by Naoya Shiga
Tatsuoka had discarded all pretense at friendly banter. Against such vehemence, brought on by his own smugness, Sakaguchi was quite defenseless. Besides, he was no match for Tatsuoka physically, who was not only twice as large but a third-grade black belt in judo. Further resistance was out of the question.
Kensaku, who had earlier wondered how he was going to deal with Sakaguchi, was a little nonplussed to find himself in the role of neutral bystander. What was there left for him to do, when his intended victim had been quite so thoroughly demolished by someone else?
The awkward silence that followed was at last broken by Kensaku.
“Have you booked your passage yet?”
“Yes. The boat leaves on the twelfth of December.”
“Have you made all the necessary preparations?”
“Well, there really isn’t all that much to do. By the way, I am thinking of buying some ukiyo prints to take with me. Would you mind coming to look at some with me? I couldn’t afford anything expensive, but I thought they would make nice presents for all those people who are going to take care of me over there.”
“I don’t know much about them myself, but of course I’ll be glad to come anytime. I’m told they’re frightfully expensive these days, and anyone who remembers what they used to cost can hardly bear to pay today’s prices. You know, they may be cheaper in Paris.”
“That’s bad news, I must say. Perhaps I should think of something else.”
“Why not something like that nice decorated paper you can get at Haibara’s? It’s very pretty stuff, the sort of thing you can’t find anywhere else, and people with children will most likely prefer that to some mediocre ukiyo prints.”
Kensaku looked at the deflated and silent Sakaguchi, and felt a little sorry for him. But he was far from forgiving him. He was by no means convinced that the friend described in the story was Tatsuoka. True, none of the scenes in which the friend appeared were familiar to him. But this did not mean that the friend himself had not been modeled on him. He had the gnawing suspicion that if Sakaguchi could, he would say something like this to Tatsuoka: “I admit that some of the things that the friend witnesses, you yourself witnessed too. But surely you can see how different his character is from yours?” No doubt about it, Sakaguchi was a slippery customer. If Kensaku were to complain that he had been used as the model for the friend, he would simply be admitting that he and this rather feeble creature had much in common. Indeed, it would have been much easier for him had he been able to claim, as Tatsuoka could, that the scenes described were familiar to him. The friend in the story, alas, was so unadmirable that to complain merely on the basis of similarity of character would leave Kensaku utterly exposed. To Tatsuoka, Sakaguchi would only need to say, “But who in the world would imagine that you had anything in common with him?” But to Kensaku, he might very easily say, “Do you really have such a low opinion of your own character that you should see yourself in him?”
That’s why the fellow thinks he can afford to smirk, Kensaku thought, and became more angry than ever. He was being far too suspicious of Sakaguchi. But it was also true that had he not trusted Sakaguchi so much before, he would not have been so extremely bitter.
Ever since his experience with Aiko, he had found it increasingly difficult to trust people. He did not like this tendency in himself, but there was not much he could do about it. And so now he began to doubt even the sincerity of Tatsuoka’s anger.
For Tatsuoka was an old-fashioned sort, and had a deep sense of the sanctity of established human relationships. Had he perhaps known all the time that Kensaku was indeed the model for the friend in the story, and pretending otherwise, given Sakaguchi a severe scolding in his presence in the hope that Kensaku, mollified, might continue his association with Sakaguchi? It was like him not to want to see a friendship broken just before he left for France. Why else would he have gone out of his way to bring Sakaguchi to his house that morning, and then have attacked him with such uncharacteristic vehemence? Tatsuoka admittedly had his share of impulsiveness. But he was a proper man too, and Kensaku found it difficult to believe that he would so blatantly air personal grievances in the presence of a third person unless he had some ulterior reason for doing so.
2
The street was muddy and reminded one of a shanty town. Even the bright lights suggested cheapness rather than gaiety. From both sides of the street women, decked out in brilliantly colored clothes which the more sensitive among the visitors might have found sickeningly gaudy, shouted to the men as they passed by. There was an uncertain shrillness in these women’s cries, as if they themselves did not know whether they were begging for mercy or hurling insults.
Tatsuoka and Kensaku walked quickly side by side down the middle of the street, overcome by the oppressive atmosphere. Yet Tatsuoka was appreciative enough. “There are plenty of good-looking ones around, aren’t there?” he once said in an undertone.
They and Sakaguchi had come out of Kensaku’s house in Akasaka at about four that afternoon. Sakaguchi, still resentful, had wanted to leave them, but Tatsuoka would not let him go. He thought, no doubt, that he had been too harsh with Sakaguchi, and wanted a chance to make amends before they parted. And so the three had gone together to Haibara’s in Nihonbashi and from there to a restaurant in Kiharadana. Kensaku drank little, for he was not much of a drinker; but by the time they had finished, the other two were fairly drunk.
It was just as they were coming out of the restaurant that Tatsuoka had suddenly suggested visiting the Yoshiwara quarter. All he wanted to do, he said, was to see it before he went abroad. “It’s all right, isn’t it?” he had said to Kensaku in a very tentative tone. “After all, it’s only to look at the place, nothing more.” Kensaku had tried to appear off-hand and noncommittal. The truth of the matter was that he himself had never set foot in such a place, and Tatsuoka’s suggestion confused him. It was not that he was against the idea; indeed, he found it quite intriguing. He had simply been caught unawares, and his instinctive response had been to feign indifference.
Kensaku and Tatsuoka now found themselves on Nakanochō, the street with the many telegraph poles. They stood and waited for Sakaguchi, whom they could see coming toward them at a snail’s pace, swaying like a stage drunk. He kept very close to the houses, and at regular intervals would lean against a doorway to engage in witty repartee with some female.
“Hurry up, can’t you!” Tatsuoka shouted. “It’s going to rain any minute!”
Sakaguchi showed no visible sign of having heard. Kensaku looked up at the sky and saw black clouds hanging heavily over the high rooftops. When at last Sakaguchi joined them, Tatsuoka said, “We’re going home now. Do you want to hang around here, or do you want to come with us?” Sakaguchi, muttering discontentedly, walked with them in the direction of the gateway.
Before they were out of the quarter, large drops of rain began to fall. Feeling rather tired, the three agreed to stop and rest at one of the teahouses that lined the street on either side. Each had a large paper lantern hanging outside the door, with the name of the establishment written in bold strokes. They chose one at random, one that called itself Nishimidori. The madam, a skinny woman in her forties with sparse eyebrows, was standing outside, examining the sky. She must have been cold, for her large kimono sleeves were folded close over her chest. “Do come in,” she said, and led the three up some Western-style stairs which still smelled strongly of varnish, and into the main upstairs room. The woodwork in the room was brand new, almost white, and reflected with unbearable harshness the garish light of the gas lamp. Incongruously a soiled horizontal landscape, claiming to be by Bunchō, hung in the shallow alcove. The Western-style stairs smelling of varnish, and now this tastelessly appointed room shouting with newness—how different, Kensaku thought, from the Nakanochō always depicted on the kabuki stage. Hardly in the mood to relax, Kensaku leaned back against the pillar by the alcove, drew up his legs that ached to the bone from all the walking, and clasped his
hands around them.
The madam left and in her place appeared the maid with the tea things. Very large she was, with small eyes, not at all unlike an elephant.
“Do you happen to know if Koine is free?” said Sakaguchi with an accustomed air.
“I’ll call her and see, if you like. But it is a bit late. Do you know her?”
“No,” said Sakaguchi with perfect aplomb.
The maid, an honest and simple woman by the look of her, was a little disconcerted. Was the gentleman pulling her leg or not? “I’ll go and see,’’ she said finally and went downstairs.
Try as they might, neither Kensaku nor Tatsuoka could feel at ease in the strange surroundings. As if to shake off his own uneasiness, Tatsuoka took a cigarette from the tea table, quickly lit it, and stood up with a determined air. He opened the door on the street side and stepped out onto the verandah. There he opened noisily the ill-fitting outer glass door and gazed at the street scene below. Kensaku could now hear the rain falling steadily and footsteps hurrying along the puddly street. “They do run daintily, don’t they?” said Tatsuoka.
The maid came in to report that the geisha Sakaguchi had asked for was busy but that another would be coming in her place.
She turned out to be a very young geisha; and not very blasé, for she blushed in consternation at the sight of three boorish-looking fellows sitting glumly in the room. But she collected herself quickly enough and bowed gravely, showing the back of her elegant neck. Kensaku thought she was a rather beautiful woman, and wondered why Sakaguchi was looking at her with such marked indifference. After all, he was presumably more at home in these situations than either of his two companions, in whom a certain amount of ungraciousness could be excused. But it was Sakaguchi who in the end broke the uncomfortable silence by asking her the standard questions. What geisha house was she from? What was her name? Her name, she said, was Tokiko.
They were soon joined by an apprentice dancer, a cheerful but slightly common girl with a flat, round nose. Her name, Yutaka, struck Kensaku as appropriately mannish. The two women retired together to the end of the room and began to tune their instruments—Yutaka her hand drum, Tokiko her samisen.
Tokiko was a tall, thin woman. Even when she was seated, she somehow suggested a straight line. Her movements, her gestures, almost everything about her was linear. Yet for all that she had her own peculiar kind of nimbleness and femininity.
“Let’s do something else,” Sakaguchi said unceremoniously as Yutaka’s first dance came to an end. Kensaku looked at Yutaka: her dancing had been quite awful, but surely there was no reason to be quite so unkind about it, to be so blatantly anxious to see no more of it. But to his surprise Yutaka seemed to welcome Sakaguchi’s suggestion, and rushed downstairs to fetch some cards.
It was past eleven o’clock. Kensaku said, “Well, are we staying or aren’t we?” He went to the glass door and looked out. Tatsuoka joined him. “What should we do?” he asked uncertainly. The rain was now pouring down. The street was much quieter than it had been earlier. A car passed by, its strong headlights momentarily turning the rain into glittering streaks of silver.
With some show of hesitation they sat down again to join the others in a game of vingt-et-un. As he dealt the cards, Kensaku turned to Tatsuoka beside him and said, “She looks exactly like Ishimoto’s wife sometimes, don’t you think?” Tatsuoka scrutinized Tokiko’s face. “You’re absolutely right,” he said.
Tokiko was saying something to Yutaka at the time. She suddenly stopped, looked at Kensaku with an air approaching defiance and said, “You know, you look exactly like someone I took a fancy to years ago.”
The retort took Kensaku by surprise, and he fell into a confused silence. Perhaps to save him from further embarrassment she turned to Sakaguchi and said brightly, “And you look exactly like my older brother.”
“Trying to please us all, eh?” said Sakaguchi, not at all flattered.
She blushed, then gave a nervous laugh. “But it’s true!”
Tatsuoka broke in loudly: “Come on, let’s get on with the betting!”
After vingt-et-un they played a game called “secret strategy.” This required two equal opposing sides, so they asked the maid with the small eyes to join. The three teammates on either side sat close to one another, their shoulders touching, facing the other three. They would put their hands behind their backs, and communicate the strategy for the next showdown by holding the next person’s hand in some particular way. On the word “go” each would adopt one of three postures—“the village headman” or “the fox” or “the hunter.” The headman beat the hunter, the hunter beat the fox, and the fox the headman. They changed places from time to time, so that on occasion Kensaku would sit next to Tokiko, his hand touching hers. Once, when the other side was slow to make up their minds, she brought her face close to his and repeated the sign he had already given her. “You did mean this, didn’t you?” she said, squeezing his hand.
Throughout the game Kensaku was acutely sensitive to her touch. Whenever she held his hand, he would find himself trying to gauge the pressure with extraordinary wariness. He was equally apprehensive when it was his turn to hold her hand, lest by unwittingly exerting undue pressure he should be thought at all suggestive. Yet for all the apprehension, one part of him wished for some little meaningful sign from her. He was being inconsistent, of course; but given his tenseness at the time and his habitual fastidiousness, the contradiction within him was inevitable.
The next game, they played was “passing the coin.” The sides were chosen by lot: Tatsuoka, Sakaguchi and the maid on one side, Kensaku, Tokiko and Yutaka on the other.
The leader of one side sat between his two teammates. His hands, both closed, were placed, one on top of the other, on his knees. In one hand was a five sen coin. Several times he would slip the coin from one hand to the other (or pretend to do so), then change the position of his hands, top to bottom, bottom to top, until he thought the other side was sufficiently confused as to which hand held it. He would then place his hands over his companions’, and go through the motion of transferring the coin. It was now up to the other side to guess which hands were empty. The object of the game was to point to as many empty hands as possible before you got to the one with the coin in it.
Under the blinding light of the gas lamp Kensaku and the two women sat side by side, their fists placed neatly on their knees—Yutaka’s, plump and small like a child’s, on gay-colored silk, and Tokiko’s, rather large for a woman but shapely and white nonetheless, on austere black silk. Against such a background her hands seemed more beautiful than ever. Kensaku sat rigidly in the middle, providing a sharp contrast with his bony, hairy hands, clenched so tight that they looked all knuckles, and his kimono limp from the day’s wear.
Tatsuoka pointed to Tokiko’s hands and said to Sakaguchi, “I’m sure she hasn’t got it.”
“Quite right,” Sakaguchi said, and looked steadily at Yutaka. “She has it.” Yutaka looked back at him with half-closed eyes, then stuck out her chin.
“Then let’s start with the other one,” Tatsuoka said.
“Your right hand, please!” said Sakaguchi to Tokiko with mock heartiness. “Now your left! See, we already have two points.” He turned to Kensaku. “He hasn’t got it either—you agree?” Tatsuoka and the maid nodded. “All right then, open up your hairy bear’s paws, if you please!” Yutaka laughed loudly. Silent and angry, Kensaku looked at his clumsy hands perched on his knees and unclenched them, palms up.
Ever since they began playing “strategy” Kensaku had felt self-conscious about his uncouth hands. They had made him feel somehow incongruous, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them. Sakaguchi had sensed Kensaku’s discomfort, and was now crudely taking advantage of it. That he had been so easily seen through was annoying enough to Kensaku. But what really angered him was the shoddiness of this man, who should have wanted to taunt him in this way.
It was about four in the morning. The rain had
turned into a soft drizzle. Through the quietness outside they could hear with sharp clarity the night watchman striking his iron pole on the ground as he made his rounds.
Sakaguchi’s eyes were sunken, his eyelids creased. He looked as though his body and spirit were eroding to the core; and surrendering himself to the process, it seemed, he continued his aimless, mechanical chatter.
Dawn began to break. Tatsuoka and Sakaguchi, having at last given in to fatigue and intoxication, lay on the floor, dozing fitfully. Yutaka stood on the verandah and gazed tiredly at the odd visitor or two walking homeward in the autumn rain. Her kimono was loose and disheveled from all the merrymaking, the skirt on the verge of gaping open at the front. In the light of the dawn the gas lamp began to look feeble and purposeless. Bits of left-over food on the plates, cigarettes fallen out of their packs, playing cards and go pieces strewn on the floor—everything in the room suggested the end of an episode.
Kensaku, too, was tired—all the more so for not having slept well the previous night. But rest was beyond him. He felt a tautness within, which even such fatigue would not dispel. He sat on a pile of cushions that they had used earlier in a game called “take a seat,” and looked at the grubby faces of his companions. He knew he looked no better than they. Filled with distaste for this sordid scene of which he was a part, he wished he could dissociate himself from it that very minute. He took a very deep breath, then glanced down at his own body as if in an attempt to recapture some sense of familiarity with his old self.
He suddenly thought of Nobuyuki, his elder brother. He had always been deeply attached to him, was fonder of him than of any other man. And now the mere thought of him seemed to revive his spirits somewhat. Wondering whether he would be up already, he looked at his pocket watch. It was six-thirty.