by Naoya Shiga
Nothing particularly serious would be discussed that evening, he added. Mr. S simply thought it would be nice if he could take the two of them out to dinner.
Mr. S turned out to be a skinny man in his fifties, going rather bald. To hide the baldness he had grown his soft, sparse hair long on one side of his head near the ear and then had stretched the pathetic strands over the top to the other side. Ishimoto’s given name being Michitaka, the gentleman kept addressing him as “Master Michi.”
He was going to take them, he said, to a restaurant that specialized in snapping turtle meat. They went outside and caught a streetcar going in the direction of Kitano. The restaurant was at the end of a cul-de-sac bordered on one side by the mud wall of a temple. A small lantern, protected by wire netting, hung under the low eaves in the front. The entryway inside had an earth floor, and the front room which one crossed to get to the stairs had a floor of darkly glowing wood that must have been several centuries old. The stairs, too, glowed with age. It wouldn’t be at all surprising, Kensaku thought, if someone dressed like the hero of a play by Chikamatsu were to suddenly come down these stairs. The steps near the top had the appropriate wormholes. They were a bit showy, but Kensaku decided the effect wasn’t too bad.
The turtle meat was delicious. Kensaku remembered being told by an acquaintance who lived in a mansion in Kitano that a man from this restaurant used to come to the pond in his grounds to catch toads. But that was a long time ago, Kensaku reassured himself, and went on eating.
The three men talked little about the prospective marriage. Most of the talking was done by Ishimoto and Mr. S, who seemed still to think of their relationship as that of lord and retainer. It was not an easy social situation; for Mr. S could hardly change his deferential style of speech whenever he addressed Kensaku, and Kensaku in turn was forced to reply with equal humility, for he could hardly treat Mr. S as an inferior and accept the elaborate deference with Ishimoto’s equanimity. For Kensaku, then, it became clearly easier to say nothing than to have to mumble mouthfuls of honorifics. Ishimoto made several valiant but futile attempts to bring Kensaku into the conversation, such as: “So you’ve found a house you like. That means you’ll be settling down in Kyoto, eh?”
After dinner Kensaku and Ishimoto parted from Mr. S and took a walk around Maruyama.
“I have business to attend to in Tokyo the day after tomorrow,” Ishimoto said, “so I’ll be going on the night train tomorrow. I’ll come back to Kyoto after about a week—which day exactly I’ll know when I hear from S. There is nothing you can do in the meantime, so feel free to go back to Tokyo anytime you like.” He waited, then went on. “I’ve left the matter entirely in S’s hands. He seems to think it’s likely to proceed smoothly, but I don’t want you to be too optimistic, just in case it doesn’t.”
Kensaku said suddenly, “I’ll go back to Tokyo tomorrow too. I’ll catch the morning express.”
“Let’s go together, then.”
“All right.”
Shortly thereafter they said good-night and walked back to their respective inns.
6
Kensaku left Ishimoto at Yokohama to change trains. It was already evening when he got off at Ōmori Station. Carrying a small bag he walked down the familiar road toward his house.
Oei rushed out to the front hall to greet him. Before saying anything else she expressed her pleasure at the recent happy turn of events. Though made uncomfortable by her certainty, he was nonetheless gratified that she should be so happy for him.
The Osai woman was not in, having gone to Tokyo for the day. Oei and Kensaku sat down to dinner together for the first time in some weeks.
“What is she like anyway?” Oei asked.
“Do you mean what does she look like?”
“Yes. Think of someone we know that looks like her.”
“I can’t think of anyone right away. But Takai thought she resembled one of those beauties on the ‘Feather Screen.’ ”
He went upstairs to fetch a book on Oriental art. There was one, he knew, that contained a reproduction of the screen. He brought it down and opened it in front of Oei, only to find that the reproduction was of just one panel of the screen, one that depicted a lady bearing little resemblance to the young woman in Kyoto. “No, she looks a lot better than this,” he said.
“Really! She must be very beautiful.”
They continued in this vein for some time, neither wanting to change the subject and begin talking about Oei’s future. But it could not be avoided forever, and at last Oei said, “I was so relieved to know that both you and Nobuyuki approved.”
Kensaku was at a loss for a suitable reply; for though it was not untrue to say that he had approved, it was not entirely true either. Yes, he had given his consent, but he had given it with obvious reluctance. There was so much more that he had wanted to say to Nobuyuki at the time. Nobuyuki must have known this, he must have known with what reluctance Kensaku had agreed. It was disingenuous of him, then, not to have communicated any of this to Oei.
“I don’t know what Nobuyuki told you,” Kensaku said, “but the truth is I’m not very enthusiastic. I approved only because I couldn’t disapprove. Actually, I hate the idea.” There was surprise on Oei’s face. “Supposing I do get married,” Kensaku went on, “that doesn’t mean I’ll want you to go away immediately. It would be nice if you could stay on for two or three more years and help take care of the house.”
“Really? Of course, leaving you now will be very painful for me. But, as I keep telling myself, we’ll have to part sometime anyway. Then there’s your father in Hongō. I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but you know, I’m rather scared of him. I always have been, but recently I’ve become more scared of him than ever. I stopped going to Hongō after that trouble you had with him over me, but I always have the feeling that he’s thinking awful things about me.”
“That’s all in your imagination. I think there’s something the matter with you these days. Are you feeling all right?”
“Perhaps you’re right. Yes, it’s possible I haven’t been well lately.”
“I’m sure that’s what it is. After all, there’s no earthly reason why you should be afraid of him. He can’t possibly blame you for the trouble that’s arisen between him and me. You were an innocent bystander, that’s all.”
“It’s not that simple. He has never liked me, you know.”
“All right, but why worry about it? Much more important is your health. If you aren’t feeling well, see a doctor at once. Anyway, you should have thought more carefully before deciding to do something so drastic as going away to Tientsin.”
Oei clearly had not expected such opposition from Kensaku at this late date. She had been led to believe, she said in a complaining tone, that he approved; otherwise she would not have told Osai that she would go with her; he should know that Osai was in Tokyo right now, making all the arrangements and doing the shopping for the two of them.
Kensaku had not intended to express himself quite so bluntly, and now he was a little sorry. Why exactly he had not made his feelings known to her more tentatively, whether it was for her sake or for his own that he was being so difficult, he was not sure. But he did know that like a spoiled child he was refusing to accept the fact that Oei could disappear from his life with such simplicity. Why wasn’t she more reluctant to leave him, he couldn’t help thinking, how could she accept so readily their impending separation? He had been more reasonable about her back in Kyoto; but now that he sat face to face with her, he could not control his childish resentment.
I must not be so resentful, he told himself, I must act like an adult. And in an effort to atone for his ungracious behavior, he embarked on an inept conciliatory speech.
The Osai woman returned in a rickshaw, carrying a large bundle. She was a tall, skinny woman with a sharp face, rather older than Kensaku had imagined. Kensaku took an instant dislike to her.
“So this is Kensaku,” she said to Oei, then turned to him and
bowed skittishly like a young coquette. “I’m Osai. How do you do.” She brought her face close to his and gazed at him with unabashed familiarity, all the while grinning broadly. The crow’s feet around her eyes were very noticeable, and her gums were not a nice color. Kensaku cringed, feeling all the more threatened by her evident goodwill. He had not thought that she could be this common.
He was first appalled, then irritated, by Oei’s readiness to associate with such a woman. Had she no sense of discrimination? No, he thought disappointedly, she hadn’t.
Osai brought out of her bundle several brightly colored kimonos. They were secondhand obviously, for they all had a slightly soiled look about them. She would stand up from time to time, and putting a kimono up against her chest would explain to Oei its particular qualities.
Kensaku was clearly out of place here; besides, he was tired. He bid the two women good-night and went upstairs to his room, taking the art book with him. Sprawled out in his bed he leafed through the book. What gave him particular pleasure were the reproductions of ancient works of art. He had seen some of them in the original in Kyoto recently, but this night the reproductions had a certain appeal for him. In this way, he thought with gentle contentment, a world that he had not known before was opening up for him.
But as he lay thus in his bed thinking of marriage and the new life it would bring, he remembered Oei downstairs. The two women were talking in lowered voices, presumably about their joint venture. What would Oei’s new life be like, he wondered; what happiness lay in store for her? Was it right for him to let her go off like this, all on her own?
It was nice to be back in his own bed. He turned the light off and sank into a deep, peaceful sleep.
By the time he woke up the next morning Osai had already left for Tokyo again. One could recruit women from a distance anytime, Oei explained, but when it came to clothes for them, one had to stock up a whole year’s supply in Japan. But why Osai was doing all the buying of clothes—this surely belonged to Oei’s side of the business—was not made clear to Kensaku.
Thinking that there was nothing he could now do or say to dissuade Oei, he went upstairs to do some packing himself. The books that he had borrowed he put aside, and the rest he put into several trunks.
In the afternoon he went to Ishimoto’s house in Ushigome. Ishimoto was not in. Had Kensaku telephoned beforehand, he would have had occasion to remember Ishimoto’s saying in Kyoto that he had business to attend to that day. Not particularly disappointed—he had had nothing important in mind to say to his friend—Kensaku walked toward Ginza.
He didn’t want to have to see Osai again so soon. He guessed that she knew he had once proposed to Oei; and no doubt the information would have given her all kinds of ideas. Indeed, Kensaku thought he could guess even the sort of things she would be saying about him to Oei behind his back.
Partly to avoid Osai’s company, then, and partly from a desire to hear Tokyo speech at its liveliest—it would be a pleasant change after all those weeks in Kyoto—he waited till evening and then went to a vaudeville theatre to listen to a raconteur. It was quite late when he returned to Ōmori.
Oei and Osai were still up, talking under the electric light in the morning room. Osai was too preoccupied with whatever she was saying to pay much attention to Kensaku. Without so much as giving him a glance she poured some tea into a cup, pushed it toward him, and went on talking to Oei. “And like a fool I didn’t know that since that spring they had been very thick,” she said. She rubbed her emaciated thumb and little finger together in front of Oei’s nose, and added with a coarse sneer, “Like this, if you see what I mean?” In embarrassment Oei looked down, saying nothing. “How do you think I felt? There was my patron, carrying on with my younger sister behind my back. He was bad enough, but that bitch, she was living on what I earned, don’t you know? So I chased her with a kitchen knife—just to scare her, mind you.”
Kensaku didn’t think he wanted to hear much more. He was about to put his teacup down and get up when Oei, noticing his discomfort, raised her eyes and said, “Would you like some cake?”
“No, thanks,” he said, and again prepared to leave.
Osai, realizing that she had made a faux pas, put on a bright smile. “It wasn’t a nice story, I’m sorry.”
“Was Mr. Ishimoto in?” Oei asked.
“No, he wasn’t,” said Kensaku, pulling himself nearer to the brazier. “Actually, he told me back in Kyoto that he would be busy today, but I completely forgot. So I went to hear a raconteur.”
“So you like things like that, do you, Kensaku?” said Osai. “So do I. But over there, we don’t get good performers often. I once put up a couple at my place, the husband was a raconteur—I forget his name—and the wife was a lute player. She called herself Asahishijō. She had a fine voice. Lu Yuan-hung had inscribed something on the lute for her, I remember.” She had put her hands up against her forehead, her elbows resting, on the table. Thus shielded from the bright light above, her face looked a lot younger. The wrinkles had disappeared, and the dryness of the skin was no longer noticeable. She appeared at that moment quite attractive to Kensaku—as she knew very well she would. He looked at her thoughtfully, forced to concede that once she might have been beautiful.
Osai left for Gifu the next morning, having arranged to meet Oei in Kyoto and from there journey to Tientsin together. Gifu was her home, and apparently she had a few things to take care of there. “Don’t worry about Oei,” she said as she left the house with Oei and the maid who were seeing her off. The remark elicited no response from Kensaku.
In the afternoon Kensaku went to Kamakura to see Nobuyuki. He was in bed with a cold, his throat wrapped in a compress. Beside the bed sat Ishimoto. “I haven’t heard yet,” he said as soon as he saw Kensaku. The comment was quite unnecessary, for it had never occurred to Kensaku that Ishimoto would be hearing from Kyoto so soon. The two talked briefly about the prospective marriage, while Nobuyuki tried unsuccessfully to take an interest in the conversation. Kensaku looked at him, and saw that his eyes were dull with fever. “Have someone come over from Hongō. Shall I telephone them when I get back to Tokyo?”
“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll just have to let it take its course. In two or three days I’ll be much better, so long as I stay in bed like this.”
“But you really should have someone here with you, someone who could work an inhaler for you all the time. You’d recover more quickly that way.”
“Perhaps so.”
“You don’t have an inhaler, I take it?”
“No. I suppose I should at least have that. Could you go out and get me one?”
Kensaku immediately went into town and bought the apparatus. When he returned he found Nobuyuki dozing fitfully and Ishimoto reading a thick book, bound in the Western style, on Zen. His expression made it clear that he would have preferred a book on some other subject.
Kensaku got the inhaler ready and brought it near Nobuyuki’s face. When he was about to start it the landlady came in. Accepting gratefully her offer to stay and keep the inhaler going, Kensaku explained how it worked, then left with Ishimoto.
On the platform at the station they met a doctor of Ishimoto’s acquaintance, also waiting to go back to Tokyo. Ishimoto mentioned Nobuyuki, and the doctor said since he was coming to Kamakura again the next day, he would be glad to look in on him.
Over the scene that sped past the train window night was about to fall. Kensaku sat huddled in the corner by the window, overcome by sadness as he thought of Oei’s impending departure. The sadness was not only for himself, but for Oei too; and it was made more poignant by the dusk outside.
7
Knowing that they would soon be parting from each other, Kensaku tried to stay at home with Oei as much as possible. This took some effort, and he quickly began to feel constrained and bored. Never before had he felt so awkward in Oei’s company; never had he had so little to talk to her about.
But Oei was too busy to be bored.
She was absorbed in her last-minute womanly duties, seeing to it that every piece of Kensaku’s clothing was clean and without a loose stitch.
One morning Kensaku woke up earlier than usual. Feeling strangely nervous he dressed immediately and left the house without waiting for his breakfast. At the railroad station he found that there would be a long wait for the next regular train for Tokyo. Anxious to be off, he decided to go instead by the electric line, which would take him to Shinagawa Station.
As he sat on the train thinking of nothing in particular, he suddenly remembered that he had had a dream that morning just before daybreak. It was this dream, he now realized, that was the cause of his nervousness. He tried to recall it, but much of it remained vague. What was most clear was that it had made him uncomfortable.
The dream began, he thought, with his visiting T, who had recently returned from the South Seas. Inside a large, crude building that looked like a gymnasium were many cages of the sort traveling circuses put their beasts in. In one of them he saw dozens of tiny baboons, no larger than squirrels, sitting huddled together on perches. His initial fascination soon turned into acute discomfort. “I have to go, good-bye,” he said to T, as he hastily withdrew. He found himself in front of the huge, old-fashioned gate of the Ueno Museum. He was surrounded by a ring of detectives, converging on him from a distance. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. He had somehow committed a treasonable offense.
From behind the gate he took a peek outside. Could it be Sunday, he wondered, for soldiers ambled past in little, scattered groups. He said to one of them, “Would you be interested in deserting?” The soldier complied with alacrity. Behind the gate they exchanged clothes. “This will do nicely,” he said to himself. “And I’ve done the soldier a favor too.” Leaving the soldier, now turned civilian, to go his own way, Kensaku walked nonchalantly toward a quiet-looking place in the park. The path narrowed, and on either side was a high embankment. A man dressed like a stationmaster came toward him, and as they were about to pass each other, pounced on him. He had seen through Kensaku’s disguise. No wonder, for when Kensaku examined himself carefully, he saw that his appearance was anything but military. The collar, unhooked, hung limply around his neck; the trousers, obviously belonging to someone much larger, clung despairingly and precariously to his hips. In short he looked ghastly. Terrified by the arrest though he was, he could not help smiling at his own appalling ineptitude. Such, then, was the gist of his dream.