Tsuda worried constantly that O-Nobu would feel contempt for his father. Even so, he couldn’t avoid speaking critically about him in her presence. And what he said was what he truly felt. By preempting O-Nobu’s own criticism, he was also proffering what amounted to an excuse for himself and his father.
“So whatever shall we do? We can’t make ends meet as it is, and now you’re going in for surgery and that has to cost something—”
Reluctant to criticize the old man out of consideration for her husband, O-Nobu shifted the subject to concrete issues. Tsuda was not ready with a reply. Presently he spoke as if to himself, his voice low.
“If Uncle Fujii had any money I’d go to him.”
O-Nobu gazed steadily into her husband’s face.
“Can’t you write back to Father? And mention your illness in passing?”
“I can always write, but I know he’ll come back at me with something or other and that’s such a nuisance. Once he clamps down it’s harder than hell to break away.”
“But what other options do we have?”
“I’m not saying I won’t write. I intend to do what I can to make our circumstances clear to them, but that won’t put money in our pocket in time.”
“I suppose—”
Tsuda looked O-Nobu squarely in the face. When he spoke, there was determination in his voice.
“How about going to the Okamotos and asking them for a small loan?”
[ 8 ]
“ABSOLUTELY NOT! I won’t!”
O-Nobu declined at once. There was no trace of hesitation in her voice. Her fluency, beyond all reserve or consideration, caught Tsuda off guard. The shock he received was as if an automobile traveling at considerable speed had suddenly braked to a stop. In advance of anger or resentment at his wife’s lack of sympathy for him was surprise. He gazed at her face.
“I won’t. I’m not going to the Okamotos with a story like that.”
O-Nobu repeated her refusal.
“Fine! I’m not going to ask you against your will. It’s just—”
These cold yet calmly delivered words O-Nobu scooped up and tossed aside.
“It’s so awkward for me. Every time I visit I’m told how fortunate I am to have married so well with no cares or troubles and no financial worries; I can imagine how they’d look at me if I showed up out of the blue with a sad story about money.”
This allowed Tsuda to satisfy himself that O-Nobu’s categorical rejection of his request was prompted less by a lack of sympathy for him than by her need to maintain appearances in front of the Okamotos. The cold light that had lodged in his eyes flickered out.
“You shouldn’t be carrying on as if we’re having such an easy time. It’s nice to have people think you’re doing better than you are, but there’s no guarantee the time won’t come when that will create its own problems.”
“If anyone’s carrying on it certainly isn’t me—they’ve decided how things are all by themselves.”
Tsuda chose not to pursue this. Nor could O-Nobu be troubled to explain further. For a moment their conversation seemed at an end; then they returned to practical matters. But Tsuda, who until now had suffered little pain as a result of his financial circumstances, had nothing useful to contribute. “Father is such a nuisance!” was all he had to say.
Abruptly O-Nobu shifted her gaze to the colorful kimono and obi as if noticing for the first time her overlooked clothing on the floor.
“Shall we do something with these?” Grasping the edge of the thick obi laced with gold thread, she held it up to the electric light for her husband to see.
“Do something?” Tsuda asked, unsure of what she meant.
“If I take this to a pawnshop, wouldn’t they lend us money on it?”
Tsuda was surprised. If his young bride so recently come to wife had known for years about something he had never once undertaken to do, contriving by one means or another to make ends meet, this surely was an unexpected and a valuable discovery.
“Have you ever pawned a kimono or anything else?”
“Of course not—never.”
Laughing, O-Nobu replied in the negative to her husband’s query as though disdainfully.
“So you have no idea what happens when you take something to a pawnshop.”
“No, but I don’t see how that matters—once we’ve decided to do it.”
Short of an emergency, Tsuda would have preferred not to allow his wife to have anything to do with such disreputable behavior. O-Nobu defended her own suggestion.
“Toki knows all about it. When she was living with us at the Okamotos, she was always going to the pawnshop on errands with a parcel wrapped in a furoshiki.* These days she tells me all she has to do is send a postcard and they come to the house to pick up whatever she has.”
It pleased Tsuda to think that his wife was willing to sacrifice her precious kimono and obi for his sake. But allowing her to make the sacrifice could only be described as painful. More than feeling sorry for her, it was the wound to his pride as a husband that gave him pause.
“Let’s give it some thought.”
Without arriving at any financial solution, he returned to his study on the second floor.
* A furoshiki is a large, silk cloth used to wrap parcels for carrying.
[ 9 ]
THE NEXT day he went to work as usual. Mid-morning he ran into Yoshikawa on the stairs. But since he was starting down as his employer was on his way up, he merely bowed politely and said nothing. Shortly before it was time for lunch, he knocked softly at Yoshikawa’s door and peeked into the room hesitantly. Yoshikawa, smoking a cigarette, was conversing with a visitor. The visitor was of course unknown to Tsuda. As he opened the door halfway their conversation, which seemed to be in full swing, abruptly ceased, and both host and visitor turned in his direction.
“What is it?”
Addressed before he had a chance to speak, Tsuda halted in the doorway.
“Just a word—”
“Personal?”
Tsuda wasn’t someone who came in and out of this office in the course of normal business. The awkwardness he was feeling showed in his face as he replied.
“Just briefly—”
“I’m in the middle of something. This isn’t the time.”
“Of course—please forgive the interruption.”
Closing the door as quietly as he could, Tsuda went back to his desk. In the afternoon he returned twice to stand in front of the same door. There was no sign of Yoshikawa either time.
“Has he gone out?”
The question was addressed to the office boy he encountered at the bottom of the stairs on his way out. The youth had perfect eyes and mouth; he was attempting to summon a brown, long-haired dog from where it reclined beneath a stone step by whistling at it as though magically, extending his arm in the animal’s direction.
“He left a while ago with a visitor—he might not be back today.”
Since all day long his sole concern was attending to the comings and goings of the people in the office, the boy’s predictions were apt to be more reliable than Tsuda’s. Leaving behind the brown dog, whose owner was undetermined, and the office boy at pains to make friends with the animal, Tsuda returned yet again to his desk, where he continued working as usual until the end of the day.
When it was time to leave he lagged slightly behind the others as they exited the large building. On the way to his usual trolley stop, as though abruptly recalling something, he took his watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it. It was less the precise time he wanted than a determination of which direction to take. It was very much as if he were conferring meaningfully with the watch whether to stop at Yoshikawa’s house on the way home or abandon the idea.
In the end, he jumped aboard a streetcar that ran in the opposite direction to his own house. He well knew that Yoshikawa was often not at home and didn’t expect that dropping in would guarantee a meeting. He also understood that even if his employer chanced t
o be there, he might be turned away if his timing happened to be inconvenient. Nevertheless, he felt it was necessary from time to time to pass through Yoshikawa’s gate. This was out of courtesy. It was also an obligation. It was furthermore in his best interest. Finally, it was simple vanity.
Tsuda’s acquaintance with Yoshikawa is privileged.
There were times when he felt like bearing this truth on his back. When he wished to shoulder his burden in plain view of everyone. But without in the least compromising his habitual self-respect. The psychology that had brought him to the entrance to Yoshikawa’s house was akin to that of a man who, even as he secludes things as deeply inside himself as possible, wants to reveal his hiding place to others. His interpretation to himself was that he had come all this way on an errand and for no other reason.
[ 10 ]
THE IMPOSING door at the entrance was closed as always. Tsuda glanced carelessly through the thick lattice bars set into the upper half of the door as though carved there. Just inside, a large granite platform waited quietly for shoes. Beyond, a cast-iron lamp shade was suspended from the center of the ceiling. Tsuda, who until now had never once set foot inside this entrance hall, circled to the side of the house and announced himself at the inner entrance immediately adjacent to the student room.*
“He hasn’t returned as yet.”
The houseboy in student hakama who kneeled in front of him answered simply. His attitude, which seemed to suggest an expectation that the visitor would now take his leave, was a little disconcerting. Finally Tsuda followed his first inquiry with a second.
“Is the lady of the house at home?”
“Yes. Mrs. Yoshikawa is here.”
To tell the truth, it was his wife more than Yoshikawa himself with whom Tsuda was on intimate terms. On the way to the house he had been largely animated by a desire for a meeting with her.
“Please let her know I’m here.”
To this new houseboy, seeing him for the first time, he addressed an amended request. The youth withdrew again into the house with what appeared to be equanimity. When he reappeared he said, in a slightly formal tone, “Mrs. Yoshikawa says she will see you if you’ll please follow me,” and led Tsuda to the Western-style drawing room. No sooner had he taken a seat, before tea and a cigarette tray had been brought in, than Yoshikawa’s wife appeared.
“You’re on your way home?”
Tsuda had taken a seat and had to stand again.
“How is your wife doing?” Settling herself into a chair, having responded to his greeting with a mere nod of her head, Madam Yoshikawa asked her second question at once.
Tsuda’s smile was strained. He didn’t know how to reply.
“Now that you’re a married man, we rarely have the pleasure of your company.”
There was no hint of reserve in her voice. She regarded steadily the younger man before her. Younger and, now as before, beneath her in social standing.
“I imagine you’re still happy.”
Tsuda held perfectly still, as though enduring the fine sand kicked up by a wind.
“Although it’s certainly been a while.”
“I suppose—half a year and a little.”
“How time flies! It seems like yesterday—and how is it going these days?”
“How’s what going?”
“How are you getting along with your bride?”
“No complaints in particular—”
“So the honeymoon is already over? I don’t believe it.”
“There never was a honeymoon.”
“Then it’s coming. If you weren’t happy in the beginning then happiness is on the way.”
“Thanks—I’ll be sure to look forward to that.”
“By the way, how old are you?”
“Am I on trial?”
“Of course not. I asked because I want to know. Please give me a straight answer.”
“As you wish—I’m actually thirty.”
“So—thirty-one next year?”
“If things go according to plan, yes.”
“And O-Nobu?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Next year?”
“Now.”
* A student room, usually adjacent to the kitchen, is a room made available to a university student in exchange for houseboy duties.
[ 11 ]
YOSHIKAWA’S WIFE often chaffed Tsuda in this manner. When she was in high spirits it was even worse. On occasion Tsuda teased back. However, he perceived occasionally in her attitude the glitter of something neither quite jesting nor serious. In such cases his natural tenacity prompted him to halt in the middle of the conversation. Circumstances permitting, he would attempt to burrow down to the root of what his partner was saying in quest of her true feelings. When the necessity of reserve prevented him from going so far, he stopped talking and closely attended her countenance. At such times his eyes, as an inevitable consequence, appeared to cloud lightly with mistrust. Or perhaps it was cowardice. Or caution. Or perhaps it was light emitted by nerves tensing in self-defense. His eyes also assumed in those moments a hint of what might have been appropriately described as “well-considered anxiety.” Every time Tsuda encountered Madam Yoshikawa, she could be counted on to drive him once or twice into this place. Though he was conscious of being dragged, it happened nonetheless.
“You’re a hateful lady.”
“How so? Is asking your age hateful?”
“It’s how you ask, as if you’re implying something, but you leave your thought unfinished.”
“There’s nothing to finish. Your problem is you’re too thoughtful. Reflection may be essential to a scholar, but it’s taboo in social intercourse. If you could break that habit, you’d be a better man, better liked by others.”
Tsuda was a little hurt. But the pain went to his heart, not his head. In his head he responded to this ungloved blow with cool disdain. Madam Yoshikawa hinted at a smile.
“If you think I’m mistaken, try asking your wife when you get home. I know O-Nobu will agree with me. And not only O-Nobu—there’s someone else too, for certain!”
Abruptly Tsuda’s face tightened and his lips quivered. With his gaze adamantly fixed on his lap, he said nothing.
“I’m sure you know whom I mean?”
Mrs. Yoshikawa sought to peer into Tsuda’s face as she spoke. Of course he knew perfectly well to whom she referred. But he had no intention of confirming her prompting. Lifting his head again, he directed his silent regard in her direction. Madam Yoshikawa failed to understand what his eyes were saying in their silence.
“Forgive me if I’ve offended you. That’s not what I intended.”
“It doesn’t bother me—”
“Truly?”
“I’m not in the least concerned—”
“I’m so relieved.”
Madam Yoshikawa’s voice was buoyant again.
“There’s still a little boy hiding inside you, isn’t there! He comes out when we talk this way. Men seem to be having the rougher time, but it turns out you’re the lucky ones. Here you are thirty, and O-Nobu turning twenty-three this year, a big gap in years. But judging by your behavior, it’s O-Nobu who seems older. Maybe ‘older’ sounds impolite—how shall I put it?”
Madam Yoshikawa appeared to be deliberating about a word to describe O-Nobu’s manner. Tsuda awaited her choice with a degree of curiosity.
“Evolved, maybe? She’s certainly very clever; I’ve rarely seen such a clever person. Take good care of her.”
Her tone of voice suggested that Madam might as well have been saying “Watch out for her!”
[ 12 ]
JUST THEN the electric light hanging above their heads came on. The student who had greeted Tsuda on his arrival padded into the room, carefully lowered the blinds, and left again without a word. Tsuda, who had been watching carefully as the color of the gas heater gradually deepened, tracked in silence with his eyes the youth’s departure. He had the feeling it was time to terminate the c
onversation and be on his way. He sipped the tea that remained in the teacup in front of him, avoiding the slice of lemon floating coldly at the bottom. Replacing the cup, he revealed the nature of the errand he had come on. It was a straightforward matter. It was not, however, the sort of thing that could be approved on the spot at Madam Yoshikawa’s discretion. Certainly she had no idea where in the month he should take the week or so he said he would require for personal reasons.
“I doubt it matters when. As long as you’ve made arrangements.”
Her expression of good will toward Tsuda was ever so effortless.
“I’ve made sure everything is in order.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem—why not take off beginning tomorrow?”
“I’d better check first.”
“I’ll speak to Yoshikawa when he gets home. You needn’t worry about a thing.”
Madam Yoshikawa volunteered her services cheerfully. She appeared pleased to have stumbled on yet another excuse to act on someone else’s behalf. It made Tsuda happy to see before him this spirited and sympathetic lady. It was additionally pleasing to realize that her generosity had its source in his own attitude and behavior.
Tsuda enjoyed being treated like a child by Madam for the particular reason that he was able to experience a certain intimacy created between them as a result. When he dissected this, it turned out to be that special variety of intimacy possible only between a man and a woman. It was if anything akin to the pleasurable feeling a man enjoys when, for example, he receives a clap on the back from a young hostess at a teahouse.
At the same time, he held in reserve an abundant portion of himself that neither Yoshikawa’s wife nor any one else could treat as a child. He was careful to prepare for coming into her presence by hiding this place away. And even as he allowed himself a superficial sense of amusement at being taunted, he was leaning against the thick wall he had constructed inside himself.
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