Modern Japanese Literature

by Donald Keene

  “A customer? There’s someone outside.” Midori looked up.

  “I didn’t hear anything. But maybe someone’s come to play with us.” Shota stopped counting his winnings, two and four and six-eight-ten, and looked expectantly at the door. The footsteps stopped just outside.

  11

  “Boo!” Shota opened the door and poked his head out at whoever the friend might be. Someone was walking slowly off under the eaves two or three houses away. “Who is it, who is it? Come on in.” He slipped the tips of his toes into Midori’s sandals and ran out in the rain. “Oh, him.” He turned back toward the shop. “He won’t come even if you call him, Midori. It’s him.” Shota cupped his hand over his hair to suggest a priest’s shaven head.

  “Oh, him. Stuck-up priest. I can’t stand him. I just can’t stand him. He came to buy a pencil or something and heard us, and stood there listening and then left.” Nasty, mean, conceited, stuttering, gap-toothed—come in and Midori would give him what he needed. Too bad he hadn’t. Midori shivered as the rain from the eaves hit her forehead. She could see Nobu in the gaslight, four or five doors away now. He was hunched slightly forward, and he had a rough Japanese umbrella over his shoulder.

  Midori looked after him and looked after him. Still she watched him trudge off down the street. “What’s the matter, Midori?” Shota tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Nothing,” she answered absently, and turned to go back into the shop. “I can’t stand him.” She began counting her marbles. “He puts on that face, you’d think he never could get into a fight. You can’t tell what he’s up to. Don’t you hate him, though? My mother says the best people are people who speak right out. That’s what I don’t like about him.” He was always sulking, he was bad inside, if one could only see. Didn’t Shota agree? Midori had trouble finding strong enough words.

  “He knows something, though. He’s not like that ignoramus Chokichi.”

  “Listen to the big words! We all know you’re grown up, Shota. Come on, give us some more.” She reached over and pinched his cheek. “Look at him. Just like a priest himself.”

  “I’ll be grown up before long. And I’ll wear maybe a long overcoat like the man at the Kabataya, and the gold watch Grandmother’s been saving for me, and I’ll have a ring made, and I’ll smoke cigarettes. How do you think I’ll look?”

  “Fine!” Midori snorted. “You in a long overcoat. You’ll look like a medicine bottle on skates.”

  “What do you mean—you think I’ll always be this little? I’ll grow up too.”

  “When will that be, Shota? Listen—the mice are laughing too.”

  Mice were scampering back and forth in the hollow ceiling.

  Everyone laughed but Shota. His eyes as always were dancing from one to another. “Midori’s making fun of me. But I’ll grow up. What’s funny about it? And I’ll get me a good-looking wife, and go out walking with her. I like people to be good-looking. Not like Chicken Pox at the bakery or Putty Face at the kindling store. If someone tried to give one of them to me I’d chase her back home.” With emphasis he added that there was nothing he disliked more than pockmarks.

  “Well, it’s good of you to come here, then,” the shopwife laughed. “You haven’t noticed these of mine?”

  “But you’re old. I’m talking about people to marry. It doesn’t matter about old people.”

  “I should have kept my mouth shut. ... Let’s see, now. They say the prettiest girls around here are O-roku from the florist’s and Kii from the candy shop. Have you made up your mind, Shota? Which will you have? O-roku’s pretty eyes, or Kii’s pretty voice?”

  “O-roku, Kii—what’s good about them?” He flushed and backed away from the light.

  “You like Midori, then? You have everything decided?”

  Shota turned quickly away. “What’s she talking about?” He broke into a school song, and tapped his accompaniment on the wall.

  “Let’s begin again.” Midori gathered in the marbles. She was not blushing.

  12

  Nobu could have gone to his sister’s some other way, but when he took the short cut he had to pass it: a latticed gate and inside it a stone lantern, a low fence, autumn shrubs, all disposed with a certain quiet charm. Reed blinds fluttered over the veranda, and one could almost imagine that behind the sliding doors a latter-day widow of the Azechi no Dainagon would be saying her beads, that a young Murasaki would appear with her hair cut in the childish bob of long ago.17 It was the home of the gentleman who owned the Daikokuya.

  Rain yesterday, rain again today. The winter under-kimono his sister had asked for was ready, and Nobu’s mother was eager for her to have it at the earliest possible moment. “Even if you have to hurry a little, couldn’t you take it to her on your way to school? She’ll be waiting for it I know.”

  Nobu was never able to refuse. He slipped into a pair of rain clogs and hurried off with the bundle in his arm and an umbrella over his shoulder.

  He turned at the corner of the moat and started down the lane he always took. At the Daikokuya gate a gust of wind lifted his umbrella. This would never do. He planted his feet and pulled back, and the thong of one of his clogs gave way. And it had seemed sound enough when he left home. His foot slipped into the mud—this was a far more serious problem than the umbrella.

  There was no help for it. He bit his lip in annoyance. Laying the umbrella against the gate, he moved in out of the rain and turned to the job of repairing the thong. But what to do? He was a young gentleman, not used to working with his hands, and no matter how he hurried the repairing seemed no nearer finished. Hurry, hurry. He took out some foolscap he had drafted a composition on and tried twisting a strip of it into a paper cord. The perverse wind came up again and the umbrella sailed off into the mud. Damn it, damn it. As he reached to catch the umbrella O-hana’s kimono rolled weakly off his knee. The wrapping was filthy, even his sleeve was splashed with mud.

  Sad it is to be out in the rain without an umbrella, and incomparably sad to break one’s sandal along the way. Midori saw it from afar through the door and the gate.

  “Can I give him something to tie it with, Mother?” She rummaged through a drawer of the sewing table and snatched up a bit of printed silk. Almost too impatient to slip into her sandals, hardly bothering to take up an umbrella, she dashed out along the garden flagstones.

  Her face turned scarlet as she came near enough to see who it was. Her heart pounded. Would anyone be watching?—she edged fearfully up to the gate. Nobu shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Cold sweat ran down his sides, and he felt a sudden urge to run off barefoot.

  The Midori we have known would have pointed a teasing finger—look at him, would you. Just look at him. She would have laughed herself sick. She would have poured out all the abuse that came to her. It was good of you to see that they broke up our party the other night, and all because you were out to get Shota. You had them beat up Sangoro, and what did he ever do to you? You were behind it, you were lording it over all of them. Do you say you’re sorry? You were the one that had the likes of Chokichi call me dirty names. What if I am like mv sister? What’s wrong with that? I don’t owe you a thing, not a single cent. I have my mother and my father and the gentleman at the Daikokuya and my sister, and I don’t need to ask favors of any broken-down priest. So let’s not have any more of it. If you have anything to say to me say it out in the open, don’t go talking behind my back. I’m here, any time you want to fight. Well, what about it?

  She would have clutched at his sleeve and attacked with a violence that would have cut him low. But here she was, shrinking back in the shadow of the gate. Not a word out of her. And still she stood there squirming, unable to open her mouth and unable to walk off and leave him. This was indeed a different Midori.

  13

  Nobu always approached the Daikokuya gate with mounting terror, and he looked neither to the right nor to the left as he marched past. But the unlucky rain, the unlucky wind, and now this bungle. He stood
under the gate trying to twist the paper cord. Already miserable enough, he felt as though someone had dashed ice water on him when he heard those steps. He trembled violently, his face changed color. Even without looking he knew it was Midori. He turned his back to her and pretended to be engrossed in the broken thong, but he was in such a panic that it was hard to see when the clog would be ready to wear again.

  Midori stood watching. How clumsy he is! How does he expect to get it done that way? See, it comes undone even before he’s finished twisting. And now he puts straw in. What good will that do? Doesn’t he see he’s getting muddy? There goes his umbrella. Why doesn’t he shut it? Midori could hardly restrain herself. And yet she was silent. You can tie it with this—but something kept her from calling out to him. She stood in the shadow of the gate, heedless of the rain that wet her sleeves.

  From the house came the voice of her mother, who could not see what was happening. “Midori, the fire for the iron is ready. Where is the child? Now what are you doing out there in the rain? You’ll catch another cold, and you’ve just gotten over one.”

  “I’ll be right in,” Midori called back, wishing that somehow she could keep Nobu from hearing. Her heart raced. She could not open the gate, and yet she could not ignore the unfortunate. Turning over all the possibilities in her mind, she finally thrust her hand out through the lattice and tossed the cloth over to him. He ignored it. Ah, he’s the same as ever. All Midori’s resentment gathered in her eyes, tears of annoyance welled up. What does he have against me? Why doesn’t he come out with it? There are plenty of things I would like to say too. He’s impossible.

  But there was her mother calling again. Midori took a step or two back from the gate, then collected herself with a start—what could she be thinking of, demeaning herself so—and marched firmly into the house.

  Nobu was suddenly lonesome. He turned toward the gate. The tatter of silk, its red maple leaves shining in the rain, lay on the ground near his feet. He looked fondly at it in spite of himself, and yet, miserable though he was, he could not bring himself to reach over for it.

  Clearly he was getting nowhere. He took the cord from his cloak and passed it several times around the clogs and over his instep in a most unpromising makeshift. That might do—he started out, but it was virtually impossible to walk. Could he ever get as far as Tamachi? No help for it. He started out again, the package at his side. He let his eye wander back to the maples on that bit of silk.

  “What’s the matter? Broke it, did you?” Someone came up behind him. “You won’t get far that way.”

  It was the pugnacious Chokichi, evidently on his way home from the quarter. His sash was tied low on his hips in that swaggering manner he affected. He had on a brand-new cloak and carried a figured umbrella on his shoulder, and the shining lacquer on his rain clogs suggested that they had come from a shop case but that morning. A dashing figure indeed.

  “I broke it and I can’t think of anything to do,” Nobu said weakly.

  “I’ll bet. You wouldn’t know what to do. But it’s all right. You can take mine. You won’t break these.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m used to going barefoot. Here we go.” Chokichi hitched up his kimono skirt with aplomb and stepped out of his clogs. “You won’t get anywhere with those.”

  “You’re going barefoot? But I couldn’t ...”

  “It’s all right, I’m used to it. You’d cut your feet up, but mine are tough. Here, put ’em on.” The beetle brows were pulled into a frown, but the words were remarkably friendly coming from one about as popular as the god of plagues himself. “Here. I’ll toss yours in at your kitchen door. That’ll do it. Come on, let’s have ’em” The good turn done, Chokichi held out his hand for the broken clogs. “There you go. See you at school.”

  The one set out for his sister’s, the other turned toward home, and the red maple leaves, a store of regrets, lay abandoned by the gate.

  14

  There were three Otori days this year.18 The second one was spoiled by rain, but the others were fair and the crowds were immense. Not given to letting such chances pass, young men poured into the quarter from the back gate, so that with the main gate quiet, it was as if the directions had suddenly shifted. One trembled lest the pillars of heaven and the sinews of earth give way in the roar. Gangs pushed arm in arm across the drawbridges and into the Five Streets, plowing the crowds like boats plowing up the river. Music and dancing, shrill cries from the shabby little houses along the moat, and samisen in the more dignified heights, a delirious confusion of sounds that the crowds would not soon forget.

  Shota had taken a holiday from collecting the interest. He went first to inquire after Sangoro, who was selling roast potatoes, and then to see how the Moose from the Dangoya was doing with the not very attractive sweets he offered.

  “Making lots of money?”

  “You came at the right time, Shota. I’ve run out. What’ll I sell ’em now? I’ve put more on to cook, but they keep coming.”

  “You don’t know much about your business, do you? Look in the pot. There’s always some left around the edges. What you do is pour in some water and a little sugar, that’s all, and you have enough for maybe ten or twenty people. Everybody does it. Who’ll notice in this crowd? Go on, go on.” Shota started for the sugar bowl himself.

  “Aren’t you the businessman, though.” The Moose’s one-eyed mother was filled with admiration. “I’m almost afraid of you.”

  “You don’t have to be so good to know that much.” He tossed her praise off lightly. “I just saw Fatty up the street do the same thing. ... Has anyone seen Midori? I’ve been looking for her all day. Maybe over there?” He nodded toward the quarter.

  “Oh, Midori. She went by a little while ago over the bridge. You should’ve seen her. Her hair done up like so.” He swept his hands up grandly over his head to suggest the lines of the shimada, the coiffure a young girl adopts when she reaches adolescence. “She looked good. Good,” he added, wiping his nose.

  “Better than her sister, I bet. Maybe she’ll turn out like her sister.” Shota looked at the ground.

  “Hope she does. Then we can go buy her. Next year I’ll open a stall and make me some money.” The Moose did not understand.

  “Ha, ha. She wouldn’t come near you.”

  “What do you mean, what do you mean?”

  “She wouldn’t, that’s all. There are plenty of reasons.” Shota laughed a little uncomfortably. “Well,” he flung over his shoulder as he started for the door, “I’m going out and walk around a little. I’ll be back after a while.”

  He sang in a strangely quavering voice,

  “Oh, once I was young and carefree,

  A flower, a butterfly...

  But now there is none who knows better

  How to suffer, how to sigh.”

  He hummed the refrain over again. His little figure soon disappeared in the crowd, the leather-soled sandals hitting the street as briskly as ever.

  He pushed and elbowed his way to the corner of the moat, and there, coming toward him, was Midori. She was talking to a lady of the quarter. It was indeed Midori of the Daikokuya, but the Moose had not been wrong: a little shyly, she wore her hair in a fresh shimada, tied with a rich twist of ribbon. Her combs were tortoise shell, and little bunches of streamers hung shimmering from her hairpins. She was more brightly dressed than usual, the model Kyoto doll. Shota was speechless. Ordinarily he would have run over and taken her by the arm.

  “Shota ... you must have things to do, Otsuma. You needn’t take me any farther. I’ll go on with him.” Midori bobbed her head in farewell.

  “Well, Midori’s found someone she likes better,” laughed Otsuma. “She doesn’t need me any more. I’ll just go shopping.” She tripped off in tiny little steps, and they watched her turn down a lane into the quarter.

  “It looks wonderful.” Shota pulled at Midori’s sleeve. “When did you have it done? Yesterday? This morning?” And a l
ittle reproachfully, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “They did it this morning in Omaki’s room. I hate it.” Midori’s tone was heavy, she looked down at the ground, she seemed shy of the passing crowds.

  15

  Praise sounded in her ears like taunts, and when passers-by turned to admire her, she felt as though they were jeering at her.

  “I’m going home.”

  “Why? What’s the matter? Did something happen? Did you have a fight with Omaki?”

  Midori flushed. It was clear that he was still a child and could never understand. As they walked past the Dangoya, the Moose called out elaborately, “How well the lady and the gentleman seem to get on together.”

  Midori looked as if she wanted to weep. “Don’t walk with me, Shota.” She hurried off a step or two ahead.

  She had promised to go to the Otori fair with him. Why then this change, why this hurry to go home? “Aren’t you coming along? Why are you going that way? Listen to me.” Shota was not used to being crossed. But Midori walked on ahead as though to shake him off. What possible reason could there be for it? Shota tugged at her sleeve to stop her, he looked inquiringly into her face.

  She only flushed more deeply. “It’s nothing,” she said, but her tone suggested that the matter was not so simple.

  Midori ducked in through her gate. Shota had been there often enough, and he saw no need to hold back. He followed her in from the veranda.

  “It was good of you to come, Shota,” Midori’s mother greeted him. “She’s been in a bad mood since this morning. We’ve had a terrible time with her. Do come in and entertain her.”

  “And what seems to be the matter?” Shota asked solemnly.

  “She’ll be over it before long.” The mother smiled strangely. “She’s just spoiled. I suppose you’ve been fighting with your friends too? A fine young lady!”