The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by Неизвестный

  He nodded proudly.

  It was so strange to me—how could all those other people see the squirrels? Had they actually seen the flying figures? And was I expected to say that I had seen them, too? I felt that I should, in a way. But the truth was that I had not seen one single thing for sure, and I could hardly bring myself to declare that I had. I didn’t know where I should look. I didn’t have a clue to what my eyes should be following. I couldn’t see a thing. Even so, something had darted past my eyes. But I could not catch its movement.

  Today, four years later, I’m having an equally difficult time locating my son. I feel like he’s standing beside me. But he’s not. This must be him, I think, but there is just something lacking. Even though it would be perfectly natural for him to be at my side, it is only the feeling that he is there, and I cannot draw him into my arms.

  As I walked around searching for my son, I remembered someone who had looked after him when he was an infant, so I stopped by the apartment building where we had been living back then. Just as I had expected, I had forgotten and left him there. He had reverted to being a baby who hadn’t even learned to crawl. And when I tried to pick him up, he burst into tears. He had forgotten my face.

  Our new house was finally finished, and as we were putting things away, I wondered what my children were up to and looked into their room. It was a large room for both my daughter and son to share. Boxes were stacked up, still unopened, and items had been piled on top of the built-in bed. Don’t just play, you’ve got to get this place straightened up, I scolded them, then began helping them put things away. Then, thinking I had better finish up the kitchen before working on the children’s room, I told them, I’ll be back in a little while, do some things by yourselves and went back to the kitchen. I heard no reply, and I had no idea what my son was doing in his room. During the long interval when he had been separated from me, he had gone back to being a child scarcely able to talk. That thought saddened me. But then I thought how fortunate we were to be able to live together again and realized I shouldn’t be complaining.

  I went into a building on a corner lot and remembered that I had once left my son with someone at a house that formerly stood on that lot. Many years had passed. With the house no longer there, I wouldn’t have any way to locate him. The people working in the building wouldn’t have known where the former residents had ended up. I wonder how my son is getting along as he matures? Even if I did happen to run into him sometime, how close would he feel to this mother of his? Would I even recognize him at first glance? It’s hard to imagine what he would look like as an adult. He was so young when we were separated.

  Walking along the street, I discovered a frog. It was a tiny frog, but when I examined it closely, it appeared to be a very unusual type of frog. The rear half of its body was encased in triangular tubing just like a turban shell, and when I removed the tubing, a pale green snake, tinier than an earthworm, was curled up inside. It was disgusting, but I knew I had to catch it and show it to my son, so, almost frantically, I caught it up in a piece of tissue paper. It pleased me to think how happy my son would be, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember where to take it so that I could give it to him.

  Where is he? I know he’s around somewhere, but I don’t know where. I don’t even know why that’s the case. It makes perfectly good sense that he would be right at my side, but when I turn my head, he disappears.

  One year, we went to look at some greenhouses, nearly a dozen of which, large and small ones, had been built on a slope in a place famous for its hot springs. A route was marked to view the greenhouses, but they were linked together by a complex web of trails that soon made you lose track of where you were walking. The children raced ahead on their own, and I lost sight of them. Entranced on the one hand by the beautiful glass rooms—one for cactus, another for gorgon plants and water lilies, another for ferns, yet another for bougainvilleas—that enticed you one after another into a dreamlike trance; on the other hand I was stricken with anxiety and wandered around in search of my children.

  Just as though I still continue to wander from one glass house to another, I continue to torment myself in my dreams, dragging somewhere along behind me a sensation of sweetness as I try to locate the figure of my son.

  Would you please tell me the truth?

  Two years after my son died, I finally had to ask that question of a certain person.

  It’s simply that I want to know what really happened. I’m not agonizing over it, and I haven’t started feeling uneasy about it again after all this time. It’s just that I don’t like leaving things up in the air, and I’m quite confident that it won’t bother me in the least no matter what actually occurred. It’s OK either way. It isn’t at all important. I’m just saying that oddly enough, because it’s not important, I can’t feel any relief until I understand it with total clarity.

  Knowing the kind of person you are, I wanted if at all possible to resolve this without asking you. No matter how much I asked you not to worry, that it’s just a matter of curiosity, you would undoubtedly worry about me and show me all kinds of sympathy. But I’ve made up my mind to ask you, even though I hate to, because you’re the only person I can ask about this. After it happened, my boy was taken to the hospital, and when I realized that we wouldn’t be coming home from the hospital right away, I worried about finding someone to take care of my daughter, so I called you. You came right away, but by then he was past all medical help. You stayed with me through that entire night. When morning came, the people from the police who had been hovering around the previous night disappeared. And not a single person from the police has bothered me since. But what about you? I think if the police were seeking testimony, you who were beside me that entire night would be the one person they would think of. And so the only way I can clear up my clouded emotions is to ask you directly, since you’re the one who was placed in that position.

  I know I seem too persistent, but I’m just asking to know the simple, honest truth of what happened. I can’t help feeling that something is missing, and as I’ve wondered what that could be, I’ve come up with one little concern. It’s occurred to me that out of concern for my feelings you have kept something from me. There’s a police box very close to where I live, and every time I pass by there, I have the strangest feelings: Why am I allowed to walk outside so freely? Why am I allowed to decide on my own what I eat each day, who I talk to, where I go, and everything else I do? You can please put out of your mind any ridiculous notion that I’m suffering from any guilt over my son. That’s not it at all. I know very well without anyone having to tell me how stupid it is to punish myself in that way. But—how shall I put this?—maybe I could just say it feels like there’s something missing. Basically I’m haunted by the feeling that there’s something I haven’t been told.

  Are you sure you weren’t questioned as a witness by the police, either that night or on some other day, about my daily activities, my relationship with my son, and the details of my life? “Do you think she’s the sort of person who might go into a fit of rage and kill her own child?” Or “Are you sure she didn’t frequently spank her children?” I know you wouldn’t give any answer that might harm me, and I know for myself, while I may have been a poor excuse for a mother, that I honestly loved that boy and that I rarely scolded him in earnest—that’s very clear to me, since it’s me I’m talking about. Are you sure the police didn’t listen to your unwavering answers and as a result abandon their suspicions that it might have been murder? I just can’t help but feel that’s the case. I’m very clear in my under-standing that I didn’t kill him with my own hands—all I have to do is search my memory to know that. But what about other people who weren’t there to see what happened? It was, after all, so sudden—such an inexplicably strange way to die. It was such a bizarre course of events, so totally unbelievable to think that one moment he’s soaking in the bathtub, and the next moment his body is floating faceup in the hot water with a wide grin on its
face. I can’t imagine there is anyone who would believe that’s what really happened. Isn’t it perfectly natural that the police, of all people, would suspect foul play at my hands? Because, after all, not one person actually saw what happened to him in that one fatal moment. Not even my daughter realized how terrible it was until I picked him up out of the bathtub and laid him out on the floor of the changing room.

  In any case, the police never asked me a thing that would suggest they suspected he had been murdered. In fact, they even showed me sympathy. How is it that the police of all people would be so quick to believe what I told them? It just can’t be. Don’t you think they took your testimony and examined his body in great detail, and then at some point in their investigation they dismissed all suspicions about me? Or is it that maybe they haven’t completely stopped suspecting me, and I’m being watched as I go throughout the day? Sometimes I think that might be what’s going on. Of course, I don’t keep thinking such things seriously.

  I’m the only one who can be absolutely sure that I didn’t kill my boy. Because I realize that, it seems almost inevitable that the police should suspect me. Are you sure you weren’t interrogated and have continued to conceal it from me? On that night, or on some other day? There’s no more need to hide it. Please tell me what really happened. I beg you.

  I still don’t have the answer to my question.

  As I puzzled over what I should do, I realized that I couldn’t ask in person, so I started writing a letter. I rewrote it over and over, and tore up every one. No matter what I wrote, it’s impossible for me to believe that I could get an answer that would satisfy me. And so I’m still unable to ask the question, regardless of what the answer might be. Recently I’ve started thinking that perhaps it’s OK not to know. It’s very likely that none of the things I worry about actually happened and that nothing has been kept from me.

  YOSHIMOTO BANANA

  Yoshimoto Banana (b. 1964) is one of the most popular writers in Japan today, thanks to a large audience of young female readers. She is the daughter of Yoshimoto Ryūmei, an influential leftist intellectual who was a leader in the student uprisings of the 1960s. Yoshimoto achieved almost immediate acclaim with the publication of her first story, “Moonlight Shadow” (Muunraito shadou), in 1986. The following year, her first novel, Kitchen (Kitchin), became a sensation in both Japanese and its translation into many foreign languages. The story in this volume, “Newlywed” (Shinkon-san, 1991), is unique in that it appeared in serialized form on hanging posters inside Tokyo commuter trains.

  NEWLYWED (SHINKON-SAN)

  Translated by Ann Sherif

  Once, just once, I met the most incredible person on the train. That was a while ago, but I still remember it vividly.

  At the time, I was twenty-eight years old, and had been married to Atsuko for about one month.

  I had spent the evening downing whiskey at a bar with my buddies and was totally smashed by the time I got on the train to head home. For some reason, when I heard them announce my stop, I stayed put, frozen in my seat.

  It was very late, and I looked around and saw that there were only three other passengers in the car. I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t realize what I’d done. I had stayed on the train because I didn’t really feel like going home.

  In my drunken haze, I watched as the familiar platform of my station drew near. The train slowed down, and came to a stop. As the doors slid open, I could feel a blast of cool night air rush into the car, and then the doors again closed so firmly that I thought they had been sealed for all eternity. The train started to move, and I could see the neon signs of my neighborhood stores flash by outside the train window. I sat quietly and watched them fade into the distance.

  A few stations later, the man got on. He looked like an old homeless guy, with ragged clothes, long, matted hair, and a beard—plus he smelled really strange. As if on cue, the other three passengers stood up and moved to neighboring cars, but I missed my chance to escape, and instead stayed where I was, seated right in the middle of the car. I didn’t have a problem with the guy anyway, and even felt a trace of contempt for the other passengers, who had been so obvious about avoiding him.

  Oddly enough, the old man came and sat right next to me. I held my breath and resisted the urge to look in his direction. I could see our reflections in the window facing us: the image of two men sitting side by side superimposed over the dazzling city lights and the dark of the night. I almost felt like laughing when I saw how anxious I looked there in the window.

  “I suppose there’s some good reason why you don’t want to go home,” the man announced in a loud, scratchy voice.

  At first, I didn’t realize that he was talking to me, maybe because I was feeling so oppressed by the stench emanating from his body. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep, and then I heard him whisper, directly into my left ear, “Would you like to tell me why you’re feeling so reluctant about going home?”

  There was no longer any mystery about whom he was addressing, so I screwed my eyes shut even more firmly. The rhythmical sound of the train’s wheels clicking along the tracks filled my ears.

  “I wonder if you’ll change your mind when you see me like this,” he said.

  Or I thought that’s what he said, but the voice changed radically, and zipped up into a much higher pitch, as if someone had fast-forwarded a tape. This sent my head reeling, and everything around me seemed to rush into a different space, as the stench of the man’s body disappeared, only to be replaced by the light, floral scent of perfume. My eyes still closed, I recognized a range of new smells: the warm fragrance of a woman’s skin, mingled with fresh summer blossoms.

  I couldn’t resist; I had to take a look. Slowly, slowly, I opened my eyes, and what I saw almost gave me a heart attack. Inexplicably, there was a woman seated where the homeless guy had been, and the man was nowhere to be seen.

  Frantic, I looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed this amazing transformation, but the passengers in the neighboring cars seemed miles away, in a totally different space, separated by a transparent wall, all looking just as tired as they had moments before, indifferent to my surprise. I glanced over at the woman again, and wondered what exactly had happened. She sat primly beside me, staring straight ahead.

  I couldn’t even tell what country she was from. She had long brown hair, gray eyes, gorgeous legs, and wore a black dress and black patent leather heels. I definitely knew that face from somewhere—like maybe she was my favorite actress, or my first girlfriend, or a cousin, or my mother, or an older woman I’d lusted after—her face looked very familiar. And she wore a corsage of fresh flowers, right over her ample breasts.

  I bet she’s on her way home from a party, I thought, but then it occurred to me again that the old guy had disappeared. Where had he gone, anyway?

  “You still don’t feel like going home, do you?” she said, so sweetly that I could almost smell it. I tried convincing myself that this was nothing more than a drunken nightmare. That’s what it was, an ugly duckling dream, a transformation from bum to beauty. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I knew what I saw.

  “I certainly don’t, with you by my side.”

  I was surprised at my own boldness. I had let her know exactly what I had on my mind. Even though the train had pulled in to another station and people were straggling on to the neighboring cars, not one single person boarded ours. No one so much as glanced our way, probably because they were too tired and preoccupied. I wondered if they wanted to keep riding and riding, as I did.

  “You’re a strange one,” the woman said to me.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I replied.

  “Why not?”

  She looked me straight in the eye. The flowers on her breast trembled. She had incredibly thick eyelashes, and big, round eyes, deep and distant, which reminded me of the ceiling of the first planetarium I ever saw as a child: an en-tire universe enclosed in a small space.

  �
��A minute ago, you were a filthy old bum.”

  “But even when I look like this, I’m pretty scary, aren’t I?” she said. “Tell me about your wife.”

  “She’s petite.”

  I felt as if I were watching myself from far away. What are you doing, talking to a stranger on a train? What is this, true confessions?

  “She’s short, and slender, and has long hair. And her eyes are real narrow, so she looks like she’s smiling, even when she’s angry.”

  Then I’m sure she asked me, “What does she do when you get home at night?”

  “She comes down to meet me with a nice smile, as if she were on a divine mission. She’ll have a vase of flowers on the table, or some sweets, and the television is usually on. I can tell that she’s been knitting. She never forgets to put a fresh bowl of rice on the family altar every day. When I wake up on Sunday mornings, she’ll be doing laundry, or vacuuming, or chatting with the lady next door. Every day, she puts out food for the neighborhood cats, and she cries when she watches mushy TV shows.

  “Let’s see, what else can I tell you about Atsuko? She sings in the bath and she talks to her stuffed animals when she’s dusting them. On the phone with her friends, she laughs hard at anything they say, and, if it’s one of her old pals from high school, they’ll go on for hours. Thanks to Atsuko’s ways, we have a happy home. In fact, sometimes it’s so much fun at home that it makes me want to puke.”

  After this grand speech of mine, she turned and nodded compassionately.

  “I can picture it,” she said.

  I replied, “How could you? What do you know about these things?” to which she smiled broadly. Her smile was nothing like Atsuko’s, but still it seemed awfully familiar to me. At that moment, a childhood memory flitted through my head: I’m walking to school with a friend, and we’re still just little kids, so we’re wearing the kind of school uniforms with shorts, instead of long pants. It’s the dead of winter, and our legs are absolutely freezing, and we look at each other, about to complain about the cold, but then we just start laughing instead, because we both know that griping isn’t going to make us any warmer. Scenes like that—smiles of mutual understanding—kept flashing through my mind, and I actually started having a good time, on my little train bench.