DRIFTING CLOUDS (UKIGUMO)
Translated by Marleigh Grayer Ryan
Chapter 1: The Strange Behavior of Men
It is three o’clock in the afternoon of a late October day. A swirling mass of men stream out of the Kanda gate,1 marching first in antlike formation, then scuttling busily off in every direction. Each and every one of these fine gentlemen is primarily interested in getting enough to eat.
Look carefully and you will see what an enormous variety of individual types are represented in the huge crowd. Start by examining the hair bristling on their faces: mustaches, whiskers, Vandyke beards, and even extravagant imperial Bismarck beards reminiscent of a Pekingese, bantam beards, badger’s beards, meager beards that are barely visible; thick and thin they sprout in every conceivable way.
Now see how differently they are dressed. Here is a dandy, a fashionable black suit purchased at Shirokiya2 set off by shoes of French calfskin. And now confident men oblivious of the ill fit of their tweeds worn with stiff leather shoes—trousers that trail in the mud like the tail of a tortoise; suits bearing the indelible stamp of the ready-made clothes rack. “I have a beard, fine clothing, what more do I need?” they seem to say. Glowing like embers on the fire, these enviable creatures swagger home, heads erect.
Now behind them come the less fortunate. Pitifully stooped, their hair gray, they stagger along with empty lunch boxes dangling from their waists. Despite their advanced years they still manage to hold a job, but their duties are so negligible they can easily work in old-fashioned Japanese clothes.
The crowd had thinned out by the time two young men engrossed in conversation came through the gate. The taller of the two was some twenty-three years old. His complexion was quite poor, pasty and sallow, but his thick eyebrows lent distinction to his face, and the bridge of his nose was straight. His mouth was not very shapely, but it was firm and strained. He had a pointed chin and prominent cheekbones. He was rather drawn and seemed nervous and not particularly appealing, his slenderness made him appear even taller than he was. He wore an old straw-colored pepper-and-salt tweed suit and a broad-brimmed hat of dark wool with a braid headband.
The other man was some two or three years his senior. He was quite good-looking, of average height and build, with a round face, fair complexion, shapely mouth, and alert eyes, but there was something too worldly and calculating about him. He seemed somewhat cheap. He was smartly clothed in a black wool morning coat with a vest of the same material and striped woolen trousers. Set low on his brow was a black hat shaped like the bottom of a pot, its brim turned up. His left hand was thrust in his pocket, and he toyed with a thin cane in his other hand.
“But really,” he said, turning to his companion, “it’s obvious that the chief values my opinion. He must have been forced to do what he did. There are more than forty clerks, but they’re either old as the hills or just plain stupid. I know I shouldn’t be the one to say this, but after all, just a few of us have read foreign books. We’re the ones who really do the work. It’s obvious that the chief relies on me. He must have had to do it.”
“But what about Yamaguchi? He did as much work as anybody, and still he was fired, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, him. He’s so stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the way he answered back. You’d have to be pretty stupid to do that.”
“But the chief was completely in the wrong. He shouldn’t have been so overbearing. His orders were completely unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable or not, you can’t go against a superior. After all, what was Yamaguchi? He was an underling, wasn’t he? He should have just said ‘yes’ and carried on with his work, whether he thought the orders made sense or not. Then be would have been doing his job. But the way he acted—telling the chief what to do and all.”
“He didn’t do anything of the kind. He just made a suggestion.”
“Oh, now you’re defending Yamaguchi, are you? Birds of a feather.”
The tall man glanced in silent contempt at his companion. They turned up Nishikichō and went a few blocks farther before the smaller man suddenly stopped and said, “Losing your job has its good side, too.”
“What might that be?”
“From now on you can stay with your sweetheart from morning till night.”
“Don’t be a fool!” His lips twisted into a distorted smile as he bid his companion a curt good-bye and went on alone toward Ogawamachi. Bit by bit the smile left his face, and his steps grew slower until he barely crawled along. He went a few more blocks, his head hanging forlornly. Suddenly he stopped, looked around, then retreated two or three steps and went down a side street. He entered the third house from the corner, a two-story building with a lattice door. Shall we go in, too?
He went in through the entranceway. As be started along the hallway, a door slid open and a girl in her late teens popped her head out. She had a little button nose and round, plump, ruddy cheeks which betrayed her country origin.
“Hello,” she said, wetting her lips.
“My aunt?”
“She’s gone out with the young lady.”
“Oh,” the young man said. He went down the corridor, came to an adjoining staircase, and went up to the second floor.
It was a small room about ten by ten with a closet some three feet across at one end. Walled in on three sides, the room opened on the south with sliding windows. The painting in the alcove was a little ragged, and the few asters which had been thrust into the hanging flower vase were withered, their leaves all but dead. A low, antiquated writing table stood in the corner. On it were a stand filled with a writing brush, pen, and toothbrush and an inkstone lined up beside a box of toothpowder. Next to the desk were two bookcases, with a small lamp on top. Under the desk was a broken-rimmed fire pan with the remains of some spent matches in it. A blanket was spread over the floor, a kimono hung on a clothes hanger, and a towel was hooked on a nail in the pillar. All the furnishings were neatly arranged, although they were old and had a musty, threadbare quality.
The young man changed into Japanese clothing. He made a futile attempt to fold the clothes he had taken off, then, with a grunt of disgust, shoved them into the closet.
The apple-cheeked girl came clattering upstairs. She was plump, stocky, and sturdy, a true buxom beauty. She handed him a letter. “This came a little while ago.”
“Where’s it from?” He took the letter and looked at it. “Oh, from home.”
“I really wish you could have seen the way the young lady was dressed today. She had on a yellow-striped silk kimono underneath and a gorgeous striped crepe over it. Her hair was coiled around in a bun, the way she usually wears it, but she had on that hairpin she got at the Izumo shop3 the other day that looks like a rose.” She outlined the shape with her hands. “She really and truly was beautiful. What I wouldn’t give to have one sash-clip like that.” The girl fell silent, brooding about something for a moment. “The young lady says she doesn’t use any powder, but it certainly looked like she’d put on a little today. Her skin may be white but not like that. When I was home I used to wear a lot of powder. Since I came here I don’t use any except at New Year’s. There’s nothing to stop me, but I hate having the mistress talk about me. Once, in front of a guest, she said, “When Onabe puts on powder, it’s rather like frost on a ball of charcoal.’ Isn’t that going too far? Don’t you think that’s going too far? No matter how plain I am?” As she talked, her face grew all the redder from excitement. One would have thought her mistress was sitting there beside her.
Throughout her discourse the young man kept picking up his letter and trying to read it and then putting it down again in despair. He seemed very irritated. He grunted in response to her question to indicate his annoyance and refused to join in her chatter. This made the buxom beauty puff out her round cheeks until it seemed they would burst. She went downstairs in a huff. He looked relieved to see her go and turned to the letter once again. It said:
Dear Son,
As winter approaches, it gets colder every day. My only concern is whether you are getting on with your work smoothly. You’ll find that I’ve aged quite a bit lately, and my hair has turned gray. I’m afraid I’m getting rather disagreeable. I know that I’ll be able to come to your house by the end of the year, but somehow I am so impatient. I count each passing day on my fingers. I can’t tell you how anxious I am to come and live with you as soon as possible. On the twenty-fourth your father’s . . .
The letter slipped to the floor. Folding his arms the young man sighed deeply.
Chapter 2: An Odd Beginning to a Love Story, Part I
The man we have been calling “the tall young man” was named Utsumi Bunzō, and he was from Shizuoka Prefecture. His father had served in the old feudal government, receiving a stipend under it. But then the feudal order had fallen and the imperial government was restored. The Meiji era began; there were none who did not yield to the change. Bunzō’s father returned to his home in a small village in Shizuoka for a while. He lived from day to day doing nothing until he had exhausted his resources. At last savings had all but disappeared, and he became seriously concerned. Alas, the changes in political climate had left him like a fish out of water. A man’s arm may be strengthened by the practice of kendō fencing, yet he cannot necessarily use a spade; when his mouth is weighted down with the solemn language of the feudal order, it is no easy matter for him to say “yes, sir” like a shop clerk. Then peddling he felt would soil the good name of the family. He scurried about until, with great difficulty, he secured a post in the Shizuoka han administration. Although it was only a petty job, and he could not better himself, he was happy, for he was able to give his only child, Bunzō, an education by generously lavishing on it a goodly portion of his meager income.
The boy was sent off to school each morning with his lunch box strapped on his back. In the afternoon he went to a nearby private school for additional instruction and had little or no time for himself. This would have been much too rigorous a schedule for the average child, but Bunzō was rather reserved and took naturally to study. He seemed content to go to school every day. Sometimes he would wander off to play with a friend he saw chasing dragonflies, only to return forlornly to the house. But this happened only occasionally, and as a rule his days were filled with his studies.
Bunzō’s affection for learning grew as the years passed until he found himself willingly reading books that once he had rejected as dull or uninteresting. His parents were utterly delighted when strangers praised him for his intelligence, and they happily devoted their every waking hour to furthering his education. In the spring of the year when Bunzō was fourteen, he was graduated from school. He had done very well; his parents had every reason to be pleased with his accomplishments.
Almost immediately after Bunzō’s graduation, his father caught a cold. He was so weak from years of worry and anxiety that it quickly turned into a serious illness. His family and friends desperately tried every remedy people recommended—medicines, charms, incantations, and prayers—but nothing seemed to help. He died a short time later, speaking of his son with his last words. It is impossible to describe the grief of his widow and child. They were unable to control their tears, although they knew all too well how futile tears were. The body was sent to the family temple; a column of smoke arose from the crematorium.
The family’s only source of income was cut off when Bunzō’s father died. The medical expenses and the cost of the funeral seriously depleted their small savings. Fortunately Bunzō’s mother was a resolute and determined woman. She sewed shirts in whatever time she could spare from her work in the kitchen. Through her tireless efforts and with the help of the interest on her husband’s pension, they were able to avoid utter destitution and somehow managed to scrape together enough to eat simply.
Bunzō had been aware of his family’s financial difficulties even when his father was still alive, but he was still just a child and felt that somehow things would be all right. Sometimes, out of his love for his parents, he would promise to do this or that to help them and would sadden them by saying things too old for his years. But he was still, after all, just a boy, and the days and months drifted by without his doing anything to help. After his father’s death he was terribly saddened when he saw how his mother struggled. As if waking from a dream, he realized, for the first time, the cruelties of life. He considered becoming an office boy so that he could at least support himself, although he realized this would not enable him to help his mother financially.
While he and his mother were thinking about this idea, kindly providence intervened; an uncle in Tokyo offered to take the boy in. Bunzō and his mother very much regretted being separated, but there was nothing to be done about it, and in the spring of 1878, when he was fifteen, he left Shizuoka and went to live in Tokyo.
Bunzō’s uncle was his father’s younger brother. He was named Sonoda Magobei.4 He was sympathetic, honest, and upright, and people liked him; unfortunately, he was a little too easygoing. After the Meiji revolution he had substituted brush and ink for the swords of the samurai, and night and day practiced flipping the abacus. The fact that he was not accustomed to the business world proved a serious handicap at first; he quickly used up everything he earned and sank heavily into debt. Still, he struggled to find a solution to his financial difficulties, and in time things improved. He accumulated a little capital, bought some land, and lent small sums. He had a home in Tokyo and ran a teahouse in Yokohama. He was not particularly wealthy, but he lived comfortably.
When Magobei was away in Yokohama, his Tokyo affairs were managed by a woman named Omasa, who had been his mistress and became his second wife. Her background is a little hazy; she claimed to be of a respectable samurai family, but well, one wonders. At any rate she was shrewd; in fact, shrewd enough to collect rent and press people for the payments on their loans, besides caring for her family. Her flaws were minor: she drank too much, was rather wanton in her ways, and hated to sew. Her neighbors made much of her faults, the way people will. They said she was the reincarnation of a lustful snake and hinted that there might be others in her life.
The couple had two children: their daughter Osei and their son Isami. When Bunzō went to live with the family, Osei, who was twelve, was at home, while Isami, a naughty little boy who was still wiping his nose on his sleeve, was away at school. If Bunzō had been able to get along with his aunt, everything would have gone smoothly in the little household. Unfortunately the boy was constitutionally incapable of currying favor with anyone. In his heart of hearts he wanted to be loyal and devoted to her as if she were his own mother, and he tried desperately to please her, but she made things very difficult by constantly scolding him and calling him stupid. Each time she reprimanded him, he remembered how good and kind his mother was, and he longed to be home again. He often wept when he was alone. Living with his aunt required a great deal of patience and self-control on his part.
For several months he attended classes in a neighborhood academy in the little time he had to spare from his chores at home. Then one day he heard that scholarships were being offered to a new preparatory school, and eager to escape from his unhappy position in his uncle’s house, he took the examination. He received a scholarship and went off to school.
Bunzō was so happy he could have danced for joy. He had been terribly overworked by his aunt since coming to her house and had, in addition, very much disliked his role as a dependent nephew. Now that he was back in school, he was able to devote his full time and energy to his studies without any distractions.
But even at school he was continually reminded of his poverty and loneliness. He had no one to spoil and pamper him as the other boys had, no one to give him an allowance. He channeled all his youthful energies into his studies. He was inspired by an overwhelming desire to bring joy to his destitute mother and to repay his great debt to his uncle by being successful at school. And he was. He took ei
ther first or second place—but never lower—in every examination. He was the pride of his teachers. His rich and lazy fellow students were very jealous of him, but the boy ignored them and never stopped studying. After several years he received the coveted diploma and went back to live at his uncle’s house while he looked for a government job.
Bunzō was confident that he would find a position readily. Unfortunately there were no openings at the time, and he had to wait six long months for any sort of opportunity to come along. This arduous waiting period was made even more terrible by his aunt’s contemptuous attitude, which grew more obvious as time passed. Only his realization that his own failure to secure a position was to blame for her anger enabled him to control his temper.
He finally obtained a temporary post as a government clerk through the assistance of someone he knew. He was delighted to be able to remove the cause of his differences with his aunt, but still he felt a little ill at ease when he finally did start to work. On the first day he was given a document to check, and when he was settled at his desk, he surveyed the room. Around him were men engaged in all kinds of work: copyists with their heads tilted importantly to one side; checkers who studied the work before them like monkeys searching for fleas; accountants turning over the pages of their books with a busy air, their brushes between their teeth.
Just opposite Bunzō was a man of about fifty with a deeply furrowed brow who flipped the beads of an abacus without pausing, rapidly blinking his eyes. Suddenly he held his hands still and, fingering the beads, said, “. . . six by five is seventy-two—no—six by five, . . .” as it the welfare of the entire world depended on this one calculation. He looked up at Bunzō over his glasses, his mouth hanging open. “. . . makes eighty-two?” He raised his voice in a high pitched chant and began pushing away at the abacus, giving it his undivided attention.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 10