Radical Shadows

by Bradford Morrow

  “But your father has already written numerous outstanding works—he and that literary-minded boy are entirely different.”

  “Do you think so? I think that my father still wants to write.”

  “Of course, not everyone would agree.”

  Personally I thought he had written quite enough already, but if I were in old Akifusa’s condition—I had no idea what I’d think.

  “It’s just that I can’t write for my father. It would be nice if I could write What a Daughter Can Read, but I can’t …”

  Her voice sounded to me like the voice of a young woman in hell. The fact that Tomiko had turned into the sort of woman who said such things—could it mean that by being in constant attendance on her father, who was a sort of living ghost, she had been possessed by something in him? It occurred to me that she might write a book of horrifying memories when Akifusa died. I began to feel a powerful hatred.

  “What if you were to try writing about your father …”

  I refrained from adding—while he’s still alive. Suddenly I remembered some words of Marcel Proust’s. A certain nobleman has abused lots of people in his memoirs, which are at long last about to be published, so he writes, “I’m on the verge of death. I hope my name doesn’t get dragged around in the mud too much, since I’ll be unable to answer.” Not that it was at all like that with Akifusa and Tomiko. They were by no means strangers—indeed, there may have occurred between them a mysterious or perhaps a perverted emotional interchange, something beyond what most fathers and daughters experience.

  I was struck by the strange thought that Tomiko might write about her father as if she had become her father.

  Whether it became an empty game or a moving work of art, it seemed that either way it might provide some comfort for both of them. Akifusa might be saved from his absolute silence, from verbal starvation. Verbal starvation is surely not something one can bear.

  “Your father would be able to understand what you wrote, and he’d be able to evaluate it—you wouldn’t be reading a blank sheet of paper, and if you really wrote about your father, if you had him listen to you read …”

  “Do you think it would be my father’s work? If even a little of it …”

  “There’s no question that some of it would, at least. Anything more—it’s up to the gods, and it depends too on how close the two of you are. I have no way of knowing.”

  But it did seem that a book written in such a way would have more life than a book of memories written after Akifusa was dead. If it went well, even the sort of life he was living now could be preciously literary.

  “Even if your father goes on being silent, he could still help you, and he could still fix your mistakes.”

  “It wouldn’t have any meaning if it ended up being my own work. I’ll have to talk it over very carefully with my father.” Tomiko’s voice was lively.

  Once more I seemed to have said too much. Wasn’t what I was doing like forcing a desperately wounded soldier to return to battle? Wasn’t it like violating a sanctuary of silence? It wasn’t as though Akifusa was unable to write—he could write letters or characters if he wanted to. Perhaps he had chosen to remain silent, chosen to be wordless because of some deep sorrow, some regret. Hadn’t my own experience taught me that no word can say as much as silence?

  But if Akifusa were to continue in silence—if his words were to come from Tomiko—wouldn’t that be one of the powers of silence, too? If one uses no words oneself, other people speak in one’s place. Everything speaks.

  “Shall I? My father says that I should give you some saké right away—that at the very least.” Tomiko stood.

  I looked instinctively at Akifusa, but there was nothing to suggest that the old man had spoken.

  The two of us were alone now that Tomiko had left, so Akifusa turned his face in my direction. He looked gloomy—maybe there was something he wanted to say? Or maybe it irked him to be put in a situation where he felt as though he had to say something? I had no choice but to speak myself.

  “What are your thoughts regarding what Tomiko was saying just now?”

  “……………”

  I addressed silence.

  “I feel sure that you could produce a strange work, really quite different from your What a Mother Can Read. I started to feel that way as I was talking with Tomiko.”

  “……………”

  “You never wrote an ‘I Novel’ or an autobiography—perhaps now that you yourself are no longer able to write, by using some other person’s hand to produce a work of that sort—perhaps this might allow you to reveal one of the destinies of art. I don’t write about myself, and I don’t think I could write about myself even if I tried, but if I were silent and if I could write like that … I don’t know whether I’d feel a sort of joy, as though I had finally realized the truth—if I’d think, Is this who I am?—or if I’d find the whole thing pathetic and give up. But either way, I’m sure it would be interesting.”

  “……………”

  Tomiko returned with saké and snacks.

  “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Thank you. I hope you’ll forgive me for drinking in front of you, Mr. Ōmiya, but—well, thank you.”

  “Sick people like him don’t make very good conversation, I’m afraid.”

  “I was continuing our discussion from before, actually.”

  “Were you? As a matter of fact, I was thinking as I was heating up the saké that it might be interesting if I were to write in my father’s place about all the affairs he had in the years after my mother died. He told me everything about them in great detail, and there are even some things which my father has forgotten that I still remember … I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Mita, that there were two women who rushed over here when my father collapsed.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know whether it’s because my father has been in this condition for so long, or whether it’s because I’m here, but the two women have stopped coming. I know all about them, though—my father told me all about them.”

  “But your father doesn’t see things in the same way you do.” This was self-evident, but even so Tomiko seemed irritated.

  “It’s impossible for me to believe that my father has told me any lies, and it seems that over time I’ve come to understand his feelings …” She stood up. “But why don’t you ask him yourself. I’ll get things ready for our dinner and then I’ll be back.”

  “Please, don’t worry about me.”

  I went along with Tomiko and borrowed a cup. It’s best to get the saké in quickly when you’re talking to a mute.

  “It seems as though your love affairs have become Tomiko’s property now. I guess that’s the way the past works.”

  “………………”

  I may have hesitated to use the word “death”—perhaps that was why I had said “the past.”

  But surely as long as he was alive the past was old Akifusa’s property? Or should one think of it as a sort of joint ownership?

  “Maybe if it were possible for us to give our past to someone, we’d just want to go ahead and give it.”

  “………………”

  “A past really isn’t the sort of thing that belongs to anyone—maybe I’d say that one only owns the words that are used in the present to speak about the past. Not just one’s own words—it doesn’t matter whose words they are. No, hold on—except that the present instant is usually silent, isn’t it? Even when people are talking like I am now, the present instant is just a sound—‘I’ or ‘a’ or ‘m’—it’s still just meaningless silence, isn’t it?”

  “………………”

  “No. Silence is certainly not meaningless, as you yourself have … I think that sometime before I die I would like to get inside silence, at least for a while.”

  “………………”

  “I was thinking about this before I came, but—it seems like you should be able to write out katakana at least, and yet you refu
se to write even a single letter. Don’t you find this at all inconvenient? If there’s something that you want done—for example, if you wrote ‘w’ for water or ‘t’ for tea …”

  “………………”

  “Is there some profound reason for your refusal to write?”

  “Oh—I see now. If the single letters ‘w’ and ‘t’ and so on are enough to get things done, the sounds ‘I’ and ‘a’ and ‘m’ must not be meaningless either. It’s the same with baby talk. The baby understands that its mother loves it. That’s how it is in your What a Mother Can Read, isn’t it? Words have their origin in baby talk, thus words have their origin in love. If you were to decide to write ‘t’ every time you wanted to say thank you—and if every once in a while you wrote ‘t’ for Tomiko—just think how happy she would be.”

  “………………”

  “That single letter ‘t’ would probably have more love in it than all the novels you’ve written during the past forty years, and it would probably have more power.”

  “………………”

  “Why don’t you speak? You could at least say ‘aaa’—even if you drool. Why don’t you practice writing ‘a’?”

  “………………”

  I was at the point of calling into the kitchen to ask Tomiko to bring a pencil and some paper when I suddenly realized what I was doing.

  “What am I doing? I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little drunk—forgive me.”

  “………………”

  “Here you’d gone to all the effort of achieving silence, and then I come along and disturb you.”

  “………………”

  Even after Tomiko returned I felt as though I had been babbling. All I had done was circle the perimeter of old Akifusa’s silence.

  Tomiko used the telephone at a nearby fish store to call the driver who had brought me.

  “My father is saying that he hopes you’ll come talk with him again from time to time.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Having given Tomiko this rather offhand answer, I got into the car.

  “Two of you have come, I see.”

  “It’s still early in the evening and we do have a passenger, so I doubt she’ll show up—but just in case …”

  We came out of the tunnel on the Kamakura side and drove under the crematorium. Suddenly, with a roar, the car began to fly.

  “Is she here?”

  “She’s here. She’s sitting next to you.”

  “What?”

  The effects of the alcohol disappeared in a flash. I glanced to the side.

  “Don’t frighten me like that. I’m in no condition to deal with it.”

  “She’s there. Right there.”

  “Liar. Slow down, will you—it’s dangerous.”

  “She’s sitting right next to you. Can’t you see her?”

  “No I can’t. I am utterly unable to see her,” I said. But as I said this I began to feel a chill. I tried to sound brave. “If she’s really there—what do you think, shall I say something to her?”

  “D—Don’t even joke like that. You get cursed if you speak to a ghost. You’ll be possessed. It’s a terrifying idea—don’t. Everything will be fine if we just keep quiet until we’ve taken her as far as Kamakura.”

  THE BOAT-WOMEN: A DANCE-DRAMA

  1. KURETAKE’S HOUSE

  KURETAKE, a dancer

  MURASAKI, Kuretake’s daughter (ten years old)

  KAGEKIYO, a man of the Heike clan

  FIVE DANCERS

  KABŪ, a boy spy (twelve or thirteen years old)

  KOSASA, Kuretake’s servant, an old woman

  ONE OF KAGEKIYO’S ATTENDANTS

  ONE OF KAGEKIYO’S RETAINERS

  Kuretake’s house. Downtown in the capital. The cherry trees in the garden are in full bloom. Dusk approaches.

  The curtain rises as the chorus sings the following verse.

  Buddha is ever present but does not ever really appear—how sad.

  (The curtain rises.)

  Kuretake is teaching the steps of a dance to the five young dancers. They blossom like the garden’s cherry trees, brilliantly.

  In the darkness before dawn no human noise perhaps you can see him dimly in a dream.

  FIRST DANCER. Even in a dream in the darkness before dawn—the figure of Buddha …

  SECOND DANCER. I’ve never been able to see him.

  THIRD DANCER. The only thing I see even in my dreams is his face …

  They laugh.

  FOURTH DANCER. And yet, they say there is a path to Buddha-hood …

  FIFTH DANCER. Even in the playful games of children.

  KURETAKE. The lighthearted games of young children are precious indeed. I myself am spattered with the dark grime of this world—and yet when I awake in the middle of the night, dreaming in the dark, suddenly—the motions of a dance, the melody of a song drifts up in my mind. And this—this is the same as being lit dimly by Buddha’s light …

  FIRST DANCER. But Kuretake, you’re famous as a dancer—known in the capital—people say you’re superior even to Gojō-no-Otsumae …

  SECOND DANCER. Surely a golden Bodhisattva appears in your dreams, and the two of you sing together, and dance.

  KURETAKE. Don’t be foolish … Otsumae was one of the greatest dancers of all time. She was summoned to the Imperial Palace after she turned seventy—she passed away in the spring of her eighty-fourth year, contented, listening to a poem intoned by the Emperor, who had come to visit her on her deathbed—how could you compare someone like me to her?

  FOURTH DANCER. My goodness! (Surprised.) I wonder if we’ll still be singing at eighty-four.

  SECOND DANCER. Hotokegozen, though dearly loved by Lord Kiyomori, visited Giō in Sagano and became a nun at sixteen …

  THIRD DANCER. Giō’s place in Lord Kiyomori’s heart had been stolen by Hotokegozen, so at twenty she became a nun …

  FIRST DANCER. At nineteen her younger sister, Gijo …

  KURETAKE. In a hopeless world, wherein lies a woman’s happiness?

  Flowers of many kinds blossom fruit ripens —how sad.

  Urged on by Kuretake, the dancers dance.

  Wanting to play I was born wanting to frolic I was born when I listen to the voices of children playing I am reminded of my own spring will it not scatter the blossoming flower reaching to take it come let’s play.

  Kuretake’s daughter, Murasaki, enters the garden as they dance. She frolicks with (the young) Kabū.

  Kosasa sees them and gestures to Murasaki to come in.

  Kabū looks into the house.

  KURETAKE. (Turning to face KABŪ, speaking firmly.) Slanderers of the Heike Clan are not permitted to enter this house. We have no use for spies.

  KABŪ. It’s dangerous with all the commotion in town, so I escorted Murasaki home.

  KURETAKE. What commotion … ?

  Murasaki takes Kabū’s hand, invites him to enter the house.

  KABŪ. Heike warriors attacked the parade of the Emperor’s Chancellor as it was making its way to the palace. Their violence was extreme …

  The dancers are surprised. Kabū continues, speaking as though what he is saying is perfectly ordinary.

  Of course, earlier—Lord Shigemori’s son met the Chancellor’s carriage on his way home from his flute lessons, and when he didn’t greet him, he was whipped. It was terrible. But today, with this revenge—I’m sure the nobles realize only too well what the Chancellor did.

  Murasaki dances innocently by herself.

  Standing gathering seaweed on the rocky shore of Koyorogi do not wet those young women waves stay offshore waves stay offshore.

  Kabū frolics, seems to be tangled up in Murasaki’s dance.

  Kagekiyo comes into the garden.

  KOSASA. Kagekiyo has arrived.

  Kabū sees Kagekiyo and flees.

  The dancers stand and begin to leave.

  Kagekiyo prevents them from leaving, then sits down.

  KAG
EKIYO. I won’t let you go home until you sing a verse.

  DANCERS. Yes.

  I yearn to see you my love I yearn to see you I’d be thrilled if we could meet if only we could meet if I could see you if only we could meet.

  The dancers dance. Murasaki dances playfully in their midst.

  KAGEKIYO. Your Murasaki’s dancing won’t embarrass you … she’s grown beautiful.

  KURETAKE. Well, who can say … She’s older than ten already—it seems there are some boys who tease her. It’s quite pitiful, as it says in the poem.

  KAGEKIYO. What? In this world, with the Heike so rich and powerful—my own bravery more resplendent than ever … Well, Kuretake, shall we have a dance?

  KURETAKE. Very well.

  Kagekiyo takes up a biwa and begins to play.

  Kuretake dances in time to Kagekiyo’s biwa. Murasaki watches, absorbed.

  Oh how precious the preciousness of this day this life the life of a drop of dew yet still I chance to meet the joy of this day.

  Kagekiyo stands and dances in time with Kuretake.

  The sadness of this day yesterday a dream tomorrow an illusion today in reality here on my lap the biwa I pluck and make sing whose child listens it is my own good child oh how precious the preciousness of this day.

  An evening breeze blows up as they sing and dance. The air fills with falling petals. The sun begins to sink.

  Kagekiyo’s retainer enters the garden.

  RETAINER. Sir—

  Coming out into the garden, the old woman prevents him from speaking.

  RETAINER. (To the old woman.) Tell his lordship that the troops have all been ordered to gather this evening—we’re off to destroy the Genji of the eastern lands … I came as fast as I could …

  The old woman is surprised. She has the retainer leave.

  Looking at Kuretake, who is still dancing with Kagekiyo, the old woman has a premonition. It seems to her that something terrible will happen.

  Murasaki becomes involved in the dance, dances innocently with Kagekiyo.