by Неизвестный
“Trick of the trade—” he began, “now, I wouldn’t know about that. One thing, though, is this: all the time, I treat my bulls as though I’d never kept a bull before. When I take them round with me, or cut grass for them, or put grass in their stalls, or clear away their dirty straw for them, or when I’m scraping them down with the brush, I take care of them as though I’d never done it before in my whole life.”
All this the man from the newspaper branch took down on paper, nodding to himself all the while.
The newspaperman, who though young seemed to have an appetite for the unusual, went so far as to ask the old man the names of the three prizewinning animals. The winner of the first prize, having been bought at a place called Chiya, was known, it seemed, as “the Chiya bull.” The winner of the second prize, which had been bought as a calf from a man called Heisaku who lived in Kasumigamori, was called “the bull bought at Heisaku’s.” The third prizewinner had been bought when still a calf at the monthly cattle market and was known accordingly as “the bull bought at the market.”
Such commonplace names were not, apparently, to the newspaperman’s taste.
“Look here, Grandpa,” he began in a discontented tone, “can’t you find them some names with a more pastoral flavor? What we’re really after is names with more local color—something with a more rustic touch, something that makes people long for their innocent childhood days. How would it be if you gave them some other names? ‘Wild Cherry,’ for example—that suggests the wild cherry blooming deep in the hills. Or ‘Volga,’ which suggests the boatman hauling his barge up the river, or ‘Oak,’ with its suggestion of fresh green leaves. Wouldn’t you care to rename them, now, in honor of the occasion?”
The newspaperman was undoubtedly a kindhearted man or he would hardly, from the outset, have felt like writing an article about animals with such boorish names as “the bull bought at Heisaku’s.”
“Very well, then,” said Grandpa, who saw no need to object, “I’ll take advantage of that kind thought of yours. But I’d be much obliged if you’d just say those names again?”
“Wild Cherry . . . Volga . . . Oak.” Grandpa repeated them to himself over and over again until they were firmly fixed in his mind. The winners of the first and second prizes were dubbed “Wild Cherry” and “Volga” respectively. The third prizewinner was named “Oak.”
On his arrival back in Yaburodani, Grandpa notified his son of the change. His son, however, was highly embarrassed. The names, he declared, sounded like the names of coffee shops; just to hear them was enough to set his teeth on edge. The neighbors got wind of the disagreement but were obliged to admit, even so, that Grandpa’s bulls had acquired a new dignity.
The newspaper reported the cattle show in the local news column of the regional edition, where it was dismissed in a meager three or four lines. All it said, in fact, was that Grandpa Ushitora’s bulls had won prizes. Nevertheless, the same report brought a definite increase in the number of people who came to him to have their cows serviced. Hitherto, Grandpa had gone round the neighboring villages with his bulls, providing service at any house where a cow happened to be in heat. His bulls had always had a good reputation, and most farmers were already accustomed to rely on them to service their cows when necessary. Occasionally, a farmer would bring a cow specially to Grandpa’s place, but since Grandpa’s son objected strongly to the mating taking place at their home, Grandpa would go and call on the client later, taking the bull with him. His son, Tōkichi by name, was only a humble charcoal burner, but he could not agree, he declared, to his own father permitting such indelicate behavior; his whole being revolted against the idea. He even told the neighbors that if his father broke the taboo it would mean a severing of relations between parent and child.
Tōkichi had two children, a boy and a girl. Two years previously, when the boy had started at primary school, Tōkichi had made Grandpa stop taking his bulls about their own village. He felt sorry for the child, he said, because the other children at school looked at him oddly.
At first, Grandpa had told his son not to be so fussy.
“Now if you were a schoolteacher,” he said, “I might listen to you. As it is, though, you’re just a plain charcoal burner, so I’d be obliged if you’d be a bit less severe about what I do.”
There is no family in the village that does not keep cattle, and some of the other schoolchildren themselves came from families that had their cows serviced as the occasion required. Why, Grandpa demanded, should those children take exception to his grandson just because his grandfather took his bulls around? It was not as though a man who kept bulls for breeding was a kind of pimp; if anything, he was closer to a doctor. Tōkichi replied that it was because Grandpa took money for servicing the cows that the child felt so awkward. Anyway, he asked him to give it up for his child’s sake; and Grandpa, for the sake of his beloved grandson, agreed to give up providing service at least in their own village.
In the event, getting Grandpa’s name in the papers was, in a way, the source of all the trouble in Grandpa’s family. Every week or ten days, an average of two people began to turn up at Grandpa’s place, bringing cows in heat. Grandpa pleaded an unwritten family rule as his excuse for refusing, but even so some clients would complain indignantly that he was hardhearted in turning them down when they had come such a long way. Some even made sarcastic remarks about people who put on airs. When his son was at home, Grandpa would send them away, saying he would call on them with the bull later. More often than not, however, his son was away at the charcoal-burning kiln. Then, things were different; if a client came, Grandpa would choose a moment when his son’s wife and his grandson were not looking to take the client and his cow into the woods, then take the bull to them a little later.
Even this ruse, though, was bound to be detected if repeated too often. One day, his son Tōkichi learned the truth from a charcoal buyer and came home in a towering rage. As soon as the evening meal was over and the two children were asleep, Tōkichi set about picking a quarrel with his wife.
“I simply don’t understand,” he declared. “I don’t understand how he could give them such damn silly names in the first place. ‘Volga’! ‘Oak’! I told you, too, that you weren’t ever to use such disgusting names. But you did, and now even the children do the same. It’s enough to break up the whole family!”
At the sink in the kitchen, his wife, seeing storm clouds in the offing, went on washing the dishes in silence.
“A fine thing I heard today from the charcoal buyer!” he went on. “I never heard anything so shameful! But the truth always comes out in the end. He takes his bulls off into the woods on the quiet and mates them there for money. And you knew all the time, woman, but pretended you didn’t! Mating cattle without telling people, it’s immoral—it’s adulterous, that’s what it is!”
“I won’t keep quiet any longer,” Grandpa broke in, flinging to the ground half-made one of the straw sandals that he worked on at night to supplement their income. “ ‘Break up the whole family,’ indeed! ‘Adultery’! I don’t know how you can talk such nonsense. What’s adulterous about mating a couple of cows, I’d like to know? You’d probably tell a man he’d committed adultery if he saw a pair of dragonflies coupling in the woods.”
“Whether it was in the woods or in the cowshed, I can’t say,” Tōkichi retorted. “I’m talking about something different. To mate them furtively and charge money for it, that’s what’s so degrading. If some outsider wants to bring his bulls to the cows, I couldn’t care less. But not to know the distinction between the two things is awful. It’s filthy! Ever since I was a kid I’ve had to suffer because of this same thing. That’s why I became a charcoal burner. ‘Oak’! ‘Volga’! The very sound of them makes me want to throw up! I’m clearing out.”
“What d’you mean ‘makes you want to throw up’?” demanded Grandpa. “Oak and Volga, I’ll have you know, are a fine pair of bulls. And I’m an expert with cattle. My name was in the papers.
If you don’t like it here, you can get out. The more I put up with you, the more you take advantage of it. Clear out, then!”
Tōkichi, who was sitting cross-legged at the edge of the raised floor in the kitchen, shot to his feet and went off round the front. His wife chased after him but got no farther than the front entrance before turning back again. She knew perfectly well, either way, that Tōkichi’s destination would only be the charcoal burners’ hut.
Grandpa was beside himself with rage.
“He can please himself what he does! I’m going off round the neighboring villages with my bulls. I’m clearing out this instant. I’ve been patient enough. You, girl, you can tell Tōkichi that I’ve left this house for good. You can tell him that from me!”
True to his word, Grandpa set about making preparations for a tour of the villages.
This was the first time that Tōkichi’s wife had witnessed such a serious quarrel between father and son. Minor differences of opinion there had often been, but the old man had always given in immediately and things had gone no further. This time it was different. Tōkichi had never used such harsh language to the old man before. Nor had the old man ever shouted at Tōkichi in such a loud voice. Tōkichi’s wife was at a loss how to handle things.
“Grandpa, do try and calm yourself. Please!” she begged, making a clumsy attempt to bow with her forehead to the floor. “I’m apologizing for him, aren’t I?”
“I don’t want to hear it! I can take so much and no more. You tell Tōkichi that!”
Grandpa put on his long rubber boots. After that, he only had to fasten his wicker basket on his back and he was ready for the journey. Inside the basket there were two nosebags, blankets, sickles large and small, whetstones, a bamboo basket, brushes and a few other things.
The bulls were already bedded down for the night, but Grandpa led all three of them out of the cowshed. He would leave Oak, he decided, with Gosuke, a neighbor who was fond of cattle, and take the other two with him. Since the end of the last century, local regulations had forbidden lone cattle dealers to take more than two adult beasts about with them at a time. Besides, Oak was the youngest of the three; older bulls are liable to use their horns on human beings if beaten or struck—not, of course, that such a thing was likely at Gosuke’s. The only animal Gosuke had was a calf, but he had four sons, so there would be no shortage of labor to look after Oak the bull. Children on country farms soon make friends with cattle, which also serve as playthings for them.
Gosuke was still up, busy at work making buckshot, with his working gear scattered about the unfloored part of the house. He made the shot by melting lead and dropping it into cold water, each drop becoming a shot as it cooled. He was also a hunter, and would start making shot in his spare time before the summer was out, then sell it to other hunters and use the proceeds to buy his own cartridges.
“Gosuke, I don’t like to ask you, but could you look after Oak for me? I’ll go halves with you on the money I get for mating him if you like.” Grandpa was still so excited that he offered to split the proceeds without even pausing to do his mental arithmetic first.
“What are you talking about, Grandpa? Oak? You’re not serious!”
“Yes I am. Something’s happened to me that I just can’t stomach. Something very serious has happened to me.”
Gosuke opened the door leading into the house. “Hey, stop that clatter!” he called to his wife, who was busily plying a hand mill in the kitchen. “How can we talk about important things with that row going on?”
Grandpa refrained from relating the bald facts and gave a rather romanticized version of the story instead. For personal reasons, he was setting out, this very instant, on a tour with his bulls. He would come back from time to time to fetch Oak for mating with a cow, but he refused ever to set foot in his own house. That was why he wanted Gosuke to look after Oak. This was definitely not a passing whim, nor was he doing it because he anticipated any failing in Oak’s powers. He was rather weighed down at the moment, perhaps, by the uncertainty of existence.
Gosuke, who had been listening with a rather suspicious air, seemed to change his attitude at this and began to speak in serious tones.
“Ah, I see,” he said. “I think I know that feeling. I have to kill living creatures myself, you know, when I go hunting. It must have been some fate that brought you here. . . . Right, leave him with me! He’s my responsibility.”
“He’s in your hands, then. I’ve got him here outside the gate.”
Following the custom among horse and cattle dealers, they clapped hands together three times to set the seal on the agreement.
Gosuke put Oak in the cowshed and chopped up some fodder for him. His wife held up a bicycle lamp for him so that he could see what he was doing. “Why don’t we enter him in the cattle show next year?” she said gaily. “I wonder if there’s a prize goes with it? Yon see, the name of the person entering him would be different, wouldn’t it?”
“Shut your silly mouth, woman!” said Gosuke.
Grandpa Ushitora shone the flashlight round the cowshed. Oak was already lying on his side on the straw. The calf that had been there all the time was standing in a corner of the shed.
Gosuke and his wife saw Grandpa off up the slope back to the road. The old man was still angry about his son, but he managed to tell the story of his ginger and the moles, which had no bearing on his present situation at all. Twenty years previously, he had planted some ginger, but moles had eaten the whole lot. Gosuke responded by telling how, as a child, he had seen a stray dog running by with a mole in its mouth.
Back on the main road, Grandpa Ushitora set off, with Wild Cherry in front of him and Volga behind. The moon was not up yet but the sky was full of stars, and he began to feel rather easier in his mind. The clopping of the bulls’ hooves and the sound of the stream running down the valley were not, after all, especially depressing. By the time a crooked moon rose above the hills, he had already reached Kasumigamori.
Grandpa let his bulls lead him to a house where they might call and not be unwelcome. Wild Cherry could always find, by some kind of sixth sense, a house where there was a cow in heat. Perhaps it was his sense of smell, or perhaps he heard the faintest of distant lowings that told him whether it was the right time for the cow and where she was. Or perhaps he just had a general idea of what was happening from frequent experience in the past.
“Off you go,” said Grandpa. “Good hunting!” He flung the rope up onto Wild Cherry’s back and let the great animal lead the way.
Wild Cherry quickened his pace slightly and gave two great, mournful bellows. In response, the lowing of a cow came across the river from the general area of the wayside shrine in the eastern section of the village. It was the cow at Shuzō’s place, just opposite the shrine. Wild Cherry had forgotten his reputation for finding a cow by his sixth sense and relied on her cries to lead him to her.
“Cunning beast!” grumbled Grandpa, with something like complacency, as he followed after him.
From time to time, Wild Cherry and Shuzō’s cow on the other side of the river lowed to each other as though they had some secret understanding. Even Volga gave a bellow. Halfway along the narrow road from the main road to the eastern section of the village there was a narrow, earth-covered bridge. Beneath it, by the side of a still pool, stood a great shell-shaped rock. By night, without a moon, the bridge would have been dangerous, but Wild Cherry crossed it without the slightest hesitation and pressed ahead until finally he stopped in front of the cowshed at Shuzō’s.
The cow in the cowshed was setting up a great commotion, snorting heavily and jabbing upward at the crosspieces on the door with its horns in an attempt to open the door from the inside. Every year, she went into heat in an alarming fashion, but the previous year she had been serviced twice without producing any calves. That year too she had already been serviced once without result. She might well be a barren cow. Barren or no, her spells in heat were something terrible and set her rampaging
about in great excitement.
Grandpa took his two bulls round by the outbuilding and tethered them separately to persimmon trees.
“Who is it?” demanded Shuzō, hastening out of the entrance to see what the commotion was about. In the light of the moon, he soon made out Grandpa Ushitora and his bulls.
“Well, Grandpa Ushitora!” he exclaimed. “Doing your round of the villages? You came at just the right time. My cow’s been lowing all the time, and terribly restless. I came out to the cowshed any number of times to see what was up with her. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do. But then you turned up. Talk about a fairy godmother!”
“I don’t like to turn up late at night like this, without letting you know . . .”
“Eh? Late at night? Don’t be silly. Just look at that cow of mine. Look how restless she is, poor thing! And it’s embarrassing with the neighbors, too, the way she gets excited when she’s in heat.”
Shuzō turned out the light he held in his hand.
Grandpa tied the cow in the shed on a short tether so that she could not jump about, then drove Wild Cherry into the shed. The mating was all over in a flash. To make sure that things took properly, Grandpa rubbed the cow’s back for her. Then he drove Wild Cherry and Volga into the stable, which stood empty, and left them feeding on some sweet-potato runners that Shuzō had put in the manger for them.
Shuzō was in his forties and lived alone. He had no children. If he wanted so much as a cup of tea, he had to struggle to light the fire for himself beneath the kettle, filling the whole kitchen with smoke in the process. His wife had died the year before. Nothing could be done about that, Shuzō said; what really hurt was that people recently had begun to gossip about the cow. She was a typical barren female with sex on the brain, they said. The year before, he had had her serviced twice by Ushitora’s bulls to no avail, so this year he had taken her to a place called the O.K. Breeders, a good twelve miles away. That did not take either. To make matters worse, every time she was in heat she bellowed and threw herself about as though she were half crazy, and had twice broken down the door of the cowshed during the night and run away.