The Involuntary Sojourner

by S. P. Tenhoff

  The trouble with Genzo was obvious enough, not only to Kurobe, but probably to everyone in the city: his nightly carousing, his gambling, his disdain for all that was proper in an elder son. When he was at home he could usually be found sprawled across a mat, claiming to be dreaming up a fantastic new puppet drama which somehow never reached completion. Tradition dictated that Kurobe’s title pass to him; but it was a part for which he was disastrously miscast. Kurobe could no longer blame his son’s waywardness on his age: he wasn’t so young anymore. And still he refused to marry. With Genzo as Master Puppeteer, Kurobe could see already how it would be: onstage he would shine brilliantly; then, afterward, he would resume his real work, the only work to which he had ever been truly committed: ruining himself and his family name. Kurobe had detected this in him from the earliest age. Genzo had the preternatural ability to gift puppets with life even before learning the skills which should have made such a thing possible; but only if he saw it as a game, a form of play. Whenever discipline was required his son would turn limp, his eyes would go dark, and Kurobe could feel the boy slide away even as he remained there unmoving beside him . . .

  The trouble with his younger son was quite a different matter altogether, and certainly not something he could have explained properly to anyone who might have asked. Violating the rule of succession did not in itself especially bother Kurobe; exceptions, after all, were hardly unknown. Not every eldest son was fit to carry on his father’s work. No; the trouble was Sojiro himself. As a child, he had been a fine apprentice. He soon surpassed his daydreaming brother in all the essentials of puppeteering, and by thirteen had learned every drama in his father’s repertoire. It wasn’t only puppetry, though; he brought to any task the same sober resolve. If Kurobe had been a mat-maker his son would have shown exactly the same dedication. Kurobe knew he should have been proud. Yet at times his son’s devotion to duty had unnerved him, as if Sojiro were not really a child at all but an adult in disguise. Adulthood, predictably, brought few changes; he grew perhaps more severe. He had by that time systematically mastered all he’d been taught. In his dependable hands the puppets reproduced the subtlest gestures, the most intricate movements of the human form; but they never breathed. The worst part was that his son seemed unable to sense anything missing. He didn’t grasp that it was possible or even desirable for the puppet to be more than a collection of parts held together by rope and thread. He couldn’t be blamed; it wasn’t a failing, but rather a lack. It was Kurobe who had failed: he had transmitted to his son everything except what mattered most. But the question remained: how could Kurobe bequeath his legacy to a . . . technician? Choosing Sojiro, he feared, meant dooming his descendants to mediocrity, to a gradual watering down of the Kurobe blood, until nothing but skill remained. A family of artists, reduced to a family of competent artisans. And even that fate in doubt: his daughter-in-law seemed barren; after seven years of marriage she had yet to give him a single grandchild.

  When no fitting successor emerged within a family, there was one other possibility: the master could adopt an apprentice, awarding him name and title. Here at least the heritage of artistic excellence could be preserved, even if the bloodline was severed. Kurobe’s theater had its share of fine puppeteers, but they had all apprenticed elsewhere; his only apprentices were his sons. And it was too late now to start anew: twenty years would be required for even the most talented student to master the intricacies of his art; and Kurobe had no more time.

  No more time: for months now he had been noticing the change in himself; and although it had so far manifested in only the mildest of ways, he recognized that he was suffering from more than the ordinary absentmindedness of old age. At times he would feel something open in him; something would yawn and wait, expectant . . . And then he would recover, wondering how much time had passed and whether anyone had noticed. Until now he had been able to conceal his condition. His greatest fear, though, was that it would one day strike during a performance. He knew what was in store for him, or imagined that he did. And he told himself he was ready to face it. He wasn’t afraid. What he could not face, though, what he found absolutely insupportable, was the possibility of the illness touching his puppetry. This—the thought of contamination and decay seeping into the art he’d spent a lifetime striving to purify—this was what made his fingertips turn numb and his heart freeze in his chest . . .

  He finished his tea and allowed himself to lie down. Just for a moment. It was too early for bed; there was still rehearsing to do.

  He thought of his father. He had been a gentle man, but also somehow intimidating, perhaps because he rarely spoke. Even the skills of puppetry had—to the best of Kurobe’s recollection—been taught mostly by example. As a child, Kurobe’s days were spent at the theater, watching his father rehearse. The way he changed onstage! Glaring as fiercely as the warrior puppets he specialized in controlling. And always in his flashing gold kimono crested with plum blossoms, the same kimono Kurobe had worn while performing for how many years now . . . ? He was too drowsy to count . . . What had he been thinking about? His father: the theater. The only time he stopped rehearsing was during New Year’s celebrations. They would go kite-flying then, just the two of them, if the weather was right . . . Above him, the paper rectangle would swerve in the cold blue. He could hear its distant rustle and snap, feel it tug and shift, trying to pull free of his grasp. His father steadied his hand . . .

  He dreamed that they crouched together on what seemed a mound or nest of mud and twigs, holding a line. Others, whose faces he couldn’t make out, stood knee-deep in the water. Kurobe understood that they had gathered to watch. He and his father held the line, but the fish yanked madly, thrashing through the reeds; and Kurobe was terrified because he knew that at any moment the line was bound to break and the fish would vanish into the mottled marshwater, the hook still buried deep in its mouth . . .

  ***

  The next day Genzo brought home a visitor. Smiling mysteriously, he announced the arrival of a distinguished guest, then vanished before Kurobe could ask for the guest’s name. Feeling flustered and irritable, Kurobe hurried into his finest clothes, ordered his daughter-in-law to prepare tea and sweets, then slid open the door of the visitors’ room to find his son seated beside a figure the size of a large doll. The figure gave off so many contradictory impressions that it was necessary to take it in gradually, in stages: it wore what seemed at first glance an elegant gentleman’s kimono, but closer inspection revealed a crudely sewn stage costume of poor material, faded and fraying in places; the shrunken head might have been an old man’s, with its sparse hair and puckered skin; yet its posture, as it sat there formally, legs folded beneath it, was erect and gave an impression of youthful vigor; and the eyes, in their deep folds of flesh, seemed as bright and guileless as a child’s.

  He realized at once that this must be the street performer Genzo had spoken of, but his sense of decorum prevented him from scolding his son in front of a guest, even this one. He sat down, ignoring Genzo’s smirk, and greeted the creature with a bow. It bowed in return, so deeply that its forehead nearly struck the mat.

  “My name is Oike,” it said in a high, strangled voice. “It’s a great honor to meet you, sir. Thank you for your generous hospitality. Please allow me to apologize for the intrusion. It was terribly impolite of me.”

  “Not at all. Make yourself comfortable,” Kurobe said, relieved and at the same time taken aback by the tiny figure’s understanding of etiquette. He had imagined a creature incapable of ordinary speech, with the manners of a monkey. He wondered if his son had coached the busker before bringing him here.

  The tea and sweets were brought in. Trembling, the creature bowed low again and begged the family’s forgiveness, like a starving man being offered a feast; then sat very still, refusing even to sip his tea until Kurobe had taken a drink first.

  “I struck up a conversation last night with Oike here,” said Genzo, “and
once he heard who I was, he went on and on about you, Father. He’s a great admirer of your work.”

  Did Genzo really think he could be taken in by such transparent flattery? He turned indignantly from his son to the ragged creature his son had dared to invite into their home.

  “I understand,” he said, “that you perform an, ah—how shall I put it?—appreciation of puppet theater.”

  “Thank you for your choice of words, sir, but I’m afraid it’s hardly an appreciation,” the little man replied, his shriveled face reddening. “More of a travesty, really. It’s not easy for someone like me to make a living, and this show of mine . . . Well, it at least allows me to get by. Although that’s hardly an excuse for what I do. Still, it’s true that my act, such as it is, was inspired by a genuine appreciation of your great art.”

  “His knowledge,” Genzo said, popping a last bite of cake into his mouth, “is really quite extraordinary, Father. Greater than mine, I’d wager! From what I can tell”—he chewed, swallowed—“he knows your whole repertoire.”

  “Is that so? You’ve seen me perform, then?” It was unlikely that this creature would ever have been allowed into his theater.

  “Only once, sir. As a boy. But my love of puppetry—I trace it all back to that experience. Since then I’ve had to rely on secondhand accounts of your performances. Your son is very kind; but the fact is, I know next to nothing, I’m afraid.”

  “Nonsense,” said Genzo. “No need for false modesty here, Oike.”

  Kurobe might have suspected again that his son had simply coached Oike to win him over, except for the embarrassed yet earnest look on the little man’s face. He found himself curious to know what Oike could possibly understand about his art. To test his knowledge, though, would be to act as a rude host; and even pursuing a conversation about Kurobe’s own performances risked appearing immodest. Yet what else was there to say to this strange creature? He faltered, and the silence lengthened; finally his son, who appeared to be enjoying Kurobe’s predicament immensely, said:

  “He’s especially fond of Shogen’s House, Father. He went on and on about your interpretation.”

  Shogen’s House was in fact the drama of which Kurobe was the most proud. Something in the story of Matahei, the stuttering artist denied his master’s professional name because of his affliction, had always touched Kurobe more than any drama in puppet theater, and he had devoted much of his career to refining and deepening his characterization until he felt finally it could probably not be improved upon. In spite of himself, Kurobe said: “And what is it, if I may ask, that you found so remarkable about my interpretation? There’s nothing special about it, I assure you.”

  The little man’s eyes grew even brighter than before. “As I remember it—you’ll have to forgive me, I shouldn’t say anything, it was so long ago, I’m sure I’m not doing it justice, but, well, it seemed to me that the greatness—it’s so many little things, isn’t it? Details. But not details at all; not really. For instance, after Matahei decides to kill himself—I’ve never forgotten this—he’s facing the fountain. And you . . . I can’t describe it, the way you . . .”

  Oike suddenly rose and began moving dreamily across the mat, seeming to forget where he was. It occurred to Kurobe that Oike was enacting the scene himself. His arm lifted, an imaginary brush in his hand; and as he gazed down at what Kurobe knew must be the stone fountain on which Matahei was about to paint his final self-portrait, Oike’s face underwent a change. It became . . . another face. He stood there, poised, brush held aloft, the artist on the verge of creation . . . Then he came to himself, sat down, and resumed speaking, as if nothing had happened.

  It had been the briefest sketch, used merely to illustrate Oike’s point; but Kurobe was left with the odd sense that he had just watched his own puppet, or rather, everything he wished might appear in its painted face if it could magically soften into human expression. Kurobe had done everything in his power to make Matahei live onstage, and there were moments when the puppet had seemed almost to move of its own volition, moments when he was able to believe he had managed to incarnate Matahei in the figure he held; but Oike’s performance made Kurobe feel keenly the limitations of wood and cloth, sticks and levers. Or perhaps it was Kurobe’s own limitations as an artist . . . It seemed to him that he had finally been given a glimpse of the true Matahei, his beloved puppet nothing more than a makeshift surrogate.

  Kurobe and Oike talked all afternoon. Oike possessed an impressive grasp of the essentials of puppetry, just as Genzo had claimed; and though his knowledge was incomplete and marred by occasional error, this seemed the unavoidable result of studying an art secondhand. Kurobe was tempted to correct, to clarify, to share his insights and expertise, but held himself in check—he wasn’t about to let his son feel he’d been won over so easily; besides, he was afraid to sound like some blustering old fool. Still, he felt he had perhaps never spoken to someone with a greater love of his art. When Oike rose to leave, Kurobe—to Genzo’s obvious surprise—invited him to come again.

  Afterward, Kurobe couldn’t forget the moment when Oike became Matahei. A face kept appearing before him: it hung suspended there, the face of the artist, still a puppet but human now as well, its shrunken face seeming to gaze back at him in some sort of mysterious reproach. The next night, for the first time in many years, he went to the pleasure quarter. He was soon lost in a tangle of dark streets. It was too hot to be out walking; before long his summer kimono was soaked. He kept searching. He remembered his son mentioning a Dancing Fox, and began asking until he finally came upon a second-rate geisha house by that name. But there were no buskers in sight. He only found Oike by chance. He had given up, and was making his way home when he noticed a crowd gathered around a doorway lit faintly by a candle in the window above. They were looking down at their feet and laughing raucously as if at the antics of a trained animal. As Kurobe approached, Oike came into view, dressed in a noblewoman’s kimono and ornamented wig that looked as if they had been designed for a child. Kurobe concealed himself as best he could behind the others and watched.

  He had hoped to see in the performance something of what he had glimpsed at his home the day before; but Oike’s act was such pure buffoonery that he began to doubt he had glimpsed it at all. Where before he had seemed to bring a puppet to life, now Oike appeared determined to ruthlessly eradicate all that was human in him, until only an animated but lifeless figure remained to prance mechanically over the cobblestones. If anything, he moved with less grace than a puppet, deliberately exaggerating for comedic effect all of the limits imposed by the techniques of puppeteering. It was impossible to believe that this was the same man who had spoken so fervently the day before about Kurobe’s art. There were, admittedly, moments of sly wit intended for those who might know a thing or two about puppet theater; but for the most part it was all base nonsense. Yet he could not even feel offended by what he saw—Oike was, in the end, ridiculing himself and his deformity at least as much as he was ridiculing the art of puppetry.

  Kurobe stepped further into the shadows. He feared being recognized. Yet he was unable to leave. The tiny figure cavorted under the candlelight while Kurobe watched, held in place by horror, and as he watched, he found himself more and more ashamed, as if it were he and not Oike who was to blame for this sad spectacle . . .

  The next time Oike visited, Kurobe mentioned nothing of what he had seen. They talked again for hours, about puppetry, mostly, although the little man displayed a surprising knowledge of other performing arts, including even sleight of hand—at Kurobe’s insistence, he performed a simple yet baffling trick with an inverted cup and a crumpled piece of paper. At one point, in the middle of a conversation about Chikamatsu’s greatest plays, Kurobe was astonished to find that he couldn’t recall the name of the courtesan from The Uprooted Pine. He froze, concentrating. After a discreet pause Oike said, “Azuma,” in almost a whisper, pronouncing the name like an
incantation, and it was as though Kurobe’s own memory had whispered to him the word he’d been searching for.

  When evening came, Kurobe had his daughter-in-law set an extra place for dinner. Genzo was nowhere to be seen; but Sojiro arrived punctually, as always. He stopped in the doorway. Finding himself oddly defensive, Kurobe began explaining, in perhaps more detail than was necessary, who Oike was and how he’d come to be there. His son was civil but even quieter than usual during the meal, and the oppressive feeling didn’t leave Kurobe until he and the little man were out of the house and strolling together through the garden.

  “Forgive me for prying, but how is it that you came to perform on the street?” Kurobe asked.

  There was a splash from the pool. A carp had risen, silvery, to the surface. It gulped air, shivered once like a ripple of reflected moon, and sank again into the black water. The Emperor’s mad fish, Kurobe thought uneasily.

  “I’m afraid it’s an unseemly tale to tell in the presence of a man like you,” Oike was saying.

  “Nonsense. Artists must be willing to bite into all the stories that fall from life’s branches. Even the wormy ones,” Kurobe laughed, and put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder to ease the sting of the remark. Then he continued thoughtfully: “Perhaps especially the wormy ones. Besides, I’m a puppeteer, Oike, not a court lady from Kyoto. You needn’t worry about scandalizing me.”

  “Thank you for saying so, sir . . . Well, my father was a merchant in Osaka. I never wanted for anything when I was a boy. My parents, the servants and tutors, they all looked after me, everyone spoiled me I suppose, in spite of, you know, my condition, or maybe because of it, maybe they were trying to protect me from the world. But then something happened with my father. A business reversal. I never learned the circumstances, but we lost everything. And so naturally, my father, he did as any father would, he thought of family suicide, to spare us all the shame. I was thirteen. I remember him coming into my room. But he couldn’t do it. At the last minute, he started . . . He became emotional. Asking forgiveness. For abandoning me, for leaving me to live with a disgraced name. He’d spoiled me too much, you see, he wasn’t strong enough to do what he knew he should. He couldn’t be strong with me. Just with my mother, and then himself . . . So after that I went to live with a cousin. Until he fell on his own hard times, and, well, to make a long story short, I ended up being sold to a traveling fair. We went all over. There was every sort of performer you could imagine. Even a puppeteer. A one-man show. Nothing like proper puppet theater, nothing like you, sir. No real art to it, just slapstick and the sort of humor I can’t speak of here. But still I watched. And he talked to me sometimes, it turned out he knew about serious puppet drama as well, Chikamatsu’s plays, for instance. And you, sir. He knew all about your work. He taught me things. I loved the puppets, you see, I’d loved them ever since seeing your performance. I’d never forgotten you up on that stage with Matahei . . . So I listened and tried to learn what I could. But then . . . Sir?”