Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

  Customs here are indeed a little different. You won’t find many women who tie their sashes neatly behind their waists. It’s one thing to see a woman of a certain age who favors gaudy patterns, or a sash cut immoderately wide. It’s quite another to see these barefaced girls of fifteen or sixteen, all decked out in flashy clothes and blowing on bladder cherries, which everybody knows are used as contraceptives. But that’s what kind of neighborhood it is. A trollop who yesterday went by the name of some heroine in The Tale of Genji at one of the third-rate houses along the ditch today runs off with a thug. They open a lean-to bar, though neither of them knows the first thing about running a business. They soon go broke. The beauty begins to miss her former calling. Her assets are gone with the chopped-up chicken bones left from last night’s hors d’oeuvres. Unlike the chicken, however, our charmer can still return to her old nest. People around here, for some reason, find this kind of woman more alluring than your ordinary one.

  In such a world, how are the children to escape being influenced? Take the autumn festival. Mother Meng would be scandalized at the speed with which they learn to mimic all the famous clowns; why, there’s not a one of them who can’t do Rohachi and Eiki. They hear their performances praised, and that night the smart alecks repeat their rounds. It starts at the age of seven or eight, this audacity, and by the time they’re fifteen! Towels from the evening bath dangle from their shoulders, and the latest song, in a nasal twang of disrespect, dribbles from the corner of their lips. At school, any moment, a proper music class is apt to lapse into the rhythms of the quarter. Athletic meets ring with the songs of geisha—who needs the school cheer? One sympathizes with their teachers, who toil at the Ikueisha, not far from here. It may be a crowded little schoolhouse—a private school, actually—but the students number close to a thousand, and the teachers who are popular there soon become known. In these parts, the very word school is synonymous with the Ikueisha.

  Listen to them walking home from school: “Your father sure keeps an eye on the teahouse by the bridge!” they shout at the fireman’s boy. It’s the wisdom of the street. Children know about the quarter. They scramble over garden walls, imitating firemen. “Hey! You broke the spikes on the fence to keep the thieves away!” A two-bit shyster’s son begins his prosecution: “Your old man’s a ‘horse,’ isn’t he? Isn’t he?” The blood rushes to the defendant’s face. The poor boy—he’d sooner die than admit his father collected bills for a brothel. And then there are the favorite sons of the big shots of the quarter, who grow up in lodgings at some remove, free to feign a noble birth. They sport the latest prep-school cap, they have a look of leisure, and they wear their European clothes with style and panache. All the same, it’s amusing to watch the others curry favor. “Young master, young master,” they call them, when “spoiled brat” would do.

  Among the many students at the Ikueisha was Nobuyuki of Ryūge Temple. In time, his thick, black hair would be shorn, and he would don the dark robes of a priest. It may well have been his own choice, and then again perhaps he had resigned himself to fate. His father was a cleric, and already like his father Nobu was a scholar. By nature he was a quiet boy. His classmates considered him a wet blanket and they liked to tease him. “Here—this is your line of work,” they would laugh, stringing up a dead cat. “How about offering the last rites?” All that was in the past, however; no one made fun of him now, not even by mistake. He was fifteen and of average height, his dark hair was closely cropped in schoolboy fashion, and yet something about him was different from the others. Although he had the ordinary-sounding name of Fujimoto Nobuyuki, already in his manner were suggestions of the cloth.

  *

  The Festival of Senzoku Shrine was set for the twentieth of August, and not a block would there be without a float of its own jostling for glory. Over the ditch and up the side of the embankment they charge: all the young men, pushing, pulling, bent on taking the quarter. The heart beats faster at the mere thought of it. And keep an eye, mind you, on the young ones—once they get wind of what the older boys are up to. Matching kimonos for the whole gang are only the beginning. The saucy things they dream up will give you goose bumps.

  The back-street gang, as they preferred to call themselves, had Chōkichi for their leader. He was the fire chiefs son—sixteen and full of it. He hadn’t walked without his chest puffed out since the day he started policing the fall festival with his father: baton swinging, belt low around the hips, sneering whenever he answered. The firemen’s wives all griped among themselves, “If he weren’t the chiefs boy, he’d never get away with it.”

  Selfish Chōkichi saw to it that he always got his way. He stretched his side-street influence wider than it really went, until in Shōta, the leader of the main-street gang, Chōkichi knew that he had met his match. Though Shōta was three years younger, he was the son of Tanaka, the pawnbroker; his family had money, he was a likable boy. Chōkichi went to the Ikueisha; Shōta, to a fancy public school. The school songs they sang may have been the same, but Shōta always made a face, as if Chōkichi and his friends at the Ikueisha were poor relations.

  With his band of admirers—even some grown-ups numbered among them—for the last two years Shōta’s plans for the festival had flowered more luxuriantly than the efforts of Chōkichi’s gang. There had been no contest, and, if he lost again this year, all his threats—“Who do you think you’re dealing with? Chōkichi from the back streets, that’s who!”—would no longer garner even enough members for a swimming team at the Benten Ditch. If it were a matter of strength, he knew he would prevail, but everyone was taken in by Shōta’s quiet ways and his good grades. It was mortifying—some of his own gang had gone over on the sly to Shōta’s side. Tarokichi and Sangorō, for instance.

  Now the festival was only two days away. It looked more and more as if Chōkichi would lose again. He was desperate. If he could just see that Shōta got a little egg on his face, it wouldn’t matter if he himself lost an eye or a limb. He wouldn’t have to suffer defeat any more if he could recruit the likes of Ushi, the son of the rickshawman, and Ben, whose family made hair ribbons, and Yasuke, the toymaker’s boy. Ah, and better still: if he could get Nobu on his side—there was a fellow who’d have a good idea or two.

  Near dusk on the evening of the eighteenth, hoping for a chance to persuade Nobu, Chōkichi made his cocky way through the bamboo thicket of the temple. Swatting the mosquitoes that swarmed about his face, he stole up to Nobu’s room.

  “Nobu? You there? I know people say I’m a roughneck, and maybe I am. But it’s no wonder, with the way they goad me. Listen, Nobu, I’ve had enough of them—ever since last year when that jerk from Shōta’s gang picked a fight with my little brother and they all came running and jumped on him and threw him around. I mean, what do you think of something like that? Beating up a little kid and breaking his festival lantern! And then that Donkey from the dumpling shop, who’s so big and awkward he thinks he can go around acting like a grown-up! He comes and starts insulting me to my brother behind my back. You know what he said? ‘Think Chōkichi’s so smart, huh? And your father’s fire chief? Well, your big brother isn’t head of anything. He’s the tail end—a pig’s tail end!’ That’s what he said! All this time I’m off in the parade, pulling our float. When I heard about it later, though, I was ready to get even! But my father found out, and I’m the one who got in trouble. And you remember the year before that, don’t you? I went over to the paper shop, where a bunch of kids from the main street were putting on their slapstick. You know what snide things they said to me? ‘Doesn’t the back street have its own games? And all the while they’re treating Shōta like king. I don’t forget these things, Nobu … I don’t care how much money he has. Who is he, anyway, but the son of a loan shark? I’d be doing the world a favor to get rid of such a creep. This year, no matter how tough I have to be, I’ll see to it that Shōta eats his words. That’s why, Nobu—come on—for a friend, you’ve got to help. I know you don’t like this kind of
rough stuff. But it’s to get our honor back! Don’t you want to help me smash that snooty Shōta with his stuck-up school songs? You know when they call me a stupid private-schooler, it goes for you too. So come on. Do me this one favor and help us out. Carry one of the lanterns around at the festival. Listen, I’m eating my heart out, this has been bothering me so much. If we lose this time, it’ll be the end of me.” Chōkichi’s broad shoulders trembled with anger.

  “But I’m not very strong.”

  “I don’t care whether you’re strong or not.”

  “I don’t think I could carry one of the lanterns.”

  “You don’t have to!”

  “You’ll lose even with me—you don’t care?”

  “If we lose, we lose. Look, you don’t have to do anything. Just so you’re on our side. All we have to do is show you off. It’ll attract others. Build up our morale. I know I’m not very smart, but you are. So if they start using big words and making fun of us, you can answer right back in Chinese. I feel better already. You’re worth the whole lot of them! Thanks, Nobu.” It wasn’t often you heard Chōkichi speak so softly.

  The one the son of a workman, with his boy’s belt and his smart straw sandals; the other like a priest in his somber jacket and his purple band—they were the opposite sides of a coin. More often than not, the two boys disagreed. Yet it was true that Nobu’s own parents had a soft spot for Chōkichi. Why, the venerable Head Priest and his wife had heard Chōkichi’s first cries as a babe outside the temple gate. And, after all, they did both go to the same school. If people made fun of the Ikueisha to Chōkichi, it reflected on Nobu too. It was a shame that Chōkichi wasn’t better liked, but he never had been what you’d call appealing—unlike Shōta, who attracted everyone, even the older boys, for his allies. Nobu wasn’t showing any prejudice. If Chōkichi lost, the blame would rest squarely on Shōta. When Chōkichi came to him like this, out of a sense of decency Nobu could hardly refuse.

  “All right. I’m on your side. But you’d better keep the fighting down … If they start things, we won’t have any choice. And if that happens, I’ll wrap Shōta around my little finger.” Nobu’s reticence had already been forgotten. He opened his desk drawer and showed Chōkichi the prized Kokaji dagger his father had brought him from Kyōto.

  “Say! That’ll really cut!” Chōkichi admired.

  Look out—careful how you wave that thing.

  *

  Undone, her hair would reach her feet. She wore it swept up and pulled into a heavy-looking roll in the “red bear” style—a frightening name for a maiden’s hairdo, but the latest fashion even among girls of good family. Her skin was fair and her nose was nicely shaped. Her mouth, a little large perhaps, was firm and not at all unattractive. If you took her features one by one, it is true, they were not the classic components of ideal beauty. And yet she was a winsome girl, exuberant, soft-spoken. Her eyes radiated warmth whenever she looked at you.

  “I’d like to see her three years from now!” young men leaving the quarter would remark when they noticed her returning from the morning bath, her towel in hand and her neck a lovely white above her orange kimono of boldly patterned butterflies and birds, her stylish sash wrapped high at the waist and her lacquered slippers more thickly soled than what one usually saw, even around here.

  Her name was Midori and she was from the Daikokuya. She was born in Kishū, though, and her words had the slightest southern lilt. It was charming. There were few who did not enjoy her generous, open nature.

  For a child, Midori had a handsome pocketbook, thanks to her sister’s success in the quarter. The great lady’s satellites knew how to purchase good will: “Here Midori, go buy yourself a doll,” the manager would say. “It isn’t much, honey,” one of the attendant girls would offer, “but it’ll buy you a ball, anyway.” No one took these gifts very seriously, and the income Midori accepted as her due. It was nothing for her to turn round and treat twenty classmates to matching rubber balls. She had been known to delight her friend the woman at the paper store by buying up every last shopworn trifle. The extravagance day after day was certainly beyond the child’s age or station. What would become of her? Her parents looked the other way, never a word of caution.

  And wasn’t it odd, how the owner of her sister’s house would spoil her so? She was hardly his adopted child, or even a relation. Yet ever since he had come to their home in the provinces to appraise her older sister, Midori and her parents had found themselves here at the Daikokuya. They had packed up their belongings, along with her sister, to seek their fortunes in the city.

  What lay behind it all would be difficult to say, but today her parents were housekeepers for the gentleman. On the side, her mother took in sewing from the women of the district; her father kept the books at a third-rate house. They saw to it that Midori went to school and that she learned her sewing and her music. The rest of the time she was on her own: lolling around her sister’s rooms for half the day, playing in the streets the other half. Her head was full of the sounds of samisen and drum, of the twilight reds and purples of the quarter. New to the city, Midori had bristled when the other girls made fun of her, calling her a country girl for wearing a lavender collar with her lined kimono. She had cried for three days then. Not now, though. It was Midori who would tease when someone seemed uncouth—“What kind of dress is that!”—and no one had quite the nimble wit to return her rebukes.

  The festival was to be held on the twentieth, and this year they would have to outdo themselves. Midori’s help was needed. “All right. Everyone plan something. We’ll take a vote. I’ll pay for everything,” she responded with her usual generosity. “Don’t worry about the cost.”

  The children were quicker than adults to seize an opportunity. The beneficent ruler seldom comes a second time.

  “Let’s do a show. We can borrow a shop where everyone can watch us.”

  “No—that’s stupid! Let’s build a little shrine to carry around. A good one like they have at Kabata’s. Even if it’s heavy, it won’t matter, once we get it going to a nice beat.”

  “Yatchoi! Yatchoi!” danced a youth already in the mood, his towel twisted into a festive headband.

  “What about us?” “You think Midori’s going to have any fun just watching while you’re all roughhousing?” “Come on, Midori, have them do something else.” The girls, it seemed, would prefer to forgo the celebrations for an afternoon of vaudeville.

  Shōta’s handsome eyes lit up. “Why don’t we do a magic lantern show? I have a few pictures at my house. Midori, you can buy the rest. We can use the paper shop. I’ll run the lantern, and Sangorō from the back street can be the narrator. What do you say, Midori? Wouldn’t that be good?”

  “I like it! If Sangorō does the talking, no one will be able to keep from laughing. Too bad we can’t put a picture of him in the show.”

  Everything was decided. Shōta dashed around to get things ready.

  By the next day, word of their plans had reached the back street.

  *

  The drums, the samisen! Even in a place never wanting for music, the festival is the liveliest time of year. What could rival it but Otori day? Just watch the shrines try to surpass one another in their celebrations.

  The back-street and the main-street gangs each had their own matching outfits, Mōka cotton emblazoned with their street names. “But they’re not as nice as last year’s,” some grumbled. Sleeves were tied up with flaxen cords stained yellow from a jasmine dye. The wider the bright ribbons, everyone agreed, the better. Children under fifteen or so weren’t satisfied until they had accumulated all the trinkets they could carry—Daruma dolls, owls, dogs of papier-mâché. Some had eight or nine, even eleven, dangling from their yellow armbands. It was a sight to see them, bells of all sizes jingling from their backs as they ran along gamely in their stockinged feet.

  Shōta stood apart from the crowd. Today he looked unusually dapper. His red-striped jacket and his dark-blue vest contrasted han
dsomely with his boyish complexion. He wore a pale blue sash wrapped tightly round the waist. A second look revealed it to be the most expensive crêpe. The emblems on his collar were exceptional enough to draw attention by themselves. In his headband he had tucked a paper flower. Though his well-heeled feet beat time to the rhythm of the drums, Shōta did not join the ranks of any of the street musicians.

  Festival eve had passed without incident. Now at dusk on this once-in-a-year holiday, twelve of the main-street gang were gathered at the paper shop. Only Midori, a long time with her evening toilette, had yet to appear. Shōta was getting impatient.

  “What’s taking her so long?” He paced in and out the front door. “Sangorō, go and get her. You’ve never been to the Daikokuya, though, have you? Call her from the garden, and she’ll hear you. Hurry up.”

  “All right. I’ll leave my lantern here. Shōta, keep an eye on it; someone might take the candle.”

  “Don’t be such a cheapskate! Stop dawdling.”

  “I’m off.” The boy didn’t seem to mind being scolded by his juniors.

  “There goes the god of lightning,” someone said, and the girls all burst out laughing at the way he ran. He was short and beefy, and, with no neck to speak of, his bulging head suggested one of those wooden mallets. Protruding forehead, pug nose, big front teeth—no wonder he was called Bucktooth-Sangorō. He was decidedly dark-skinned, but what one noticed even more was the expression on his face, dimpled and affable and ready for the clown’s role. His eyebrows were so oddly placed as to suggest the final outcome of a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. He was an amusing child, without a mean streak in him.