some tea.”
Ryo went in and put down her rucksack. In the small room four sewing women were sitting on the floor around an oil stove, working on a mass of shirts and socks. They were women like herself, thought Ryo, as she watched their busy needles moving in and out of the material. A feeling of warmth came over her.
TRANSLATED BY IVAN MORRIS
OMI
[from Kamen no Kokuhaku, 1949] by Mishima Yukio (born 1925)
With the publication of the novel Confession of a Mask, from which these extracts are taken, Mishima Yukio established himself as a writer of the first rank. The novel is apparently autobiographical, although Mishima has denied this. In the following sections the “I” of the novel is about fourteen years old.
•
One morning just after a snowfall I went to school very early. The evening before, a friend had telephoned to say there was going to be a snowfight the next morning. Being by nature given to wakefulness the night before any greatly anticipated event, I had no sooner opened my eyes too early the next morning than I set out for school, heedless of the time.
The snow scarcely reached my shoetops. And later, as I looked down at the city from a window of the elevated train, the snow scene had not yet caught the rays of the rising sun and looked more gloomy than beautiful. The snow seemed like a dirty bandage hiding the open wounds of the city, hiding those irregular gashes of haphazard streets and tortuous alleys, courtyards and occasional plots of bare ground, which form the only beauty to be found in the panorama of our cities.
When the still almost empty train was nearing the station for my school, I saw the sun rise beyond the factory district. The scene suddenly became one of joy and light. Now the columns of ominously towering smokestacks and the somber rise and fall of the monotonous slate-colored roofs cowered behind the noisy laughter of the brightly shining snow mask. It is just such a snow-covered landscape which often becomes the setting for a tragic riot or revolution. And even the faces of the passers-by, suspiciously wan in the reflection of the snow, reminded me somehow of conspirators.
When I got off at the station in front of the school, the snow was already melting, and I could hear the water running off the roof of the express company building next door. I could not shake the illusion that it was the radiance which was splashing down. Bright and shining slivers of it were suicidally hurling themselves at the sham quagmire of the pavement, all smeared with the slush of passing shoes. As I walked under the eaves, one sliver hurled itself by mistake at the nape of my neck. ...
Inside the school gates there was not yet a single footprint in the snow. The locker room was still closed fast, but the other rooms were open.
I opened a window of the second-year classroom, which was on the ground floor, and looked out at the snow in the grove behind the school. There in the path which came from the rear gate, up the slope of the grove, and led to the building I was in, I could see large footprints; they came up along the path and continued to a spot directly below the window from which I was looking. Then the footprints turned back and disappeared behind the science building, which could be seen on a diagonal to the left.
Someone had already come. It was plain that he had ascended the path from the rear gate, looked into the classroom through the window, and, seeing no one there, had walked on by himself to the rear of the science building. Only a few of the day students came to school by way of the rear gate. It was rumored that Omi, who was one of the few, came each morning from some woman’s house. But he would never put in an appearance until the last moment before class formation. Nevertheless, I could not imagine who else might have made the footprints, and judging by their large size, I was convinced that they were his.
Leaning out the window and straining my eyes, I saw the color of fresh black soil in the shoe tracks, making them seem somehow determined and powerful. An indescribable force drew me toward those footprints. I felt that I wanted to throw myself headfirst out of the window to bury my face in them. But, as usual, my sluggish motor nerves protected me from my sudden whim. Instead of diving out the window, I put my satchel on a desk and then scrambled slowly up onto the window sill. The hooks and eyes on the front of my uniform jacket had scarcely pressed against the stone window sill before they were at daggers points with my frail ribs, producing a pain mixed with a sort of sorrowful sweetness. After I had jumped from the window onto the snow, the slight pain became a pleasant stimulus, filling me with a trembling emotion of adventure. I fitted my ov
ershoes carefully into the footprints.
The prints had looked quite large, but now I found that they were almost the same size as mine. I had failed to take into account the fact that the person who had made them was probably wearing overshoes too, as was the vogue among us in those days. Now that the thought occurred to me, I decided that the footprints were not large enough to be Omi’s. ... And yet, despite my uneasy feeling that I would be disappointed in my immediate hope of finding Omi behind the science building, I was still somehow compelled to follow after the black footprints. Probably at this point I was no longer motivated solely by the hope of finding Omi, but instead, at the sight of the violated mystery, was seized with a mixed feeling of yearning and revenge toward the person who had come before me and left his footprints in the snow.
Breathing hard, I began following the tracks.
As though walking on steppingstones, I went moving my feet from footprint to footprint. The outlines of the prints revealed now glassy coal-black earth, now dead turf, now soiled packed snow, now paving stones. Suddenly I discovered that, without being aware of it, I had fallen into walking with long strides, exactly like Omi.
Following the tracks to the rear of the science building, I passed through the long shadow which the building threw over the snow, and then continued on to the high ground overlooking the wide athletic field. Because of the mantle of glittering snow which covered everything, the three-hundred-meter ellipse of the track could not be distinguished from the undulating field it enclosed. In a corner of the field two great keyaki trees stood close together, and their shadows, much elongated in the morning sun, fell across the snow, lending meaning to the scene, providing the happy imperfection with which Nature always accents grandeur. The great trees towered up with a plastic delicacy in the blue winter sky, in the reflection of the snow from below, in the lateral rays of the morning sun; and occasionally some snow slipped down like gold dust from the crotches formed against the tree trunks by the stark, leafless branches. The roof ridges of the boys’ dormitories, standing in a row beyond the athletic field, and the copse beyond them, seemed to be motionless in sleep, and everything was so silent that even the soundless slipping of the snow seemed to echo loud and wide.