“O-haru.” She had to say something. “Have you heard rumors about Koi-san? She hardly ever seems to be at home any more.”
O-haru only nodded.
“If you know anything, please tell me. Are there telephone calls from that man?”
“No calls—that I know of,” said O-haru with some hesitation. After a pause, she muttered hastily: “Two or three times in Nishinomiya …”
“You have seen him?”
“Him … and Koi-san too.”
Sachiko said no more. After the first act she had a chance to question O-haru in the lobby. O-haru had taken two weeks’ vacation the month before to nurse her father, who had been in a Nishinomiya hospital after an operation for piles; and once or twice every day she had had to go home for food and other sup plies. She always took the bus on the National Highway. Three times she met Okubata, she said, once as she got off the bus, twice while waiting for a bus. Each time Okubata took a bus in the opposite direction, for Kobe. O-haru thus crossed the road from the south and waited on the mountain side of the road, and Okubata came down through the mambō, crossed from the north, and waited on the side toward the sea. (O-haru had used the word mambō, an old dialect word that survives only in the Osaka district. It describes a short tunnel, a sort of underpass, and it is believed to have come originally from the Dutch. To the north of O-haru’s bus stop was a railway embankment through which, just behind the bus stop, had been cut a tunnel barely large enough for one person to pass.) The first time she saw him, she was wondering whether or not to speak when he smiled and raised his hat. The second time neither bus came for some minutes, and he strolled over for a chat. He seemed to run into her often, he said, and asked what she might be doing in the neighborhood. When she explained her business, he smiled and said that she should call on him some time. He lived just over there, he said, pointing through the mambō. Did she know the Ipponmatsu, the Lone Pine? He lived just beside it—she would have no trouble finding the house, and she really must come to see him. Though he evidently had more to say, O-haru’s bus came to cut him off. (O-haru, when she told a story, had a way of mimicking the conversation that brought it vividly to life.) She met him three times, always at about five in the evening, and always alone. Another time, again at five in the evening, she met Taeko at the same bus stop. Taeko came up and tapped her on the shoulder. “Where have you been,” O-haru asked, immediately overcome with confusion at her own question. Since Taeko had managed to steal up unnoticed, it seemed fairly clear that she had come through the mambō. When would O-haru be back, Taeko asked in return. And how was her father? “Kei-boy said he saw you,” added Taeko, smiling broadly. O-haru wondered what she could possibly say next. Taeko only told her to hurry back, however, and crossed over to take a Kobe bus, whether for home or on business in Kobe, O-haru did not know.
That was the whole of the story in the theater lobby. Suspecting that O-haru knew more, Sachiko called her into the parlor two mornings later, after Taeko had left the house and they had sent O-teru out with Etsuko. It was the morning for Etsuko’s piano lesson. O-haru said she knew nothing more, although she had thought it strange that Okubata should have a house in Nishinomiya—she had thought he lived in Osaka—and she had gone through the mambō one day and up to the Lone Pine to find that he did indeed have a house, a little white-walled red-tiled house with a low hedge in front. The sign at the gate said only “Okubata.” From the newness of the wood she guessed that he had but recently moved in. It was fairly dark, after six o’clock, and a bright light was shining through the white-lace curtains in the open second-floor windows. A phonograph was playing. As she listened she thought she could make out the voice of someone besides Okubata. It seemed to be a woman’s voice, though she could not hear well because of the music. (Yes, she even remembered the record. That one, the one Danielle Dar-rieux sang in “Return at Dawn.”) She had meant, if she had time, to go for another look, but two or three days later her father left the hospital and she returned to Ashiya. And she had fretted a great deal, she said, over whether or not to tell Mrs. Makioka. Neither the gentleman nor Koi-san had made any attempt to silence her, and she thought perhaps Mrs. Makioka already knew. Might it not seem odd, then, if she said nothing? Still one should be careful about talking too much. But did Mrs. Makioka not agree that Koi-san was very probably spending much of her time in that house? O-haru could, if necessary, go see what the gossip was in the neighborhood.
Sachiko had been caught off balance by that glimpse of Taeko and Okubata in the cab. Calmer reflection suggested that even though Taeko had turned away from him at the time of the Itakura affair, she had not broken with him completely. Now that Itakura was gone, it was not really surprising that the two should occasionally be seen together. Some ten days after Itakura’s death, Sachiko had come upon a notice in the newspapers of the death of Okubata’s mother. “I see that Kei-boy’s mother is dead.” She glanced at Taeko, who nodded vaguely. “Was she ill long?” asked Sachiko. Taeko wondered. And had Taeko seen Kei-boy? Taeko shook her head. Sensing that her sister did not want to talk about “Kei-boy,” Sachiko was careful afterwards not to mention his name. Taeko had not said specifically that she was refusing to see him.
Fearing a second Itakura, Sachiko thought it a good thing— natural and proper and far less likely to arouse hostile criticism— for Taeko to have taken up with Okubata again. It was a little premature, on the basis of only O-haru’s story, to conclude that she had in fact done so. But what could be more likely? And did it not seem possible (assuming that Sachiko’s suspicions were well-founded ) that Taeko, who could count on the approval of Sachiko and the people at the main house, thought she had nothing to conceal? Embarrassed at having to discuss Okubata after having once lost patience with him, had she not hoped that O-haru would tell Sachiko everything? Such in general were Sachiko’s conclusions.
A few mornings later she and Taeko happened to be alone in the dining room.
“You passed us in a cab the other day,” said Sachiko lightly. “The day we went to see Kikugorō.”
Taeko nodded.
“And you went to the Yohei?”
“Yes.”
“Why does Kei-boy have a house in Nishinomiya?”
“His brother threw him out of the Osaka house.”
“Why?”
“For no very good reason.”
“His mother died not long ago.”
“That has something to do with it, I suppose.” Bit by bit, Taeko told of the new house: the rent was forty-five yen, Okubata was living alone with his old nurse.
“When did you start seeing him again?”
Taeko had visited Itakura’s grave every seventh day for some time after his death. The month before, early on the morning of the forty-ninth day, she had set out for Okayama. Okubata was waiting at the station when she came back from the temple. He had known she would be there, he said. She rode back with him to Sannomiya Station, and relations between the two, broken off at Itakura’s death, were thus resumed. She added that she had in no way changed her opinion of Kei-boy. Much pleased with himself, he boasted that since his mother’s death he had come to know what the world was like. His brother had thrown him out, and he had finally had his eyes opened. But Taeko paid little attention to what he said. With Okubata quite alone in the world, she for one would not be cruel to him. What she felt was not so much love as pity.
10
SINCE TAEKO had spoken with obvious reluctance, Sachiko did not try again to question her. She thought even so that she had the explanation for a great deal that had attracted her attention: more and more Taeko had taken to coming home late at night, and it was far from clear where she spent her time. She no longer seemed part of the family. Sometimes when she came home she did not bother to take a bath, and the color of her skin suggested that she had had a bath wherever it was she had been. Until then a lavish spender, she had become thrifty when the Itakura affair began—even when she had a permanent wave, she would hunt out the c
heapest beauty parlor possible. But all that had changed: she was most extravagant again with her cosmetics and her clothes, down to the smallest accessory. Sachiko noticed that in the last two months the old wrist watch, the rings, the handbag, the cigarette case, and the lighter had all been changed for new. On the thirty-fifth day after Itakura’s death Taeko had received that prized Leica—the one that had been thrown to the floor in Mitsukoshi Hall—and she had carried it about for a time. Now she had a new chrome Leica. Sachiko had at first assumed that with the death of her lover, Taeko’s view of life had changed and she had abandoned her policy of saving money, but the matter, when one thought about it, seemed more complicated. Taeko had recently shown little interest in doll-making, and she had even turned her studio over to a pupil. It appeared too that she was absent from the sewing school more often than not. For a time Sachiko thought it best to view Taeko’s affairs from a distance. But if Taeko and Okubata were quite openly seeing each other again and going out boldly in public, there was no telling when Teinosuke would run into them. Teinosuke, with his intense dislike for Okubata, would have opinions of his own, and very strong ones too. She therefore told him everything. He looked as unhappy as she had expected, and two or three mornings later, when she went into the study, he asked her to sit down. He had information for her about Kei-boy’s relations with his family. That part of the story having aroused his suspicions, he had made inquiries and learned that in collusion with certain clerks Kei-boy had taken goods from the Okubata shop. This was not the first time, but always before his mother had persuaded the oldest brother to forgive him. The most recent incident had so infuriated the brother that he threatened to have Kei-boy arrested. The family somehow pacified him, and when the thirty-fifth-day services for the mother were over Kei-boy was thrown out of the house.
He did not know how much of this Koi-san had learned, said Teinosuke, but should not Sachiko and the people in Tokyo review their plans for having her marry the fellow? Certainly Tatsuo, strait-laced person that he was, would have second thoughts. Sachiko and the others had been tolerant—had perhaps even been glad that Taeko was carrying on with Kei-boy—because they saw marriage as a solution to all her problems. But if plans for marrying her off must now be abandoned, it did not seem proper that the two should be keeping company. Even if Sachiko herself and Tsurako and Yukiko continued to think that Okubata would be better than some nondescript person of whose origins they knew nothing, Tatsuo was not likely to agree, at least until Kei-boy was forgiven and taken back into the Okubata family, and a marriage arranged with the family’s consent. In any case, something had to be done. Okubata had once had his mother and his brother watching over him. Now, disinherited, he had a house of his own, small though it was, in which to do quite as he pleased. Probably he had received a certain amount of consolation money, and did it not seem likely that he was living on that, with no thought for the future? And that Koi-san was helping him spend it? If she did not love the man—Teinosuke did not like these suspicions—it was possible to imagine that her motive was not pity but something far less admirable. And what if they found some day that Koi-san and Okubata were living together? Or what of a possibility not quite so extreme: Koi-san was seen at the Nishinomiya house every day, and what if Okubata’s brother were to hear of the affair? What would he think of the Makiokas? There was nothing to be done if Koi-san came to be thought loose, but what of Sachiko and himself, who were supposed to be watching her? Would not accusing eyes be turned on them too? He had always preferred to withdraw, said Teinosuke, when Taeko’s behavior came, up for discussion, and this time too he would rather not interfere too aggressively, but if Koi-san meant to go on seeing the man, they would have to tell Tatsuo and receive his permission—at the very least his tacit permission. Otherwise they would find themselves with no excuses to offer.
Teinosuke had taken up golf, and it embarrassed him to meet Kei-boy’s brother on the links.
“You really think Tatsuo would pretend not to notice?”
“Hardly.”
“And so?”
“We will have her stop seeing Kei-boy.”
“It would be very fine if she would. But what if they go on meeting in secret?”
“If she were my daughter or sister, I think I would throw her out of the house.”
There had been tears in Sachiko’s eyes for some time. It was true that by turning Taeko out they would have satisfied the public and the Okubata family, but would they not be inviting the possibility Teinosuke found most distasteful? Taeko was twenty-eight and quite capable of taking care of herself, he said, and it would be a mistake to try to control her. They might best turn her out for a time and see what happened. If she went to live with Kei-boy—she went to live with Kei-boy. Once they began worrying about such eventualities there would be no end to their worries. But Sachiko could not bear to think of sending her sister away labeled an outcast. Could she, who had consistently protected Koi-san from the fury of the main house, really throw her out at so late a date for reasons so trivial? Teinosuke was being ungenerous. Whatever you said of her, Koi-san was the sheltered daughter of a well-to-do family, and at heart she was weak and a little too good-natured. And she had never had a mother. Sachiko had hoped in her inadequate way to serve as a substitute, and now, just as they were thinking of memorial rites for their mother, could Sachiko even consider turning her sister out?
“I am not saying she has to go,” Teinosuke added a little hastily as he saw the tears. “I only said ‘if she were my sister.’“
“I wish you would leave everything to me. I will talk to Tsuruko. I can reason with her.”
But Sachiko did not really know whether or not she would tell Tsuruko. In any case she would wait until the services were over. On the evening of the twenty-second, when the guests from Tokyo arrived, she broke the news to Yukiko only, and asked her advice. If they were seeing each other again, said Yukiko, what could be better? There was no need to worry about Kei-boy’s having been disinherited. What if he had taken something that did not belong to him? It was from his own shop, after all. One could expect as much from Kei-boy. The family only meant to teach him a lesson and would be welcoming him back in no time. It might not be entirely proper for Taeko and Kei-boy to be appearing in public together—but why not look the other way if they agreed to behave more circumspectly? Yukiko was opposed to telling Tsuruko. Tsuruko would only tell Tatsuo.
Though Sachiko did not like to criticize the main house, there was something unsatisfying about their plans for the services. Partly to supply what was missing, partly to entertain the sister so long away from Osaka, Sachiko hit upon the idea of a quiet little party with her sisters. At noon on the twenty-sixth, two days after the services, she would take a room at the Harihan—the restaurant called up such fond memories of her dead mother and father—and even Teinosuke would be asked to stay away. She would have only her sisters, Aunt Tominaga, and the latter’s daughter Someko. The famous Kikuoka and his daughter Tokuko would play for them. Taeko would dance “Perfumed Sleeves” to Tokuko’s accompaniment and “Moon at Dawn” to Sachiko’s koto and Kikuoka’s samisen. For two weeks Sachiko had been practicing the koto, and Taeko had been going to Osaka for dancing lessons.
Early on the twenty-third Tsuruko went out to shop and pay calls, taking only Umeko with her. She did not come back until late that night. She had been invited to dinner somewhere. On the twenty-fourth all nine of them set out from Ashiya at about eight-thirty in the morning: Tsuruko, Masao, Umeko, Teinosuke, Sachiko, Etsuko, Yukiko, Taeko, and O-haru. The women were in formal clothes, Tsuruko in black, the three younger sisters in varying shades of purple, and O-hara too in dark purple.
Kyrilenko, hairy legs protruding from under his shorts, got on the train a few stations later. He glanced at the colorful assembly, and came over to speak to them.
“Where are you all going?” He hung from a strap before Teinosuke. “You seem to have the whole family with you.”
“This is
the day my wife’s mother died. We are all going to the temple.”
“Oh? And when did she die?”
“Twenty-two years ago,” said Taeko.
“Do you hear anything from Katharina?” asked Sachiko,
“I’m glad you reminded me. She asked in her last letter to be remembered to you. She’s in England.”
“She has already left Berlin?”
“She was there just a little while. Then off to England. And she has seen her little girl.”
“How nice. What is she doing in England?”
“Working in an insurance company. She’s the president’s secretary.”
“And the little girl is with her?” asked Teinosuke.
“Not yet. She’s suing to get the girl back.”
“Do give her our regards when you write.”
“I imagine with the war on it takes a long time for letters to come through.”
“And your mother must be worried,” said Taeko. “There will be air raids, you know.”
“There is nothing to worry about.” Kyrilenko too fell into the Osaka dialect. “Katharina can take care of herself if anyone can.”
For those who remembered the gaiety at the Harihan, the banquet after the services was a little lonely. Even so, the effect was not as chilling as one might have expected. Forty guests were seated in a long hall made by taking away the partitions separating three temple rooms. A number of people who had been close to the family were present: among them were Tsukada the master-carpenter, Shōkichi, representing his father, and two or three men who had worked in the old Semba shop. Although the sisters should have been pouring the sake, the cousins and Shōkichi’s wife were so diligent that they hardly had to leave their seats. The tall white hagi shedding its blossoms in the garden made Sachiko think of that garden at Minoo and the day her mother had died. For the most part the men talked of the European war. The women, though not as if to be critical of Tatsuo, spoke again of how young “Miss Yukiko” and Koi-san looked.
The Makioka Sisters Page 43
