Wilfred went to the window and stared gloomily out.
‘I’m old enough to be your mother,’ Katherine was saying in a lulling murmur as they paced slowly along in the twilight, ‘and I do so want to help you . . . and Mary, too, of course . . . such a sensible girl . . . that was the first thing I thought about her when I met her: how sensible. I simply must ask you something, Yasu.’
Her voice sank mysteriously. The arm she held remained stiff, and although Yasuhiro’s head was courteously inclined towards her, he was silent.
‘Do tell me what you saw in her. I know one never understands what attracts people to other people, but really – Mary – to most people – the only word I can use sounds rather unkind – she’d actually seem dull.’
‘I know the word, Mrs Cornforth,’ he said. ‘It means not bright, not shining.’ His tone was expressionless.
‘I only meant until one gets to know her, of course,’ Katherine added hastily. ‘But you do agree, don’t you? To most people . . .’ No answer. She tried again. ‘You see, Yasu, it intrigues me, because you’re simply the very last kind of person one would expect to be attracted to her. Aren’t you?’ She shook his arm gently. ‘Oh come on, Yasu! “Give”, as the Americans say.’
‘You are very kind to offer such interest, Mrs Cornforth,’ he answered slowly, and Katherine stopped dead, and stood staring as he spoke, ‘but I don’t want to do anything suggested by Americans. Want only, oh so much, to grind them into powder like the beans we eat for our break-fast. Now if you excuse, I return to your honourable house. I have important affairs to talk about with Mary’s father.’
He was gently pulling his arm away.
The first part of his sentence had come out on an extraordinary note indescribable in words; it was almost a growl, and it conveyed an impression of alarming, and naked, force.
There was silence in the summer dusk.
‘I’m – sorry,’ Katherine said at last, breathlessly, in a shaken voice. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever hear that sound here.’
‘Samurai fighting cry,’ he said lightly, as they strolled back to the house. ‘It brings spirit back to dead bodies . . .’
Katherine said nothing. Her head was turned away.
28
Epic
Wilfred was accustomed to interviewing strangers.
It had been part of his work at the Town Hall during the thirty years he had passed there; his reponsibilities increasing as time went on and his reliability and conscientiousness establishing themselves in the opinion of his superiors. He knew how to look people in the eye without giving offence, and how to receive glances, charged with helpless annoyance, without showing any in return.
But the dark, bright eyes now looking into his own had no expression but courtesy.
Wilfred almost sighed.
‘About your job, Yasu –’ he began. ‘Got any ideas yet?’
‘None. Not at all. No. You see, not necessary to toil in shabby business because Great-grandfather will die soon, and he has leave to me all his stocks and shares. This I tell you in my letter. Also, my family has large large house – much room for Mary and perhaps for many children. Sons. I hope for you, also, Honourable Mr Dad. (Please do come.) Therefore good situation. Don’t you think. So?’
This appeared to dispose of the situation, and more than satisfactorily. But not for a lower-middle-class, old-fashioned Englishman.
‘Well, that sounds very nice, of course . . . But won’t you want to do some kind of work?’
Yasuhiro shrugged.
‘Why to toil if you have money? Go around, look at beautiful world, play at games with my children, be with sweet wife. Plenty to do, plenty.’
What has been called the Protestant work ethic was shocked in Wilfred.
‘But – but –’ he hunted about for reasons that should not seem idealistic or moral ‘– you’ll be so bored, Yasu.’
‘Only bored when toiling in office of disgraceful factory. How could I be bored while swim, climb, do kendo, read, look at beautiful white moon, go to Apurimac, marvellous marvellous place?’
‘Where’s that?’ Wilfred asked after a pause. He had to say something, because he felt he was getting nowhere in the argument.
‘Is in Peru. I have seen coloured photograph. Waterfall going down hundreds of feet into pool so clear cannot know if it is water. Trees stand all around watching. Oh wonderful.’
‘Yes, well, you could always see that on holiday – and wouldn’t you––’
‘Not “always”. Forests everywhere rapidly destroying by pol-lution. Hurry, hurry to see in time. Also before disgraceful tourist come.’
‘– want a house – home – of your own?’ Wilfred retreated helplessly from Apurimac. ‘I’m sure Mary will.’
‘Wife want what her husband want,’ proclaimed Yasuhiro.
‘Don’t you believe it. Sometimes, perhaps. Not always.’
‘Then she learn. Duty to do this. But I am rude. I interrupt you, Mr Dad.’
‘They only learn up to a point. In England wives have minds of their own, you know.’
‘Men have more strong minds,’ and Yasuhiro smiled, a man-to-man sort of smile, which Wilfred found endearing.
‘Some of us have, and some of us haven’t . . . When it comes to Mary having her own home, I think you’ll find she’s got a very strong mind of her own. She’s been brought up to believe that’s the – er – natural way to live. A lot of trouble’s caused by young people living with their parents – I’ve seen it.’
‘Custom, in Japan. Or, if trouble, then parents speak strong to young people, and trouble all gone.’
Wilfred wished, feelingly, that this could be the case nearer home. He shifted his ground of attack.
‘Besides, how about your own parents? Won’t they want a bit of peace? You’re – what? – twenty-one? They must be getting on.’
‘Oh yes, Father old now. Sit in shade, as we say. My mother more young, wear Western dress.’
Wilfred shifted ground again.
‘Wouldn’t you feel – well – I mean, living on inherited money––’
‘What is in-herit-ed, please? Expression not familiar.’
‘Money someone left you when they died.’
‘Answer number one question first. Then give reasons. My father does not like peace. Enjoys play at tennis, play at pachinko (Japanese game). Cheerful person. My mother cheerful also. Get around.’ Yasuhiro paused for a long time. ‘Pleased to have only son and daughter-in-law living in their house. Daughter’s father also.’ He paused for a long time. ‘I tell you my heart-thoughts, Mr Dad. Parents not pleased I want to marry girl from the West.’
Ah, now we’re coming to it. Just what I thought.
‘But I go straight to Honourable Great-grandfather, talk to him on the telephone . . . Great influence with parents. So now good situation.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Wilfred said weakly.
‘And about stocks and shares. They are not stolen money. Honourable Great-grandfather earn this money being great sailor. Put money in Stock Exchange. Now much much more. Good situation also.’ He smiled triumphantly.
‘But – I don’t feel it’s right, Yasu,’ Wilfred said at last, experiencing that sense of confusion that is almost sorrow, which overcomes certain people when arguments which they feel strongly to be right are swept aside by other, more forceful minds.
‘But is not wrong, Honourable Mr Dad. How is wrong?’
‘Well, er, how about all the millions of people in the world who haven’t enough to eat?’
‘Oh, die soon. Relieve pop-u-lation ex-plosion. Good situation.’ Yasuhiro waved a hand.
‘Or – or who don’t have a nice home?’
‘Cannot help,’ and he smiled.
‘It’s – it’s so damned selfish,’ Wilfred burst out.
‘Why selfish? I am ready to die for glory of Emperor and Japan.’
‘Let’s hope you won’t have to.’
‘Strongest wis
h,’ Yasuhiro said, and the muscles of his jaw tightened.
At this point, Wilfred almost gave up, and thought of suggesting that they should go down to join the others, or that he should teach Yasuhiro to play Old Maid or something . . . Militarism, on top of everything else. He was more than anxious about Mary’s future now: he was seriously troubled.
‘But Yasu, that would mean war, wouldn’t it? You can’t want a Third World War?’ Yasuhiro continued to smile in haughty silence. ‘We’d none of us last more than a few minutes – use your head!’ Wilfred went on vigorously. ‘How about your beautiful world – all blown to pieces, or made’ – he hunted for the word – ‘infertile?’
‘Japan have the Bomb by then,’ was the steely answer.
‘And a lot of good that’d do, wouldn’t it?’
‘Honourable host’s opinion correct of course of course,’ and Yasuhiro retired into the social manner.
Wilfred then made an effort. For him it was a strong effort, because he was accustomed, in arguments outside office hours, to retreat into good-humoured but obstinate silence, into pipe-fiddling, into changing the subject; even occasionally, when his antagonist was very pig-headed, into hypocritical agreement.
But this argument was different; this time he had to stand firm, because it was for Mary.
‘I never see the point of arguing about war,’ he began at last. ‘One never gets anywhere. And you, at your age, aren’t likely to understand how I feel at mine. I’ve been through two of ’em. You haven’t.’
‘Not my fault! Not born at right time! (Excuse, I am rude.)’
‘You can thank your lucky stars you weren’t – It’s all right. You weren’t rude . . . It wouldn’t be like the last one, you know, any more than that was like 1914.’
‘Glorious death for Japan,’ Yasuhiro repeated.
‘For you, perhaps, if that’s what you want. But how about all the millions and millions of other people? You aren’t using your imagination, Yasu. How about Mary – and the children, perhaps.’
‘This is how Mairly says. I see that your honourable mind is like her mind.’
‘Natural, isn’t it, seeing I’m her father.’ He leant forward. ‘Look here, Yasu. I want to give my, er, consent. But I, er, more than that of course I want Mary to be happy––’
‘If she marry me she will be happy.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps . . . But look here. All this stuff about dying for Japan, it worries me. Who’d take care of her and the children if you went off and got killed?’
‘Family take care of honoured widow. Duty in Japan. Western ideas, throw widow away like plastic container. Not in Japan.’
‘Yes, I expect they would. But she’d be very unhappy and lonely if you got killed.’
Yasuhiro shrugged. His mouth was set sulkily.
Wilfred breathed a heavy sigh, half of exasperation, half in preparation for what he was about to say. He spoke steadily, when he did speak.
‘And suppose I said you’ve got to give up these ideas or I won’t give my consent? How’d you feel then?’
Colour came into Yasuhiro’s face. He sat very still. He did not raise his eyes; only said, in a low voice:
‘That would hurt my heart so much so much that I would crack. Like por-ce-lain plate. Heart of Mairly too, I think. But of course word of Honourable Mr Dad is final.’
Wilfred was so surprised that he could only sit and stare. So much for his ideas of rebellious, uncontrollable youth! He was shocked out of his astonishment when Yasuhiro added pensively: ‘We both commit suicide, I think. (National tradition, you know.) I have expected this – in my heart-thoughts. Mishima is right when he says love not possible for modern boy and girl in Japan or anywhere.’
‘Whoever he was, Mishima was talking rubbish!’ Wilfred almost shouted. ‘All we need is a bit of give-and-take between you and me. As for suicide – that’s all nonsense. I never heard . . .’
Yasuhiro slowly shook his head, still staring at the floor.
‘Painful and sad to live with cracked heart. Suicide better.’
Wilfred sat looking at him in despairing silence. He, the girl’s father, had the power to stop the whole thing, just by saying ‘No’. Like some old chap in Victoria’s reign. He couldn’t believe it. Yet he was certain the boy meant what he said.
The room was quiet. A summer stillness held the air, and faint light, from a moon made gold by the earliest hint of autumn mists, showed in at the window between the curtains. Under the occasional bellow of a passing train and the remote drone of traffic, the singing of the stream was audible. Wilfred found his tired thoughts wandering off into nowhere.
‘Yasu,’ he said slowly at last, with a feeling of coming back into the real world. ‘How about writing all this?’
Yasuhiro looked at him attentively.
‘Mary tells me you write poetry. Why don’t you write something for – for the glory of Japan? Something really splendid. Make you famous and all that. It’s just an idea . . .’ His voice trailed off as Yasuhiro did not answer.
‘Mishima was writing,’ he said at last. ‘Stories.’ He hesitated, then leant towards Wilfred, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. His eyes had the ingenuous light of a very young boy’s. He was transformed, and Wilfred could only stare.
‘Mr Dad, you are Mairly’s father. Tell you now my very secret heart-thoughts, as only to my Honourable Great-grandfather. I do not wish to die for glory, or commit suicide. I wish to live with Mary and enjoy beautiful world.’
‘That’s all right,’ Wilfred said after a pause. ‘I understand. It’s all right, Yasu.’
He was moved, and therefore he was embarrassed. The sight of Yasuhiro’s changed and softened face, and the half-whispered confidence, brought the thought that this boy from the other side of the world might one day be a son to him, supported and supporting, loved and loving. Wilfred did not use these words in his thoughts. Get on together all right was how he translated them. He had to turn his head away until he ‘felt better’.
Yasuhiro appeared to have gone off into a reverie. He got up silently and moved across to the window and stood with his back to the room, staring out into the dusk.
He did not say anything, and gradually the voice of the stream below the window began to be heard. Wilfred heard a soft crackle of words.
‘“He sings swiftly and low to himself in the dark, the clear Stream Spirit.” Is a poem. What we call a haiku. I make English translation. Good one. Correct, too, in syll-ables.’
‘Very nice.’
But Wilfred had had enough. He said firmly, ‘It’s past nine. How about us going up to the TV room and watching Ironside?’
Wilfred slept late, and awoke through one of the exquisite, confused dreams which had blessed his sleep since he came to live at the Yellow House, to be aware of a by no means subdued knocking on his bedroom door.
‘Hullo – what’s up – come in,’ he called drowsily, less than half awake.
The door opened with some energy.
‘I am here, Honourable Mr Dad. Forgive the rudeness that I wake you from desirable sleep. But car hired this morning waiting at the front door. To drive me back to London. So I wish to speak to you before departure.’
‘Oh – well – you’re a sharp mover, aren’t you? Nothing’s wrong, I hope? Mary didn’t phone or anything?’ Wilfred sat up in bed, gazing dimly at the elegant grey-clad shape in the doorway.
Strange – strange that this little peasant, this minor official of the British Government, is my father-in-law to be, mused Yasuhiro, behind his sweet-smiling mask. His thin hair is disordered on his scalp, his sleeping-robe is in tasteless colours. But he is not without intelligence. He even has some imagination. And his poor peasant-heart has what has been called the American and British virtue – kindness. I shall honour him, as it is my duty. I, even I, actually feel some softness towards him.
‘Nothing is wrong. I have spoken with Mairly on the telephone. Already.’ Yasuhiro giggled. ‘She is angry that I
awake her so early. (Wake her up.) But when I tell her I am going back to disgr–– to Rowena Road, she is angry once more. But I wish to tell you . . .’
‘Oh . . . well . . .’ Wilfred, sitting up in bed, was trying to refrain from smoothing his hair and rubbing his eyes. ‘Fire away.’
‘And I wish to tell Mairly, at once very quickly. I have got first lines. Poem concerning heroic suicide of Mishima. Write this for glory of Japan.’
‘Oh – well – that’s fine, Yasu. Congratulations. Very glad to hear it . . . Had your breakfast?’
‘No. Hunger increases strength of senses – to see, hear, and feel heart-thoughts. Eat when I get back to London. Irri-ta-ting detail at this moment.’
‘Sorry.’
‘– Will be demon-poem. Very terrible. Stir up the heart-feelings. Peasants all over the world will “swallow” and know tra-gic story of Mishima who died for ancient Japanese traditions.’
‘Er – will it be a long poem?’
‘Ep-ic,’ was the prompt reply. ‘Long poem concerned with great tragic happenings. Much made in Ancient World. Often sung to musical instruments. (This I learn at Tokyo University, second year English course.) Now, Honourable Mr Dad, you give your much-wished consent I marry with Mairly?’
There was a pause. Wilfred, sitting up in bed with his hair on end, did not feel at his most capable, and when at last he spoke, it was slowly.
‘You know I’d like to, Yasu. But – does it mean that if you write this poem you, er, won’t want to die for Japan?’
Yasuhiro nodded slowly, standing very straight with his arms at his sides.
‘Yes, Mr Dad. (Of course, if war came, I would have to fight.) But – I have told you – in my heart-thoughts I wish to live, not die for glory of Japan or commit suicide. So this poem, which I make very long, very glorious, great work, shall be a – kind of dying. Such work, you understand, so difficult to make great, tragic, true.’
I suppose, Wilfred thought, this is the best I shall get . . . at least he doesn’t want to cut his stomach open any more. Really –!
I’d better settle for it.
‘Right you are, then, Yasu. I give my consent. And I hope you’ll both be very happy together – as happy as Mary’s mother and I were.’
The Yellow Houses Page 29
