by Kyoka Izumi
"My god!” the old man thought, getting excited. Another two or three hacks, and suddenly he had a hole. He lay down against the mountain, and looking in like this.”
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"The red earth gaped like the open jaws of a huge snake. He could see something black inside. Reaching in with his hoe, he pulled it out. It was an urn.
"Apparently, the lid was broken, and the jar was completely filled with a red, shiny jelly. It was useless to him, so he thought nothing of smashing the jar into pieces. There was still another one inside the hole, lined up next to where the other had been. And this time it was the real thing.
"He hurriedly put the half-opened lid back on, and looked suspiciously over both shoulders. He glanced sharply at his son, who had been able to see everything because of where he was standing.
"Without even taking the time to put his clothes back on, he wrapped the urn in his padded coat and hefted it to his bare shoulders. Using his hoe for a walking stick, he carried the urn like a baby on his back. As the two walked together, he said to his son, ‘Shut your mouth, now. Don't say nothin'. Don't you go talkin' to nobody.' When they got home, he closed all the shutters, spread a bamboo mat in front of the Buddhist altar, and poured the gold out into a pile! The coins had tarnished with age, but from that night on their little shack glowed even in the middle of the night. Or so the neighbors said.
"The jelly in the other urn was cinnabar of highest quality. From the broken vessel it spread over the mountainside, as brilliant as the rare cluster amaryllis, and finally disappeared in the spring rain.
"A few days passed, and the father, who had gone up to Tokyo on village business, visited a money changer at Shibaguchi. From his battered tobacco pouch he produced just one coin, covered with bits of tobacco. Wanting to see what he could get for it, he watched as the fingernails of the money changer's hand turned yellow as soon as he touched it. The coin was genuine all right. The offer was seven ryo, but Old Man Tamawaki received seven ryo, one bu for it. And that was how things got started.
"He visited various shops and patiently cashed in the gold, buying a secondhand boat that he used to transport firewood and charcoal. Eventually he got into the lumber trade. And when he had purchased seven boats, he sold them all off and bought land. Next, he enlarged his shop and went into the construction business.
"Now with a base established, he started renting his land and was able to make his money sitting down. He also lent money at high interest. The lush mountain forest was cut down, and the timber stacked in front of his shop kept disappearing and turning into money. Everything went just as planned. The renters would borrow on credit to buy up parts of the mountain. Then they would use up their capital to cut down the trees. Using the lumber as collateral, they would borrow more money. Soon they'd owe interest on what they had borrowed, so they'd cut down even more trees and use up more capital. Then they'd borrow again, and again there would be more interest to pay. The people borrowing from him would work hard cutting the trees and stacking them in front of his shop. When they started getting behind on their payments, they'd sell the lumber off at bargain prices, and the old man would get everything for a song and make even more money. People were always coming and going, never passing by without leaving something at his shop.
"His fortune grew, and everyone was astonished at how he had gained control of the entire mountain. Behind his back, though, they talked about how he had carried the urn home in his coat, and about how the treasure would someday bring trouble to his family.”
"Envious people like that never find gold." The wanderer and the priest looked at each other and laughed.
"It's all up to fate. No matter how you try to hide things, somebody always finds out. And there's a story about that, too." The priest looked as though he had just remembered something.
"Now listen to this. The boy, Seinosuke, who was never to tell a soul about the money, went around saying, 'My father went out to work, and came home carrying Tempo coins without holes.' What do you think of that?" He laughed.
"Tempo coins without holes," the visitor repeated. "You mean, solid gold."
"Exactly. And that boy is now owner of the Tamawaki fortune. He's a member of parliament. Upper tax bracket. Tamawaki Seinosuke. And his wife, Mio, is the woman who wrote that poem. How's that for a story?"
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"Here's your tea. As I said, it's nothing fancy. I can't even offer you a saucer, but then again, there's not much cleaning up to do. Make yourself at home. In the fall, you should see our persimmons and chestnuts. We chase the crows away and pick the persimmons. We shake the chestnuts down and scare away the shrikes. I'd be happy to give you some. Please, make yourself at home."
The priest took off his robe and hung it on a nail. The shadows of the plum trees played on the hut's shoji, showing through the white paper like corrections on a manuscript page. The priest brushed his robe.
Looking uphill from the hut, they could see the flight of stone steps hidden among the treetops, the roof of the main hall floating and sinking into the clouds of green, and the skirts of the yellow-green mountains crowding the veranda. The two of them relaxed beside a mosquito net, while butterflies fluttered about the rim of a stone-cold hibachi.
"I really couldn't relax up there in the main hall. But having tea like this after listening to your story is a nice touch. I must say, I do miss looking at that poem, though."
"With the stairway here, the sexy Buddha's just a dash away." The priest laughed. "To tell you the truth, I felt a little funny, too, as if I were making a confession. Here we can relax. As you can see, I really let down as soon as I get away from there. Shouldn't be like this, I guess. But anyway, we were talking about the man who used to live here."
"What kind of a person was he?"
"I can't say. Not that I didn't get a close look at him. He used to talk to me about the books he was reading. And I know how he made a living and all that sort of thing. But misinterpreting the scriptures is a sin, let alone gossiping about a man's life. I'd hate to spread false information about a dead man as that would be like passing judgment on him. I can tell you what I know about his relationship with Tamawaki's wife, though.
"It started one evening, the hottest time of the year. He had returned from a walk along the beach. 'My friend,' he said. 'Go down to the shore and take a look. I met the most beautiful woman.'
" 'Is that so? Where?'
" 'At the place where you get that wonderful view of the bay with Mount Fuji in the distance. You take the sandy road through the pines, cross the bridge, and the house is right there.'
"Do you know the place?" the priest asked the wanderer. "Yes. I go there almost every day."
"There, by the bridge, where the pines grow on the sandbank in the middle of the river. That's the Tamawaki mansion. A huge front gate, a stone-covered entrance, and a large garden. It's modeled after some of the villas built here by the city people. The husband's very outgoing and likes to entertain a lot. Since the Kunoya house is a bit too far from the water, which is the main attraction around here, he took all his nicest things to the other place and made that into his main residence. He got married just last summer. So of course his wife was living with him there.
"Well, crossing the bridge, the gentleman suddenly saw the round bay. The water was as shiny as glass, as if he were looking at it through a telescope. And between the blue of the water and the white of the mountains was the pink of the woman's dress, a faint rainbow, waving before his eyes.
"It was Tamawaki's wife, though at the time he didn't know who she was. Neither did I. I jokingly pursued the matter, listening to his reports while fanning myself to keep cool.
"He took off his bathing cap. Sitting there on the veranda in his swimsuit, the gentleman said to me, 'Well, whoever she is, she's truly extraordinary.'"
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"She must have seemed very dignified, to hear the way the gentleman talked about her," the priest continued. "He told me, 'There was another young wo
man following her, probably one of her helpers. She had on the same summer gown, and her sash was carefully tied. The two passed by together, and I only got a quick look. Her features were delicate, her complexion pale, and her lips very red.
" 'She was well dressed. But she seemed totally at ease, like just another person from the neighborhood. She wore a cap over her eyes and was looking down, letting the visor protect her face from the sun. As we passed each other, moving over to let the other by, she glanced up. Her eyelashes were dark. She looked at me coolly. It was as if the great Sesshu had dipped his brush into Murasaki Shibiku's inkwell— a portrait of the subtlest shading, lovelier than words can express. I, on the other hand, am a portrait of a more foolish sort for telling you all these things. Maybe after dinner tonight I'll get dressed and go out looking for melons in the moonlight.'
"That was all that happened that first night, sir. The next day he went out for a walk and returned at about the same time. I asked him jokingly, 'So how was Sesshu's brush today?'
" 'I couldn't tell,' he said. 'The cloudy weather kept her in, I guess.'
"Two or three days later I talked with him again, 'Doesn't clear up, does it? I suppose the clouds are still getting in the way.'
" 'Well, there's no "As I Crossed the Komatsu Bridge" chapter in The Tale of Genji, but today, as a matter of fact, on that bridge—'
" 'Then congratulations!' I said, and laughed.
" 'This time she was so dressed up she looked like a different person. Just as I was crossing the bridge, she came up the other side. This time she had three boys with her - the oldest about thirteen, another about ten, and another about seven or eight. She was patting the youngest on the shoulder, bending over and smiling at him, when they reached the top of the bridge.
" 'Her hair was done up in a full flower-moon coiffure that any woman would envy. She wore a pale, sky-blue singlet, almost transparent and covered with a medium-sized pattern. She looked good in a kimono.
" 'Her sash was silk gauze, sky blue and white. I didn't recognize the pattern, but she had it tied so it bulged out like a drum in the back, the white part of the sash meeting her waistband as if embracing the summer snow. I was struck by her beauty as she passed. And she, seeming to notice me, let both arms go limp and moved her shoulders ever so slightly.
"'Don't ask me why, but as she passed by me I sat down on the bridge railing. Maybe I thought I was going to fall over. I knew that there was a river below, and if I fell in I was a dead man. The water wasn't that deep or fast, but I knew I wouldn't be able to get a rescue boat. And no one would help me even if I did call out. They'd think I was joking and let me die before their very eyes. I don't swim, you see.'
"I think the gentleman smiled when he said that," the priest continued. But it later turned out to be true. Isn't it strange? When it comes to love's agony, we on the outside are more than willing to laugh and let a person die before our very eyes. From the start, I didn't take him seriously enough. I kept teasing him—'How's you-know¬who?'--not realizing how perilous the matter was really becoming. You'd probably do the same."
How was the wanderer supposed to answer? He tapped the ashes from his pipe. "Well, I wonder. No, I don't think I'd have taken him that seriously either. When a young woman has her problems, there's always someone she can talk to. But a man? He probably just wanted to catch a fish in the river."
"Ha, ha, ha! That's a good one." The priest gave his knee a slap.
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"Speaking of fish, there happened to be a man squatting on the far bank with his line out in the water. He made his living selling pots and pans at a shop on the riverbank. Looking at his trim figure, you'd have thought he was quite a tidy person. But in fact he was a little 'loose in the loincloth,' if you know what I mean. His fishing compulsion was most likely the result of something he had done in a former life. What a shameful sight!
"People around here call him Plate Head, because the bald spot in the middle of his head looks like an unglazed plate. Teeny Plate Head of the Riveibank. And it just so happened he was fishing there, right at that moment.
"The gentleman, sitting on the bridge railing, was watching the woman walk away—her forelocks trailing delicately, the nape of her neck white s snow. She was about to tap one of the boys on the back, the ten-year-old, who playfully grabbed her around the waist. As her fingers arched back like small fish, there came a booming voice. 'Young Master! You dropped your handkerchief!' It seems that Plate Head, content to let the fish take his bait, also had his eye on the woman.
"The oldest of the boys yelled something and ran back to get the white handkerchief. He picked it up off the bridge, stuffed it in the bosom of his kimono, and, without saying a word, ran back to Yamawaki's wife. As children do, he didn't bow or say a word of thanks.
"But the woman herself was grateful. She puckered her lips and almost touched her chin against her shoulder as she looked back and stared at the gentleman with her cool eyes, mistaking him for Plate Head. That's really when the two of them met for the first time.
"Caught up in the moment, he bowed back to her. And that was it. She eventually disappeared from sight. And when he looked, sir, there was Plate Head, staring at him.
"The gentleman broke out in a cold sweat. And no wonder. How embarrassing it must have been! I know it doesn't sound like much, but add a touch of the erotic and see what you get. First of all, there was the coarseness of the voice she had heard, and then the undignified way Plate Head called the boy 'Young Master' when he wasn't connected with the boy's father in any way. And stopping them like that was hardly what you'd call a show of refinement. Even Plate Head seemed a little embarrassed, having done the gentleman a favor. A strange situation, indeed. And, of course, the gentleman was in no position to thank him.
"From my point of view, it seemed that the incident had a dampening effect on the gentleman. He stayed in the hut for the next four or five days. Only then did he give me the details. As it turned out, that misunderstanding became the beginning of their relationship. They both exchanged greetings the next time they met. Imagine how happy that made him. Apparently that was exactly what he wanted.
"Oh, what a terrible thing to lose one's way! How heartless! Any fool would know better. The third time, he—"
"He met her?" the visitor asked, anticipating the answer.
"That's right. But this time it was the other way around. He was returning from the beach, and she was on her way there. They met at the place I described earlier, where you suddenly come onto the water.
"It was already quite dark. The hottest time of summer had just passed and the days were starting to grow shorter. He was coming back later and later from his walks. Tired of swatting mosquitoes, I had come up here and was sitting inside my mosquito net. When he got back and came to see me, he often said that he'd eaten somewhere else.
"So, this third time, it was already evening. He saw her face in the dim moonlight. It was she, he was sure, but this time accompanied by five men, one of them her husband. She was the only woman, surrounded by these fellows, noisily hurrying toward the beach. They were with her, and the gentleman was the only outsider. How could the two of them even have hoped to exchange glances? Now about those five men--"
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"One had thick eyebrows and flared nostrils. Another, glaring downward, had a wide forehead and a pointed jaw. Still another man had his nose in the air and an unlit cigar sticking out of his mouth. And there was one who defiantly spun around and tapped the woman on her bottom with his fan. They were all dressed like commoners, each man wearing a thin summer kimono. That was fine, but one had on a light-yellow waistband, the knot tied casually and the ends of it hanging down to his calves. And someone else had a crimson under-sash wrapped high around his chest. How preposterous! The yellow waistband was the man's own, but the fellow with the crepe under-sash had stolen it from one of the young women. He was drunk, and it was his trophy.
"Needless to say, these men rubbed the gentleman th
e wrong way. Silhouetted against the sunset and the steadily growing waves, he imagined red and green demons leading a frail, helpless woman down to hell. Surrounded by them, she seemed dismal and desolate, and the sadness of it made him want to risk his very life for her salvation. He could imagine now what her life at home must be like, and he told me how uneasy it made him feel. But, sir, you must know how senseless it was for him to think that way.
"Have you ever seen pictures of angels descending from heaven into hell? They're quite marvelous, I think, because they give the impression that even the starving demons are going to be saved. And yet there's no need to feel sorry for someone like Benzaiten when she's surrounded by snakes because the serpents are really her servants. I'm afraid it was nothing but the gentleman's delusion.'
The wanderer folded his arms. "You know, when a woman finds out her lover has a beautiful wife, she gets jealous. But with a man it's the other way around."
"I see," said the priest. Now it was the wanderer's turn to philosophize.
"Men don't get jealous like that. If a man's lover forms a match with some other person—say the flower of Ono no Komachi and the moon of Oe no Chisato—he seems relieved. On the other hand, the man with the light-yellow waistband and the one with the crimson under-sash do make you wonder. If a Christian hears that his wife has dreamed about being embraced by Jesus, that's hardly the same as if she were seduced by a genie. Neither one is good, but if he had to pick, he'd pick the first, right? So you were saying, the woman was surrounded by these unsavory characters—"
"It was all because of the way Tamawaki's father got his money, carrying it home in his tattered coat, using the handle of his hoe for a walking stick. Tamawaki came to live as well as anyone. And though he was never cheap in his dealings with others, people of quality preferred to keep their distance. The sad truth is that he always associated with these questionable types."
"So what kind of a person is his wife?"