In the Contents she found the line, Industrial Management . . . Yoshihiro Tsukamoto, Lecturer in Economics, Chiyoda University.
Until now she had been mystified by the whole thing, but once she saw the characters of Chiyoda University, her fleshy lips twitched into a smile.
It had happened about six weeks ago.
On her way home from seeing off a girlfriend at Tokyo Station, she had felt thirsty and gone into a tea house in one of those basement shopping arcades. The shop was crowded and she had to share a table with another customer.
Aged about thirty, he was so absorbed in a book, he never once looked up at her across the table. Then he glanced at his watch, jumped to his feet and rushed out of the shop in a great hurry.
He was hardly gone when Etsuko noticed a package in cloth wrapper left on the bench next to where he had been sitting. She naturally thought it must belong to him, so she picked it up, paid her bill, and went after him, but couldn’t see him anywhere. He had already disappeared in the station crowd.
Wondering if she should take the package back to the tea house or deposit it at the station’s lost property office, she finally looked at the label. Research Section, Department of Economics, Chiyoda University, it said, and the name Yoshihiro Tsukamoto was scribbled over it in black ink.
On her way home from Tokyo Station she would have to pass by Chiyoda University at Kanda, she thought. It seemed much more considerate to take the package there personally than hand it in at the station—it might be something important. Judging by the label, the man must be a tutor or a research assistant. She should be able to find him without much trouble if she inquired at the registrar’s office.
Tsukamoto looked greatly relieved when she handed him the package.
“You don’t know how grateful I am,” he said excitedly. “I’ve been really worried about this for the past hour. It’s my stupid carelessness again, I guess, but I was so busy thinking about something, I just left it behind somehow. If I’d lost this I would’ve been in real trouble.” He patted the package. “A collection of data money can’t buy . . .”
Perversely, his carelessness appealed to Etsuko. It seemed to her to be a sign of scholarly character. She also liked his uninhibited self-reproach, and the way he voiced his gratitude, like a big child.
“. . .Frankly, I didn’t know where I’d left it. The tea house did occur to me, but I couldn’t recall the name of the shop, so I couldn’t check by phone . . . And I couldn’t immediately retrace my movements either because I was already late for a conference.”
After thanking her several more times, Tsukamoto said a book of his would be published in the near future, and it would contain some of the data he would’ve surely lost but for her kindness, and he’d like to send her a complimentary copy as an expression of his gratitude.
Thinking he might be offended if she refused, Etsuko gave him her name and address before continuing on her way home. And soon the whole episode was completely forgotten.
Now she picked up the book and tried to recall Yoshihiro Tsukamoto’s face. His exact features escaped her, but she could remember his shaggy head of hair, the outline of his oval face, and his darting eyes which seemed to be in contrast with his otherwise restrained scholarly gestures. She decided her first impression of him hadn’t been unfavorable . . .
Etsuko kept turning the pages till she came to the part he had written. Even the term industrial management was completely new to her, but she felt that not to read even a single page of it would be unfair to the writer who had gone to the trouble of sending her the book.
Without any knowledge of management she found the text a bit difficult to follow at times, even though it was meant to be an introduction to the subject. But the sentences themselves were lighter and wittier and the whole theme far more interesting than she had expected.
When she had read about ten pages, she found a narrow strip of paper like a bookmark between the pages. Now, what was this supposed to be? It was a concert ticket with the date November 5 printed on it. That was the opening day of the London Symphony Orchestra’s Tokyo season, one week ahead.
Well, he had done it again, Etsuko thought, feeling rather annoyed this time. How could a man be so absent-minded? He must have put the ticket in the book, then forgot it and sent it to her by mistake.
He was a damned nuisance, she thought as she dialled the number of Chiyoda University. He must have been in his room because he answered a few seconds after she had asked for him.
She thanked him for the book and then brought up the subject of the ticket, doing her best not to show her irritation.
“No, that wasn’t an oversight,” he said hesitantly. “It was just a small token of gratitude. Last time I saw you you had the biography of some famous musician in your shopping bag, didn’t you?”
“I could’ve.”
“That’s why I thought you might have an interest in classical music.”
“But I couldn’t accept an expensive ticket like this.”
“It hasn’t cost me a single sen—its a complimentary ticket, so please accept it without qualms . . . I’m awfully sorry but you must excuse me now. I have a class waiting for me. Thank you very much for ringing. So long.”
The phone clicked dead at the other end. She stood there for a while with a blank expression, trying to recapture his words. Then she replaced the receiver. She had to admit she felt like going to the concert. On the other hand, she couldn’t help thinking that the ticket, whether he had paid for it or not, was far too excessive a reward for what she had done for him. But returning it didn’t seem the right thing to do either . . .
Just then the phone rang, and she lifted the receiver again. “Hello,” she said.
A male voice said, “May I speak to Miss Ogata, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Oh, hello. This is Higuchi here.”
Etsuko felt the skin tighten on her cheekbones and temples.
Timidly he said, “I thought I should give you a ring and thank you for the other day . . . Incidentally, are you free on the evening of November 5? I’ve got hold of a couple of tickets to the Kabuki Theatre. Some new players will make their debut that evening, and I thought you might like to go . . .”
Her father must have told him she would date him for a while, she thought. He certainly didn’t waste any time providing the opportunity.
“Thank you very much—it’s kind of you to ask me. Unfortunately, I’ve a previous engagement for that evening.” She was amazed how fast the words of refusal had rolled off her tongue. “I’m going to the opening performance of the London Symphony Orchestra . . . I’m terribly sorry.”
“No, please don’t worry about it . . . I’m naturally disappointed, but I’m also glad to hear you’re interested in serious music . . . Anyway, there’s always another time, so we’ll just leave it till then, shall we?”
Being a gentleman, Higuchi didn’t persist and ended the conversation without trying to fix an alternative date.
Etsuko put down the receiver and looked at the ticket in her hand. Would Yoshihiro Tsukamoto be at the concert? She had a feeling that he might . . .
Once more she tried to visualize his face, and a faint excitement began to stir in her. It gradually grew stronger, until it became the sweet weakness she knew so well. And she realized with a shock that the face conjured up in her mind no longer belonged to the young lecturer, but to him.
With some effort she shut off her mind and fought off the yearning in her flesh. And then she was ready to think of Yoshihiro Tsukamoto again. Could he, by any chance, be the man she had been looking for? She knew she had to find out.
On the evening of November 5, she put on the silver-grey suit she liked best and went to the Tokyo Cultural Centre at Ueno. The throbbing of her heart was quite distinct as she approached the grounds.
Walk
ing up the steep slope in Ueno Park she wondered what was wrong with her. Could she really be excited about a man she had seen only twice, each time for only a few minutes? Perhaps it was her subconscious reaction to the prospect of having to marry Higuchi. This seemed quite likely. After all, prior to Higuchi’s proposal, Yoshihiro Tsukamoto had never once entered her mind . . .
But she must be careful. If she allowed herself to become obsessed with the idea that she had to find another man within three months, she might run into some unexpected danger . . . Not that she could imagine Tsukamoto as a lecher or a sadist, but he might be married already . . . And there was no guarantee at all he would turn up tonight, anyway . . .
She entered the foyer and bought herself a program. It was unusual to find a sonosheet inside a concert program. The disc was a performance by Pierre Monteux, the great French conductor who had planned to visit Japan at the head of this orchestra, but died last April.
Etsuko kept looking around the foyer for a while, but there was no sign of Tsukamoto. Finally she gave up and went inside to take her seat. A middle-aged woman was sitting on her right, but the seat on her left remained empty. It was still unoccupied when the performance started.
Sir Arthur Bliss, guest conductor of the orchestra, appeared on stage, and the British and Japanese national anthems were played. First item on the program was a selection from the ballet Checkmate, Sir Arthur’s own composition and one of his most admired works.
Etsuko had seen this ballet performed by the Royal Ballet Company. Listening to the music now made her recall the previous stage scenes. Black and white chess figures blending in well devised confusion . . . the white knight courting his queen . . . the dance of the black queen—these scenes were coming back to her now as clearly as if she had seen them only yesterday.
Then the music stopped and a storm of applause shook the hall. The seventy-three-year-old veteran conductor answered the encores in his usual graceful manner. Etsuko clapped enthusiastically.
The applause had died down when she realized Yoshihiro Tsukamoto was standing beside her.
“I’m sorry—I’m late,” he whispered. “I tried to get here on time but didn’t quite make it, so I couldn’t come up to the seat. But I listened to it standing at the back.” He spoke hesitantly, as on the previous occasion.
His appearance was rather different from the picture Etsuko had built up in her mind over the past few days. She realized her imagination had been far too generous to him. She had to force back a chuckle.
Admittedly, after watching Sir Arthur Bliss, this typical British gentleman, she would be inclined to judge Tsukamoto rather severely. But even so, she felt there was no excuse for his hair to be as shaggy as before, and his tie knot to be pushed to one side. And when she saw white chalk powder on the end of his coat sleeve, and noticed that his shoes which were supposed to be black were almost grey, she thought he could hardly be described as a dandy.
Higuchi would be the last person to turn up at a concert dressed like this.
But there was something else about Tsukamoto—something impossible to describe. He possessed a kind of natural warmth that made her pores open up to him. His spontaneous friendliness had no hint of buried passions, and this gave her a sense of comfort she could never experience in Higuchi’s company.
Suddenly she remembered reading somewhere that motherly women with large breasts were often attracted to clumsy, untidy men, and she became conscious of her own breasts straining in their harness under her blouse.
“Thank you for this lovely evening,” she said, and was going to add something, but he interrupted her with a wave of his hand.
“It’s nothing—I’m pleased you’ve come. The orchestra is better than I expected—quite colorful, and well balanced. The woodwinds are especially good, don’t you think?”
“Yes. I’ve read your book.” She was startled by her own words. She couldn’t explain what had made her change the subject so abruptly, but Tsukamoto seemed very pleased.
“Thank you for making the effort—you must have found it pretty dry stuff. Or are you interested in management?”
“I wasn’t till I read the book . . . I know a little about law because my father is a lawyer—a former prosecutor. In that I’m like a shopkeeper’s errand boy who lives near a temple and learns to chant a sutra . . . But now I realize the study of management is much more fascinating than people generally imagine.”
“Well, I couldn’t wish for a more flattering comment. This will do wonders for the ego of the writer in me . . . Management as a study is in vogue at the moment, and the book is selling better than we expected. The publisher asked me specifically to use the simplest language possible to make it intelligible to laymen, but I wasn’t sure if I succeeded.”
“There were a few patches in it I found difficult to follow, but generally speaking it’s rather amazing how you managed to present this complex subject with such clarity.”
“What patches did you find difficult?”
She told him with complete honesty, and he listened thoughtfully, nodding every now and then.
After the intermission Colin Davis, an energetic young conductor, appeared on stage. Under his baton the orchestra played Beethoven’s Symphony No. 1 in C major, followed by Dvorak’s Symphony No. 7 in D minor. Etsuko was now able to abandon herself completely to the flow of the music. She was hardly aware Tsukamoto was sitting beside her.
When it was all over she rediscovered him, looking at him in wonder. If it had been Higuchi, she would have been conscious of him all the time and probably wouldn’t have been able to enjoy the music at all. But with Tsukamoto she had felt completely relaxed. It had seemed natural that he should be there, sitting beside her. It had been as reassuring to her as the presence of a husband might be to his wife on a quiet evening at home.
They came out of the concert hall, walking side by side. The cold wind outside carried the loneliness of the deepening autumn. The pale glow of the neon lights added to a mood of unreality caused by the strange lines of the building.
“Miss Ogata . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’ve a confession to make. The ticket . . .”
“What about it?”
“I placed it well inside the book on purpose. If you had put the book away without looking through it, you wouldn’t have noticed the ticket in it, would you? And since it’s such a dry subject, I thought there was every chance this might actually happen.”
Etsuko gazed at him wide-eyed. What was he trying to say? “And if I hadn’t noticed it—what were you going to do then?”
Tsukamoto didn’t answer. Standing there, his tall, lean figure vaguely outlined against the pale glow of the lights behind him, he seemed to be enveloped in some strange shadow of loneliness. Would this man, by any chance, have unhappy memories similar to her own, she wondered, the tenderness of compassion welling up in her.
He remained silent for a while, then said, “I come from the Kansai district—only been here since last spring and haven’t got many friends . . . Would you meet me again some day?”
Etsuko cast her eyes to the ground. His unpolished shoes came into her sight, and her feminine instinct told her he’d be still single—certainly without anyone to clean his shoes for him.
“All right,” she said slowly as a few dry leaves scurried along the ground at their feet, scraping against the pavement.
2
It was exactly one week after the concert when Etsuko Ogata saw Yoshihiro Tsukamoto for the fourth time. They met at one o’clock in the afternoon in the Café Pensées.
In the meantime she had also had a date with Higuchi, and she couldn’t help feeling it had been nothing more than an unpleasant obligation. There was nothing wrong with Higuchi, really, but likes and dislikes weren’t things that could be reasoned out. If she had been an extrovert with a natural inter
est in people, she might have found superficial pleasure in his company. She felt sorry for her parents when she thought of this.
The Pensées was a café without any character or mood, but at least it was quiet. This somehow atoned for the proprietor’s audacity in borrowing the name of the famous work by Pascal. It certainly seemed to be the kind of place suitable for meditation. Etsuko wasn’t surprised at all Tsukamoto had taken a fancy to it. And the coffee was good.
He arrived a few minutes late with an apologetic grin on his face. His hair was as unkempt as ever, but his shoes had been cleaned, Etsuko noted. They weren’t very shiny, but at least they looked black.
“This is a relief,” he said. “I was a bit worried you mightn’t turn up.”
She couldn’t help smiling. His words, utterly lacking in rhetorical flourish, washed through her consciousness like crystal-clear water.
She said, “Mr. Tsukamoto, is it all right for you to get away from work in the middle of the day, like this?”
“One advantage of being a university teacher is that I can use my time fairly freely, compared with other people. Today I’m free in the afternoon . . . By the way, since you’re not one of my students, would you mind calling me by my first name? I’m not that old, you know.”
She looked at him hesitantly, aware that this was only their fourth meeting, but couldn’t resist his pleading eyes for long. She smiled and said, “All right.”
“Thank you. And now that we’ve got this settled, what shall we do next? Where’d you like to go?”
“It’s up to you—I don’t mind.”
“To be quite honest, I’ve been wondering about it since yesterday, but haven’t been able to come up with anything. I’m not very good at this sort of thing, I’m afraid. If we were in Kyoto—there I know many spots we could go to, but Tokyo seems to be a terrible place for that.”
“I agree.”
“I spent a year in the United States, and while I was there I took some dancing lessons.” He threw a despairing glance at the ceiling and sighed. “I’m hopeless . . . Furthermore, dance halls in Japan don’t really cater to men of thirty, like me, and it’s too early in the afternoon, anyway . . . You must think I’m completely devoid of ideas, but all I can think of is going somewhere out of the center of the city where we can breathe some fresh air.”
Honeymoon to Nowhere Page 2