There was no answer.
“Such a tiny baby?”
Again her mother did not answer.
“Didn’t you say I had jet-black hair when I was born?”
“Yes, jet black.”
“Was my baby’s hair like that? Mother, could you save some for me?”
“I don’t know, Otoko.” Her mother hesitated, and then blurted out: “You can have another one!” She turned away frowning, as if she wanted to swallow her own words.
Had not Otoko’s mother, and even Oki himself, secretly hoped the child would never see the light of day? Otoko had given birth in a dingy little clinic on the outskirts of Tokyo. Oki felt a sharp pang at the thought that the baby’s life might have been saved if it had been cared for in a good hospital. He had taken her to the clinic alone. Her mother could not endure it. The doctor was a middle-aged man with the reddened face of an alcoholic. The young nurse looked accusingly at Oki. Otoko was wearing a kimono—still of a childish cut—with a matching cloak of cheap, dark-blue silk.
The image of a premature baby with jet-black hair appeared before Oki, there at Mt. Arashi over twenty years later. It flickered in the wintry groves of trees, and in the depths of the green pool. He clapped his hands to summon the waitress. Clearly no guests had been expected, and it would take a long time to prepare his meal. A waitress brought tea and stayed chatting on and on, as if to keep him entertained.
One of her stories was about a man bewitched by a badger. They had found him splashing along in the river at dawn, screaming for help. He was floundering in the shallows under the Togetsu Bridge, where you could easily climb up on the bank. It seems that after he was rescued and came to his senses, he told them he had been wandering around the mountain like a sleepwalker from about ten o’clock the night before—and the next thing he knew he was in the river.
Finally the kitchen had the first course ready: slices of fresh silver carp. Oki sipped a little sake with it.
As he left he looked up again at the heavy thatched roof. Its mossy, decaying charm appealed to him, but the mistress of the restaurant explained that, being under the trees, it never really got a chance to dry out. It was not very old, less than ten years ago they had put on new thatching. A half moon gleamed in the sky just beyond the roof. It was three-thirty. As Oki went down the river road he watched kingfishers skimming low over the water. He could see the colors of their wings.
Near Togetsu Bridge he got into the car again, intending to go to the Adashino graveyard. In the gathering winter twilight the forest of tombstones and Jizo figures would soothe his feelings. But when he saw how dusky it was in the bamboo grove at the entrance to the Gio Temple he had the driver turn back. He decided to stop in at the Moss Temple and then go to the hotel. The temple garden was empty except for a couple who looked like honeymooners. Dry pine needles lay scattered over the moss, and reflections of trees in the pond shifted as he walked along. On the way back to the hotel, the Eastern Hills ahead glowed in the orange light of the setting sun.
After warming himself with a bath, he looked for Ueno Otoko’s number in the phone book. A young woman answered, no doubt her protégée, and immediately turned the telephone over to Otoko.
“Hello.”
“This is Oki.” He waited. “It’s Oki. Oki Toshio.”
“Yes. It’s been such a long time.” She spoke with the soft Kyoto drawl.
He was not sure how to begin, so he went on quickly to avoid embarrassing her, as if he were calling on impulse.
“I came to hear the New Year’s Eve bells in Kyoto.”
“The bells?”
“Won’t you listen to them with me?”
She made no reply, even when he repeated his question. Probably she was too surprised to know what to say.
“Did you come alone?” she asked, after a long pause.
“Yes. Yes, I’m alone.”
Again Otoko was silent.
“I’m going back New Year’s morning—I just wanted to hear the bells toll out the old year with you. I’m not so young anymore, you know. How many years is it since the last time we met? It’s been so long I suppose I wouldn’t dare ask to see you without an occasion like this.”
There was no answer.
“May I call for you tomorrow?”
“No, don’t,” Otoko said a little hastily. “I’ll come for you. At eight o’clock … perhaps that’s early, so let’s say around nine, at your hotel. I’ll make a reservation somewhere.”
Oki had hoped for a leisurely dinner with her, but nine o’clock would be after dinner. Still, he was glad she had agreed. The Otoko of his old memories had come to life again.
He spent the next day alone in his hotel room, morning till evening. That it was the last day of the year made the time seem even longer. There was nothing to do. He had friends in Kyoto, but it was not a day when he cared to see them. Nor did he want anyone to know he was in the city. Although he knew a good many restaurants with tempting Kyoto specialties, he decided to have a simple, businesslike dinner at the hotel. So the last day of the old year was filled with memories of Otoko. As the same memories kept recurring to his mind they became increasingly vivid. Events of over twenty years ago were more alive to him than those of yesterday.
Too far from the window to see the street below, Oki sat looking out over the rooftops at the Western Hills. Compared with Tokyo, Kyoto was such a small, intimate city that even the Western Hills were close at hand. As he gazed, a translucent pale gold cloud above the hills turned a chilly ashen color, and it was evening.
What were memories? What was the past that he remembered so clearly? When Otoko moved to Kyoto with her mother, Oki was sure they had parted. Yet had they, really? He could not escape the pain of having spoiled her life, possibly of having robbed her of every chance for happiness. But what had she thought of him as she spent all those lonely years? The Otoko of his memories was the most passionate woman he had ever known. And did not the vividness even now of those memories mean that she was not separated from him? Although he had never lived here, the lights of Kyoto in the evening had a nostalgic appeal for him. Perhaps every Japanese would feel that way. Still, Otoko was here. Restless, he took a bath, changed into fresh clothing, and walked up and down the room, stopping occasionally to look at himself in the mirror as he waited for her.
It was twenty past nine when a call from the lobby announced Miss Ueno.
“Tell her I’ll be down in a moment,” Oki answered. Or should I have had her come up here? he said to himself.
Otoko was nowhere to be seen in the spacious lobby. A young girl approached and inquired politely if he was Mr. Oki. She said Miss Ueno had asked her to call for him.
“Oh?” He tried to be casual. “That’s very kind of you.”
Having expected only Otoko, he felt that she had eluded him. The vivid memories of her that had filled his day seemed to dissipate.
Oki was silent for a time after getting into the car the girl had waiting for them. Then he asked: “Are you Miss Ueno’s pupil?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re living with her?”
“Yes. There’s a maid too.”
“I suppose you’re from Kyoto.”
“No, Tokyo. But I fell in love with Miss Ueno’s work and came chasing after her, so she took me in.” Oki looked at the girl. The moment she spoke to him at the hotel he had been aware of her beauty and now he noticed how lovely she was in profile. She had a longish slender neck, and charmingly shaped ears. Altogether, she was disturbingly beautiful. But she spoke quietly, in a rather reserved manner. He wondered if she knew what was between him and Otoko, something that had happened before she was born. Suddenly he asked: “Do you always wear a kimono?”
“No, I’m not so proper,” she said, a little more easily. “At home I usually wear slacks. Miss Ueno said I should dress for the holiday, because New Year’s Day would come while we were out.” Apparently she was also to listen to the bells with them. He realized th
at Otoko was avoiding being alone with him.
The car went up through Maruyama Park toward the Chionin Temple. Awaiting them in a private room at an elegant old tea house were two young apprentice geisha, besides Otoko herself. Again he was caught by surprise. Otoko was sitting alone at the kotatsu, her knees under its coverlet; the two geisha sat across from each other at an open brazier. The girl who had brought him knelt at the doorway and bowed.
Otoko drew herself away from the kotatsu to greet him. “It’s been such a long time,” she said. “I thought you might like to be near the Chionin bell, but I’m afraid they can’t offer anything elaborate here, they’re really closed for the holidays.”
All Oki could do was thank her for going to so much trouble. But to have two geisha, besides her pupil! He could not even hint at the past they had shared, or let the way he looked at her betray it. His telephone call yesterday must have left her so upset and worried that she had decided to invite the geisha. Did her reluctance to be alone with him indicate the state of her feelings toward him? He had thought so the moment he was face to face with her. But at that first glance he felt he was still living within her. Probably the others did not notice. Or perhaps they did, since the girl was with her every day, and the geisha, though very young, were women of the pleasure quarter. Of course none of them showed the least sign of it.
Otoko remained at one side, between the geisha, and had Oki sit at the kotatsu. Then she had her pupil take the seat opposite him. She seemed to be avoiding him again.
“Miss Sakami, have you introduced yourself to Mr. Oki?” she asked lightly, and went on, as if formally presenting her: “This is Sakami Keiko, who’s staying with me. She may not look it, but she’s a bit crazy.”
“Oh, Miss Ueno!”
“She does abstract paintings in a style all her own. They’re so passionate they often seem a little mad. But I’m quite taken with them; I envy her. You can see her tremble as she paints.”
A waitress brought sake and tidbits. The two geisha poured for them.
“I had no idea I’d be listening to the bells in this sort of company,” said Oki.
“I thought it might be pleasanter with young people. It’s lonely, when the bell tolls and you’re another year older.” Otoko kept her eyes down. “I often wonder why I’ve gone on living so long.”
Oki remembered that two months after the death of her baby Otoko took an overdose of sleeping medicine. Had she also remembered? He had rushed to her side as soon as he learned of it. Her mother’s efforts to get Otoko to leave him had brought on the suicide attempt, but she sent for him nevertheless. Oki stayed at their house to help take care of her. Hour after hour he massaged her thighs, swollen and hard from massive injections. Her mother went in and out of the kitchen bringing hot steamed towels. Otoko lay nude under a light kimono. Still only sixteen, she had very slender thighs, and the injections made them swell up grotesquely. Sometimes when he pressed hard his hands slipped down to her inner thighs. While her mother was out of the room he wiped away the ugly discharge oozing between them. His own tears of pity and bitter shame fell on them, and he swore to himself that he would save her, that he would never part from her, come what might. Otoko’s lips had turned purple. He heard her mother sobbing in the kitchen, and found her crouched before the stove.
“She’s dying!”
“You’ve done all you could,” he told her.
“And so have you,” she said, gripping his hand.
He stayed by Otoko’s side for three days without sleeping, until she finally opened her eyes. She writhed and moaned in pain, pawing frantically at herself. Then her glaring eyes seemed to fix on him. “No, no! Go away!”
Two doctors had done their utmost for her, but Oki felt that his own devoted nursing had helped to save her life.
Probably Otoko’s mother had not told her everything he had done. But to him it was unforgettable. More vivid than the memory of her body lying in his embrace was that of her naked thighs as he massaged her back to life. He could see them even as she sat there with him waiting to hear the temple bell.
No sooner had anyone filled her sake cup than Otoko drained it. Evidently she knew how to hold her liquor. One of the geisha said it took an hour to give the bell all one hundred and eight strokes. Both geisha were in ordinary kimonos, not turned out for a party. They were not wearing dangling butterfly obi, and instead of fancy flowered hairpins they had only pretty combs in their hair. Both of them seemed to be friends of Otoko, but Oki could not understand why they had come dressed so casually. As he drank, listening to the frivolous chatter of their soft Kyoto voices, his heart lightened. Otoko had been quite astute. She had avoided being alone with him, but she might very well have wanted to calm her own emotions for this unexpected reunion. Even to sit here together created a current of feeling that flowed back and forth between them.
The great bell of the Chionin tolled.
A hush fell over the room. The worn old bell sounded almost cracked, but its reverberations hung on and on. After an interval, it tolled again. It seemed to be very near.
“We’re too close,” said Otoko. “I was told this would be a good place to hear the Chionin bell, but I think it might have sounded better from a little farther away, somewhere by the river, maybe.”
Oki slid back the paper screen from a window and saw that the bell tower was just below the small garden of the tea house. “It’s right over there,” he said. “You can see them striking it.”
“We really are too close,” Otoko repeated.
“No, this is fine,” Oki said. “I’m glad to be so near for once, after hearing it over the radio every New Year’s Eve.” Yet there was indeed something lacking. Dark shadowy figures had gathered in front of the bell tower. He closed the screen and went back to the kotatsu. As the bell tolled on he stopped straining to listen to it, and then he heard a sound that only a magnificent old bell could produce, a sound that seemed to roar forth with all the latent power of a distant world.
After leaving the tea house they walked up to the Gion Shrine for the traditional New Year ceremony. Many were already on their way back from it, swinging the fire-tipped cords they had lighted at the shrine. According to long custom, that fire would light the stove for cooking holiday dishes.
EARLY SPRING
Oki was standing on a low hill, his gaze held by the purple sunset. He had been at his desk since half past one that afternoon, and had left the house to take a walk after finishing an installment of a serial for a newspaper. He lived in the hilly northern outskirts of Kamakura, and his house was across the valley. The glow spread high in the western sky. The richness of the purple made him wonder if there might be a thin bank of clouds. A purple sunset was most unusual. There were subtle gradations of color from dark to light, as if blended by trailing a wide brush across wet rice paper. The softness of the purple implied the coming of spring. At one place the haze was pink. That seemed to be where the sun was setting.
He recalled that on his way back from Kyoto on New Year’s Day the rails glinted crimson far into the distance in the rays of the setting sun. On one side was the sea. As the rails curved into the shadow of the hills their crimson disappeared. The train entered a gorge, and suddenly it was evening. But the warm crimson of the rails had reminded him again of the past he had shared with Otoko. Although she had avoided being alone with him, that very fact made him feel that he was still alive within her. As they walked back from the Gion Shrine some drunken men in the crowds had accosted them and tried to touch the high-piled coiffures of the two young geisha. One seldom saw that kind of behavior in Kyoto. Oki walked beside the geisha to shield them, Otoko and her pupil following along a few steps behind.
The next day as he was about to board the train, still telling himself that Otoko could not be expected to come to the station, her pupil Sakami Keiko appeared.
“Happy New Year! Miss Ueno says she wanted to see you off, but she’s had to make New Year’s calls all morning, and this
afternoon people are coming to see her. So I’m here in her place.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Oki replied. Her beauty attracted attention among the few holiday travelers. “This is the second time I’ve troubled you.”
“Not at all.”
Keiko was wearing the same kimono as last night: a bluish figured satin with a design of plovers fluttering among scattered snowflakes. The plovers gave it color, but it was rather somber holiday finery for such a young girl.
“That’s a handsome kimono. Did Miss Ueno paint the design?”
“No.” She blushed faintly. “I did it myself, though it’s not what I’d hoped.” Actually the somber kimono brought out Keiko’s disturbing beauty all the more strikingly. And there was a youthfulness in the decorative color harmonies and varied shapes of the plovers. Even the scattered snowflakes seemed to be dancing.
Saying it was from Otoko, she gave him several boxes of Kyoto delicacies to eat on the train.
During the few minutes the train waited in the station Keiko came over and stood at his window. As he saw her there framed in the window it occurred to him that, in her whole life, this might be the time when she was at her most beautiful. He had not known Otoko in the full flower of her youthful beauty. She was sixteen when they parted.
Oki opened his supper early, around four-thirty. It was an assortment of New Year’s foods, including some small, perfectly formed rice balls. They seemed to express a woman’s emotions. No doubt Otoko herself had made them for the man who had long ago destroyed her girlhood. Chewing the little bite-sized rice balls, he could feel her forgiveness in his very tongue and teeth. No, it was not forgiveness, it was love. Surely it was a love that still lived deep within her. All he knew of her years in Kyoto was that she had made her way alone, as a painter. Perhaps there had been other loves, other affairs. Yet he knew that what she felt for him was a young girl’s desperate love. He himself had gone on to other women. But he had never loved again with such pain.
Delicious rice, he thought, wondering if it was grown around Kyoto. He ate one little rice ball after another. They were seasoned exactly right, neither too salty nor too bland.
Beauty and Sadness Page 2