by Various
‘Yes. Poor Mother.’
‘Are you going back to California?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see.’
‘What happened to – to her? To Vicki?’
‘That’s all finished with,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing much left for me now in California.’
‘Do you think I ought to go there?’
‘Why not? I don’t know. You’ll probably like it.’ I glanced towards the house. ‘Perhaps we’d better go in soon. Father might need a hand with the supper.’
But my sister was once more peering down into the well. ‘I can’t see any ghosts,’ she said. Her voice echoed a little.
‘Is Father very upset about his firm collapsing?’
‘Don’t know. You can never tell with Father.’ Then suddenly she straightened up and turned to me. ‘Did he tell you about old Watanabe? What he did?’
‘I heard he committed suicide.’
‘Well, that wasn’t all. He took his whole family with him. His wife and his two little girls.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Those two beautiful little girls. He turned on the gas while they were all asleep. Then he cut his stomach with a meat knife.’
‘Yes, Father was just telling me how Watanabe was a man of principle.’
‘Sick.’ My sister turned back to the well.
‘Careful. You’ll fall right in.’
‘I can’t see any ghost,’ she said. ‘You were lying to me all that time.’
‘But I never said it lived down the well.’
‘Where is it, then?’
We both looked around at the trees and shrubs. The light in the garden had grown very dim. Eventually I pointed to a small clearing some ten yards away.
‘Just there I saw it. Just there.’
We stared at the spot.
‘What did it look like?’
‘I couldn’t see very well. It was dark.’
‘But you must have seen something.’
‘It was an old woman. She was just standing there, watching me.’
We kept staring at the spot as if mesmerized.
‘She was wearing a white kimono,’ I said. ‘Some of her hair had come undone. It was blowing around a little.’
Kikuko pushed her elbow against my arm. ‘Oh be quiet. You’re trying to frighten me all over again.’ She trod on the remains of her cigarette, then for a brief moment stood regarding it with a perplexed expression. She kicked some pine needles over it, then once more displayed her grin. ‘Let’s see if supper’s ready,’ she said.
We found my father in the kitchen. He gave us a quick glance, then carried on with what he was doing.
‘Father’s become quite a chef since he’s had to manage on his own,’ Kikuko said with a laugh. He turned and looked at my sister coldly.
‘Hardly a skill I’m proud of,’ he said. ‘Kikuko, come here and help.’
For some moments my sister did not move. Then she stepped forward and took an apron hanging from a drawer.
‘Just these vegetables need cooking now,’ he said to her. ‘The rest just needs watching.’ Then he looked up and regarded me strangely for some seconds. ‘I expect you want to look around the house,’ he said eventually. He put down the chopsticks he had been holding. ‘It’s a long time since you’ve seen it.’
As we left the kitchen I glanced back towards Kikuko, but her back was turned.
‘She’s a good girl,’ my father said quietly.
I followed my father from room to room. I had forgotten how large the house was. A panel would slide open and another room would appear. But the rooms were all startlingly empty. In one of the rooms the lights did not come on, and we stared at the stark walls and tatami in the pale light that came from the windows.
‘This house is too large for a man to live in alone,’ my father said. ‘I don’t have much use for most of these rooms now.’
But eventually my father opened the door to a room packed full of books and papers. There were flowers in vases and pictures on the walls. Then I noticed something on a low table in the corner of the room. I came nearer and saw it was a plastic model of a battleship, the kind constructed by children. It had been placed on some newspaper; scattered around it were assorted pieces of grey plastic.
My father gave a laugh. He came up to the table and picked up the model.
‘Since the firm folded,’ he said, ‘I have a little more time on my hands.’ He laughed again, rather strangely. For a moment his face looked almost gentle. ‘A little more time.’
‘That seems odd,’ I said. ‘You were always so busy.’
‘Too busy perhaps.’ He looked at me with a small smile. ‘Perhaps I should have been a more attentive father.’
I laughed. He went on contemplating his battleship. Then he looked up. ‘I hadn’t meant to tell you this, but perhaps it’s best that I do. It’s my belief that your mother’s death was no accident. She had many worries. And some disappointments.’
We both gazed at the plastic battleship.
‘Surely,’ I said eventually, ‘my mother didn’t expect me to live here for ever.’
‘Obviously you don’t see. You don’t see how it is for some parents. Not only must they lose their children, they must lose them to things they don’t understand.’ He spun the battleship in his fingers. ‘These little gunboats here could have been better glued, don’t you think?’
‘Perhaps. I think it looks fine.’
‘During the war I spent some time on a ship rather like this. But my ambition was always the air force. I figured it like this. If your ship was struck by the enemy, all you could do was struggle in the water hoping for a lifeline. But in an aeroplane – well – there was always the final weapon.’ He put the model back onto the table. ‘I don’t suppose you believe in war.’
‘Not particularly.’
He cast an eye around the room. ‘Supper should be ready by now,’ he said. ‘You must be hungry.’
Supper was waiting in a dimly lit room next to the kitchen. The only source of light was a big lantern that hung over the table, casting the rest of the room into shadow. We bowed to each other before starting the meal.
There was little conversation. When I made some polite comment about the food, Kikuko giggled a little. Her earlier nervousness seemed to have returned to her. My father did not speak for several minutes. Finally he said:
‘It must feel strange for you, being back in Japan.’
‘Yes, it is a little strange.’
‘Already, perhaps, you regret leaving America.’
‘A little. Not so much. I didn’t leave behind much. Just some empty rooms.’
‘I see.’
I glanced across the table. My father’s face looked stony and forbidding in the half-light. We ate on in silence.
Then my eye caught something at the back of the room. At first I continued eating, then my hands became still. The others noticed and looked at me. I went on gazing into the darkness past my father’s shoulder.
‘Who is that? In that photograph there?’
‘Which photograph?’ My father turned slightly, trying to follow my gaze.
‘The lowest one. The old woman in the white kimono.’
My father put down his chopsticks. He looked first at the photograph, then at me.
‘Your mother.’ His voice had become very hard. ‘Can’t you recognize your own mother?’
‘My mother. You see, it’s dark. I can’t see it very well.’
No one spoke for a few seconds, then Kikuko rose to her feet. She took the photograph down from the wall, came back to the table and gave it to me.
‘She looks a lot older,’ I said.
‘It was taken shortly before her death,’ said my father.
‘It was the dark. I couldn’t see very well.’
I looked up and noticed my father holding out a hand. I gave him the photograph. He looked at it intently, then held it towards Kikuko. Obediently, my sister rose to her feet once mor
e and returned the picture to the wall.
There was a large pot left unopened at the centre of the table. When Kikuko had seated herself again, my father reached forward and lifted the lid. A cloud of steam rose up and curled towards the lantern. He pushed the pot a little towards me.
‘You must be hungry,’ he said. One side of his face had fallen into shadow.
‘Thank you.’ I reached forward with my chopsticks. The steam was almost scalding. ‘What is it?’
‘Fish.’
‘It smells very good.’
In amidst soup were strips of fish that had curled almost into balls. I picked one out and brought it to my bowl.
‘Help yourself. There’s plenty.’
‘Thank you.’ I took a little more, then pushed the pot towards my father. I watched him take several pieces to his bowl. Then we both watched as Kikuko served herself.
My father bowed slightly. ‘You must be hungry,’ he said again. He took some fish to his mouth and started to eat. Then I too chose a piece and put it in my mouth. It felt soft, quite fleshy against my tongue.
‘Very good,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘Just fish.’
‘It’s very good.’
The three of us ate on in silence. Several minutes went by.
‘Some more?’
‘Is there enough?’
‘There’s plenty for all of us.’ My father lifted the lid and once more steam rose up. We all reached forward and helped ourselves.
‘Here,’ I said to my father, ‘you have this last piece.’
‘Thank you.’
When we had finished the meal, my father stretched out his arms and yawned with an air of satisfaction. ‘Kikuko,’ he said. ‘Prepare a pot of tea, please.’
My sister looked at him, then left the room without comment. My father stood up.
‘Let’s retire to the other room. It’s rather warm in here.’
I got to my feet and followed him into the tea-room. The large sliding windows had been left open, bringing in a breeze from the garden. For a while we sat in silence.
‘Father,’ I said, finally.
‘Yes?’
‘Kikuko tells me Watanabe-San took his whole family with him.’
My father lowered his eyes and nodded. For some moments he seemed deep in thought. ‘Watanabe was very devoted to his work,’ he said at last. ‘The collapse of the firm was a great blow to him. I fear it must have weakened his judgement.’
‘You think what he did – it was a mistake?’
‘Why, of course. Do you see it otherwise?’
‘No, no. Of course not.’
‘There are other things besides work.’
‘Yes.’
We fell silent again. The sound of locusts came in from the garden. I looked out into the darkness. The well was no longer visible.
‘What do you think you will do now?’ my father asked. ‘Will you stay in Japan for a while?’
‘To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’
‘If you wish to stay here, I mean here in this house, you would be very welcome. That is, if you don’t mind living with an old man.’
‘Thank you. I’ll have to think about it.’
I gazed out once more into the darkness.
‘But of course,’ said my father, ‘this house is so dreary now. You’ll no doubt return to America before long.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know yet.’
‘No doubt you will.’
For some time my father seemed to be studying the back of his hands. Then he looked up and sighed.
‘Kikuko is due to complete her studies next spring,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she will want to come home then. She’s a good girl.’
‘Perhaps she will.’
‘Things will improve then.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they will.’
We fell silent once more, waiting for Kikuko to bring the tea.
* * *
ADAM MARS-JONES
* * *
STRUCTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
Structural anthropology is psychoanalysis on a basis broader than the individual. Both techniques seek to discover the workings of the human mind by examining its unconscious productions, but while psychoanalysis studies patterns inside a single skull, awake or asleep, structural anthropology concentrates on the communal dream that is ritual behaviour. Then, too, psychoanalysis confines itself by and large to its own culture, while anthropology operates by preference at a distance conducive to objectivity, among tribes whose conscious carapace offers relatively little resistance to the anthropologist’s scientific tools. But these are self-imposed limits, and a degree of overlap is common enough; though based in Vienna, Freud felt free to discuss the mental workings of his contemporary, Woodrow Wilson, distant in space, of his European neighbour, Leonardo da Vinci, distant in time, and of course of Oedipus, at a considerable remove of both time and space. In the same way, the techniques of structural anthropology pioneered by Lévi-Strauss can uncover much that is startling in our own culture, if applied with care and thoroughness.
But let us pass from introduction to example. Nurses in a provincial hospital recently took charge of a man who had been bizarrely punished by his wife for infidelity. She had returned unexpectedly to the family home, and could hear him misbehaving. He was engaged in sexual congress that was both noisy and enthusiastic, characteristics which had been missing for some time from his dealings with his wife. She herself made no noise, let herself out of the flat, and returned at her usual time. She cooked a fine dinner, taking care to grind up some sleeping-pills and include them in the mashed potatoes. Her husband retired early to bed, pleading tiredness, and a little later on she stripped him as he slept, and stuck his hand to his penis with Super Glue.
The doctors and nurses faced the problem of separating manual and genital flesh from their tangle, and they had moreover to improvise an arrangement to enable the patient to urinate; plastic surgery was eventually required to restore the appearance of the parts.
And there it is, a little sordid, a little amusing, a story of no great distinction, promising no great yield of insight. But this story moves faster than any story can on its own merits, it travels at high speed, and suddenly it is everywhere; it satisfies a need that runs unexpectedly deep, and someone can even be heard claiming it was current years ago, in another town. It is therefore a myth, even if it happened, and can be guaranteed to explain itself if asked the right questions. But its music will remain mysterious until it is struck with the subtle mallet of structural anthropology, which gives resonances priority over mere sound.
I. NATURE/CULTURE
The crucial opposition, as ever, is nature/culture. Sexuality is wild, tamed in marriage, revealed as wild all along in adultery. The dangerous animal is transformed into a social adhesive, but breaks loose again. The animal parts boiled down into glue threaten no such resurrection; hence the woman’s choice of instrument for her revenge. The actual composition of glue in modern times is rarely organic, but the collective unconscious always is; it refers to the constants of human experience, and not to mere life ‘as it is lived’. The collective unconscious exists independently of chronological sequence, and doesn’t keep pace with developments in glue technology. Nor for that matter is a man excused by his ignorance of Greek mythology from desiring his father’s death and his mother’s body.
2. LIMP/STIFF
The secondary axis of oppositions in our chosen myth is limp/stiff; the married man undertakes to be stiff with his wife, limp in all other contexts. Impotence in the marriage-bed and tumescence elsewhere are symmetrical threats to social order and the next generation. But here, the adulterer is punished for his criminal stiffness with more, with a stiffness he cannot control, for it is precisely his lack of control which is stigmatized. The betrayed woman betrays him to the castrating laughter of the world by parodying his virility, source of his transgression; the permanent erection she gives him nevertheless shows him to be im
potent. Hardness and softness are equally laughable, equally disgusting, when they are constant pathological states, unmediated by contract and by alternation.
3. FOOD/DRUG
The married man sacrifices excitement and variety, distraction and unpredictability, in the interests of a higher set of values; he enters an economy of duties and pleasures. He signs a contract to stop playing the field, and to start cultivating it; he must reduce his erotic options to one before he can reproduce himself in the next generation. Energy invested in marriage accrues as capital; in promiscuity it is dissipated and comes to nothing. The married man renounces sex as a drug and binds himself to a life of intimate affection, of sex as food; from this point on, his hunger will be satisfied rather than stimulated. But the adulterous husband violates the metabolism of marriage by continuing to demand excitement instead of sustenance. Very well then; the woman whose power to satisfy appetite he has scorned will retaliate by drugging his food. And she will make use of drugs in their narcotic rather than stimulant aspect; instead of excitement she will deliver sedation, and helplessness instead of a heightened awareness. For her, adultery is, like alcohol, a ‘sedative hypnotic with paradoxical stimulation’, a down that only masquerades as an up; and her revenge necessarily dramatizes her attitudes to betrayal.
4. PRIVATE/PUBLIC
When two people combine as husband and wife, and no longer define themselves as their parents’ children, their changed status must be marked by a ritual; as they move from separate establishments into a shared household they pass through a kind of sacred corridor, which irreversibly differentiates the past from the future. Although they are private individuals making a private decision, they must declare it in public, and though they are drastically loosening their ties with their parents, their wedding is traditionally attended by all the people from whom they are, in effect, receding.
Whether they choose to be married in church or opt for the ceremonial minimum in front of a Registrar, their act is no less ritual, and as such it cannot simply be dropped and not mentioned again. It must be renounced; a formula must be found which symbolically inverts the ritual of binding. Even though the magic has died, the spell must be said backwards for the release of the participants. Their disenchantment must be fully enacted.