A Dark Night's Passing

by Naoya Shiga

  Such was the way she began, a complete novice. Yet with the help of the sleeper in each deal, she somehow managed to pile up a great many points; and finally, under Mizutani’s supervision, she won so many points that she emerged as the winner of the first round.

  “Try playing on your own the next round,” Kensaku said.

  “All right, I shall,” she said enthusiastically. But on her own she did so poorly that it was agreed she would again play with the sleeper’s help.

  She was not a good loser; and when the points were being counted at the end of a game, she was inclined to question the accuracy of the counting. “Are you sure?” she once said. “I thought I had a matching set.”

  “What are you talking about,” Kensaku said. “That was in the last game. Don’t be so greedy.” Though he spoke in a jocular tone, he did think that she was being womanishly petty, that there was indeed a greedy streak in her.

  Mizutani had the lead, and said he would play. Suematsu, the next to declare, and then Kensaku after him, both said they, too, would play. Willy-nilly Naoko had to be the sleeper.

  “I’ll buy your hand,” said Kensaku, looking at Naoko. “Have you anything worthwhile?”

  Naoko showed him her seven cards, neatly spread out like a fan. “I have a set,” she said.

  Taking a quick look at her cards he announced to the others, “Right, I have a set.” Then noticing a chrysanthemum card in her hand he reached over and spread out the fan. The chrysanthemum card that had drawn his attention had a saké cup on it, which made it valueless. The cup had been covered up by the card next to it. She had hidden it on purpose, Kensaku thought.

  Naoko, too, showed displeasure. “You don’t think I knew about it, do you?”

  “All right, but as punishment you won’t be paid for your hand.” Kensaku took out the useless card, shoved it into the deck of cards on the floor, and started playing. His action was quick and careless, but as he played he began to wonder about the little incident. Was it possible that the reason why he had been unable to dismiss it with some playful remark was that she had indeed tried to lie about her hand? The thought depressed him slightly; and it may have been his imagination, but the others, too, seemed suddenly to have become very quiet.

  At about eleven the two visitors said they would be going. Kensaku and Naoko decided to go out with them.

  “Come to our place sometime and have a game with us,” said Suematsu.

  “Perhaps I shall,” said Kensaku without enthusiasm. He was not particularly anxious to seek recreation in the company of fellows like Mizutani.

  “Yes, do come,” said Mizutani. “On most days you’ll find a game going on in one of the rooms.”

  “I’m not much of a card player, you know.”

  “Oh, but that isn’t true! I find your style very interesting, Mr. Tokitō—it’s so logical. Now, take Suematsu’s style—it’s what we call ‘prayerful.’ It has no form to it.”

  Kensaku turned to Suematsu. “What does he mean by ‘prayerful’?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Suematsu said, laughing.

  “What I mean is,” Mizutani said, “that Suematsu always hopes that the right card will turn up, and puts his trust in providence.”

  From Tsubakidera they crossed a small bridge and came to Ichijōdōri. At this late hour, with all the shops closed, this normally busy street was absolutely quiet. Naoko, her chin buried deep in a wool muffler belonging to Kensaku, walked behind him, not saying very much.

  “Let’s all go home, shall we?” said Suematsu.

  Kensaku turned around and said to Naoko solicitously, “What would you like to do?”

  “I’m all right, so please don’t worry about me,” she said.

  “Then let’s all walk as far as Daijōgun.”

  It was a cold night, and when no one was speaking, the harsh sound of their wooden clogs scraping the frozen ground seemed to shatter the brittle air around them.

  Kensaku remembered that one spring, about ten years before, he and Suematsu had toured the five lakes of Mt. Fuji. “When it gets a little warmer,” he said to his friend, “shall we go somewhere together?”

  “That would be fun,” said Suematsu. “I’ve been thinking of going to Tsukigase this spring. If you’ve never been there, it might be a good place for us to go. You get there from Kasagi, you know, over the pass.”

  “Tsukigase would be worth seeing, I’m sure,” said Mizutani immediately. “I’ve never been there myself.”

  The two friends ignored him, and started reminiscing about their trip to the five lakes.

  Soon they found themselves in front of the small, red-lacquered shrine of Daijōgun. Here Kensaku and Naoko said good-night to the two men, and started walking toward home. Naoko looked downcast. Guessing that she was still feeling hurt, Kensaku wished he could say something comforting to her, as much for his own sake as for hers; for his pride, too, had been hurt, as though he himself had taken part in the attempt to deceive.

  An ox-drawn cart, piled high with vegetables, its wheels clattering, came toward them and went past. The ox swung its lowered head slowly and heavily from side to side, emitting clouds of vapor from its nostrils.

  Unethical behavior—and cheating was unethical—Kensaku had always regarded with distaste. Why then, he wondered, did he not feel the slightest distaste or ill will toward what she had done? The tenderness that he now felt was overwhelming; through the unfortunate incident, it seemed he had become aware of a love for her that was deeper than what he had known before.

  Silently he got hold of Naoko’s hand, drew it toward his breast, and snuggled it under his coat. She narrowed her eyes like a coquette, and put her cheek against his shoulder. She is now absolutely a part of me, he thought, and surrendered himself to the poignancy of the moment.

  15

  Kensaku saw a great deal of Suematsu, partly because there was no other friend to see in Kyoto. Suematsu had at the time just become somewhat involved with a third-rate geisha of the Gion quarter, so that Kensaku had to exercise care in his choice of the time he would visit his infatuated friend. It would be awkward, after all, if he were to show up when Suematsu was about to leave for Gion. What added to the complication was Suematsu’s reluctance, out of consideration for Naoko’s feelings, to ask Kensaku to go to the quarter with him.

  Late one evening, thinking that if Suematsu were going out he would have left already, Kensaku stopped by at his friend’s boardinghouse on his way home from town. He had mistimed his visit; for Suematsu was still there but on the verge of leaving. The two friends faced each other guiltily.

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Suematsu said, “really, it is.” He sat down by the brazier as nonchalantly as he could, and began adding charcoal to the fire. But he betrayed his nervousness soon enough. “Shall I ask her to come over here?”

  “No, let’s go there instead,” Kensaku said. “It’d be easier.”

  “Do you really mean that?” Suematsu said, scratching his head in embarrassment, yet visibly pleased. “Are you sure your wife won’t mind?”

  It was past nine o’clock when they walked out into the cold. They walked straight down the wide, quiet road past Heian Shrine toward the main thoroughfare.

  “Where shall we meet her?” Suematsu asked.

  “Why not where you always see her?”

  Suematsu grinned. “I’d be too ashamed to take you there. The teahouse is third-rate, just as she is. Let’s go to a restaurant instead.”

  “But what if she’s already engaged for the evening? There would be no point in our being at a restaurant if she couldn’t come. I’ve just eaten, and so, I presume, have you.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but she’s not likely to be engaged. She’s not in such great demand, you know.”

  They got off the streetcar by the stone steps outside Gion, and went into a nearby bar. There Suematsu telephoned to find out if the geisha were free. “Yes, I see,” Kensaku heard him saying. “Goodnight, then.” He put the receive
r back noisily and returned to the table looking ill-tempered. “True, they get only sixty yen a month out of me, and I mustn’t expect too much, but it’s annoying all the same.” He turned to the waitress and ordered a strong drink.

  “Wasn’t she there?”

  “She’s gone to the theatre in Osaka, they say, and won’t be back tonight. Of course they’re lying.” He was so openly upset, Kensaku began to pity him. No doubt, he thought, Suematsu is imagining her cavorting with some other patron; and judging by his irate expression, what he imagined was all too vivid.

  The telephone rang, and a waitress went to answer it. “If it’s for me,” Suematsu called out shrilly, “tell them I’m not here!”

  The call was indeed for him. “But I can’t say that,” the waitress said, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. “The lady knows you’re here.”

  “Tell her I refuse to leave my table, then.”

  It was the madam of the teahouse, and she was obviously being persistent. At last Suematsu relented and went to the telephone. After some arguing back and forth Suematsu agreed to go to the teahouse. “It’s a shabby establishment, understand,” he said as he sat down. “At any rate, since my woman won’t be there, there’s no reason to hurry. We’ll stay here a bit.” He ordered another drink, determined to calm himself down. Besides, he was not about to be bullied into hurrying by a mere teahouse madam. “Are you sure you want to go?” he asked Kensaku. “It’s turning out to be a pretty dull evening for you, I’m afraid.”

  “Not at all, “Kensaku said casually, wishing there was some way to console Suematsu. But it was true that, for the time being at least, the two friends’ respective moods were too far apart for either to offer the other much in the way of companionship. And Kensaku for his part would catch himself from time to time thinking of Naoko in that isolated house in Kinugasamura waiting forlornly for her husband to return; he would then quickly assume a bland expression, hoping that he had not given Suematsu reason to suspect that his mind was elsewhere.

  “I know another teahouse in Hanamikōji,” Suematsu said. “That’s where we should have gone in the first place.”

  As they left the bar and made their way to the teahouse, Suematsu still fretted about its being such a shabby establishment. He was decidedly a little drunk.

  At the teahouse he refused to be shown to a room. He would rather go to a restaurant he knew in Kōdaiji, he told the madam; and since it was past ten, he had her telephone to warn them of their coming. The two then left the madam, who was to join them later at the restaurant with appropriate reinforcements.

  The second floor of a small wing at the rear of the garden was lit up in readiness for them. There the two men waited. After about twenty minutes they heard the busy sound of several women coming through the garden in their wooden clogs. Then the door opened, and the madam, led by the maid, rushed in noisily with two geisha in tow.

  Suematsu, still in an aggrieved mood, immediately began making himself extremely unpleasant to the madam. The two young geisha tried to distract him by teasing him about his paramour, but to no avail. Ignoring their chatter, he continued to taunt the madam.

  “Ah well,” he said at last, “who am I to complain—I’m only a sixty-yen patron.” And he did seem to wilt for a moment, as though overcome by the indignity of his own jealous infatuation for such a woman.

  The madam was now sick of this party which she herself had insisted on having. Unable to maintain her professional composure any longer, she suggested that they all leave the restaurant.

  Kensaku wanted to return to Naoko as quickly as possible. He knew she would be worrying, for he had never gone home after midnight since they were married. But to go away by himself now, he felt, would appear rude.

  They stepped out into the quiet night, and cut across the grounds of Yasui Shrine. The short, not unattractive geisha with the kinky hair was teasing Suematsu about something; and without interrupting her teasing she found Kensaku’s hand in the dark and held it. Kensaku led her hand into the pocket of his Inverness cape. He could now feel her shoulder against his arm. Not many nights before he had walked home like this with Naoko. And despite the geisha’s proximity, he continued to think only of Naoko sitting up and waiting for him to return. The geisha soon became aware of his unresponsiveness; and as though by mutual agreement, they let go of each other’s hand.

  The madam pleaded with Suematsu to stay the night at her teahouse, but he would not listen. Just put the two geisha up for the night, he told her, and came out with Kensaku.

  Neither of them suggested going home. Such nights were always difficult to end. Had Kensaku felt free to do so he would have put a stop to their wandering happily enough, but he knew from his own past experience how loathe Suematsu would be to end it then and there.

  “It’ll be all right so long as I get home by two,” Kensaku said.

  “Can we go to the teahouse in Hanamikōji?” asked Suematsu hesitantly.

  “All right.”

  “By the way, don’t expect me to come to your house for a while. I’m afraid your wife will disapprove of me.”

  They were in a dark alley. Suematsu stopped, faced the wall and began urinating. Just then a young man wearing a felt hat low over his eyes walked past him. “Forgive me,” Suematsu said solemnly. The young man walked on, ignoring the apology. “Idiot!” shouted Suematsu. “How dare you not answer when someone speaks to you!” And as soon as he had finished urinating, he began running after the young man, his long body swaying like a reed. Kensaku stood in the middle of the narrow alley, his arms stretched out, and blocked his friend. The young man quickly disappeared around the corner.

  “Let me have a good fight, please,” said Suematsu, his breath reeking of alcohol.

  “Do as you please, but I want no part of it.”

  “All right, but I’m going to knock him down. Where the hell did he go?” Suematsu shook himself free of Kensaku’s hold and rushed out into the main street. But of course the young man was nowhere to be seen.

  The teahouse in Hanamikōji was newly built, and had little in the way of atmosphere; but it was presumably a better-class establishment than the other one. The madam was a large woman, looking remarkably like a respectable housewife. “It’s been a long time,” she said as she bowed.

  “Would you call a geisha for me?” Suematsu asked.

  “Surely.”

  Kensaku said, “But not for me. I’ll be leaving in a minute.”

  The madam looked questioningly at Suematsu, as if to say, “Does he mean it?”

  Suematsu said unhappily, “If only we didn’t have to worry about your wife.” He really did seem to want Kensaku to stay.

  Kensaku had had too much experience of the demimonde to demand chastity of himself. It was merely that by staying he would in fact be insulting his wife in Suematsu’s presence. And to insult her was finally to insult himself. His desire to leave, then, was a selfish one, motivated by considerations which had little to do with his conscience. Before long he was being carried in a rickshaw through the cold, windy streets toward Kinugasamura, which seemed to him then very far away.

  When he got off the rickshaw in front of Tsubakidera it was past two o’clock. From there he ran a hundred yards or so down the path that led to his house, and came to a sudden stop a few feet from the gate. Perhaps because he was breathing heavily, he coughed. Naoko must have heard him, for through the glass door of the maid’s room he saw her running out of the morning room. Her voice reached him, dimly as if from a distance, as she called out, “Sen, the master is back!”

  Without waiting for the gate to be opened he jumped over the low and still straggly hawthorn hedge. Naoko rushed out of the kitchen door to greet him. “I’m so glad!” she said, holding his hand under the cape tight.

  “You should have gone to bed,” Kensaku said.

  In the morning room she stood before him and nervously started unbuttoning and unhooking his cape. “I thought you had fainted in the street or some
thing … ”

  Sen shouted from the adjacent room, “Madame can be pretty silly sometimes!”

  “It’s not silly at all!” Naoko shouted back. She then said to Kensaku, “Sen kept on telling me not to be silly, but I couldn’t help worrying. Anyway, it’s wonderful that you’re back.”

  “But did you really think I’d fainted?” Kensaku asked, laughing.

  “Yes, I did.”

  Sen was laughing. “Madame was going out to look for you at about one o’clock. So I said to her, where will you look for him?”

  “Don’t bother to get me any tea,” Kensaku said. “Let’s all go to bed.” He quickly changed into his night clothes and went into the bedroom. Naoko was still strangely excited as she folded and put away his clothes, and kept on laughing and saying, “I’m so glad.” Kensaku, lying in bed and with his head turned toward her, told her about that evening. But in her excitement, she did not even pretend to hear a word he said.

  16

  Their uneventful life together in Kinugasamura was extremely peaceful and happy. Yet sometimes, when he was reminded that indolence necessarily accompanied the peace and happiness, he would feel vaguely dejected and begin fretting about his work. He had not been able to do anything substantial for a long time—not even the piece he had promised to give to Nobuyuki’s friend.

  He continued to see much of Suematsu. Knowing that Kensaku disliked Mizutani, Suematsu made some effort to come alone to the house; but almost every other time he brought Mizutani with him. The reason was simple: it was better to play cards with four than with three players.

  One evening, during a game, Kensaku picked up his hand and thought he had a set. But later, when he saw the saké cup on the chrysanthemum card, he realized he had made exactly the same error that Naoko had made. The coincidence both amused and pleased him. It was as though someone had deliberately arranged it so that he might know that Naoko had indeed made an innocent mistake. He had never thought to condemn her for what he imagined she had done; he was nevertheless happy to know that she had not cheated. He wanted to tell her about his discovery, but too ashamed of his own suspiciousness, he could not bring himself to do so.