by Naoya Shiga
Though he was without hope, Kensaku still awaited eagerly the surgeon’s daily visit and his prognosis. Once, as they drank Indian tea upstairs in Kensaku’s study, the surgeon said: “I can hardly believe that he’s still alive. You know, when I looked at him yesterday, I didn’t think he would last much longer, so I told the people at the hospital to get in touch with me at once if they heard from you, and I was ready to rush over here at a moment’s notice today.” He was being blunt, but Kensaku was too disheartened himself to be offended. He had already asked himself why, if the baby was sure to die, he should be made to suffer any longer. Later, as he watched the baby struggling to stay alive, he had regretted his own presumptuous thought. But once again, as the surgeon so bluntly confirmed his own hopelessness, he could not help wondering why they had to let the baby suffer such misery. The pity that Kensaku felt was more than he could bear. He said to the surgeon, “Must you keep alive at all costs someone who is about to die, someone for whom living only means immense pain?”
“The Germans and the French think quite differently about that. In France, if the person’s family wish it, and responsible doctors agree, the person can be given something that will put him to sleep permanently. But in Germany, that’s not allowed. There, it’s the doctor’s duty to fight for the patient’s life to the very last moment.”
“What about Japan?”
“Oh, it’s more or less like Germany. By that, I don’t mean necessarily that we share their conviction. But you see, modern medical practice here was based on the German model. Anyway, there are grounds for holding either point of view.”
“If we could be certain that doctors are never wrong about a patient’s condition, I surely would support the French point of view.”
“Perhaps, but after all, we are talking about thousands of doctors and thousands of patients.”
The following day, one month after he had become ill, the baby died. It was as though he had been born merely to suffer.
The funeral service, and all the necessary arrangements preceding and following it, were made with a minimum of fuss by Mr. S, to whom they had had to turn again for help. Not sure that they would remain in Kyoto long, Kensaku and Naoko decided against a burial; for if they were to leave, who would look after the grave? There was a temple in Hanazono called Reiun’in, where the Ishimoto family had their burial ground; in this temple, then, they left the urn containing the baby’s bones.
It was Naoko who was most affected by the baby’s death. Moreover, having moved about so soon after the delivery, she was very slow to recover physically. Perhaps, Kensaku thought, a trip would do them both good. He had never seen her home in Tsuruga. They could go there, see Naoko’s aunt who was still in bed with neuralgia, then make a round of the spas in that area—Yamanaka, Yamashiro, Awazu, Katayamazu.
Unfortunately Naoko’s health would not permit such a trip. Her heart, it turned out, had been a little affected by her ordeal; and her face began to swell, especially around her eyes, so that she almost looked like a different person. All in all, the doctor said, she was unfit for any kind of journey, let alone a tour of remote spas.
Every day now, she spent much of her time visiting the hospital. Kensaku sought to immerse himself in his work, which had lain discarded too long. But he felt so weighed down by a sense of fatigue—it was like a heavy chain wrapped around him—that he was incapable of such immersion. Like a man suffering from cerebral anemia, he saw and felt everything as though through a veil of unreality. He would sit vacantly for hours before his desk, smoking one cigarette after another.
What thoughts occupied his mind were gloomy and obsessive. If fate was to treat him thus, baring its teeth at him at every turn, then so be it; he would simply have to learn never to trust it. True, others had lost their children too; and to die of erysipelas after many days of pain was a fate not reserved for his child alone; yet why must he be betrayed now, when after years of journeying down the dark road, he had thought that the waiting and seeking had not been in vain, that the dawn had at last come? Why must the birth of his first child have brought him such pain, when it should have brought only joy? He tried to tell himself that these were vain thoughts, the products of a twisted, self-pitying mind. But he could not in the end escape the conviction that he was the victim of some evil force bent on hurting him.
As Reiun’in was not far from Kinugasamura, Kensaku walked there often to offer his prayers.
PART IV
1
The winter that saw the death of his first child passed, and he greeted the coming of spring with a mood totally different from his mood of the spring before. The dance of the Gion geisha, the viewing of the double cherries—these he had enjoyed without reserve the year before, but this spring these festivities seemed to him to have an undercurrent always of a certain sadness.
He anticipated having several children in the future. But the thought that that baby would never return, however many children he may have, always brought a new feeling of sorrow. Perhaps when the next child was born, the memory and the sorrow would gradually fade away; but until then, he could not stop thinking of him.
The misfortune would not have so deeply affected him had it not occurred just when he had thought that a new life lay ahead of him, that his dark fate that had inexplicably tormented him for years had finally let him free. To remind himself that no one could guard against erysipelas, that it was a misfortune that befell his child by accident, was not enough to induce a sense of resignation in him, as it might have done in another man. For what was accident, he would ask himself, if not an act of arbitrary mischief? He would then hastily tell himself again that it was abject of him to think thus; and he did indeed despise himself for indulging in such self-pity. But always the suspicions returned to haunt him.
Naoko often cried for her dead child. Kensaku, whenever he saw her in this tearful state, wanted to look away, and made a point of not showing any sympathy. Once she said accusingly, “You don’t care, do you?”
“What’s the point of moping always?”
“I know that, and I try not to cry in front of other people. But we mustn’t forget poor Naonori just because he’s gone.”
“All right, all right, go ahead and cry. But don’t expect me to do likewise. It really doesn’t do any good, you know.” Naoko was silent.
Kensaku then said, “It’s Oei I’m more concerned about right now. She hasn’t written to me for months, and considering what we were to each other, I can hardly leave her entirely in Nobuyuki’s hands. I’m thinking of going to Korea to see her.” Naoko gave a slight nod, still saying nothing. Kensaku waited a little before speaking again. “Why don’t you go home to Tsuruga while I’m away?”
“I don’t want to. It would be like running back home to cry on their shoulders.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t want to, that’s all. I don’t mind your seeing me cry, but I will not let them think I’m asking for their sympathy.”
“Why not? Look, I’ll take you there, and then leave for Korea.”
“Thank you, but no. You won’t be gone for more than two weeks or so, and I’ll be perfectly all right with Sen here. If I get too lonely, then I may decide to go.”
“I wish you would. It’ll be a miserable trip for me if I have to worry about you all the time.”
But having announced his intention to go to Korea, he showed no inclination to depart immediately. He had once gone to Itsukushima from Onomichi, and that was the farthest west he had ever been. Seoul, then, seemed unimaginably remote to him, and to journey there a fearful undertaking. Even so, he would have been more decisive had there been any reason to think that there was some urgency in Oei’s situation.
It was true that after Naoko’s entry into Kensaku’s life, his feelings toward Oei had undergone a certain change. But this was a woman who had taken care of him as a boy, this was a woman to whom he had once proposed (however unhealthy his state of mind then seemed to him now), and he could not bu
t chide himself for being so slow to go to her, even if there was no urgency; indeed, he could not but be ashamed of his own heartlessness.
One day a registered letter arrived from Nobuyuki, in which was enclosed a letter to him from Oei. Owing to an unpleasant incident, it said, she had recently left the police inspector’s house, and was now living at the above address. She could not believe her own idiocy. Here she was, at her age, still unable to manage her life properly. She was truly ashamed to write to Nobuyuki for help once again, but she had no one else to turn to. Osai, whom she had relied on to give assistance if it was ever needed, had turned out to be not the woman she had thought her to be. She was sorry, but she had no choice but to beg Nobuyuki’s indulgence.
She could not give all the details in the letter, she said. They weren’t fit to be told anyway. All that she now wanted was to come home to Japan as quickly as possible.
Such was the gist of her letter. She was asking for enough money, in short, to pay the bill for her room and the fare. As he read her letter he was inclined not to dismiss too readily what Nobuyuki said in his covering letter: after the burglary in Dairen she had been sent money and told to return at once; yet she had chosen to go to Seoul, and was now asking for money again; something odd was going on. Perhaps, Kensaku was forced to think, she had picked up those slovenly, colonial ways, and found herself some disreputable male companion, and under his evil tutelage was now trying to squeeze money out of the two brothers.
Remembering the woman he had lived with, Kensaku found such speculation distasteful. But no matter how unbalanced he might once have been, he had found her seductive, and others no doubt still would. Also, there was her past to consider. Distasteful or not, his suspicions were not so outlandish. And why would she not give details in her letter? Did not her reticence suggest some kind of sexual involvement gone awry?
Anyway, it was Nobuyuki’s opinion that Oei had to be fetched. The bank was already closed that day, so Kensaku decided to leave on the westbound express train the following night. To Oei in Seoul and to Nobuyuki in Kamakura he sent off telegrams informing them of his decision.
2
Though it could hardly be said that the failure of Oei’s business venture in Tientsin was due to Osai’s dishonesty, there was no doubt that Osai’s behavior toward Oei, whom she had after all pressed into joining her, was a little inconsiderate and irresponsible. It was not malicious perhaps, but it was certainly not kind. Later, even Osai must have felt somewhat guilty, for after Oei had gone to Dairen she wrote her several times suggesting that she return to Tientsin. But Oei had ceased to trust Osai. She could believe that Osai was for the moment being sincere; but what she could not have any faith in was the constancy of Osai’s goodwill. Each time she received an invitation from Osai, then, she declined as tactfully as she could.
One suggestion of Osai’s did tempt Oei, but this, too, she finally declined. Osai had an acquaintance by the name of Masuda, who ran a “hotel” in a small city about fifty miles to the north of Mukden. Oei had heard of the woman, for she had a formidable reputation as a businesswoman—a match for any man, it was said. According to Osai, Masuda had recently quarreled with the head of the local geisha exchange, and was determined to set up her own exchange. She had written to Osai, asking if she knew of anyone who might come and assist her in her new business. Would Oei, Osai asked in her letter, be interested?
This was clearly an ideal opportunity for Oei. Equipped only with enough clothes for four or five geisha, she needed the backing of some such larger enterprise to enable her to get back into business. Osai no doubt expected Oei to jump at the chance.
She was sorry to have to seem ungrateful, Oei wrote back to Osai, but possibly because of her recent illness she lacked the audacity to go to so remote a place. Had it been Dairen or Seoul she would have accepted the offer with alacrity. Incidentally, she added, there seemed little in the way of business opportunities in Dairen, and she was thinking of leaving for Seoul. Seoul seemed so much closer to Japan, besides. If Osai heard of any possibilities there, would she please let her know?
A reply soon arrived from Osai, saying that she knew a police inspector in Seoul by the name of Nomura. He would be glad, she was sure, to take care of Oei. If and when Oei decided to go to Seoul, she must let her know, and she would write to Nomura.
Oei wrote back immediately, asking Osai to write to Nomura. But she was at the time suffering from the tertian ague and barely keeping it under control with quinine, so that a long journey was out of the question for the time being. And it was while she was waiting to get well enough to leave Dairen for Seoul that she was robbed of her only remaining capital, the kimonos for the geisha that she had packed in trunks in anticipation of the coming journey.
Of course she was made despondent by the burglary. At the same time, however, she felt enormous relief; for now there was nothing she could do but return to Japan. And when the money for the fare arrived from Nobuyuki, it was her intention to return to Japan directly. But she hated long sea journeys. Besides, this was probably her last chance to see a little more of the continent. She would return to Japan, she decided, by way of Korea.
By October her ague had improved considerably. She went to Korea as she had planned, and on reaching Seoul called on Nomura, the police inspector. “But why go back to Japan when you have no idea what you’ll do there?” was his comment. “Stay here in Seoul and start up a business.”
Why Nomura made such a suggestion, Kensaku could not quite guess from Oei’s account. He did try to seduce—or more accurately, rape—Oei later, so it was possible he had ulterior motives right from the start. Or possibly he was being casually kind and helpful then, and it was only afterward, when she had lived in his house for a while, that he came to desire her. At any rate, Oei was persuaded to stay at his house.
“I paid for my food,” Oei told Kensaku. “But I was aware that that wasn’t really enough, so I did their shopping and that sort of thing for them whenever I could. They had a five-year-old daughter—her name was Kyōko—who became quite attached to me. ‘Auntie, auntie,’ she would call me and follow me around. I became attached to her too, and I used to take her with me when I did my errands, and buy her sweets and toys. Then one day, when his wife was out, Nomura came in and began making suggestions. When I said no, he tried to use force, and I shoved him hard. Just as he fell to the floor, Kyōko came in. She had no idea what was going on—all she knew was that I was hurting her father. ‘You beast!’ she said, bursting into tears, and picked up a long ruler and started beating me with it. She was really quite violent, you know. I felt so hurt, I wanted to cry. I thought we had been so close, but her father was much closer to her, I suppose. I was after all a stranger to her. I was angry, I was sad, I wanted to laugh—I felt all mixed up. But one thing was brought home to me, and that was how nice it is to have a child. Perhaps I wouldn’t have felt that so strongly if I had had one of my own.”
After the incident she had felt that she was too old to tell anyone about such an indignity; besides, Nomura’s wife had been kind to her; so the next day she left their house quietly.
Oei’s experiences seemed so remote from Kensaku’s own recent life that he listened to her story with a feeling of increasing discomfort. Even in his profligate period he had always found himself depressed by the atmosphere of the demimonde after only half a day in it, itching to escape into a brighter, freer atmosphere. Such was the way he felt now. As Oei told her story, he thought constantly of his house in Kyoto and Naoko.
He was nevertheless pleased to know that Oei had not become a “loose woman” in the colonies. She was as always a good person, whose fault was only that she was too easily swayed by circumstances of the moment. If anyone was to blame, it was he; he should never have let her go off on her own like that.
He had left for Onomichi, he remembered, despite Oei’s objections; and when after several months of absence he had returned to Tokyo in a state of exhaustion, she had said how thin
he had become, that he was not to go to such remote places alone ever again.
He wanted to say the same sort of thing to Oei; and in his own fashion he did. “You’re a silly woman,” he told her. “You don’t know yourself at all, that’s your trouble. To imagine that you could start a business like that on your own was an incongruous notion in the first place.”
Having said that, Kensaku had no clear idea as to what Oei’s plan for the future should be. If he had not once proposed to her, he would have asked her then and there, without hesitation, to come and live with him and Naoko. But under the circumstances, he would have to sound out Naoko first. If she showed no reluctance, then he would be very happy to have Oei live with them. But if Naoko seemed at all inclined to take his past feeling for Oei into consideration, he would have to think of some other solution. At all costs, he wanted to avoid unpleasantness at home.
He did not wander about much while in Korea. Aside from taking an overnight trip from Kaesong to P’yongyang, he limited himself to modest outings such as to a nunnery in Ch’ongnyang-ni with Oei to sample their vegetarian cuisine. They did this on a fine, cloudless day. On the way there they came upon a Korean family having a picnic by a mountain spring. An old man with a white beard was talking, and the others sat around him, listening attentively. He seemed to be telling a story. The two onlookers gazed at this scene, which was probably the enactment of an age-old custom, with pleasure and longing.
On another day Kensaku went to the top of Nam-san, and much taken with the view from there of another mountain, Pukhan-san, repeated the trip later. He visited Kyongbok Palace and Ch’angdok Palace, and in the evenings strolled down Chong-no looking at the shops. He saw a fine toilet table with mother-of-pearl inlay that he thought he might buy for Naoko, but decided that for an imperfect piece—it had a crack in it—it was too expensive. Instead he bought her a lovely letter box inlaid with horn. This, too, was not of recent make, and had acquired the pleasing unobtrusiveness of age.