by Frank Wynne
He bungled everything. Nobu sighed and took the cord from his jacket and wrapped it round the clog. It was unsightly and makeshift, but perhaps it would do, perhaps he could stumble along. But all the way to Ohana’s? It was a little late to be wondering that, he thought as he stood up, his sister’s package tight under his arm. He had only gone two or three steps when he looked back again at the tatter of silk, bright with autumn maples. It was hard for him to leave it there.
“Nobu, what’s the matter? Break your strap? What a sight you are!”
Nobu turned around to see who owned the unexpected voice. It was obnoxious Chōkichi, decked out like a young gallant. He had on his best-dress kimono, and he wore his orange sash profligately low on the hips. His new jacket had a fancy black collar, and the umbrella he carried was festooned with the trademark of one of the houses in the quarter. His high clogs were sporting lacquered rain covers—this was something new. What pride there was in the young man’s swagger.
“The strap broke, and I was wondering what to do,” Nobu answered helplessly. “I’m not very good at these things.”
“No, you wouldn’t be. It’s all right, wear mine. The straps won’t give out.”
“But what will you do?”
“Don’t worry. I’m used to it. I’ll just go like this,” he said, tucking up the bottom of his kimono. “Feels much better than wearing sandals, anyway.” He kicked off his rain clogs.
“You’re going to go barefoot? That won’t be fair.”
“I don’t mind. I’m used to going barefoot. Someone like you has soft feet. You could never walk barefoot on the gravel. Come on, wear these,” he urged, arranging his sandals obligingly. What a spectacle: Chōkichi was more detested than the plague god himself, and here he was with soft words on his tongue and bushy eyebrows moving solicitously. “I’ll take your sandals and toss them in at the back door. Here, let’s switch.”
Chōkichi took the broken clogs, and they parted, Nobu bound for his sister’s in Tamachi and Chōkichi for home before they met again at school.
The silk shred lay abandoned by the gate. Its red maple leaves shimmered in the rain.
*
This year there were three Otori fair days. Rain had spoiled the second, but today, like the first, was perfect for a festival. Throngs packed Otori Shrine, young men surged into the quarter through the side gates. They say they’ve come to pay a visit to the shrine. They are pilgrims, but, ah, the roar of young laughter is loud enough to rend the pillars holding up the heavens, to tear away the very cord from which the earth hangs. Front and back of the main street of the quarter look as if they’ve been reversed. Today, the side drawbridges are down clear around the moat, and the crowds keep pouring in. “Coming through, coming through.” What have we here? Some flat-bottomed boat trying to navigate these waves of people? Who will soon forget the excitement in the air? Peals of laughter, incessant chatter echo from the little shops along the ditch. Strains of the samisen rise from the first-class pleasure houses towering several stories in the sky.
Shōta took a holiday from collecting interest. He dropped in at Sangorō’s potato stall, and then he visited his friend Donkey at the dumpling shop. “How are you doing? Making any money?” The sweets looked pretty uninviting.
“Shōta! You’re just in time. I’ve run out of bean jam and don’t know what to do. I’ve already put more on to cook, but they keep coming and I don’t want to turn them away. What should I do?”
“Don’t be stupid. Look what you’ve got on the sides of the pot. Add some water and some sugar, and you can feed another ten or twenty people. Everybody does it—you won’t be the first. Besides, who’s going to notice how it tastes in all this commotion? Start selling, start selling.” Shōta was already at the sugar bowl.
Donkey’s one-eyed mother was filled with admiration. “You’ve become a real merchant, Shōta. I’m almost afraid of you.”
“This? I saw Clammy do the same thing in the alley. It’s not my idea.” The woman’s praise did not go to his head. “Hey, do you know where Midori is? I’ve been looking for her since this morning. Where’d she go off to? She hasn’t been to the paper shop. I know that. I wonder if she’s in the quarter.”
“Oh, Midori, she went by a little while ago. I saw her take one of the side bridges into the quarter. Shōta, you should have seen her. She had her hair all done up like this.” He made an oafish effort to suggest the splendor of Midori’s new grown-up hairdo. “She’s really something, that girl!” The boy wiped his nose as he extolled her.
“Yes, she’s even prettier than her sister. I hope she won’t end up like Ōmaki.” Shōta looked down at the ground.
“What do you mean—that would be wonderful! Next year I’m going to open a shop, and after I save some money I’ll buy her for a night!” He didn’t understand things.
“Don’t be such a smart aleck. Even if you tried, she wouldn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Why? Why should she refuse me?”
“She just would.” Shōta flushed as he laughed. “I’m going to walk around for a while. I’ll see you later.” He went out of the gate.
Growing up,
she plays among the butterflies
and flowers.
But she turns sixteen,
and all she knows
is work and sorrow.
He sang the popular refrain in a voice that was curiously quavering for him, and repeated it again to himself. His sandals drummed their usual ring against the paving stones, as all at once his little figure vanished into the crowd.
Inside the bustling quarter, Shōta found himself swept along into a corner of the compound. It was there he saw Midori. Why, it certainly was Midori of the Daikokuya; she was talking to an attendant from one of the houses, and, just as he had heard, her hair was done up in the glorious shimada style of a young woman. And yet she looked shy today. Colored ribbons cascaded from her hair, tortoise-shell combs and flowered hairpins flickered in the sun. The whole effect was as bright and stately as a Kyōto doll. Shōta was tongue-tied. Any other time, he would have rushed over and taken her arm.
“Shōta!” Midori came running up. “If you have shopping to do, Otsuma, why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll go home with him.” She nodded good-by to the lady.
“Oh, you don’t want me around, now that you’ve found another friend, is that it?” Otsuma smiled as she headed down a narrow street of shops. “I’ll be oft to Kyōmachi, then.”
“You look nice, Midori.” Shōta tugged at her sleeve. “When did you get that new hairdo? This morning? Why didn’t you come and show it to me?” He pretended to be angry.
Midori had difficulty speaking. “I had it done this morning at my sister’s. I hate it.” Her spirits drooped. She kept her head down; she couldn’t bear it when a passerby would gawk.
*
When she felt so awkward and unhappy, flattery only sounded like an insult. People turned to admire her and she thought they were jeering.
“Shōta, I’m going home.”
“Why don’t you play? Did someone scold you? I bet you had a fight with your sister.”
Midori felt her face color. Shōta was still a child, clearly. Where did one begin to explain?
They passed the dumpling shop, and Donkey called out theatrically, “You two sure are friendly.” It made her feel like crying.
“Shōta, I don’t want to walk with you.” She hurried off ahead of him.
She had promised to go with him to the festival, and now here she was, headed in the opposite direction. “Aren’t you going to come?” he yelled, running after her. “Why are you going home? You might at least explain!”
Midori walked on without answering, hoping to elude him. Shōta was stunned. He pulled at her sleeve. It was all so strange. Midori’s face only turned a deeper red. “It’s nothing, Shōta.” But he knew that this was not the truth.
He followed her in through the gate at her house and onto the veranda. There was no need
to hesitate; he had been coming here to play for years.
“Oh, Shōta,” her mother greeted him. “Nice to see you. She’s been in a bad mood all day. I don’t know what to do with her. See if you can cheer her up.”
Shōta became quite the grown-up. “Something the matter, is there?”
“No, no.” Her mother gave an odd smile. “She’ll get over it in no time. She’s just spoiled. I suppose she’s been grumpy with her friends, too? I tell you, sometimes I’ve had it with that girl.” Her mother turned to look at her, but Midori had gone into the other room. Her sash and her outer kimono were discarded on the floor and Midori lay face-down underneath a quilt.
Shōta approached her gingerly. “Midori, what is it? Don’t you feel well? Please tell me what’s the matter.” He held back as he spoke to her. What should he do? He folded and unfolded his hands in his lap. Midori said nothing. He could hear her sobbing into her sleeve. Her bangs, too short still for sweeping up into the great hairdo, were matted with tears. Something was terribly wrong, but, child that he was, Shōta had no idea what it could be, or how to console her. He was totally bewildered. “Please tell me what it is. You’ve never said anything to me, so how can you be angry with me?” He looked at her warily.
“Shōta, it isn’t you.” Midori wiped her eyes.
But when he asked her what it was, then, she couldn’t answer. There were just sad things, vague things. Feelings … She couldn’t put them into words. They made her cheeks burn. Nothing she could point to—and yet lately everything discouraged her. So many thoughts; none of them would ever have occurred to the Midori of yesterday. This awkwardness all of a sudden! How was she to explain it? If they would just leave her alone … she’d be happy to spend night and day in a dark room. No one to talk to her, no one to stare. Even if she felt unhappy, at least she would be spared the embarrassment. If only she could go on playing house forever—with her dolls for companions, then she’d be happy again. Oh! She hated, hated, hated this growing up! Why did things have to change? What she would give to go back a year, ten months, seven months, even.
They were the thoughts of someone already old.
She had forgotten that Shōta was there. But he kept on pestering her until she wanted to drive him away. “For God’s sake, go home, Shōta. I feel like dying, with you here. All these questions give me a headache. They make me dizzy. I don’t want anybody here! Just go home!”
She had never treated him so cruelly; Shōta could make no sense of it. He might as well have been groping through a cloud of smoke. “You sure are acting strange, Midori. I don’t know why you talk this way. You must be crazy.” The regrets were too much for him. He spoke calmly enough, but now his eyes smarted. This wouldn’t help matters.
“Go home! Go home, will you! If you don’t get out of here, you’re not my friend at all. I hate you, Shōta.”
“If that’s the way you feel, I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He darted off through the garden without so much as a farewell to Midori’s mother, who had gone to check the water in the bath.
*
Shōta made a beeline for the paper shop, ducking, dodging his way through the crowds.
Sangorō was there, his holiday stall sold out and the take jingling in his pocket. Shōta burst in upon them just as Sangorō was playing the part of big brother. “Anything you want—it’s yours!” The younger ones jumped up and down with glee. “Hey, Shōta! I was looking for you. I made a lot of money today. I’ll treat you.”
“You idiot. Since when do you treat me? Don’t start talking big.” These were rough words for Shōta. “That’s not what I came here for.” He looked dejected.
“What happened? A fight?” Sangorō shoved a half-eaten doughnut into his pocket. “Who was it? Nobu? Chōkichi? Where? The temple? Was it in the quarter? It won’t be like the last time! This time, they won’t take us by surprise. There’s no way we can lose. I’m ready. Let me lead. We can’t chicken out, Shōta.”
The call to arms only infuriated him. “Take it easy,” Shōta snapped. “There was no fight.”
“But you came in here as if something terrible had happened. I thought it was a fight. And besides, if you don’t do it tonight, we won’t have another chance. Chōkichi’s losing his right arm.”
“Huh?”
“His accomplice, Nobu. Didn’t you hear? I just found out. My father was talking with Nobu’s mother. Any day now, he’s going off to learn how to be a monk. Once he puts those robes on, they’ll cover up his fighting arm. Those long, floppy robes—how can he roll up his sleeves in them? But you know what that means. Next year, you’ll have the front and the back street to yourself.”
“All right, quiet. For a few coins they’ll go over to Chōkichi. I could have a hundred like you, and it wouldn’t excite me in the least. They can go where they like for all I care. I’ll fight my own battles. It was Nobu I wanted to beat. But if he’s running off on me, it can’t be helped. I thought he was going next year, after he graduated. What a coward—why is he going so soon?”
But it wasn’t Nobu he was worried about. Tonight, there were none of the usual songs from Shōta. Midori was on his mind. The throngs of merrymakers passing in the street only left him feeling lonely. What was there to celebrate?
The lamps went on, and Shōta rolled over on his side. Some festival, everything had ended in a mess!
From that day on Midori was a different person. When she had to, she went to her sister’s rooms in the quarter, but she never went to play in town. Her friends missed her and came to invite her to join them in the fun again. “Maybe later. You go on ahead.” Empty promises, always. She was cool even to Shōta, once her closest friend. She was forever blushing now. It seemed unlikely that the paper shop would see the old dancing and the games a second time.
People were puzzled. Was the girl sick? “No, no. She’ll be her old self again,” her mother assured them. “She’s just having a rest. One of her little vacations.” The woman smiled. And yet there seemed to be more to it.
There was praise for Midori now from some quarters. So ladylike, so well-behaved. Yes, but what a shame, others mourned: she was such a delightful, saucy child.
The front street was quiet suddenly, as if a light had gone out. Seldom did Shōta sing his songs any more. At night you could see him with his lantern making the rounds for the interest payments. The shadow moving along the moat looked chilly, somehow. From time to time, Sangorō would join him, and his voice rang out, comical as ever.
Everyone talked about Nobu, but Midori had not heard any of the rumors. The former spitfire was still closeted away somewhere. With all these changes lately, she hardly knew herself. She was timid now, everything embarrassed her.
One frosty morning, a paper narcissus lay inside the gate. No one knew what it was doing there, but Midori took a fancy to it, for some reason, and she put it in a bud vase. It was perfect, she thought, and yet almost sad in its crisp, solitary shape. That same day—she wasn’t sure exactly where—Midori heard of Nobu’s plans. Tomorrow he was leaving for the seminary. The color of his robes would never be the same.
THE PATH TO THE CEMETERY
Thomas Mann
Translated from the German by H. T. Lowe-Porter
Thomas Mann (1875–1955) was a German novelist, short story writer, and essayist born into an aristocratic family in Lübeck. He attended the Lübeck Gymnasium before studying for a career in journalism. He began publishing in 1893, but found fame with his epic autobiographical novel, Buddenbrooks, published in 1901 to great acclaim. Although he struggled with homosexuality his whole life, Mann married Katia Pringsheim with whom he had six children. When Hitler was elected Chancellor, the family emigrated to Zurich and from there to the United States in 1939 During the Second World War, Mann made a series of addresses to the German people via the BBC condemning Hitler. He was further persecuted in the United States as a suspected communist, and called to testify to the House Un-American Activities Committee, where he was te
rmed “one of the world’s foremost apologists for Stalin” He returned to Switzerland in the 1950s, where he lived until his death. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1929.
The path to the cemetery ran always parallel to the highway, always side by side, until it had reached its goal; that is to say, the cemetery. On the other side there were human habitations, new structures of the suburbs, part of which were still in the process of completion, and then came fields. As to the highway itself, this was flanked by trees, by knotty beeches of a good old age, and the road was half paved and half bare earth. But the path to the cemetery was thinly strewn with pebbles, which gave it the character of an agreeable footpath. A small, dry ditch, filled with grass and wildflowers, extended between the two.
It was spring, and almost summer already. The whole world smiled. God’s blue skies were covered with masses of small, round, compact little clouds, dotted with many snow-white little clumps which had an almost humorous look. The birds twittered in the beeches, and a mild wind swept across the fields.
A wagon from the neighbouring village crept towards the city; it rolled partly upon the paved, partly upon the unpaved part of the highway. The driver let his legs dangle on both sides of the shaft and whistled execrably. In the back part of the wagon there sat a little yellow dog with its back to him, and along its pointed little nose looked back with an unutterably grave and collected mien at the way it had just come. It was an incomparable, a most diverting little dog, worth its weight in gold; but it plays no part in this affair and so we must turn our faces from it.—A detachment of soldiers went marching by. They came from the garrison near by, marched in their own dust, and sang. A second wagon crept from the direction of the city towards the next village. The driver slept, and there was no little dog, for which reason this vehicle is entirely without interest. Two journeymen came striding along, the one hunched-backed, the other a giant in stature. They went barefooted, carrying their boots on their backs, called out cheerily to the sleeping driver, and strode on bravely. The traffic was moderate, regulating itself without complications or accidents. The way to the cemetery was trodden by a solitary man; he walked slowly, with lowered head, and supported himself on a black stick. The man was called Piepsam, Lobgott (Praisegod) Piepsam and nothing else. We proclaim his name with a certain emphasis because subsequently he acted in a most peculiar manner.
