The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by J. Thomas Rimer

  “I knew,” answered the lawyer. It sounded as if he were smiling.

  This startled me. I am a very light sleeper and felt sure that I would have awakened immediately at anything out of the ordinary. But of this I knew nothing.

  “In this heat, we cannot go back to the city. And there are people in the next room, so we’ve got to put up with this paper door. But I will not stand for this constant opening of it.”

  “Grandfather, it was not I who opened that door,” I appealed to him exasperatedly.

  My grandfather, smiling slightly, gave me a light nod.

  “When you’ve had your breakfast, we’ll go for a walk.”

  Intensely annoyed, I left the room right away. After a while, my grandfather, in a pair of slippers and a big gray hat like a helmet, a walking stick on his shoulder, came downstairs to the entryway where I was waiting.

  “Shall we walk toward Benten Mountain?” he asked.

  I replied: “The view from there is probably the best.” Back then, the new road hadn’t been put through yet. Walking along the mountain road that was more like a dry streambed, we talked.

  My grandfather told me a story about the Zen priest Hakuin. It is a famous story, and I’ve heard it since from many different people. It seems that a certain maiden, becoming pregnant, was asked by her father who the baby’s father was. In desperation, the girl said it was the high priest Hakuin. I forget the other circumstances, but anyway, her father was overjoyed and rushed off to the temple. When he told the priest, Hakuin is reported merely to have said: “Ah, so?” In due course of time, the real father’s identity became known. Absolutely flabbergasted, the girl’s father went back to make an abject apology. When he was done, Hakuin again said merely: “Ah, so?”

  It was a pertinent story, and it took me right out of my bad mood. When we got back, the family next door was busy packing its things. After they’d had lunch, three rickshaws arrived. Only the wife, looking as if she were sorry things had turned out this way, came by briefly to say good-bye. She said they were going down to the Tsutaya in Sokokura.

  As for Suzu, she of the carefree face that resembled Ushinosuke’s, she was just about heartbroken. The spirit had gone out of her. Suddenly feeling sorry for her, I wanted to say something but didn’t say anything. Only Hana saw them off as far as the entryway. The lawyer, in a Western suit, walked about supervising the rickshaw men. I watched them until they were out of sight around Benten Mountain.

  That was the last I saw of Suzu. In ten years, we haven’t met even once. But the year after that, at a charity performance of the kabuki, I saw the lawyer, his wife, and Minori in one of the boxes. Their new maid, a girl of fifteen or sixteen, had a more intelligent face than Suzu’s. In the corridor leading to the restrooms, the wife and I passed each other, but pretended not to recognize one another.

  That is the story. But if I may say a last word on behalf of Suzu who loved me, when she opened the door that time, it wasn’t with any lewd intention (open the door, and then what). No, we’re talking about a dumb country girl. When she did that, she must have been thinking that to stare into another person’s face was a way to reveal one’s love. She must have been trying to show her love for me. So my friend, neatly and easily tacking on the conclusion (perhaps because he had done so so many times), completed this story about when he was loved.

  THE SHOPBOY’S GOD (KOZŌ NO KAMISAMA)

  Translated by Lane Dunlop

  Senkichi was an apprentice at a scales shop in Kanda.

  The autumnal, mild, clear sunlight, underneath the faded blue shop curtain, quietly shone into the shop. There were no customers. The senior clerk, sitting behind the latticework of the counter, was languidly smoking a cigarette. He began to talk to the junior clerk who was reading a newspaper by the brazier.

  “Ko-san. Won’t be long now. You’ll be able to have some of that fat tuna you like.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about it? Shall we go this evening, after closing shop?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “It’s only fifteen minutes by the outer moat trolley.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Reason I mention it is, you can’t eat the stuff around here.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  The shopboy Senkichi sat respectfully in his place, a short distance from the junior clerk, his hands under his apron. “Ah, they’re talking about sushi,” he thought as he listened. There was a branch shop in Kyobashi. Now and then he was sent there on an errand, so that he knew precisely where that sushi shop was. How he longed to become a clerk soon! Then, making that kind of knowledgeable remark, he could step inside such a shop any time he liked!

  “By the way, Yohei’s son has opened a shop near the Matsuya. Did you know that, Ko-san?”

  “No, I didn’t. Where’s the Matsuya?”

  “I’m not sure myself, but I think it’s the one near the new bridge.”

  “Oh? Is the sushi good there?”

  “So they say.”

  “What’s it called? ‘Yohei’s,’ too?”

  “Uh, what was it, now? Something. I heard the name, but I’ve forgotten.”

  Senkichi, listening, thought: So there are shops as famous as that. Then, he thought: But when they say “good,” just how do they mean “good”? Carefully, so as not to make any noise, he swallowed the saliva that had gathered in his mouth.

  Two or three evenings after this, Senkichi was sent on an errand to the Kyobashi shop. As he’d set out, he’d been handed his round-trip trolley fare by the clerk.

  Getting off the outer moat trolley at Kajibashi, Senkichi purposely passed in front of the sushi shop. Gazing up at the shop curtain, he imagined all the clerks briskly parting the sections of the curtain as they went inside. He was feeling pretty hungry just then. He pictured to himself the fatty, yellow-tinged tuna sushi. What he would do for one piece, he thought. Often, when he’d been given a round-trip fare, he had bought a one-way ticket and walked back. Now, also, the leftover four sen chinked in his inside chest pocket. With four sen, I could have one, he thought. But you can’t say, “I’ll have just one, please.” Giving up the idea, he went on by the shop.

  His business at tire scales shop was soon done. Carrying a small cardboard carton, surprisingly heavy with its numerous little brass weights, he left the shop.

  Feeling somehow led on, he went back the way he had come. About to turn off toward the sushi shop, he happened to spot another stall, up an alley across from the intersection, with the same name on its curtain. Idly, he bent his steps toward it.

  Awano, the young member of the House of Peers, had been told by his fellow member Banda that the pleasure of sushi could not be understood unless you ate it with your fingers straight from the hands that shaped it. Sometime, he thought, he’d like to try that sort of stand-up sushi snack. He’d had his friend give him the name of a good sushi stall.

  One day, just before sunset, crossing the Kyobashi Bridge from the Ginza, Awano went to that sushi stall he’d been told about. Three or four customers were ahead of him. Hesitating a moment, he made up his mind and went inside. For a while, not wanting to force himself in among the others, he stood in back, just inside the shop curtain.

  Suddenly, a shopboy of twelve or thirteen entered. Brushing past Awano, he stood in a small space in front of the latter and busily eyed the slanted counter board of thick zelkova wood where five or six pieces of sushi were displayed.

  “Don’t you have just rice wrapped in seaweed?”

  “Aah, not today.” The corpulent proprietor, molding a piece of sushi, stared questioningly at the boy.

  With a determined air, as if to show this wasn’t his first time, the shopboy abruptly put out his hand and took one of the three or so pieces of tuna sushi lined up on the board. Strangely, though, having shot his hand out with such alacrity, he was very hesitant as he drew it back.

  “One piece is six sen, you know,” the proprietor said. Silently, as if dropping it,
the shopboy put the sushi back.

  “You can’t leave it there after you’ve touched it.” Replacing it with the piece he’d just made, the proprietor took it off the counter.

  The shopboy didn’t say a word. Making a face, he stood glued to the spot. Then quickly summoning a kind of courage, he went out under the shop curtain.

  “Nowadays even sushi has gone up. It’s not something for shopboys,” the proprietor said, looking slightly uncomfortable. Then after finishing another piece, he deftly tossed the one the shopboy had touched into his mouth and wolfed it.

  “The other day, I went to that sushi stall you told me about.”

  “How was it?”

  “Not bad. I noticed that everybody held it this way, the fish side down. Is that the way to do it?”

  “Yes. With tuna, that’s the way it’s done.”

  “Why do they hold it fish side down?”

  “So when the fish is bad, you’ll know it right away by the hot taste on your tongue.”

  “You sound like a pretty fishy connoisseur,” laughed Awano.

  Then, Awano told his friend about the shopboy.

  “I felt sorry for him, somehow. I wanted to do something for him,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you treat him? I bet he would have been overjoyed if you’d said he could have as many as he could eat.”

  “He would have been overjoyed, but I would have been in a cold sweat.”

  “A cold sweat? You mean you don’t have the courage for it?”

  “I don’t know if it’s courage or not, but I just couldn’t have done it. Maybe if we had gone out together, and I’d treated him somewhere else, but . . .”

  “Yes, it’s that kind of thing,” Banda agreed.

  Awano, thinking he would like to measure by weight the gradual growth of his little boy who was in kindergarten, decided to install a small scales in his bathroom. One day, he happened to pass Senkichi’s shop in Kanda.

  Senkichi did not know who Awano was. But Awano recognized Senkichi.

  On the concrete pavement that led to the back of the shop, seven or eight freight scales, ranging from small to large, were lined up in a neat row. Awano selected the smallest one. A replica of the ones you saw in railway stations and shipping offices, the pretty miniature would probably delight his wife and boy, Awano thought.

  The clerk, taking out an old-fashioned account book, asked:

  “What is the address, sir?”

  “Well . . .” Awano, looking at Senkichi, thought a moment. “Is that boy free just now?”

  “Yes. He’s not particularly busy . . .”

  “If that’s so, may I have him come with me? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll have him put it in a cart and accompany you immediately.”

  In compensation for not having treated the boy the other day, Awano thought, he would do it for him somewhere today.

  “Now, if you’ll write your name and address here, sir.” After Awano had paid, the clerk brought out another account book.

  Awano was somewhat flustered. He didn’t know that when one buys a scales, the number of the scales has to be registered along with the name and address of the buyer. Awano had the feeling that if he treated the boy after having given his name, he would get into a muck of cold sweat. After long thought, he wrote down a made-up name and address and handed the book back to the clerk.

  Taking his time, the customer strolled on ahead. Senkichi, pulling the little cart loaded with the scales, stayed about fifteen feet behind him.

  When they came to a rickshaw stand, the customer, having Senkichi wait, went inside. A few minutes later, the scales were transferred to one of the rickshaws.

  “Take care of it. You’ll be paid at the destination. That’s on the card, too.” Having given these instructions, the customer emerged from the stand. Then to Senkichi, he said with a smile: “You’ve worked hard. I want to buy you a little something. Let’s walk over there.”

  Senkichi felt this was both too good to be true and a little scary. He was happy nonetheless. He quietly bobbed his head two or three times in thanks.

  They went by a noodle shop, a sushi shop, and a fried chicken shop. “Where does he want to go?” Senkichi began to feel a trifle uneasy. Passing underneath the elevated tracks of Kanda Station, they went by the Matsuya. Crossing the trolley tracks, they came to a small sushi stall up an alley. Here the customer stopped.

  “Wait here a moment.” Saying this to Senkichi, the customer went inside. Senkichi, letting down the shafts of the cart, stood quietly.

  Soon the customer came out. Behind him was the young, refined-looking proprietress, who said to Senkichi: “Shopboy. Please come in.”

  “I’m going back now, so have enough to eat.” Saying this, the customer, as if he were running away, hurried off in the direction of the trolley line.

  Instantly gobbling them down like a skinny, starved dog that has come upon unexpected food, Senkichi had three adult-size pieces of sushi. There were no other customers. Sliding the door shut, the proprietress purposely withdrew. Without worrying about how he looked, Senkichi was able to gorge himself to his heart’s content.

  When she came out to pour him a cup of tea, the proprietress asked: “Won’t you have something more?”

  Senkichi blushed. “No, I’ve had plenty.” He hung his head. Then busily, he got ready to leave.

  “Well, come again, then. There’s still lots of money left over.”

  Senkichi was silent.

  “Did you know that gentleman from before?”

  “Whaat?” The proprietress exchanged glances with her husband, who had just come out.

  “He’s a very fashionable gentleman. But unless you come back, shopboy, we won’t know what to do with the rest of the money.”

  Senkichi, slipping into his clogs, could only bow frantically.

  Awano, after he’d left the shopboy and, with a feeling of being pursued, had come to the trolley line, hailed a passing cab and went straight to Banda’s house.

  He had a strangely lonely feeling. The other day, seeing the crestfallen look of that shopboy, he’d truly felt sorry for him. Today, by a chance opportunity, he’d been able to do what he’d thought he would like to do if possible. The shopboy must be contented, and he should be contented. It was not a bad thing to make another person happy. It was only natural if he himself felt a certain happiness. Then why was there this strangely lonely, unpleasant feeling? Where did it come from? It was like the feeling one has after having done something bad in secret.

  Perhaps, from the self-consciousness of having performed a good deed, it was criticized, mocked, betrayed by his true feelings, and was felt as this kind of lonely emotion. Perhaps if he thought of it in a slightly more modest, casual way, it would be all right. Without meaning to, he’d made a thing of it. But after all, it was not as if he’d done something shameful. At least, it wasn’t something that should leave this bad feeling behind, he thought.

  He had promised to call that day, so Banda was expecting him. In the evening, they went in Banda’s car to a concert.

  Awano got home late that night. His strange, lonely feeling, after an evening with his friend and the spirited solos of the lady singer, was almost completely gone.

  “Thank you very much for the scales.” As he’d expected, his wife had been delighted with the little scales. The boy was asleep, but he’d been very happy, too, she said.

  “By the way, that shopboy I saw the other day at the sushi stall? I met him again.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “He’s the apprentice at the scales shop.”

  “My, what a coincidence.”

  Awano told his wife how he’d treated the shopboy to sushi and of his lonely feeling afterward.

  “Why was that, I wonder? A lonely feeling like that. It’s strange.” His goodhearted wife knit her brows, thinking. Then, suddenly, she said: “Yes. I know that feeling.”

  “That kind of thing happens,�
� she went on. “Whatever it was, it was that kind of thing.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, truly, it’s that kind of thing. What did Banda say?”

  “I didn’t tell him about it.”

  “Oh. Still, the shopboy must have been very happy. Anybody would be at that sort of unexpected treat. I’d like one myself. Won’t you order me some of that sushi on the telephone?”

  Senkichi, pulling the empty cart, went on his way. He was gorged with sushi. Often before he had eaten his fill. But be could not remember ever having filled himself with such delicious food.

  Suddenly, he remembered his humiliating experience at the sushi stall in Kyobashi the other day. It finally came back to him. Only now, be realized that in some way it was connected with today’s feast. Maybe that man had been there, he thought. He must have been. But how had he known where Senkichi worked? This was a little strange. Come to think of it, the place he’d been taken to today was the same place the clerks had talked about that time. How did that customer come to know even about their idle talk?

  It was a great mystery. Senkichi was unable to guess that Awano and Banda, just like the clerks, had had a sushi shop chat themselves. He could only think that the customer, simultaneously knowing about the clerks’ conversation even as Senkichi had been listening to it, had therefore taken him to the place today. If that were not so, he thought, why had he passed by the two or three sushi shops before it?

  At any rate, the customer began to seem like no ordinary personage. Knowing about Senkichi’s humiliation, about the clerks’ conversation, and, above all, knowing the thoughts of Senkichi’s heart, he had bestowed that ample treat. This was not the act of a human being. Perhaps he was a god. Or, if not that, a wizard. Perhaps he was the fox god.

  The reason Senkichi thought of the fox god was because he had an aunt who every now and then was possessed by this god. When the fox god moved into her, she would shake and shudder, make weird prophecies, and accurately describe events in faraway places. Senkichi had seen her once when she was that way. It seemed a trifle odd that the fox god should be such a stylish gentleman. Nevertheless, his feeling that the gentleman was a supernatural being kept on getting stronger.