The Makioka Sisters

by Junichiro Tanizaki

  She decided not to visit Okubata that day. Complaining of a headache, she took a pyramidon tablet and retired to her bedroom. She avoided Teinosuke and Etsuko for the rest of the day. After seeing Teinosuke off to work the next morning, she went to bed again. She had visited the hospital at least once a day since Taeko was moved, and she thought she might go around for just a few minutes in the afternoon. Somehow the being known as “Taeko” had changed form, however, had become distant and vaguely evil. Sachiko was frightened at the thought of meeting her sister. At about two O-haru came upstairs. Was Mrs. Makioka going to the hospital? Miss Yukiko had just called, and asked if Mrs. Makioka could bring along the copy of Rebecca. Still in bed, Sachiko answered that she would not go herself. O-haru should take the book—it was on a shelf in the six-mat room. She called O-haru back: since Koi-san no longer needed much care, she said, O-haru might suggest that Yukiko come home for a rest.

  Yukiko had been away for more than ten days. She had gone to Okubata’s the end of the month before and from there directly to the hospital. Sachiko’s message had its effect, and she was home in time for dinner. Trying to make it seem that nothing was amiss, Sachiko got up late in the afternoon. As a reward for Yukiko’s labors, Teinosuke selected a very special bottle of white Burgundy, a rarity by then, from his impoverished wine cellar, wiped away the dust himself, and uncorked it with a pleasant pop.

  “And how is Koi-san?” he asked.

  “There is nothing to worry about. She is still weak, though, and it will be a while before she is really her old self again.”

  “Is she thin?”

  “Very thin. She has a long, thin face—remember how round it was?—and the cheek bones stand out like this.”

  “I ought to go see her. May I go see her, Father?”

  Teinosuke grunted and frowned. A moment later the frown was gone. “You can. go, I suppose. But remember that dysentery is an infectious disease. You are not to go till the doctor says you can.”

  Because he was in especially good spirits, Teinosuke let them talk of Taeko before Etsuko, and even made it seem that the girl was not forbidden to see her aunt. But even allowing for the good spirits, Sachiko was startled. She suspected that Teinosuke’s attitude toward Taeko was changing.

  “I understand Dr. Kushida is taking care of her.” He turned to Yukiko again.

  “He was, but we never see him any more. He says there is nothing to worry about. When the patient begins to look a little better, you see no more of Dr. Kushida.”

  “Then there should be no need for you to go again yourself.”

  “None at all,” Sachiko agreed. “Mito is there, and O-haru can go every day to help.”

  “When are we going to see Kikugorō, Father?”

  “Any time. We were only waiting for Yukiko to come home.”

  “Next Saturday?”

  “But first come the cherry blossoms. Kikugorō will be here all month.”

  “We see the cherries on Saturday, then. You promise, Father?”

  “Yes, yes. If we wait any longer, the cherries will be gone.”

  “And Mother too, and Yukiko? Promise?”

  “We promise.”

  It made Sachiko a little sad to think that this year Taeko would be missing. If there had seemed any possibility that Teinosuke would agree, she would have liked to suggest waiting until the end of the month, when Taeko would be out of bed, for a trip to see the late cherries at Omuro.

  “What are you thinking about, Mother? You must want to see the cherries.”

  Teinosuke knew what she was thinking about. “Would Koi-san be able to go even if we waited? If she is up by then, we might take her to see the late cherries.”

  “But she will hardly be able to walk around the room by the end of the month,” said Yukiko.

  Yukiko had noticed that Sachiko was not sharing in the general good spirits.

  “Did you go to Kei-boy’s?” she asked when they were alone the next morning.

  “No. As a matter of fact, I want to talk to you about that.” Motioning Yukiko upstairs, she told the whole of Oharu’s story. “And what do you think, Yukiko? Is the old woman telling the truth?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think she is.”

  “So do I.”

  “It is all my fault. I trusted Koi-san so.”

  “But that was only natural.” Yukiko’s eyes clouded over, and Sachiko was already in tears. “It is not your fault at all.”

  “And what can I possibly say to Tatsuo and Tsuruko?”

  “Have you talked to Teinosuke?”

  “How can I talk to him? It is all too humiliating.”

  “I imagine he is beginning to think he should have been easier with her.”

  “It seemed so last night, certainly.”

  “And I imagine he knows well enough what she has been up to. He probably knows, and thinks it will only be worse if we have nothing more to do with her.”

  “If Koi-san would only reform, now that he has begun to change his mind.”

  “She has been the same Koi-san ever since I can remember.”

  “And is not going to change now, whatever we say?”

  “Not Koi-san. Think of the number of times we have tried to change her.”

  “The old woman is right. It would be better for both of them if they were to marry.”

  “I doubt if there is any other answer.”

  “Do you think she really dislikes him so, then?”

  Though both sisters were thinking about the bartender “Miyo- shi,” mention of the name would only have added to the discomfort.

  “I have no idea. She refused to stay in his house, and then she talked on and on when he came to the hospital. Not even a hint that he ought to leave.”

  “Maybe she pretends to dislike him when she is really very fond of him.”

  “I almost hope so. But probably she feels in debt to him. She could never tell him to leave even if she wanted to.

  Yukiko went back to the hospital to fetch Rebecca, and for two or three days afterwards she rested, read, and went to movies in Kobe. That week-end the four of them, Teinosuke, his wife, Etsuko, and Yukiko, made their annual pilgrimage to Kyoto for the cherry blossoms. Because of the national crisis, there were few drunken cherry viewers, and the cherries were left to those who really wanted to see them. The Makiokas had never before quite known the beauty of those weeping cherry trees in the Heian Shrine. It was a most elegant cherry viewing, quiet and wholly without ostentation.

  Two or three days later Sachiko sent O-haru to pay Okubata for the cost of Taeko’s illness.

  25

  OKUBATA called at the hospital again, and O-haru, alone with Mito, telephoned Ashiya for instructions. “Be less cold than last time,” answered Sachiko. “Smile pleasantly and invite him in.” Back home that evening, O-haru reported that he had stayed some three hours. Three days later he came again, and when, at six, he showed no sign of leaving, O-haru ordered food and a flagon of saké from a restaurant on the National Highway. He was thoroughly delighted, and talked on until after nine o’clock. But Taeko was annoyed. Such kindness was quite uncalled for, she said. If you were the least bit kind to the man, he took advantage of you. O-haru found it hard to understand why she was being scolded—after all, Koi-san and Okubata had been chatting most agreeably until but a moment before.

  As Taeko had predicted, Okubata was encouraged by the unexpectedly kind treatment. He came again two or three days later, had dinner ordered from the same restaurant, and at about ten o’clock said he thought he would stay the night. After a hurried call to Ashiya, O-haru spread the bedding Yukiko had used—it would be a tight fit, she said, there beside the patient and the nurse in the larger of the two rooms—and, ordered to stay the night herself, found some cushions to sleep on in the next room. Remembering how she had been scolded before, she apologized the next morning for not even having a slice of bread in the house, and offered him tea and fruit. He had his breakfast at some
leisure.

  A few days later Taeko was released from the hospital and moved back to her room. She still had to rest, and every day O-haru would be with her from morning until late at night to take care of the cooking and cleaning. The last of the cherries, early and late, had fallen, and Kikugorō had left Osaka. It was the end of May before Taeko could really go out. Though he had not publicly “forgiven” her, Teinosuke made it clear that he would not object to her being seen in the Ashiya house. Anxious to put on weight, she came for lunch almost every day through June.

  Meanwhile the world was shaken by new developments in Europe. In May came the German invasion of the Low Countries and the tragedy of Dunkirk, and in June, upon the French surrender, an armistice was signed at Compiègne. And what, through all this, had happened to the Stolz family? Mrs. Stolz had predicted that Hitler would manage to avoid war, and what would she be thinking now? And Peter must be old enough for the Hit-lerjugend. Might Mr. Stolz have been drafted? But perhaps all of them, Mrs. Stolz and Rosemarie too, were so intoxicated with victory that they refused to let family problems bother them. Such speculations were always on Sachiko’s mind. And then one could never know when England, cut off from the continent, would be attacked from the air, and the possibility of air raids brought up the problem of Katharina, now living in a suburb of London. How unpredictable human destinies were! No sooner had the Russian refugee, until then living in a tiny doll’s house, made everyone envious by marrying the president of a large company and moving into a house like a castle, than the English people found themselves facing an unprecedented calamity. Since the German attack would be concentrated on the London area, Katharina’s castle might be reduced to ashes overnight. Even worse disasters were in prospect: she might find herself without food or a rag to wear. Might she not be thinking of the distant skies of Japan? Might she not be thinking of that shabby little house, and wondering whether she would have done better to stay there herself?

  “Suppose you write to Katharina, Koi-san.”

  “I must ask her brother for the address next time I see him.”

  “I ought to write to the Stolzes too. I wonder who would translate for me.”

  “Why not ask Mrs. Hening again?”

  Sachiko wrote a long letter to Mrs. Stolz, the first in a year and a half. She wrote of many things: they were overcome with pleasure at the military successes of a friendly nation; each time they read of the European war, they thought and talked of the Stolz family; the Makiokas were well, although with the China Incident dragging on they were gloomy at the thought that they too might soon find themselves in a real war; they could not but be astonished at how the world had changed since the days when the Stolzes were next door, and they wondered wistfully if such happy times would ever come again; that dreadful flood had perhaps left the Stolzes with bad memories of Japan; such disasters were rare in any country, however, and they should not be deterred from returning to Japan once the war was over; the Makiokas wanted to see Europe at least once, and they might all appear in Hamburg one day; since they hoped to give Etsuko the best possible musical training, they meant to have her study in Germany. Sachiko added that she was sending Rosemarie some silk and a fan by separate mail. The next day she visited Mrs. Hening and asked to have the letter translated, and some days later, on an errand in Osaka, she bought a dance fan at the Minoya and sent it off to Hamburg with a piece of silk crape.

  On a Saturday early in June, Teinosuke and Sachiko went to see the spring greenery in Nara. Sachiko had been busy since the year before with one or the other of her sisters, and Teinosuke wanted to give her a rest. He thought too that for the first time in a very great while they could be alone, just the two of them, husband and wife. They spent Saturday night at the Nara Hotel and the next day went from the Kasuga Shrine to the Hall of the Third Moon and on to the Great Buddha and the temples west of the city. From about noon Sachiko was troubled by a swelling and itching behind her ear. The discomfort grew as her hair brushed against the irritated spot. It was rather like hives, but she suspected that, making her way through the green foliage at the Kasuga Shrine and posing five or six times for Teinosuke’s Leica, she had been stung by a sand fly. She really should have worn something over her head—she regretted not having brought a shawl. Back at the hotel that night, she sent a bellboy out for carbolic liniment. There was no such medicine, the boy replied, and she tried Mosquiton instead. It was quite ineffective. She could not sleep for the itching, and the next morning she sent for zinc ointment. Teinosuke went directly to his office from Uehonmachi Station, while Sachiko returned to Ashiya. Toward evening the itching subsided. When he came back from work, Teinosuke called her out to the terrace to have her ear examined in a strong light. It was no sand fly, he snorted. It was a bedbug. What! Where could she have picked up a bedbug? In the Nara Hotel, answered Teinosuke. He had felt a little itchy himself that morning—see? He rolled up a sleeve. There could be no doubt that it was a bedbug, he said. If Sachiko would look at her ear she would find two bites close together. Sachiko held a mirror behind her ear, and saw that her husband was right.

  “You are absolutely right. A fine sort of hotel—rude maids and waiters, terrible service, and bedbugs.”

  She was furious at the Nara Hotel. It had spoiled the whole week-end.

  They must go on another trip to make up for it, said Teinosuke. June and July passed. Late in August he had business in Tokyo and suggested an outing somewhere along the main Tokyo-Osaka Line. Sachiko had for some time been wanting to make the round of the Fuji Lakes. They planned, then, that Teinosuke would go ahead and Sachiko would follow two days later to meet him at the Hamaya Inn, and that they would return to Osaka via the lakes. Teinosuke advised a third-class sleeper. Nothing was better than a third-class sleeper in hot weather, he said. There were no smothering curtains, the cool breezes passed freely. Third class was far better than second. Perhaps she was too tired, however, for there had been an air-raid drill that day and she had found herself in a bucket brigade. In any case, she would doze off and dream of the air-raid drill and wake up only to doze off and dream the same dream again. It seemed to be the Ashiya kitchen, and yet it was a far more up-to-date American-style kitchen, all white tiles and paint, and sparkling glass and chinaware. The air-raid siren would sound, and the glass and chinaware would begin snapping and cracking and breaking to bits. “Yukiko, Etsuko, O-haru, this is dangerous,” she would say, and flee into the dining room, away from the shiny particles in the air. Coffee cups and beer steins and wine glasses and wine and whisky bottles would be snapping and cracking in the dining room too. This is just as bad—she would lead them upstairs, where they would find all the light bulbs exploding. They would then run into a room with only wooden fixtures—and Sachiko would be awake. She had the same dream she did not know how many times. Finally it was morning. Someone had opened a window and she had a cinder in her eye. Tears streamed down her face. She arrived at the Hamaya at nine, to find that Teinosuke had already gone out. She thought of making up for the lost sleep, but there was that object in her eye. Each time she blinked the tears started again. Eyewash did no good. She finally asked the landlady to call a good eye doctor and had the cinder removed. The doctor ordered her to wear a bandage for the rest of the day and to call again the following day. What in the world had happened, asked Teinosuke, back for lunch. Thanks to him, she had had a dreadful time. She would never take a third-class sleeper again. Something always seemed to go wrong with their second honeymoons, laughed Teinosuke. He would finish his business so that they could leave early the following day. How long would she have to go bandaged? Only that day, but there was danger, if she was not careful, of injury to the eyeball, and she was to see the doctor again the following day. What ought she to do if they were leaving early? A bit of dust in one eye, scoffed Teinosuke. The doctor was out after their money; the eye would be all right by evening.

  Sachiko called the Shibuya house while Teinosuke was out. They had arrived that morning and wou
ld stay only the day, she explained to her sister. Shy about her bandaged eye, she asked if she might trouble her sister to come to the inn. There were reasons why she could not leave the house, answered Tsuruko, much though she would like to see Sachiko. Tsuruko then asked for news of Koi-san. Koi-san had recovered, said Sachiko. Feeling that they should not be too harsh about “disinheriting” her, they were letting her come to the house, though not openly. Sachiko really could not discuss the matter over the telephone. She would be in Tokyo again soon. Very bored, she waited until the streets were a little cooler and went out for a walk on the Ginza. History is Made at Night was playing. She had seen it once before, and she suddenly wanted to see it again. Because she had only one eye, she found that Charles Boyer did not look like Charles Boyer. Those beautiful eyes were without their usual charm. She decided to take off the bandage. Her eye seemed to have healed—there was not a sign of a tear. He had been quite right, she said to Teinosuke that evening. And the doctor had made so much of it. Doctors were all alike. They wanted to hang on to you, if only one day longer.

  They spent the following two nights at Lake Kawaguchi. This “second honeymoon” more than made up for the failure at Nara. After the heat of Tokyo, they had a clean autumn breeze at the foot of Mt. Fuji, and it was enough just to go for a stroll along the lake, or to lie looking from the second-floor window at the mountain. The native of Tokyo cannot imagine the fascination of Mt. Fuji for someone like Sachiko, who barely knew the east-country—an exotic fascination like that of “Fujiyama” for the foreigner. They had chosen this Fuji View Hotel because Sachiko was drawn to the name. And there was Fuji, right before the hotel, almost hanging over them. For the first time Sachiko could look up from the base of the mountain and watch all the changes, morning and evening, as she would. Both the Fuji View and the Nara Hotel were finished in unpainted wood, after the fashion of the classical Japanese mansion, but there the resemblance between the two hotels ended. The Nara Hotel was old and the wood had become dark and gloomy. Here the walls and pillars to the farthest comers of the room were fresh and clean, in part because the hotel was new, but also in part because the mountain air was so incomparably clean. After lunch the second day, Sachiko lay gazing up at the ceiling. On one side she could see the top of Fuji, and on the other the undulations of the range around Lake Kawaguchi. For some reason, she thought of a lake she had never seen, and of the prisoner of Chillon. It was less the mountains and the color of the sky than the touch of the air that made her feel as if she had been set down in a far-off country. And she felt too as if she were at the bottom of a cool lake, as if the mountain air were tingling carbonated water. Little clouds passed over the sun. The light would go and suddenly burst forth again, and at such moments the whiteness of the walls seemed to work its way past her eyes to make her mind itself as clear as the air. Lake Kawaguchi had until recently been noisy with refugees from the heat. Since the twentieth the number of guests had fallen off sharply, and now the large hotel was empty and quiet. There was not a sound, however one strained one’s” ears. In the silence, watching the light go and come and go and come again, Sachiko lost consciousness of time.