The Involuntary Sojourner

by S. P. Tenhoff

  He wondered if Sojiro had also detected his father’s hesitation; but he kept what he’d noticed to himself. Was there some connection between his father’s strangeness and the rumors of retirement? Genzo had always had mixed feelings about succession. The expectations, the ludicrous and arcane formalities, the endless stultifying daily chores of managing a theater—in short, all that went with being his father’s successor—he’d wanted no part of it. And so the talk of retiring, even if only heard secondhand, had made him anxious. Yet it was also true that he’d secretly dreamed of becoming lead puppeteer for years. He hated being restricted onstage to the manipulation of the puppet’s left hand; it gave him a feeling of paralysis, as though everything of importance to him could only be expressed through a single limb. Sometimes after a particularly long show, which could last nearly a day, the feeling persisted for hours, the sense that he had control of only his left hand, which throbbed with agonizing life, while the rest of him remained wooden and inert . . . Like an injured man impatient to recover, to rise and unwind the bandages, he’d waited—without ever quite admitting it to himself—for the time when he could gain the use of the puppet’s entire body. When he could lead rather than follow. But now that the moment seemed to be approaching, his entire being was seized with alarm. He hoped the feeling would pass, but with each day its hold on him felt more secure, as if it were slowly passing through layers of flesh to grip his bones.

  He asked Oike oblique questions, trying to draw out information about his father’s recent behavior; but no matter how much Genzo plied him with sake, Oike said nothing. (The sake, in any case, no longer seemed to have much of an effect.)

  After Oike had finished performing his act in a tavern one night, a customer, recognizing Genzo, pointed at him and shouted:

  “Look! It’s a Kurobe! We’ve been watching the puppet, but here’s the master. And even better than his father. He can control a puppet without even touching it!”

  Laughing, the man slapped his thigh, applauding not Oike but Genzo. Others joined in the mock applause. Feeling flushed and a bit giddy, Genzo jumped to his feet and, with a grin, thrust a hand between Oike’s shoulder blades as if clutching hidden controls there. This brought a roar of laughter. But Oike’s reaction—a stillness as he studied the watching faces, then a stiffening and a slow bend at the waist, until it was no longer Oike but a puppet bowing before them—brought an even greater roar.

  Out of this improvised scene, which had started as nothing but a drunken joke, grew their two-man routine. Oike, as before, stood on a tabletop, acting the part of the puppet. But now Genzo kneeled behind him, one hand on Oike’s spine and the other at his elbow, playing the role of puppeteer. They performed it casually at first, when requested, at taverns or geisha houses. As word spread, however, they were surprised to receive invitations first to the better homes of the city, and finally even to the lacquered halls of the local nobility, although always after dark and always with a clandestine air surrounding the event, generated in large part by the hosts themselves, who experienced thereby a titillating sense of transgression. The two men came to enjoy a certain celebrity, if a rather unseemly one. The humor of the situation, of course, was not lost on Genzo, nor on his audiences: Oike accompanied Master Kurobe through one world by day, then accompanied his son through another world by night. By now everyone knew about the old puppeteer’s deformed companion, and they assumed the act was a prank, a wicked parody by the son at the legendary father’s expense; the winking cruelty of it, the flavor of scandal, was no doubt a central part of the performance’s appeal. And it was true that, during the routine, Genzo would find himself impersonating his father, down to his most distinctive mannerisms; whether this was in fact a parody of his father, however, or something else altogether he couldn’t have said himself.

  Over time the act became formalized, although the two men never once discussed it together, as if too ashamed to speak of the matter aloud. Oike began to eliminate the jerky puppet-movements of his past performances, replacing them with gestures of nearly human smoothness; he retained only the slightest rigidity to lend a trace of verisimilitude to his characterization. The two moved together so well Genzo was almost able to imagine that he was genuinely controlling Oike, that Oike’s poses and expressions were flowing from Genzo’s own hands into the tiny figure before him; and he thought at times he could see in Oike’s movements the life he knew he could bring to his art if awarded the title of Master Puppeteer.

  Late one evening, after performing their act at an exclusive geisha house, Genzo took Oike to his first brothel. When he suggested the visit, Oike acquiesced as always, but with a curious expression on his shrunken face. As they approached, Oike slowed, hesitating. He stopped on the front step.

  “What is it?” Genzo asked.

  “I’m repulsive.”

  “Well, yes, of course you are,” Genzo laughed, “but they’re whores, Oike. Don’t you see? No matter how monstrous you look—no matter how monstrous you are, inside or out—they’ll still accept you. With open arms! That’s the whole point.”

  And he gave his friend a kindly shove through the doorway.

  The surprising thing was that the whores didn’t seem to find Oike repulsive at all. On the contrary, after recovering from their surprise they surrounded him, ignoring Genzo altogether as they dropped to their knees to coo and poke and pat his tiny companion like children who’ve been presented with a rare and beautiful doll. And Oike’s face and body had in fact gone as rigid as if carved of wood. Finally he was lifted by a circle of hands, undressed, bathed, and paraded around the front room swaddled in towels, Oike looking terrified and his captors laughing deliriously all the while.

  Genzo had been prepared to pay for Oike, but the little man was carried off to a room free of charge. The same thing occurred each time they visited: Genzo paid for himself like any ordinary customer, while Oike ended up in the arms of one giggling whore or other without so much as a coin changing hands. For a while, each took her turn; then the brothel’s greatest beauty, who went by the name of Princess Tachibana, began to take an interest in Oike. When he arrived, she would squeal with delight, snatch him up, and bundle him off to her no doubt lavishly appointed chamber before the others could lay a hand on him. Genzo had always been a little bit in love with Princess Tachibana—this was why he never chose her—and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy watching Oike being swept up like a child into an adoring mother’s arms. More than once, as he left the brothel alone, he found himself wondering, and even imagining, what was going on between the two at that moment in the Princess’s chamber.

  On one of these nights, wandering forlorn and dejected from the brothel out onto the streets, he discovered that his feet had led him to a familiar door. He had already run up a substantial debt there, but the manager welcomed him back with a bow and promptly granted more credit. A dozen rolls of the dice later, Genzo rose and made his way back out into the night. Moonlight coated every surface like a layer of frost. He walked through deserted streets. The bridge, the rows of darkened houses: they moved serenely past, as if nothing had happened. He looked at his own dark house. Finally he went inside, but without the usual panache—the drunken stamping of feet, the fanfare of slamming doors, all the ways he had of announcing his late arrival. He entered quietly and slipped through the house, wary as a burglar.

  In the days and weeks that followed he stayed away from the quarter, in part out of a desire for expiation, and in part due to a more practical consideration: he feared being spotted. It was no longer prudent to be seen spending money now that his debt had tripled. When he did finally return—it wasn’t realistic, after all, to keep punishing himself forever—it was to quiet places on the fringe of the quarter. He went alone. Princess Tachibana now claimed Oike’s nights. Genzo began to suspect that she had found a way to make use of Oike in her work. There were rumors of special performances for select customers; he heard
talk of an exotic act which could be viewed or even joined in for a certain price. It eventually became clear that these were not merely rumors: in the quarter’s lantern-lit world, the act known as “Princess Tachibana Playing with Her Favorite Doll” began to acquire a notoriety that eclipsed the brief fame Genzo and Oike had enjoyed as puppeteer and puppet. In one of his visits to the quarter’s edge he learned something else which turned out to be more than a rumor: Shinoda himself—the man who controlled most of the quarter’s brothels and gambling dens, and the man to whom Genzo ultimately owed his debt—was looking for him. After this he had no choice but to avoid the pleasure quarter completely, even though he had more time on his hands than ever now that the theater had gone on hiatus (something to do apparently with one of the shamisen players).

  Then one day his brother asked to speak with him. He thought at first that Sojiro had learned about the debt, and prepared himself for a chiding: it wouldn’t be so easy this time, he knew, for his brother to simply step in and help the way he usually did. Sojiro’s face was as unreadable as ever; but even before they’d taken their places on the mat, Genzo began to sense that this concerned a different matter entirely.

  ***

  Sojiro had been observing their father closely for quite some time. And he had witnessed certain . . . peculiarities he felt the brothers could no longer afford to ignore. Certain lapses. He made the case point by point, citing numerous small instances which taken together proved, or at least strongly supported, his case. He omitted only one example, although it was the most significant of all: several months before, during a performance of Chushingura: The Treasury of Loyal Retainers, just when Sojiro was about to take the puppet’s feet a diagonal half step forward, he had felt in his father a delay, a hesitation which lasted for nearly a full beat. Sojiro had mentioned nothing to his brother at the time. And now, without knowing why, he found himself leaving it out of his argument.

  “So there it is.” Sojiro rested his hands on his thighs and looked down at the mat. He waited for Genzo to speak. To take the lead. To behave, for once, like an older brother. But when he glanced up, Genzo was pale and stricken, as if suddenly suffering an especially bad hangover; leaning forward, he whispered, “Have you spoken to Father about this?”

  And on his face a guilty look. The look of a collaborator.

  “I’m afraid we’re past that point,” Sojiro replied, his voice louder than intended, as if to show anyone who might be eavesdropping—though he’d made sure the house was empty—that he was not ashamed, that he was not colluding in some sort of plot.

  Sojiro did not tell his brother, but he had in fact gone to their father a week before. He would never have approached Genzo about such an important matter without having spoken to their father first.

  He’d found him in the tea room with Oike.

  “I’m sorry to intrude. Could I have a word with you, Father? Privately?”

  His father seemed prepared to be outraged; but Oike instantly rose and, bowing, left the room before his father could complain.

  “There’s a matter we need to discuss. Concerning the theater.”

  “The theater?” His father looked at him.

  “Yes. It’s . . .” He had rehearsed his speech. He had considered carefully the proper wording, the most sensitive and respectful way to broach the subject. Instead, he said:

  “It’s Fujita, the shamisen player. It seems there’s been some sort of family crisis. He has to return to Nara. I’m afraid we’ll need to go on hiatus.”

  Many years later, when Sojiro was himself an old man and had forgotten much of the unpleasant business that followed (and numerous other incidents in his life as well), he still remembered this moment. He had never lied to his father before. He’d known speaking up would be difficult, but had believed, until now, that his sense of duty would prove stronger than the momentary shame of confronting his father.

  “A crisis?” his father said. “What kind of crisis?”

  “He wouldn’t say. He may not return.”

  “Surely we can replace him.”

  “Not on such short notice. I’ve made inquiries, but . . . Just a brief hiatus. A temporary closing, until we can find a suitable replacement. A rest, for everyone . . .”

  He felt his father studying him.

  “And you think this is the only way?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  His father was silent. When he finally gave his consent, it was not with a word but with a brief nod that seemed directed as much at himself as at his son.

  “The other performers,” he said, “they’ll have to be told immediately, of course. And the public: it’s a delicate matter, the phrasing of the announcement. Even a temporary closing like this—it’s not to be taken lightly. There are many things to be considered.” He paused. “As you know.” He nodded again. “I leave it all to you.”

  Of course, Fujita now had to be released. He was a skilled player, and Sojiro was sorry to see him go. After being told of “unforeseen circumstances” requiring a brief hiatus, he was paid well—as much as he would have earned in a full season of performances—and sent home to Nara. Sojiro hurried him off, personally escorting him as far as the outskirts of the city to ensure that he spoke with no one. Then it was simply a matter of repeating to the theater’s staff the story he had told his father. In this way Sojiro was able to bring about the closing of the theater without anyone suspecting the real reason.

  The incident nevertheless left him shaken: the lying; the dejected look on Fujita’s face; the finality of his father’s nod. He was able to convince himself in the end that he had after all done only what was necessary. If the entire situation continued to trouble him, it was for another reason: he had, until now, never acted on his own. Though for years he had managed the day-to-day business of the theater, his father had always been consulted before any truly significant decision. Sojiro was unable to imagine a future without his father there to let him know what was required of him . . .

  Naturally he’d heard the rumors of retirement. But he didn’t trust rumors. Rumors were like superstition: they had a way of coming true once you let yourself believe in them. Sojiro had never had time for such nonsense. He preferred reason to folk wisdom, established facts to murmured half-truths. If his father were seriously considering retirement, he would tell Sojiro when the time was right. It was just a matter of waiting. Still, it was natural to think, occasionally, about the rumors, if only so he could apply reason to dismiss them once and for all. Take, for instance, his father’s rumored inability to choose between the brothers. This hardly seemed plausible. It wouldn’t be true to say that he had ever coveted the title of lead puppeteer, but at the same time he had never questioned that it was his destiny. What he did or did not want in any case hardly seemed relevant. His brother might have been the elder son, but he had disqualified himself long ago, no matter how much Sojiro tried to hide his faults—looking after him the way you would an idiot or a child, steering him to his room when he was drunk, nursing him through his hangovers, propping him up so that he seemed to stand respectably on his own, as when Sojiro quietly paid off his brother’s debts before they threatened once more to endanger the family name. Sojiro had, practically since childhood, been convinced of the inevitability of his accession, if only by default. Much of his life had therefore consisted of preparation for a duty he had taken for granted would need to be taken on, even if his father had never said so explicitly.

  But what if the rumors were true? If his father did plan to retire, why hadn’t he already awarded the title to Sojiro? There were, as far as he could determine, three possibilities, and he examined each in turn: (1) his father’s indecision was more evidence of failing faculties (although he still seemed, for the most part, very much himself, and it was difficult to believe him utterly incapable of making an important choice such as this); (2) his father was reluctant to violate the traditio
n of passing title to the eldest son; or (3) his father had some secret preference for Genzo himself. It was with this third possibility that Sojiro’s powers of analysis shook into collapse around him . . . How could he begin to account for such a possibility? Had he in some way inadvertently neglected his duty? Had he failed his father? Or was it more . . . fundamental? He’d once overheard his father talking with Mogi the narrator; his father had said— No: there was no point in remembering; no point in speculating. This was all supposition. He had no intention of letting useless thoughts take possession of him. He was, in any case, prepared to obey regardless of who was chosen, prepared to obey even if he didn’t understand, provided he could receive some indication of his father’s desire.

  He had hoped that the temporary closing of the theater would prompt a decision. But there were no changes, no announcements. His father seemed in no particular hurry to return to the stage, either, which was in itself unusual. (In the past, even a high fever wouldn’t keep him from performing. Once his father had gone onstage—over the objections of Sojiro’s mother—in spite of a terrible infection in one leg.) His days, as always, were spent with Oike. Sojiro waited. He continued to wait even though he knew the theater had been closed now for too long. Weeks had passed; soon the rumors would begin; shamisen players were not, after all, so hard to replace. And there were rival theaters to consider . . . Still Sojiro waited. He waited at first for his father to announce his retirement and name his successor. And then, losing faith in his father, he waited for a sign to let him know what he should do . . .

  After the theater had been closed for nearly two months, an incident finally occurred which seemed like the sign he’d been waiting for. It involved a cucumber seed. His father was in the habit of eating with his dinner thinly sliced cucumbers marinated in soy sauce. On this particular evening his father ate them, as usual. Midway through the meal, though, he became irate: glaring around the table, he demanded to know why his cucumbers hadn’t been served to him. Sojiro’s wife apologized, pretending to have forgotten, and rushed toward the kitchen. At this moment his father looked down at his sauce dish and saw there, floating in the brown liquid, a single green seed. For a moment he stared down at the seed. Then he roared, and would certainly have overturned the table if his sons hadn’t restrained him. Sojiro tried his best to make his father see reason. But in the end it was Oike who proved able to calm him, whispering into his ear a few words Sojiro couldn’t make out . . .