Something Strange Across the River

by Kafū Nagai

  As long as you wear old slacks and see to it that your handkerchief is folded in the most haphazard manner you can muster, you can walk from Sunamachi in the south to Senju or Kanamachi in the north without fearing the odd gaze of passing pedestrians. One of the locals may pause in their doorway, perhaps preparing to go shopping, and without a second thought you can walk down their alley. Such slovenly clothes are perhaps more suited to Tokyo’s unbearable heat and astonishing cold than any other. As long as you dress the same as the taxi drivers, you can spit on the street and on the train, you can toss your cigarette butts and matchsticks and paper scraps and banana peels wherever you please. You can enter a park, if you so desired, and plop yourself on a bench or sprawl out on the grass and grunt and snore and act how you please. You can abandon yourself to the pulse of a rebuilt city.

  My friend Sato Yosai has already written extensively on the strange summer custom women have developed of going out on the town in an nightgown-like piece of cloth. I have nothing to add to his evaluation.

  I am not accustomed to wearing geta on my bare feet, so I have a tendency to slam them against things, trip over things, step on people’s feet, and so forth; I do all I can to avoid serious injury, and I paid extra attention to my feet as I pressed throughout the throngs of people on my way to the back of the Inari Shrine. The stalls continued all the way to the shrine, to the left of which stood a reasonably well-sized plot of land that a plant nursery had taken over, filling it with trees, chrysanthemums, roses, and potted out-of-season flowerbeds. In a corner stood the names of people who had donated money to the rebuilding of the temple. They were inscribed on plaques and lined up like a fence. Perhaps it had burned down, or, like the Fushimi Inari Shrine, had been moved from its previous location.

  I purchased a pot of summer flowers, turned down another alley, and made my way back to Taisho Street. I found myself standing just to the right of a police box. I was dressed the same as everyone else that night, and I was holding a pot of flowers, so I thought it would be fine, but, deciding not to risk it, I backed down the alley and turned down another street hemmed in by a liquor shop on one side and a candy store on the other.

  The shops that lined half the street, and the alleyways behind them were a maze collectively referred to as District One. Oyuki’s house was in District Two, and the embankment that ran through it appeared suddenly at the end of this street in District One, where it bubbled past the entrance to a public bath called Nakajima before winding off through the pitch-dark streets outside the quarter. I thought of the canal, and how it appeared much dirtier than what once surrounded the north quarter. I could not help the sentimental sigh that overcame me when I remembered that, once, Terajima was just rice fields, the small river filled with water grasses, small dragonflies perched delicately on their leaves. It didn’t suit a man of my age. None of the festival carts were out on this street. I came out by a restaurant under its own flashing neon sign, which read “Kyushu.” Suddenly I could see the lights of the cars plying the improved road and I could hear the din of gramophones.

  The pot was getting heavy so I decided to forgo the main street, turning right at Kyushu instead. The street was lined on the right by Districts One and Two, and on the left by District Three, making it not only the busiest but also the narrowest street. There were kimono shops, women’s shops for western clothing, and western restaurants. There was a post office box. The night I met Oyuki, when she ran up under my umbrella—I am pretty sure that was right around this post office box.

  The remnants of an awkward unsettled feeling still clung to me in the wake of Oyuki’s implied confession, as if she were joking about her feelings towards me. I realized I knew almost nothing of her background. She’d mentioned being a geisha somewhere, sometime in the past, but she didn’t seem to know the various arts a geisha should—so even that was suspect. My first impression, based on very little, was that she had come from a fairly well-off house in Yoshiwara or Suzaki. Perhaps I had been correct.

  She did not carry even the hint of an accent, but her face and her clear skin and body make it clear that she’s not from Tokyo or its suburbs, which has led me to imagine her the daughter born to parents that moved to Tokyo from somewhere far removed. She was a cheerful girl, and didn’t seem to be deeply upset by her current situation. Rather, I could imagine her as bright enough, optimistic enough, to see her current experiences as a way to build a path for herself out of her place in life. As for her relations with men, she listened without hesitation to the lies I issued forth, which made it clear that she was not yet jaded against the world. And if she was able to make me believe that was so, she must have been much more pure hearted and honest than her contemporaries at the cafes in Ginza and Ueno.

  I was comparing a showgirl from Ginza to a woman at the window, the latter of which I found more lovable; I felt that we could speak of our feelings more honestly, but, much like the cityscape in the area, upon further reflection I realized she did not think with pride on her superficial beauty, and that there was probably very little chance of thundering disappointment at the gap between her appearance and her person. The street was still lined on both sides by carts and businesses, but here the drunkards did not band together to prowl the streets, and while bloody fights may have broken out in other places, one seldom saw them here. There are other sights to be wary of in Ginza. The middle-aged man, for example, in his perfectly cut foreign suit and distasteful countenance, his hair perfectly styled, his occupation nebulous, swinging his cane as he walks down the street and sings to himself, berating the young women and the children who cross his path. If one only changes into shabby dress and comes out to these outskirts, one is in much less danger, no matter how crowded the streets, than in those back alleys of Ginza, where one must constantly yield way to these distasteful sorts.

  The small, lively street with the post office box reaches its height at the kimono shop, after which it continues with rice shops, a department store, fish-sausage shops, and so forth until you come upon a large lumber supply, its boards leaning against the wall. Whenever I get there my legs carry me on without consulting my conscious mind at all, due to the habit it’s become. They carry me out to the entrance of an alleyway that stands between the hardware shop and the bicycle parking lot.

  Once inside the small alley you quickly come upon the dirtied flags of the Inari Shrine, and the pervasive waves of window shoppers all but disappear. Luckily for me. I sneak down the alleyway, and there are fig trees growing behind the houses and grape vines crawling over the railings, and I look back over my shoulder at the scene, so unlike anything in Tokyo, as I make my way to peer into Oyuki’s window.

  It looked like a customer was still with her on the second floor, as there were shadows on the curtain. The bottom window hung open. It sounded like the radios out front had finally stopped blaring, so I placed the potted flowers from the festival inside the window and continued on my way to Shirahige Bridge. While I was walking the Keisei buses on their way to Asakusa followed me down the road and passed me. I didn’t know where their stops were, so I made no effort to catch one. I kept on walking, and saw all the flickering lanterns at the other end of the bridge.

  * * *

  I’ve yet to finish Disappearance, though I began to write it at the start of summer. Early that evening, when Oyuki said “It’s already been three months,” I realized that it had been even longer since I decided to record the story of Junbei and Mitsuko. When I had last put brush to paper, Junbei had taken Sumiko out of their room to escape the heat. They’d gone to cool off at Shiraghige Bridge, and were discussing the direction they wished to take their relationship. I went to the bridge and leaned against its railings myself.

  When I was first toying with the plot of the novel I had intended to make their relationship a rather light matter. However, as the story progressed, that seemed to suit the characters less and less. The heat of the summer grew oppressive along with my confusion, and so I had taken a measure
of time off from the project.

  And yet, leaning over the railings of the bridge, the echoes of the running river below and the crowds dancing in the park floating over to me, I found myself reflecting on Oyuki’s protracted “already,” and in doing so decided that Junbei and Mitsuko were not, in the least, unnatural or forced. Their relationship did not seem manipulated by the author (myself) for any effect. Furthermore, if I were to intercede in my original plans and alter the course of their relationship, that alteration itself would stick out.

  I took a taxi home from Kaminarimon and, as usual, washed my face, shaved, and lit a stick of incense and placed it in the holder by my inkstone. I reached for my unfinished, abandoned manuscript and began to read it over.

  * * *

  “What’s that over there? See it? Is it a factory or something?”

  “I think it’s a petroleum company. That whole area used to be really pretty—or so I heard. I read it in a book once.”

  “Want to go for a walk over there? It’s not so late yet.”

  “But there’s a police box just over there.”

  “You’re right. Let’s go back then. You’d think we were murderers, the way we have to creep around.”

  “Hey now, don’t talk so loud.”

  Junbei fell silent.

  “You don’t know who is going to hear you…”

  “You’re right. But sneaking around and living like this—I’ve never done it before. It feels…I don’t know. I’ll never forget it.”

  “That’s why they say to stay away from women…don’t they now?”

  “Sumi-chan, ever since last night, I feel…I feel like I’m suddenly much younger. I feel like I finally have something to live for. Know what I mean?”

  “People are so emotional. Don’t get down on yourself.”

  “I know. But no matter how I may feel, I’m not young anymore. You’ll get rid of me before too long.”

  “There you go again—even though I keep telling you not to think that way. Just look at me, I’ll be 30 soon. Besides, I’ve already done the things I want to. I’d like to settle down and save some money, you know?”

  “You really want to start a little oden shop?”

  “I’m going to give the deposit to Teru in the morning. Then you won’t have to use your money anymore, right? It’ll be just like we talked about last night.”

  “But then…”

  “It’ll be fine. You have your savings, so everything else will be fine. I’ll take my money and pay everyone off. I’ll buy rights and everything. No matter how you look at it, that’s the best for everyone.”

  “Are you sure you can trust Teru? I mean, we’re talking about money.”

  “She’s fine. She’s rich. She’s got the king of Tamanoi as her patron.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “This guy, he owns tons of shops and houses around here. He’s around 70 years old too, a really energetic fellow. He came into the cafe sometimes.”

  “Is that so.”

  “Anyway, she says that if I’m really going to go for it I might as well go all out. Give up on the little oden shop and take over one of his businesses. Teru and her patron have both said the same thing, they say they’ll set me up with a place. But if it came down to it, I wouldn’t have anyone to talk things over with. I don’t want to run it by myself. If that’s how it’s going to be I figure it would be easier to just run a little oden shop or a food stall or something.”

  “So that’s why you picked out that plot?”

  “Teru is getting money from her mother.”

  “Very entrepreneurial.”

  “Well, she’s got nerve, but she’s no thief…”

  Chapter Nine

  Tokyo lurched into the middle of September, but the oppressive heat of summer refused to retreat, growing stronger even than August. The window shades caught and flapped in the breeze, slapping against the panes with all the affected air of autumn, but as evening approached the breeze would evaporate, leaving the town stifling in moist heat as if the block was suddenly in Kansai. These nights continued for some time.

  Between the composition of my manuscript and my reading, I’d become unexpectedly busied, resulting in three solid days during which I never left my room.

  Nothing brought more pleasure to my solitary life than airing out my books in dwindling heat, and the burning of fallen leaves. Those days provide the opportunity to reflect on my shelves of books, to look them over and remember the time, years ago, when I originally found myself entranced by them, and therefore also the opportunity to reflect on the transitory and undulating nature of my feelings and outlook. The burning of the leaves was a brief interlude, during which I could forget my place in the surrounding populace.

  I’d finally finished airing out my books that day, so just as soon as I’d had my dinner I slipped into those torn slacks and clunky wooden sandals. By the time I left the house the lanterns at the front gate had already been lit. The lingering heat in the still evenings had not persuaded the sun to stay up any longer, and before anyone had time to notice it had begun to turn out of the sky earlier and earlier.

  It had only been three days, but as I passed out the gate I was overcome with the feeling of having neglected a duty, of having been absent from where I had been expected—a feeling that compelled me to hurry on my way. To cut the route shorter I boarded the subway at the Kyobashi station. I had known women from a young age, and it would be no exaggeration to say that I had not felt this flustered over going to see a women in well over 30 years. I took a taxi from Kaminarimon and finally found myself standing, once again, at the entrance to the alleyway. Once again, the standing fox statues. The tattered red banners had all been replaced by clean, white, trailing flags. The same figs, the same grapes, but their greenery had grown almost imperceptibly thinner. No matter how hot the days, no matter how neglected the alley, autumn quietly brought the nights darker and longer.

  Oyuki’s face was in the same window, but her hair was tied up differently and so, walking slowly and peering intently to ensure I was approaching the correct person I stepped forward into view upon which Oyuki, her patience overflowing, flung the door open and shouted “You!” before quickly slinking back and lowering her voice and continuing, “I was worried. But I suppose that’s no matter. I’m glad you came.”

  I already knew why she was concerned. I sat down on the stoop without removing my sandals.

  “You were in the paper, you know. I don’t think they got it right, I doubted it the whole time, but still. I was so worried.”

  “Sorry.” Someone had found me, so I lowered my voice as well. “I’m not that stupid. I’ve been careful.”

  “But what happened? You seem just fine, but you know if the person I’m expecting doesn’t show up I get lonely. I know it’s odd.”

  “But you seem just as busy as ever.”

  “I found out all this in the heat. It doesn’t matter how busy I am.”

  “Damn though, it really is hot this year,” I said, to which Oyuki quickly whispered, “Keep your voice down.” She slapped at a mosquito that had landed on my forehead.

  The house was filled with more mosquitos than ever. It seemed their needles had grown fatter and sharper. Oyuki produced a tissue from her pocket and wiped the blood from my forehead. “Just look at this.” She showed me the stained tissue before crumpling it up.

  “When those mosquitos go away the year will be over.”

  “I know. I think they were still around for the winter festival last year.”

  For a moment I thought I’d heard her refer to their breeding in the rice paddies, but quickly realized that was a story from another age I’d heard as if in a dream. “You want to go for a walk around here, maybe to Yoshiwara?”

  “Sure,” she said before turning her head to the gentle chime of a bell in the distance, standing and rushing to the window. “Kane-chan! Over here! What are you standing around for? Get me some iced dumplings and mosquito coils
will you? Good child.”

  She sat at the window, jesting with the passing customers. Occasionally she would speak to me from the space between the Osaka screens. When the man from the ice shop came by she brought something over to me.

  “Here. You like iced dumplings, don’t you? These are on me tonight.”

  “You sure remember the little things.”

  “Of course I do. There’s a reason too, so do me a favor and stop these affairs of yours.”

  “You think I’m running off to someone else’s house when I’m not here? Heh.”

  “That’s how men are.”

  “I’ll choke on these things. C’mon, let’s get along, at least while I’m eating.”

  “Whatever,” she said with affected scorn, jabbing her spoon into the carefully piled mountain of shaved ice she held.

  A customer passed by the window and peaked inside. “Hey there, lady, looks good.”

  “I’ll give you one. Open your mouth.”

  “I’ll pass on the poison. Too young to die tonight.”

  “You’re just another penniless loser, give me a break.”

  “What was that? You pond scum!” The man said and walked on. She didn’t seem satisfied. “Bastard trash!” She called.

  Another passing man burst into laughter.

  She spooned some shaved ice into her mouth and left the spoon there, hanging from her lips as she gazed out into the alley and absentmindedly called out, “Hey there, hey there, busy?” To which eventually a man would stop and look over, at which point she’d put the charm on thick and sweetly drawl, “Come on in, I’m not busy. Come on, mister,” or, depending on perhaps how the man looked she would turn suddenly businesslike and clip, “Certainly, well, come in for a moment and if you are not satisfied you can just go on your way,” to which neither the first or second or subsequent men responded, at which point, without disappointment, unaffectedly, as if reviving an ancient memory, she would return to her melted piled of ice and then fish out a dumpling to chew on, or pull on a stick of tobacco and puff up small plumes of smoke.