A Dark Night's Passing

by Naoya Shiga

  * * *

  I must have been four or five at the time. It was an autumn evening. Seeing that everyone was busy preparing dinner, I crept out of the house, and using a ladder that had been left leaning against the servants’ lavatory, I climbed to the top of the main roof. I crawled along the ridge to the large end tile and straddled it. I felt suddenly joyful, and began to sing at the top of my voice. Never had I sat in such a high place. The persimmon tree, so much taller than I before, now was beneath me.

  The western sky glowed with the setting sun. And there were crows, flying about restlessly …

  “Kensaku … Kensaku … ” It was my mother, calling me in a voice that was eerily soft and caressing. “Stay where you are, understand? Don’t move, please. Yamamoto will be with you in a minute. Please listen to me, and be absolutely still.”

  The skin around her eyes seemed taut as she looked at me. And from the unnatural gentleness of her manner I knew that something quite out of the ordinary was happening. I decided that I would try to go down before Yamamoto could get to me. Slowly I pushed myself back a little along the ridge. “Oh, no!” My mother looked as though she was about to cry. “Don’t move, please, Kensaku. Be a good boy and listen to me!”

  It was her eyes, staring with a strange intentness into mine, that forced me to be still.

  In a little while Yamamoto and another manservant reached me, and guided me down gingerly.

  Of course my mother gave me a severe beating. Then from the strain she burst out crying.

  My memory of this incident gained new clarity when she was gone. For years after, my eyes would fill with tears whenever I remembered it. And I have thought to myself: whatever else, my mother at least loved me very much.

  * * *

  I am certain this happened at about the same time, though what came before or after, I cannot remember.

  I was lying alone on the floor of the morning room, daydreaming. The door opened, and my father walked in. He must have just come home. Saying nothing he walked past me to the cupboard and took out of his sleeve pocket a small package which he placed on top of it. I lay still as he walked out of the room, my eyes fixed on the package. I knew it had come from a cake shop.

  A moment later he was back. This time he opened the cupboard door and carefully put away the package. Again without a word he left the room.

  Darkness seemed suddenly to fall around me as I lay there brooding over the slight. And by the time my mother came into the adjoining room to put away my father’s street clothes, I was in a very black mood, desperately needing an outlet for the intense resentment that had built up inside me.

  “Mama, I want some cake!”

  “What are you saying!” she said angrily. Indeed, I had only a few minutes before been given my afternoon snack.

  “Come on, give me some.”

  She refused to listen to me. She put away the clothes in the wardrobe, then turned to leave. I got up and stood in front of her. “Please, mama!” Still saying nothing she reached for my cheek and gave it a quick, hard pinch. In fury I slapped her offending hand.

  “You’ve already had your snack, haven’t you?” she said, glaring at me.

  Now more blatant, I began pleading for the cake my father had brought home.

  “Certainly not!” she said. “Stop this nonsense at once!”

  “I want some,” I said stubbornly, as though I was demanding only what was rightfully mine.

  I really did not want the cake. What I wanted was to cry my heart out, or to be shouted at, or to be beaten—it didn’t matter which, so long as something was done to soothe my nerves, to get rid of the terrible feeling of oppression.

  My mother pushed me aside and began to walk away. I grabbed her sash from behind and pulled her hard toward me. She lost her balance and would have fallen if the sliding door had not been within her reach. The door came out of the groove.

  She was now truly furious. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the cupboard. She got out a large chunk of bean cake, and with her free arm holding my head tight against her side, began to force the jellylike cake into my mouth. I could feel against my tongue thin strips of the sweet stuff oozing through the gaps in my clenched baby teeth. I was so frightened I could not even cry. The excitement was too much for my mother, and she burst into tears. I, too, after a while, began to cry.

  * * *

  Everything was slovenly in my grandfather’s house in Negishi. Every morning, when he got up, he would amble over to the neighborhood public bath with a toothpick dangling out of the corner of his mouth; and on returning would go straight to the breakfast table still in his night clothes.

  People of all sorts dropped in. Those who came on card-playing nights were particularly odd. There was a university student amongst the group, I remember; and a secondhand dealer, and a novelist (was he really?), and a woman in her fifties with what I thought was a widowlike air about her, whom everyone called Mrs. Yamakami. This woman always brought along a small, black leather bag, like a doctor’s, which contained without fail, I was told, a lot of small change, a new pack of cards, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. I learned later that this woman was indeed not a widow at the time but the wife of some aged professor of history. Her nephew had apparently once lived with Oei, and through this connection she had come to know my grandfather. She loved her hobby, which she kept a secret from her husband. Some twenty years afterward Oei told me that this woman’s nephew drank a great deal, was always smoking cigars, and was, in fact, an unmitigated debauchee. Three years before my move to the house in Negishi he had, for no clear reason, put an end to his dissolute life.

  Mrs. Yamakami usually departed at about ten o’clock, and in her place would appear a young vaudeville entertainer. This fellow never spoke anything but the Osaka dialect, though it was obvious he was a Tokyo man born and bred.

  Oei never took part in the game, but was for practical reasons interested in how my grandfather was doing, and would sometimes get very irritated at the way he was playing and make comments. Whenever she did this, the entertainer would say something amusing at her expense in his vulgar way and make the others laugh.

  I have often wondered since why my grandfather lived the way he did. He was getting a regular allowance from my father, enough to keep him in modest comfort. Yet he would allow a secondhand dealer to hold auctions at his house for a commission, or buy and sell bric-a-brac himself. Perhaps he simply liked doing such things, profit or no profit.

  Oei was not at all a pretty person normally. But sometimes, such as when she put on heavy make-up after her evening bath, she seemed very beautiful to me. And when she was feeling particularly gay, she would start singing popular songs quietly after she had had a drink or two with my grandfather. Then suddenly she would pick me up and put me on her knees and hold me tight in her strong, thick arms. I would feel such ecstasy then, I hardly cared that I could not breathe.

  I never did manage to become fond of my grandfather. Indeed, my dislike for him grew as the days went by. But Oei was different—I came to like her more and more.

  * * *

  One Sunday—or it might have been some national holiday—half a year or so after my move to Negishi, my grandfather and I visited my father’s house in Hongō. My elder brother was out on a picnic with one of the servants, and only my father and my baby sister Sakiko, not yet a year old, were at home.

  My father seemed in an unusually friendly mood as he received us in his study. He spoke to me kindly. I think now that something good must have happened that day to make him so cheerful, and that he was being charming to me out of mere caprice. But I was quite unsuspecting then. I felt myself drawn to him, and when my grandfather left for the morning room, I remained.

  He said suddenly, “Would you like to wrestle with me, Kensaku?”

  I merely nodded. But my excitement and pleasure must have been pitifully apparent.

  He remained seated. “Come on, then,” he said, and held out his hands.

&nb
sp; I jumped up and rushed at him. He pushed me away easily. “Say, you’re not bad.”

  I was elated. I braced myself, lowered my head, then charged again.

  All I wanted was to hear him say what a brave and strong boy I was. I don’t think I cared very much whether I won or lost.

  I had never played like this with him before. I was taut with excitement. It was as though my entire body had gained a new strength from such unexpected pleasure, and no matter how often he pushed me away, I kept on hurling myself at him. But not once did he let down his defence for me.

  Once more I charged. “How about this,” he said, and shoved me back hard. Surprised, I fell backward on the floor with a big thump. I lay still for a moment, stunned breathless. Then I felt a touch of anger. I jumped up and faced him, readying myself for another charge. But the man I now saw seemed suddenly to have changed. “It’s all over,” he said, smiling in a strange, tight way.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “So you won’t give up, eh?”

  “Of course not.”

  Very quickly I found myself on the floor again, this time pinned down under his knee. “Now will you give up?” he said. I said nothing. “All right, then.” He undid his sash, then with one end tied my hands behind my back and with the other tied my ankles. I couldn’t move at all. “Say you’ve had enough and I’ll untie you.”

  I looked at him coldly. The warmth that I had felt toward him only moments before was now all gone.

  The activity had exhausted him, and his face was pale and strained. He was breathing heavily. As he turned away to face his desk, I stared at his heaving shoulders with hate. Soon the outline of his back became blurred; then I burst out crying.

  He turned around quickly in surprise. “All right, all right. Silly fellow, all you had to do was ask me to untie you.”

  But even when my hands and legs were free, I continued to lie there on the floor, crying. “It doesn’t take much to make you cry, does it?” he said, and pulled me up onto my feet. “All right, that’s enough, go and get something nice to eat.”

  I began to be ashamed of having shown such open animosity. Yet I could not bring myself to trust him entirely.

  My grandfather and one of the maids came in to see what was going on. My father gave an embarrassed laugh and started to explain. When the explanation was over my grandfather laughed loudest of all. He gave my head a light, playful smack and said, “Silly boy.”

  PART I

  1

  Tokitō Kensaku had felt a mounting dislike for Sakaguchi for some time now; and this story of his that he had just finished reading proved conclusively that he had been right. Sakaguchi’s story had left a nasty taste in his mouth, true; but at the same time there was some satisfaction, a sense of completion, in being able to feel so definite about the fellow. He threw the magazine toward the foot of his bed—he somehow didn’t want it near his pillow—and put out the light. It was close to three o’clock in the morning.

  Despite the deep fatigue he felt both in his mind and body, sleep would not come readily. He was too tense, he supposed, and thought he would read something light to unwind. But, alas, books of the sort he had in mind were all in Oei’s room. Dare he wake Oei at this time of the night? Well, why not, he told himself, and putting the light on again he went downstairs. He opened her door slightly. “I’ve come to borrow one of your books,” he said tentatively, then with more assurance, “Is Tsukahara Bokuden in the cupboard?”

  Oei put on the light. “It’s either in the alcove or on top of the tea cabinet. Can’t you go to sleep?”

  “No. I thought the book might help.”

  He found the historical romance—it was a small paperback—on the cabinet. “See you tomorrow,” he said. The room went dark again as he was closing the door. “Sleep well,” he heard her say.

  Kensaku continued to read the harmless little book until he could hear the sparrows singing cheerfully outside. There was a softness in their song, as if it had been moistened by the morning dew.

  The next day was a still autumn day, dark with overhanging clouds. It was about one in the afternoon when Oei awakened him. “Mr. Tatsuoka and Mr. Sakaguchi are here.” He said nothing. The thought of having to see Sakaguchi was too much for his befuddled mind. Even a less unwelcome prospect, indeed, would hardly have elicited a response from him at that moment.

  “Do get up. I’ll show them to the living room in the meantime.”

  She was leaving the room when he said, “I’ll see Tatsuoka but not Sakaguchi. Tell Sakaguchi I can’t see him.”

  She looked around quickly, her hand on the door. “Do you really mean that?”

  “All right. Show them both in. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  The story by Sakaguchi that Kensaku had found so unpleasant was about a man who has an affair with his fifteen-year-old housemaid; the housemaid becomes pregnant and is sent to an abortionist. Kensaku thought it most likely that it was based on the author’s own experience. The facts described were in themselves unpleasant enough; but what he really disliked was the obvious flippancy of the author. He could have forgiven the facts if he had been allowed to feel some sympathy for the protagonist; but the flippancy, the superciliousness of the protagonist (and of Sakaguchi) left no room for such sympathy.

  He was angered, too, by the way the protagonist’s friend, who he was certain had been modeled on himself, was described.

  The protagonist knows that the girl is too childlike to be thought of as a likely mistress for him. Taking advantage of this, he amuses himself by treating her rather shabbily in the presence of his unsuspecting friend. The friend, a naive and trusting sort, secretly pities the girl. His sympathy is perceived by the shrewd and sardonic protagonist, who finds himself resenting it somewhat; and he would then taunt her till she cried, much to his friend’s discomfort.

  In truth Kensaku had been fond of the maid. She was an innocent and good-hearted girl, and at times he had felt quite drawn to her. But he had suspected, too, that there was something going on between her and Sakaguchi. And so to see the friend described as an unknowing observer, harboring what amounted to a secret longing for the girl, galled him.

  The friend’s feelings are wholly transparent to the protagonist, who watches him with scorn, hardly able to suppress the inclination to laugh out loud. What smugness, Kensaku thought, what vanity!

  He wondered why Sakaguchi had come to his house that day. A week had passed since the appearance of the magazine. He’d he expected to get an angry letter from Kensaku, and when it didn’t come, become uneasy and begun to feel threatened by the uncanny silence? Or had he come to play the stage villain, gloating over his own nastiness? He had better be careful, Kensaku thought, or I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Thus his fancies about Sakaguchi became less and less restrained; and by the time he had finished washing his face, he was in a state of considerable agitation.

  As he dressed in the morning room he could hear the two men talking. Their voices sounded remarkably relaxed. His own state of mind now began to seem a little incongruous; and he could not help resenting the indignity of being so belligerent when everyone else was so full of cheer.

  Tatsuoka looked at him apologetically as he entered the living room. “I hear you were up until very late last night.”

  “I was about to get up when you came anyway.”

  Sakaguchi was nonchalantly reading the newspaper that Oei had brought in. Kensaku knew immediately that he had not come with any ulterior purpose. The man led a rather disorganized life, and no doubt he had allowed himself to be dragged along by Tatsuoka for lack of anything better to do. Even so Kensaku had to make sure. “Where did you two get together?” he asked.

  “Oh, I picked him up at his house,” Tatsuoka said. “By the way, did you see that thing this fellow published recently?” There was contempt, and a touch of the familiarity of friends, in the way he looked at Sakaguchi. Kensaku did not answer. “It’s an unpleasant piece of work. Mind you, I could
have forgiven that. But do you know, there’s a fellow in it who isn’t very bright, and I’m the model for this character! I read it yesterday, and I was so mad I went over to his place this morning to give him a good talking-to.”

  Sakaguchi sat smirking, his eyes still fixed on the newspaper. Tatsuoka went on: “He says most of the story is imagined, but I doubt it. He’s just the sort of fellow who’ll write about his friends behind their backs.”

  Even these remarks seemed to have no effect on Sakaguchi. Kensaku wondered what he was really thinking. One thing at least was clear—he was enjoying himself. Why else would he have that smirk on his face? In his characteristic fashion, he was flaunting his superiority.

  Tatsuoka had just received his degree in engineering that year, and was hoping to go to France soon to study engine design. Remarks on literary matters from such a man, Sakaguchi probably felt, he could ignore.

  “I told him that what I found most irritating of all was his knowingness about other people’s feelings. Of course he can be perceptive enough at times. But he doesn’t seem to understand that people do change their minds about things from one minute to the next, that they can have conflicting feelings about something at one and the same time. The trouble with Sakaguchi when he writes is that he only sees what he wants to see in others. Anything he doesn’t want to see simply doesn’t exist for him.”

  Sakaguchi at last showed annoyance. “All right, that’s enough. You’re beginning to repeat yourself.”

  Tatsuoka looked at Kensaku, and tried to hide his tension behind a smile. “I’ve been going at him like this ever since this morning.”

  “What a bore he can be,” Sakaguchi muttered, as though to himself.

  “What did you say?” Tatsuoka said angrily. “So you don’t like what I’ve been saying, eh? Well, let me tell you, you haven’t heard half of what you really deserve. I can be a lot more annoying, you know, if I so choose. You like to think you’re a pretty naughty fellow, don’t you? What a joke! A shoddy little cardboard villain, that’s what you really are, however you may think you appear in your stories. Abortion indeed! Tell me, what’s so world-shaking about an abortion?”