by Fumiko Enchi
“I disagree.” Ibuki stubbed out a smoldering butt in the ashtray with the end of his cigarette. “Yasuko is an ordinary woman. She’s simply not on Mieko’s scale. Yes, that’s it, like an old painting.” Pleased with his sudden idea, Ibuki waved a hand in the air; the long yellowish fingers with their large knuckles had the look of polished bamboo. “In T’ang and Sung paintings of beautiful women or in a Moronobu print of a courtesan, the main figure is always twice the size of her attendants. It’s the same with Buddhist triads: the sheer size of the main image makes the smaller bodhisattvas on either side that much more approachable. Perspective has nothing to do with it, so at first the imbalance is disturbing, but then it has a way of drawing you in….Anyway, to me Mieko is the large-sized courtesan, and Yasuko is the little-girl attendant at her side.”
“Which is only a poetic way of saying you’re in love. These days it’s the style for women to be glamorous, but I think ultimately a man’s love for a woman is based on a kind of instinctive yearning for smallness and fragility; the feeling manifests itself in a hundred ways. And that’s why you prefer to see Yasuko as a child. As a matter of fact, she’s a far stronger person than you give her credit for.”
“Strong? Of course she is, but only on one level. Inside, she has no sense of independence, of being her own woman. And that’s why she can never leave Mieko Toganō.”
“Not necessarily. I think it’s that she hasn’t got over Akio yet. Once she falls in love with someone else, Mieko’s influence will disappear. It stands to reason. A woman can’t help being attracted more to men than she is to other women.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.” Mikamé nodded firmly, as if to convince himself. The two men were the same age—thirty-three—but while Ibuki was married and the father of a three-year-old girl, Mikamé was a bachelor living alone in a comfortable apartment. They might be equally drawn to Yasuko, but Mikamé stood a far greater chance of winning her.
Just then a flame-red shadow passed over the frosted glass window near their booth. The door swung open, and in hurried Yasuko, wearing a scarlet coat.
Although nearsighted, Yasuko seldom bothered with glasses, so she squinted slightly as she stood by the counter, scanning booths across the room. Her wide-collared light-weight red coat brought out the curve of her cheeks in strong relief. There emanated from her an attractiveness and warmth strangely out of keeping with the word “widow.”
“Yasuko, over here.” Ibuki called to her, grinning, and she blinked and moved toward him, a deep dimple appearing in one round cheek.
“Have you waited long?”
“I’ve had company.”
“Oh!” Noticing Mikamé across the table, she nodded politely, then turned back inquiringly to Ibuki. “Has he been in Kyoto, too?”
“Osaka, he says.”
“I happened to come in here a little while ago, and whom do I see but Ibuki. We were just talking about that séance the other day.”
As Mikamé spoke, his fingers itched with a desire to touch the dimple coming and going in her soft fair-skinned cheek like a small insect ready for the taking. To his mind there were four kinds of beautiful skin. The first he likened to porcelain: finely grained and flawless in sheen, but marked by a hardness and chill. The second he compared to snow: duller and more coarsely grained, with a deep whiteness and an inner warmth and softness that belied its cold surface. Next was what he called the textile look, what others called silken; this was the complexion most prized by Japanese women, yet it had no virtue in Mikamé’s eyes beyond a flat, smooth prettiness. To be supremely beautiful, he thought, a woman’s skin had to glow with the internal life-force of spring’s earliest buds unfolding naturally in the sun. But city women, too clever with makeup, lost that perishable, flowerlike beauty at a surprisingly early age—and rare indeed was the woman past twenty-five whose skin had kept the freshness of youth. So musing, Mikamé gazed fixedly at Yasuko, her face clear and moist as just-opened petals.
“Ah, the séance.” She nodded. “That’s right, we haven’t seen you since then, have we?” She turned again to Ibuki. “Why doesn’t Toyoki come along with us now?”
“Exactly what I thought. Where’s Mieko?”
“Waiting in the car.” She turned to Mikamé. “Please come. It’s quite all right. Mother will be glad to see you—and I’ve heard the masks are stunning. Say you’ll come, please?” She made the appeal prettily, her head tilted to one side, but to Ibuki her soft smile was repugnant, seeming to reveal within her an unconscious hint of the harlot.
“Come on, you might as well,” he said curtly, and abruptly stood up. “You’ve got till ten before that train leaves, haven’t you?”
—
Yasuko squeezed through the ticket gate and darted ahead as far as the station entrance, then stood facing the parking lot with one arm in the air, beckoning energetically. Her small figure, enveloped in the wide-skirted red coat, seemed from behind to flutter like a narrow triangular flag.
When a large automobile slid up to the curb, she swung open the rear door and launched into a hasty explanation of the situation.
“How nice! Certainly, by all means he must come.” A gay and youthful voice came floating toward them from the interior of the car, and then, as Yasuko’s red overcoat moved aside, no longer blocking the way, the face of Mieko Toganō appeared. “Get in, everybody. There’s room back here for Yasuko and one other person.”
“I’ll sit in front,” said Mikamé, quickly climbing in by the driver. Ibuki followed, sitting next to him.
“Oh, but really, there’s plenty of room back here—”
“That’s all right. I like to see where I’m going.” Mikamé twisted around, facing the back seat, to greet Mieko more formally. “How have you been, Mrs. Toganō? I ran into Ibuki in the station coffee shop just now, and this expedition to the Nō master’s house sounded interesting—but I suppose that’s not the right word, is it? Anyway, I’m delighted to be able to go along. You’re sure it’s all right?”
Listening, Ibuki observed with a faint smile that in speaking to Mieko, Mikamé suddenly took on the smoothly sociable manner of his profession.
“Do you know the way?”
“Yes, Mr. Yakushiji sent the car around to get us.”
It was Yasuko who responded directly to Mikamé’s attempts at conversation. Mieko only lay back languorously, deep in the cushions, nodding slowly or smiling in agreement with everything Yasuko said. Next to her, Yasuko seemed alert and vivid. Mikamé thought of Ibuki’s analogy to off-scale portraits of women in old Chinese paintings and Japanese ukiyo-e; but to him Mieko resembled less an outsize drawing of a beautiful woman than a slightly vulgar background of some sort—a heavy, ornate tapestry or a large blossoming tree—against which Yasuko’s youth and charm showed off to heightened advantage.
A long bridge with ornamental post knobs appeared outside the car window, then the tiled roofs of a large temple complex. Mikamé had no idea what part of the city this might be. Eventually, after numberless twists in a road barely wide enough to squeeze through, the car stopped, and everyone got out. They followed a small stone path ten or twenty feet to the entrance of a latticed town house whose doorplate read “Yakushiji.” Standing in front of the door was a young woman with large eyes and thin eyebrows, who bowed deeply at the sight of Mieko and her party.
“Welcome! I’m so glad you could come. My father and brother have been looking forward to this, too.” Toé, the daughter, spoke Tokyo Japanese with a distinct Kyoto flavor. Still bowing, she ushered them inside the house.
To Ibuki and Mikamé, familiar with the world of No only as it appeared onstage, the house was surprisingly like that of a tradesman. They followed a narrow veranda around a corner and into a sitting room roughly three yards by four, so small that cushions for the four guests took up most of the floor space. Mikamé, a big man, knelt on his cushion with knees pressed closely together, looking more cramped than the others.
“Father has been bedridden for a long time now,” said Toé, bringing in tea and cakes. “He’s very sorry not to be able to meet you today.” The sight of a middle-aged woman in an apron, probably a maid, disappearing down the hallway with a tray of food gave further evidence of an invalid in the house.
“What’s wrong with your father?” asked Yasuko.
“It’s cancer of the stomach. He’s been ill for so long that his face is quite thin and sunken.” She knitted her eyebrows. “Sometimes in his sleep he looks so much like the mask of the Wasted Man that it frightens me. I can’t bear the sight of that mask anymore.”
“I can well imagine.” Mieko nodded sympathetically. Yasuko quickly joined in.
“That was in your poem, wasn’t it? Remember, Mother, the one last month—” She looked at Mieko.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t a very good idea for us to descend on you like this, was it?”
“Oh, not at all!” Toé opened her clear eyes wide in seeming surprise. “The costumes are out of storage now for their fall airing anyway, and Father thought this would be a good chance for you to see them, Mrs. Toganō. Last year we enlarged the stage (at the expense of the rest of the house, unfortunately), and we’d like you to see that, too, while you’re here.”
A young man who appeared to be a live-in pupil entered the room, carrying a bundle. “Miss, the young master says he’ll show the costumes here and leave the masks for later, on the stage.”
“Oh? All right then. The guests are here, so you may tell him to come in.”
“Yes, miss.”
No sooner had the pupil departed with a perfunctory bow than Yorikata Yakushiji walked into the room, muscular and erect as a swordsman. He greeted Mieko brusquely, without a word in reference to her status as his sister’s poetry teacher. To Yasuko’s introduction of Ibuki and Mikamé he responded with a stiff seated bow, arms squarely akimbo. Then he gave a wry smile and said, “Father tells me to show you the costumes—not that we have much to show.” Shyness emanated from his dark features; he seemed a good-hearted sort. Perhaps, thought Mikamé, this slightly odd affability of Yorikata’s accounted for the decreasing prosperity of this school of Nō—an impression made all the stronger by the faint atmosphere of gloom that had at once made itself felt within the house.
Yorikata untied the bundle, which was wrapped in a cloth imprinted with the family crest. Inside was a pile of four or five costumes for female roles. Sliding closer to the pile, he lifted the topmost silken garment and inserted his arms into the sleeves, spreading it out for them to see.
“How beautiful!” said Mieko with a sharp intake of breath. The material was gray figured satin, stamped with a heavy gold-leaf pattern and embroidered with bunches of large, drooping white lilies. The vermilion of the stamens was faded and yellow; the gold leaf, blackened as if by soot. Both the subdued damask and the embroidery bespoke a quiet elegance like that of old screen paintings.
“This dates from around the Keichō era, which is early seventeenth century. We call it the Lily Robe. The lining is finely woven silk, but even inside what was once scarlet has faded to a pale reddish yellow. Pick it up and see for yourselves.” He removed his arms from the sleeves and laid the garment down carefully next to Mieko, before spreading out the next: a brocade robe in large alternating squares of straw and vermilion, across which tiny woven chrysanthemums were thickly scattered.
“This one is quite a bit later. It’s from the late Kyōho era, around 1730. Yoriyasu, who was the fifth head of our school, received it as a gift from the Nishi Honganji Temple for a performance of Chrysanthemum Youth at the Sento Imperial Palace. Supposedly, one of the Nishijin weavers worked so hard to have it ready on time that he fell ill, hemorrhaged, and died. Then, the story goes, while Yoriyasu was dancing on stage, the weaver’s ghost came and watched the performance from the imperial box. Yoriyasu hadn’t been told the story behind his new robe, and while he danced, he kept wondering about that pale little man in a plain cotton robe, sitting without a sword in the imperial box alongside the retired emperor, the regents, and the priests of the Honganji.”
“You mean to say the man’s ghost came to see the robe he’d made?” Mikamé’s voice was loud.
“Supposedly, yes. In those days even the best Nishijin weavers barely made a living, so it’s hardly any wonder Yoriyasu thought the man looked out of place.” Yorikata seemed to enjoy the tale, smiling quietly as he spoke.
“Since this one is not so old, the vermilion is much less faded, but even so, you’ll notice it’s much brighter on the inside.” He slid the tip of a stubby finger along a side seam, deftly exposing a patch of cloth where vermilion and indigo gleamed richly.
Mieko glanced at the shiny bit of cloth, then turned to Yasuko. “Think of that,” she murmured.
“Yes, I know,” Yasuko whispered in reply, bending entranced over the brocade.
Ibuki sensed the passing of a private and wordless communication between the two women. They were thinking of neither the robe’s design nor its weave, he was certain, but rather of the man who had died in its making—and of the man’s ghost, watching the dance from the emperor’s box.
“Were any other stories told about the robe after that?” he asked.
“Yes, I wonder,” said Mikamé. “If the weaver went all the way to the palace to see that performance after his death, obviously the robe had deep meaning for him. Did his ghost appear when other people wore it, too?” He made the query with an earnest air—one that had enabled him, as a researcher, to uncover the secrets of many an old rural family.
“Nothing of the sort ever happened again.” Toé sounded put out, as if she thought it poor taste on her brother’s part to bring up such a story at a time when their own father lay dying. “Yoriyasu personally took the robe to the Kiyomizu Temple and ordered services held for the repose of the dead man’s soul. Whether that had anything to do with it I certainly don’t know, but the ghost never came back. And even now we consider it taboo to wear this costume in that role.”
“I’d say the weaver was satisfied, wouldn’t you?” Still greatly in earnest, Mikamé was not to be deterred. “The memorial services were one thing, but after all, the robe he had died to finish had been worn by a great master, in a performance seen by the retired emperor, the regents, and all the priests of the Honganji. He must have thought there was nothing more he could ask for. Don’t you think so?”
“Yorikata, shall we move on to some of the others now?” said Toé, as if to put a stop to Mikamé’s speculations. Several other rare old silks and brocades were accordingly taken up and admired before Yorikata stood and led the way to the stage. There, in contrast with the cramped and dingy living quarters, the paneling and floorboards were of the finest Japanese cypress.
Yorikata seemed particularly proud of the stage, and he told them a number of things about it. For the opening performance he had danced Sambasō with his father as Okina, the old man, in the ancient sacred dance.
“Four jars are buried underneath the stage, one on each side, for each of the four seasons. In the fall, for example, the actors stamp the floorboards by this pillar to get the proper sound for that time of year.” He demonstrated by stamping firmly at the spot indicated, to produce a clear and resonant sound.
“Everything about the masks is different,” he told them, “when you actually see them being worn. Since I was going to put them on for you anyway, I thought it would be best to do it here on stage.”
“And Father says that Mrs. Toganō, being a woman, would surely like to see some of the best female masks,” said Toé, drawing one from its black lacquer box and handing it to her brother.
Yorikata placed the mask lightly on one palm, holding it out for them all to see.
The mask’s forehead and cheeks were well rounded; the suggestion of a smile hovered around the eyes, their lids curved and drooping, and the lips, half parted to reveal a glimpse of teeth. By some extraordinary artistry in the carving of the mask, that smile could
change mysteriously into a look of weeping.
“This is Magojirō. A young woman, like Ko-omote,*1 but one with greater femininity and the fully developed charms of someone older, a young woman at the very peak of her beauty. When you know the masks as well as we do, they come to seem like the faces of real women. And this, of all the masks handed down in our family, is the one I love best.” He handed the Magojirō mask carefully to Yasuko.
“But I’ll show you another mask that I couldn’t love if I wanted to, one that won’t even let me near, one that makes me feel only a kind of irritation—even hatred may not be too strong a word. Its name is Zō no onna.*2 It’s used for characters of exalted rank—the court lady in Burden of Love or the celestial being in Robe of Feathers.”
Yorikata picked up the mask and slowly extended his arms up and out, holding it level with his own face. It was the visage of a coldly beautiful woman, her cheeks tightly drawn. The sweep of the eyelids was long, and the red of the upper lip extended out to the corners of the mouth in an uneven and involved line, curving at last into a smile of disdain. A haughty cruelty was frozen hard upon the face, encasing it like crystals of ice on a tree.
Yorikata lowered his outstretched arms; then in one smooth sequence he raised the mask to his face, tied the cords behind his head, and quietly stood up. Above his sturdy, muscular shoulders, the swarthy male neck and jowls plainly in view, the face of a highborn woman with long, slanting eyelids floated, solitary in space.
Yasuko covered her eyes with one hand.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mikamé.
“It’s nothing. Just that mask…it’s so overpowering it frightened me.”
“You look pale. Let me check your pulse.” Mikamé took Yasuko’s hand from her lap and looked at his watch with his best medical air.
—
The next morning, Kyoto was wrapped in a soft drizzle, but by early afternoon, as the noon express neared Yonehara, the weather had cleared and auburn sheaves of rice standing in the harvested fields shone warmly in the late autumn sun. In a pair of second-class seats sat Ibuki, by the window, and Yasuko, at his side. He had planned to take the night train home that evening, but at the last minute Mieko had decided to stay an extra day in order to attend a poetry gathering in Nara, and had given him her ticket.
