by Frank Wynne
There were, of course, all kinds of sharp practices. Even if no one from the congregation heard, Nobu wondered, what would the neighbors think? And his friends? He could just hear them. Ryūge Temple is selling hairpins now. Nobu’s mother is out huckstering like a lunatic. Really, didn’t they think they ought to stop?
The reverend priest would hear nothing of it. “Knock it off. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The mere idea sent the man into paroxysms.
Prayers in the morning, accounts at night. His father’s face beamed whenever his fingers touched the abacus. It was enough to turn the boy’s stomach. Why on earth had the man become a priest?
There was nothing in his upbringing to make Nobu such a gloomy child. He had the same parents as Ohana. They were part of the same cozy, self-contained family. Yet he was the quiet one. Even when he did speak, his opinions were never taken seriously. His father’s schemes, his mother’s conduct, his sister’s education—to Nobu everything they did was a travesty. He had resigned himself to knowing that they would never listen. How unfair it was. His friends found him contrary and perverse, but in fact he was a weakling. If anyone maligned him in the slightest, he would run for the shelter of his room. He was a coward utterly lacking in the courage to defend himself. At school they called him a brain; his family’s station was not lowly. No one knew how weak he really was. More than one of his friends considered Nobu something of a cold fish.
*
The night of the festival Nobu was sent on an errand to his sister’s tea shop in Tamachi, and he was late coming home. Not until the next morning did he learn of the fight at the paper shop. When Ushimatsu and Bunji and the others gave him the details, the full impact of Chōkichi’s violent ways startled him anew. What was done was done—but in name he was included in the violence, and it rankled. Now people would be blaming him for the trouble.
It was three days before Chōkichi had the nerve to face Nobu. For once he must have felt a little sheepish about the damage he had done. He did not look forward to Nobu’s scolding. “I know you’re probably angry,” he ventured, having waited for the storm to pass. “I couldn’t help it, though. Everything got out of hand. I hadn’t meant it to happen. You won’t hold it against me, will you, Nobu? How were we to know that you’d be gone and Shōta would fly the coop? It’s not as though I planned to beat up Sangorō and pick a fight with that tramp Midori. Things just happened. You don’t run away once the lanterns start swinging! All we wanted was to show a little muscle, show ’em who’s boss. It’s my fault, I know. I should have listened to you. But come on Nobu, if you get mad now, how’s it going to look? After I’ve gone around telling everybody you’re on our side. You can’t leave us in the lurch. Okay, so you don’t approve of this one thing. You be the leader, and next time we won’t botch things up.” Gone was the usual swagger.
Nobu couldn’t turn his back on Chōkichi. “All right,” he sighed. “But listen—bully the weak ones, and we’ll be the ones in disgrace. We’re not going to gain anything fighting Sangorō and Midori. If Shōta and his flunkies want to stir up trouble, we can cross that bridge when we come to it. But let’s not egg them on.” Chōkichi had to promise: no more fights. For a rebuke, it was rather mild.
The innocent one was Sangorō. They had kicked and beaten him to their hearts’ content, and he still ached two, three days afterward. He couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t sit down. Every evening when his father picked up the empty rickshaw and headed for the teahouses, someone would ask him what was wrong with the boy. “Say, your Sangorō looks a little peaked these days,” the caterer remarked, almost accusingly. “Somebody give him a pounding?”
Groveling Tetsu they called his father, head always lowered before his betters. It didn’t matter who—the landlord or someone with money or the owner of one of the houses in the quarter, where Tetsu pulled his cart—any of them could make the most impossible demands, and the rickshawman would acquiesce. “Indeed, of course, how right you are.” Small wonder, then, what his reaction was to the incident with Chōkichi. “He’s the landlord’s son, isn’t he? I don’t care if you were right. I won’t have you getting into scraps with him. Now go apologize. You ought to know better!” There was no avoiding it. His father made sure that he got down on his knees in front of Chōkichi.
Within a week Sangorō’s wounds healed and his temper cooled. He was ready to forget what he’d been angry about. For the price of a carriage ride, he was baby-sitting again for Chōkichi’s little brother, walking round with the child on his back and lulling it to sleep with nursery rhymes. Sangorō was sixteen, that age when boys get cocky, but the lumpish figure he cut failed to trouble him. He wandered over to the main street, unconcerned as always. “Hey, Sangorō. Have you forgotten you’re a boy?” Midori and Shōta were great ones when it came to teasing. “Some sight you make, with that baby on your back!” It didn’t matter, they were still his friends.
In spring the cherry trees blossom in profusion. In summer the lanterns twinkle in memory of the late Tamagiku. In autumn the festival streets overflow with rickshaws. Count them: seventy-five down the road within the space of ten minutes. Then the autumn holidays are over. Here and there a red dragonfly bobs above the rice fields. Before long, quail will be calling out along the moat. Mornings and evenings, the breeze blows cold. At the sundries shop, pocket warmers now take the place of mosquito incense. It’s sad, somehow, that faint sound of the mortar grinding flour at Tamura’s, over by the bridge. The clock at Kadoebi’s has a melancholy ring. Fires glow through all four seasons from the direction of Nippori. It’s in autumn that one begins to notice them. Smoke rises each time one more soul embarks on the journey to the other shore.
Deftly, a geisha plays on the samisen. The refrain reaches the path along the bank behind the teahouses. A passerby looks up and listens. Not much of a song, really, but moving all the same. “Together we shall spend our night of love.” Women who have done time in the quarter will tell you—it’s the men who begin visiting in autumn who prove to be the truly faithful ones.
Talk, talk: in this neighborhood, there is always grist for gossip. The details are tedious, but the stories make the rounds. A blind masseuse, she was only twenty, killed herself. With a handicap like hers, love was out of the question. Well she couldn’t stand it any more. Drowned herself in Mizunoya Pond. Then there are the incidents too commonplace to rate a rumor. Missing persons: Kichigorō, the greengrocer, and Takichi, the carpenter. How come? “They picked them up for this,” a fellow whispers, and pantomimes a gambler dealing out the cards.
A moment ago there were children there, down the street. “Ring-a-ring-a-roses, pocket full of posies.” Suddenly it’s quiet now, before you notice. Only the sound of rickshaws, loud as ever.
It was a lonely night. Just when it seemed the autumn rains would go on and on falling softly, with a roar a downpour came. At the paper shop they were not expecting anyone. The shopkeeper’s wife had closed up for the evening. Inside, playing marbles, were Shōta and Midori, as usual, and two or three of the younger ones. All at once, Midori heard something: “Is that a customer? I hear footsteps.”
“I don’t hear anything,” Shōta said. He stopped counting out the marbles.
“Maybe someone wants to play.”
Who could it be? They heard him come as far as the gate, but after that, not a word, not a sound.
*
“Boo!” Shōta opened the door and stuck his head out. “Hey, who’s there?” He could just make out the back of someone walking along beneath the eaves two or three houses up ahead. “Who is it? Do you want to come in?” He had slipped Midori’s sandals on and was about to run after him, in spite of the rain. “Oh, it’s him.” Shōta cupped his hand above his head, mimicking a bald monk. “No use—we can call him all we want, he won’t come.”
“Nobu?” Midori asked. “That old priest! I’ll bet he came to buy a writing brush and scurried off the minute he heard us. Nasty, stupid, toothless, old-maid Nob
u! Just let him come in. I’ll tell him what I think. Too bad he ran away. Let me have the sandals. I want a look.” This time Midori poked her head out. The rain dripped down from the eaves onto her forehead. It gave her a chill. She pulled back, staring at the shadowy figure as he made his way around the puddles. He was four or five houses away by now, and he seemed to cower in the gaslight. His paper umbrella hugged his shoulders. She looked and looked.
Shōta tapped her on the shoulder. “Midori, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she said absent-mindedly, returning to the game. “I hate that little altar boy! He can’t even conduct his fights in public. He makes that pious, old-maid face of his and goes sneaking round corners. Isn’t he awful? My mother says people who are straightforward are the good ones. She’s right, don’t you think, Shōta? It’s a sure thing Nobu has an evil heart, the way he lurks around.”
“But at least he knows what’s what. Not like Chōkichi, there’s a real moron. The boy’s a total ignoramus,” Shōta said knowingly.
“Cut it out. You and your big words.” Midori laughed and pinched him on the cheek. “Such a serious face! Since when are you so grown up?”
Shōta was not amused. “For your information, it won’t be long before I am grown up. I’ll wear a topcoat with square-cut shoulders like the shopkeeper at Kabata’s, and the gold watch Grandmother’s put away for me. I’ll wear a ring. I’ll smoke cigarettes. And for shoes—you’re not going to see me in any clogs. Oh, no. I’ll wear leather sandals, the good kind, with triple-layered heels and fancy satin straps. Won’t I look sharp!”
“You in triple heels and a square-cut overcoat?” Midori couldn’t help snickering. “Mm, sure, if you want to look like a walking medicine bottle.”
“Oh, quiet. You don’t think I’ve stopped growing, do you? I won’t be this short forever.”
“Seeing is believing. You know, Shōta,” Midori said, pointing a sarcastic finger at the rafters, “even the mice laugh when you keep making these promises.” Everyone, the shopkeeper’s wife included, shook with laughter.
His eyes spun; Shōta was completely serious. “Midori makes a joke of everything. But everyone grows up, you know. Why is what I say so funny? The day will come when I go walking with my pretty wife. I always like things to be pretty. If I had to marry someone like that pock-marked Ofuku at the cracker shop, or the girl at the firewood store with the bulging forehead—no thank you. I’d send her home. No pockmarks for me!”
“How good of you to come, then,” the shop wife laughed. “Haven’t you noticed my spots?”
“Oh, but you’re old. I’m talking about brides. Once you’re old, it doesn’t matter.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” the woman sighed. “Well, let’s see now. There’s Oroku at the flower shop. She has a pretty face. And Kii at the fruit stand. And who else? Who else, I wonder? Why, the prettiest one is sitting right next to you. Shōta, who will it be? Oroku with those eyes of hers? Kii and her lovely voice? Tell us who.”
“What are you talking about? Oroku, Kii—what’s so good about them?” Shōta’s face turned scarlet, and he backed away from the light, into a corner.
“Does that mean it’s Midori, then?”
“How do I know?” He looked away, tapping out a song against the wall. “The water wheel goes round and round.”
Midori and the rest had begun another game of marbles. Her face was not flushed in the slightest.
*
There would have been no problem if he hadn’t taken the short cut. But every time Nobu went off to Tamachi he took the path along the ditch. And every time he saw it: the lattice gate, the stone lantern, the thatched fence. The summer bamboo blinds were rolled up now along the veranda. He couldn’t help remembering things. Behind the glass windows, her mother would be there, like some latter-day widow of Azechi at her rosary; and she would be there too, straight from the ancient tales, a young Murasaki with her hair bobbed. This was the house of the man who owned the Daikokuya.
Yesterday and today the autumn rains had continued. The winter slip Ohana had requested was ready, and Nobu’s mother was anxious for her to have it. She didn’t like to ask in such weather, but would he mind taking it to the shop in Tamachi on his way to school? The poor girl was waiting for the package. Diffident Nobu could never say no. He took the bundle under his arm, stepped into his clogs, and started out, clinging to his umbrella as the rain lapped at his feet.
He followed the ditch around the quarter, the same path he always took, but today luck was not with him. Just in front of the Daikokuya, the wind came up. He had to tug to keep his umbrella from flying off. He braced his legs against the wind, when the strap on one of his clogs tore clean away. Now what was he to do?
It was almost enough to make him swear. He had no choice but to try repairing the clog himself. He propped his umbrella against the gate and sought shelter underneath its eaves. Yet how was a fledgling cleric to accomplish this sort of handiwork? He was flustered, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fix it. He grew more and more irritated. From his sleeve he took out the draft of his school composition and tore it up, twisting the strips of paper in hopes of somehow fashioning a new strap. But the confounded storm grew worse again, and his umbrella began to roll away in the wind. This was more than he could tolerate! He reached out to grab the umbrella—but it was just his luck—his sister’s package fell from his lap into the mud. There, now he had mud on his sleeve, too.
A pathetic sight he made, without an umbrella and stranded barefoot in the downpour. From the window, Midori saw the sad figure beyond the gate. “Look, someone’s broken his sandal. Mother, can I give him something to fix it with?” She found a piece of Yūzen crêpe in the sewing drawer and hurried into her clogs. Grabbing an umbrella from the veranda, she dashed out across the stepping stones toward the front gate.
Then she saw who it was. The blood rushed to Midori’s head. Her heart pounded as if she had encountered a dreaded fate. She turned to see, was anyone watching? Trembling, she inched her way toward the gate. At that instant Nobu, too, looked around. He was speechless, he felt cold sweat begin to bead. He wanted to kick off the other sandal and run away.
Had Midori been herself, she would have seized on Nobu’s predicament to tell him what she thought. She would have sneered at his cowardice and heaped upon him every bit of abuse that he deserved. Didn’t he think he owed her an apology? Bossing everyone around from backstage, ruining all the fun at the festival, just because he was angry at Shōta. And letting them beat up helpless Sangorō! He was the one who had incited Chōkichi to call her those names. And what was wrong with being a courtesan, anyway, even if she were one? She didn’t owe him anything. With her parents and her sister and the man from the Daikokuya—what did she need to ask favors of a broken-down priest for? He had better stop calling her names. Something to say, was there? Then he could come out in the open, like a man. Any time, any time. She’d meet him. What did he have to say to that? She would have grabbed him by the sleeve and given him a piece of her mind, all right. Nobu would not have had a prayer.
But instead she cringed in the shadows of the gate. She didn’t move, her heart throbbed. This was not the old Midori.
*
Whenever he came near the Daikokuya, timorous Nobu hurried past without so much as looking left or right. But today, the unlucky rain, the unlucky wind, and, to make matters worse, the broken sandal strap! There was nothing for it but to stop and make a new one. He was upset enough already, and then he heard the sound of steps on the flagstones—he felt as if ice water had been poured down his back. Even without looking, he knew who it would be. He shivered and his face changed color. He turned away and pretended to be hard at work. But he was panic-stricken. It didn’t look as if the clog would ever be of use again.
From the garden, Midori peered at him. How clumsy he was; he could never do anything right. Who ever heard of trying to make a strap out of anything as flimsy as a piece of paper—or stra
w, is that what he was using? Old ladies, maybe. It would never hold. Oh, and didn’t he know he was getting mud all over the bottom of his jacket? There went the umbrella. Why didn’t he close it before he propped it up? How it irritated her to watch his fumbling. “Here’s some cloth to fix it with.” If only she could have said it. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, hiding, staring. The girl was oblivious to the rain soaking through her sleeves.
Midori’s mother, unaware of what was happening, called out. “Midori, the iron’s ready. What are you doing out there? Don’t you know better than to play in the rain? You’ll catch another cold.”
“All right, coming.” If only Nobu wouldn’t hear. Her heart raced, her head seemed to reel. The last thing she could do was open the gate, but she could not turn her back on him, either. What was she to do? There—she hurled the rag outside the lattice without saying anything. Nobu pretended not to notice. Oh! He was his same old nasty self! It crushed her, the tears welled up. Why did he have to be so mean? Why didn’t he just tell her what it was? It made her sick. But her mother kept on calling. It was no use. She started for the house. After all, why should she be sentimental? She wasn’t going to let him see Midori eat humble pie.
He heard her walk away; his eyes wandered after her. The scarlet scrap of Yūzen silk lay in the rain, its pattern of red maple leaves near enough to touch. Odd, how her one gesture moved him, and yet he could not bring himself to reach out and take the cloth. He stared at it vacantly, and as he looked at it he felt his heart break.
