An intense wave of emotion surged in my heart.
At that moment, I wanted to cry for my mother. And finding myself with this yearning, finding how instinctual this thing called sorrow was, I wanted also to cry for myself.
When I witnessed my mother’s death, no, when I was informed of my mother’s cancer, no, ever since I became aware, as a son, of the all-too-animalistic sentient life-form known as the mother, someone has always been attempting to sadden me. Until now, I’d continually withstood, as much as possible, the pressure to bow to this outrageous demand. Oh, what great pains I had to take to protect the childish truth that grieving for somebody is nothing more than grieving for yourself.
Staring at the eight on the calendar, I saw that there’s nothing sadder than the death of another person. It’s unbearably sad, not just for the deceased, but for anyone else. In the end, however, grieving death can only lead you to sin. Someone who relentlessly grieves the death of another is a person who stands in abject fear of his own death. It’s this fear that creates a shameless human being, capable of hurting others without compunction.
I’m sure Mother must have had her own demons. Take that day she abandoned me; Momma must have had her own troubles and worries, while being driven to despair and sorrow. Such things were obvious even in the eyes of the two-year-and-eight-month-old boy that I was at the time. And the more I grew, the clearer these things became inside me. Still, why should I grieve over her predicaments, concerns, despair, and sorrow? The more I grieved over Momma’s sorrow, the more I’d then have to grieve over, sympathize with, and feel pity for myself—as if I were a total stranger to myself. In this world, there’s no greater sin than whining self-pity, than whining self-commiseration.
My heart was about to explode, and I kept soothing it by clenching my fists and pulling my abs in tight. I gasped to push back the tears brimming in my eyes, ready to gush out at any moment. Chanting like a mantra the date, July eighth, July eighth, I managed to quell the storm raging in my head, and in a matter of only a few minutes, I regained my composure.
I picked up my cell phone and looked at the time. The display read July 13, 1:25 a.m. I stood up, opened the fusuma sliding door, walked across the corridor, and stood before the door to Eriko’s room. I considered knocking, but simply turned the knob instead.
I immediately realized there was no one there in that unlit room which I’d been shown into before going to sleep; it was colorless and lined with large bookshelves, jam-packed with books of paintings and works by Yukio Mishima and Kenzaburo Oe. I’d stood next to Eriko and removed several books from there, and each and every one of them were in such mint condition they gave the impression that they’d never been cracked open and thumbed through. Nonetheless, I imagined Eriko breezily pacing through all these great many words in her school days. After a closer examination, though, I noticed yellow asterisks lightly penciled in here and there. When I asked what these marks were for, she answered that they were for flagging the phrases she used to copy into her diary, which she’d been keeping since her junior high school days. I didn’t understand the rationale behind such a habit; was she thinking to use her diary one day as source material she could mine for something she wanted to write? I asked her as much. I have no such talent, Eriko replied. I just want to retain them in my memory forever.
I went over to the bed by the window and touched the sheets, but they were cold. I then left the room to search for her.
I checked the Japanese-style room next to Eriko’s and then the spacious Western-style room next to mine before deciding to go downstairs.
At the bottom of the stairs was a large vestibule, where a marvelous screen made of Japanese cypress stood.
Right beside this vestibule was a drawing room for visitors, where I saw, when I’d been shown into the room in the evening, an antique white leather sofa, a large glass table, and a genuine Laurencin painting hanging on the wall. Next to the stairs on the other side was an old-fashioned maid’s quarters, which had been turned into a storage room. At the front of the drawing room was a tatami-floored room, in which an upright piano and a Victor component stereo of a bygone era were kept. With only the light at the entrance lit now, the large corridors and every room in the house had become lonesome.
I went through a dark corridor leading into the patio and walked toward the living room and the dining room where I’d dined earlier.
Light was leaking through the door of the living room. Somebody was still there. When I stood before the door I heard a voice from inside. It was the father’s voice.
Frankly, you didn’t seem to know anything about him.
His voice sounded so stern—so reproachful—he seemed like a totally different person from earlier. In fact, he sounded like an executive scolding his employee. I let go of the doorknob, which I’d been holding, and pricked up my ears.
I’m afraid you’ve brought in an awful man. He’s not that …
That person is still a child! Eriko seemed to be appealing to her father, rather desperately. Her voice was barely audible, but I was able to intermittently hear such words as, He’s not weird!; He’s always on his toes; He’s frightened of something; He shivered in the nude like a newborn …
As I’ve been telling you, you mustn’t forget that you’re about to make an irrevocable decision. Listening to you talk, it sounds as if you’re getting married to the guy out of pity; it’s as if you think getting married to him is an act of kindness. Now isn’t that abnormal, no matter how you look at it? Now and then, you meet people like him, you know; brainy but apathetic. You’re innocent and naive, so you might have this notion that he’s unusual, but in reality, there are plenty like him out there. Obviously, he has his own philosophy, or some kind of cosmic rationale. But … this father of yours can’t help but think that the guy is a bad influence on you.
No, he’s not. That’s not the case at all! Eriko’s voice had gotten louder now so I was able to hear more clearly.
He’s not a bad influence. That man has something special in him. It’s something you’ll never understand unless you try to know him. He has something no one else has. He’s extremely free-spirited and has gravitas.
"Since when did you start speaking in such abstract terms? In the old days, you were more clear-cut in your
speech. That’s the kind of daughter I used to know."
The father suddenly spoke in a soothing tone, as if to pacify her. Eriko, my dear, if you look hard enough, you’ll always find a virtue or two in each and every person, and if you’re feeling sorry for him, let me tell you that there are far too many people in this world you could feel sorry for. Look, I’m not really making a fuss about his character in particular. My concern is about the way you think, the way you make choices. That’s all. The most important thing for a woman is what could be thought of as the ability to focus on her own happiness, you see. It’s an attitude that can help you look reality square in the eyes and secure a modicum of happiness; an honest handful’s worth. A woman who forgets this by getting absorbed in fleeting infatuations and thrills regularly fails in marriage. Your father, my dear, has seen many such people in his lifetime. Marriage is like that.
Eriko was no longer saying anything.
Well, at any rate, the two of you should really have a thorough heart-to-heart discussion on this matter once. There’s no use for you to consider marriage at this stage—not with the pathetically miniscule knowledge you have of him. It really is astonishing how little you know!
The conversation seemed to have broken off, so I turned on my heels in a hurry and quietly shuffled away from the door.
I returned to my room on the second floor, switched the lights off for the time being, and slipped onto the futon. After I heard Eriko passing by the front of my room and entering into her room, I switched on the lights and began to change my clothes, taking off the pajamas that Eriko’s mother had provided. After I folded the futon and returned it to the closet and put my towel and my used underwear
and socks into my bag, I switched off the lights and stepped out of the room. While I thought about leaving in silence, I decided I should at least say goodbye, so this time I knocked on Eriko’s door before pulling it open.
When I went inside, she seemed to be writing something at her desk. Noticing me in my clothes, she looked surprised. I approached where she was seated and looked over her shoulder, when she attempted to hide in a hurry what she was writing.
Wow! Now, that’s something. You’re writing about that conversation you had with your father a while ago in your diary, huh?
The face that had been looking up at me froze for an instant. I, on the other hand, was looking at the small cluster of characters in the diary and realizing the reason why Honoka’s handwriting—the handwriting I’d seen on the day of the bonfire—had felt reminiscent: it closely resembled Eriko’s handwriting.
I was going to leave quietly, I said, but I’m glad I came to say goodbye. Just to be clear, I hate people like your father. Any man who advises his daughter to think only about her own happiness is conceited and an idiot. There’s no other way of putting it. But even worse than him is you. In fact, you’re the worst. You have the nerve to see me as a child when you’re hardly confident about yourself, and to top it all, you’re obviously basking in self-pity all the time. Bravo indeed! What a remarkable feat! I’m so impressed I want to keep my head down and never see your face again. Okay then, I have no reason to hang around here anymore, so I’m leaving.
I turned my back on her and ran out. Barreling down the staircase, I heard footsteps behind me so I picked up my shoes at the entryway, hastily unlocked the sliding door, and jumped outside, my shoes still hooked on my fingers.
After that, I just ran, barefooted, toward the left for approximately two hundred meters, and just around the area where a jumble of houses appeared I swerved into a narrow bypath, put on my shoes there, and ran like crazy again. Halfway through, I felt as if I was jogging, so I began to chant.
Left right, left right, left right …
And before I knew it, I was even crooning the old children’s tune, The Monkey Palanquin Carrier, which put a further spring in my step.
Essa, Essa, Essa Hoi Sa Sa. There goes the Monkey Palanquin Carrier, going Hoi Sa Sa.
23
I FOUND A TAXICAB parked in front of Kami-Suwa Station; its driver was taking a nap when I asked him for a ride up to Tokyo. It was around eight in the morning when I arrived at the apartment in Morishita.
Although I’d slept in the cab, I still felt groggy.
When I entered the apartment, various things brought in by Eriko stood out, so I decided to send back whatever was valuable. To that end, I first began to rearrange the contents of the refrigerator. But, while steadily gulping down around a half-a-dozen cans of cool beer to cheer myself up, the task turned into a drag, so I stopped tidying up.
Sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, I faced the great big refrigerator and emptied the last can of beer.
So essentially she was an academic, I mused. Although I’m no expert, I believe there are far too many women like Eriko in this world; beautiful women who do well in school, and in many cases, go on to become academics. In much the same way they’re driven by a brazen curiosity and arrogant confidence to carry out fieldwork, or explore uncharted territories, or toy with dangerous compounds in the laboratory, they pour out their passions on a love interest beyond their control, and invariably flee in the end with their tails between their legs. But even so, they never feel ashamed, nor do they ever reflect on their conduct. When they finish writing a saccharine report in a flowery notebook titled Experience, they go out to repeat the same mistakes again, or they awaken to—as Eriko’s father put it—an honest handful’s worth of happiness and go on to work hard at attaining a tranquil marriage or delivering a baby.
Something’s terribly wrong.
I mean it!
Wait, no. Something’s wrong not with Eriko, but me.
How on earth was Eriko at fault? What wrong did she ever commit?
But the very fact that she didn’t commit any wrong is evidence of how truly foul, how truly villainous, she was.
Apparently, I’d somehow become completely drunk.
When I staggered into the bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed. In the dark room there with the curtains drawn, I remembered a time similar to this one. At that time I was still an innocent child. It was a precious time, when I myself was precious. Surely, no matter how harsh the times may be, there must always exist an irreplaceable time like that.
Eriko was telling her father that I was like a frightened baby. But it isn’t me who’s really frightened; it’s Eriko herself. She travels and shed tears, she tries to fall in love and pretends to be hurt. She’s completely afraid, having seen the great number of people in this world—several hundred times more than all the strands of her hair. She’s groping in the darkness, as it were, for something she can cling to.
I understood all too well, in fact to a sickening degree, what Eriko and her folks wanted to say. As a certain writer of the past wrote with some flair, what they wanted to say was simply one thing: that there isn’t a single thing in this world you could ever understand through books and movies alone; that there isn’t a single thing in this world you could ever understand without confronting a living, breathing human being.
That’s all. And it’s such a dreadfully down-market, garden-variety philosophy that continues to incite Eriko and instill a sense of awe in all kinds of people around the world, for all their lives. This philosophy certainly has a point. Surely, even a fifteen-year-old girl can teach me a thing or two. No doubt she could even temporarily shock and bewilder me. I’m well aware of that. And I’m also aware that there are plenty of people who’d be pleased by such an experience—like novelists who never get tired of translating their love affairs into eloquent prose. Simply awestruck, these people never think about bettering themselves, and even though they know full well that, ultimately, it’s just their petty curiosity being stimulated, they continue to tell preachy lies and brag about their experiences. I just can’t stand the narrow-mindedness of such people, their self-deluding, vapid tricks; you’d think they’re being hypocritical, but they’re not. Even though nothing changes in a human from the day he’s born, he goes on to believe that he has something he could lose, and by the same token, something he could recover. I can’t stand such drivel. Eriko’s the one who’s really frightened. She keeps entering silly thoughts into her diary every day and defends her man against her father’s accusations, even though she lacks conviction. If people vary from person to person in the way they wear their shoes, they also vary in the way they sink their teeth into their toast. It’s much in the same way that the Inuit and the Cubans and we Japanese differ from each other. But if we
try to read into such differences every time, what we’ll end up losing is ourselves. Everyone is essentially the same. You really can’t find any serious differences anywhere. You exist not for yourself, but purely for others. The self vaguely comes into being for the first time only in the presence of another person. Nonetheless, what binds a person in this world—what restricts and thoroughly dominates him—is fear. It’s not love. While love is often compared to light, what gives birth to light is nothing other than the deep darkness of the void. To perceive the world there are two approaches; one approach is to believe in the straight road the light reveals to you, and to live through your brief life by fanatically walking along this road. The other approach is a more elaborate one, requiring you to fixate on the whole world, or in other words, on the deep enclosure of darkness itself, as if to cast yourself out into the void of cosmic space. However, not only is the human being too paltry before the vastness of oblivion, he can never keep his eyes focused on its darkness with just the two eyes he was born with. With hope and love come despair, fear, and death, the three elements that constitute most of life. And as long as death—as an absolute terror—is found at the end of our l
ives, it’s impossible for love to overcome fear. However, the root of this fear is actually not found in death itself. What human beings dread the most is the human condition of being destined to die, of having no other choice but to live in fear of this destiny. Despite having no choice, humans continue to fear death in earnest. The more one fears death, the more death will live in the recesses of the heart, however happy you may be at any given moment, the prospect of it sparking like a sizzling electric current, never letting go of its grip on you—never letting you be released into the sea of happiness. For this reason, what we all must firmly reaffirm is not the meaning of life, but the truth of what it really means to die.
This is what Tolstoy says in his work, On Life.
Centuries pass, and the problem of the happiness of human life remains, for the majority of mankind, as inexplicable as ever. And yet the problem was solved long ago. And all who learn the answer to the problem are always astonished that they did not guess it themselves; they seem to have known it for a long time, but to have forgotten it. This enigma, which seemed so hopeless in the midst of the false doctrines of the age, offers of itself its own simple solution.
Thou wishest that all should live for thee, that all should love thee more than themselves? Thy wish can be fulfilled, but on one condition only: that all beings shall live for the well-being of others and love others more than themselves. Then only wilt thou and all beings be loved by all, and thou in their number wilt obtain thy desired well-being. If indeed well-being is possible to thee only when all beings love others more than themselves, then thou, a living being, must love others more than thyself.
Only on this condition are life and happiness possible for man; only on this condition can all that poisons the life of man be destroyed: the strife of beings, the torment of sufferings, and the terror of death.
The Part of Me That Isn't Broken Inside Page 25
