by Naoya Shiga
Okayo looked a trifle angry. She said impatiently, “All I did was drink a part of what was left.”
The other woman, ignoring her, turned to Ogata. “You’re a naughty man, O-san. Please don’t get her drunk.”
“That’s the trouble with chief waitresses,” said Ogata. “They’re all tyrants.”
The waitress, saying nothing, poured some soda into Ogata’s glass. She then looked at Kensaku’s glass and said with a smile, “This gentleman hasn’t touched his drink at all.”
“That’s why I asked Okayo to have one with me. I can’t be expected to drink alone, can I? If you won’t let her, then you join me, Osuzu.”
“No thanks, I’m not that tough,” said the one called Osuzu and sat down beside Okayo.
Okayo suddenly turned on Osuzu and said in a low, angry voice, “Maybe you’re getting on in years, but that doesn’t give you the right to be so righteous.”
There was distaste on Osuzu’s face. “That really was a mean thing to say.”
At this point Ogata interceded: “It’s no fun fighting when you’re sober, so have a drink before you get started again.”
The two women looked at each other in embarrassment, then burst out laughing. They put up no more resistance to Ogata’s cajoling, and began drinking a little to keep him company. Occasionally Osuzu would grumble, but only halfheartedly.
Okayo was called away several times to attend to customers downstairs, but whenever she could she would come back upstairs and join them.
Kensaku, feeling awkward and inexperienced, said very little. There was a bowl of grapes in front of him. He huddled over it, almost hugging it, and with an air of concentration popped one grape after another into his mouth.
Okayo came running back into the room after one of her trips downstairs. “It’s terribly warm,” she said, and stretching out one of her kimono sleeves with both hands began fanning herself busily. She was clearly drunk. Her eyes, moist from the drinking, glowed beautifully in the electric light.
“Be careful, Okayo,” said Osuzu. “You really must stop, otherwise you’ll collapse again.”
“Collapse indeed!” said Okayo crossly, glaring at Osuzu. “You know very well I’ll never do a thing like that!”
Kensaku bent his head back and put a few more drops of lotion in his eyes.
“I think I could use some of that,” Ogata said. Kensaku, his eyes shut, held out the bottle.
“Let me put the drops in for you,” Okayo said.
“Can you really do it?”
“Of course I can.” Okayo took the bottle and went around to the back of Ogata’s chair. “Put your head back further.”
“Like this?”
“No, further.”
In the meantime Osuzu had quickly lined up four chairs together. “Lie down here, it will be easier,” she said.
Okayo sat down on one end and said, “Here, O-san, put your head in my lap.” And when Osuzu picked up a clean napkin and gave it to her, she said, “Well, well, we are being formal tonight,” and spread it over her lap.
Ogata obediently lay down. Okayo said, “Shall I hold your eyes open for you?”
“No, thanks, I’ll do it myself.” He stuck out his elbows and with his hands pulled open both eyes. Okayo missed on her first attempt, and the lotion trickled down toward Ogata’s ear. She laughed. “Open it again.” Osuzu, standing over Okayo, said, “But Okayo, can you see what you’re doing in this light?” Osuzu looked up at her. “Of course I can. You watch.” She took careful aim and squeezed the rubber cap on the dropper. But, alas, there was so little lotion left in it that nothing came out. Ogata, who had had the whites of his eyes turned up in readiness for the drop, now brought them down a little to see what was going on. Okayo let out a screech and jumped up, knocking down her chair. Ogata, taken aback, jumped up too.
In a frightened voice Osuzu said, “What’s the matter, what’s the matter?”
Okayo stood still, clutching the bottle of lotion. Finally she said hoarsely, “Don’t you understand, there his eyes were, all turned up, looking at nothing in particular, then suddenly those black pupils appeared, staring at me!”
With a touch of disgust Osuzu said, “Oh, have some sense, Okayo.” Okayo just stood there, her face ashen, saying nothing.
At about midnight the two went back to Nishimidori. It seemed to require less effort to do that than to go home. And once at Nishimidori, they began to feel more alert, less in need of sleep. But this revival of energy was only temporary. By three o’clock Kensaku was done for. Nothing now seemed so inviting as his own bed. He made Ogata promise to drop in on his way home the next day; and, wearing a padded kimono borrowed from the establishment, left by himself.
Night was about to end outside. As he watched from the rickshaw, the early morning sun, so beautiful after the rain, rose gradually in the east, and he remembered a boat trip he once took about ten years before along the Japan Sea. It was autumn. He was standing on deck, waiting for the dawn to break. And there, behind Mt. Tsurugi already lightly covered with snow, the sun had slowly begun to rise.
7
It was already noon when he awakened. The first thing that occurred to him was that it would be a little embarrassing to have to face Oei after having stayed away for two whole days. Outside a shrike was crying noisily. He might have stayed in bed a while longer, but he bestirred himself and got up. As he slid open the wooden storm window, the shrike, perched on top of the neighbor’s parasol tree, flew away with a shrill parting cry.
It was a fine day. There was no wind, and in the gentle autumn sunlight the parasol tree cast its shadow diagonally over the wet ground beside his house. A thin trail of smoke rose from his bathhouse chimney. He now remembered telling the sleepy maid as she let him into the house that he would want a hot bath when he woke up.
“You’re up at last,” said a loud voice from downstairs. It was Nobuyuki. Then Oei came up. “He’s been waiting for over an hour,” she said.
Kensaku hurried downstairs and found Nobuyuki seated by the brazier in the morning room, smoking a cigarette. Without bothering to sit down Kensaku exchanged a few words with his brother, then said, “You don’t want a bath, do you, Nobu?”
“No, but you go ahead.”
“All right then, I won’t be long.”
Kensaku enjoyed the hot bath as though he hadn’t had one for a long time. The sunlight poured through the glass window, reaching the bottom of the tub; and the vapor, turning into minute particles in the stream of light, played above his eyes. Had his brother not been waiting, he would have stayed much, much longer, enjoying to the full his own tranquil mood.
When Kensaku returned Nobuyuki said with a friendly smile, “You really mustn’t go out so much. It worries Oei.” Kensaku mumbled meaninglessly in reply. Nobuyuki then said, “I bumped into Yamaguchi yesterday. He wanted to know if you had a story he might publish in his magazine.”
“In which issue?”
“He mentioned next month’s issue, as a matter of fact. But I don’t suppose he has any real deadline in mind.”
“Well, if he’s willing to wait, I’ll send him something sometime.”
“Haven’t you got a piece all ready to go?”
“I did get started on a story recently, but I couldn’t finish it.” Nobuyuki nodded, apparently knowing what Kensaku was referring to.
“When I write something, I’ll send it to him,” Kensaku repeated. “But you must have all kinds of things you could send if you wanted to.”
“True, but I don’t much care to see them in print.”
“All right. I’ll just tell Yamaguchi he’ll have to wait. He seems awfully anxious to publish your stuff, I must say.”
This Yamaguchi had been a classmate of Nobuyuki’s at high school. For some reason he had never finished college, and was now working as an editor for a serious journal.
“But why is he so anxious?” asked Kensaku.
“Well, it was Tatsuoka apparently who first mentione
d you to him. He then went to Sakaguchi to ask what he thought, and from what I gather Sakaguchi said all kinds of nice things about your work.”
“He did, did he?” said Kensaku, feeling a little queasy. “And when was this?”
“The night before last, I think.”
“I see. Well, I’m not going to make any promises, but maybe someday I’ll take advantage of Yamaguchi’s offer.”
Lunch was served, and for once Oei sat down and ate with them. Curious to know what Ogata was doing, Kensaku excused himself immediately after the meal was over and went to the neighborhood bookstore to telephone Nishimidori. Otsuta answered. “He left a little while ago,” she said, “but just wait a second … ” Then another voice said, “Hello … do you know who this is?” It was Tokiko.
“Of course,” Kensaku said in a tone that sounded stiff and boorish even to himself. He might have tried sounding more friendly if it hadn’t been for all the people in the bookstore, who seemed to him to be listening intently.
“Is something the matter with you?” Tokiko asked. Then Kensaku heard her say to Otsuta, “Something’s the matter with him.” Kensaku waited. “Is Mr. Ogata coming to your house? If he does, would you please say I’m sorry I got angry during vingt-et-un? He’s so lucky, I’m afraid I lost my temper a little.”
A trifle bored, Kensaku ended the conversation as quickly as he could and went back to his house. Ogata arrived shortly thereafter. He had already had a few drinks. “Tokiko is all right,” he said jocularly, “but she can be pretty nasty at times.”
“I suppose you’re talking about that card game we had. I just spoke to her on the telephone, and she asked me to apologize for her.” The incident had occurred early that morning just before Kensaku decided to leave. They were playing vingt-et-un. It was uncanny how all the good cards seemed to go to Ogata; he simply couldn’t lose. Time and again the others would replenish their dwindling supply of chips, only to have them quickly taken away by Ogata. Eventually Tokiko’s resentment at Ogata’s luck became apparent, and she even made a few pointed remarks. What it was that she said was not clear to Kensaku, for he was not paying much attention; but soon afterward Ogata suddenly said, “I’m going to quit … it’s no fun winning all the time,” and lay down. Kensaku had continued to play with the other two, seeing nothing significant in Ogata’s action.
But as he thought about Tokiko’s apology on the telephone and Ogata’s remark about her just now, he began to understand that the little incident, which he had hardly noticed at the time, had not been dismissed quite so lightly by these two. And he was reminded that at the same place, a week ago, Tatsuoka had remained more or less oblivious of Sakaguchi’s misbehavior and his own annoyance. Perhaps he ought not to have been so surprised at Tatsuoka’s seeming insensibility; after all, when placed in the same situation, he himself had been no more observant. But be that as it may, why had Sakaguchi of all people commended him to Yamaguchi, if indeed it was true that he had? What could he have had in mind?
Nobuyuki soon left. As the afternoon wore on Ogata began to complain that he was cold. Clearly, his body was in need of alcoholic reinforcement. There was some sherry in the house that Oei sometimes drank before going to bed. Ogata eyed the bottle suspiciously as Oei brought it out, then with a look of distaste began to drink the sickly sweet wine.
At about four o’clock Kensaku and Ogata left the house and went to Shiba to see Tatsuoka. With him in tow they walked around Hikagechō briefly, then went to Seihintei. But for some reason Okayo was not there that evening.
The next morning Kensaku woke up feeling decidedly under the weather. He got up nevertheless, for there was some business he had to take care of at the Maruzen Bookstore. Overcome occasionally by violent fits of sneezing he made his way to the bookstore, then rushed back to bed. Run-down by his recent irregular life, he succumbed to the cold with little resistance. All next day he stayed in bed. He said to himself, I really must try to live a little differently. Yet the self-admonition was halfhearted at best, and left him as restless as ever. The next day he still felt weak, but the fever was gone. That afternoon he decided he was well enough to have a bath; and once in the tub, he could not bear the thought of returning to bed. By early evening he was at Nishimidori, having picked up Tatsuoka on the way. Both Tokiko and Koine came, but the gathering lacked cheer somehow, and as time passed it became increasingly tedious for Kensaku.
He had felt closest to Tokiko on their second meeting, he thought, when ironically he had decided he had no more illusions about her. Since then their relationship had been like an old piece of elastic, limp and unresilient. He knew—and he-was saddened by the knowledge—that he would never feel more than a mild fondness for her. It’s all that business over Aiko that has made me like this, he wanted to tell himself; but this was not true. With a renewed sense of loneliness he had to admit that in the end he had not felt any greater love for Aiko.
And what am I doing in a place like this, he wondered, when I know I don’t fit in? What is the point? He looked at himself then, and what he saw did not please him. Patiently he waited for the night to end, haunted by thoughts of his own worthlessness.
At about noon the next day Ogata came to Kensaku’s house. He had come, he said, partly to ask a favor. A relation of his was thinking of marrying a girl whose brother had been a classmate of Nobuyuki’s. Could Kensaku ask Nobuyuki if he knew anything about the family?
Then he said, “By the way, didn’t you come home at all the day before yesterday?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You remember that girl called Okayo at Seihintei? Well, she wanted me to ask you to join us, so I sent a rickshaw over to pick you up, but you weren’t in. It was about ten o’clock. Weren’t you told about it?”
Kensaku blushed. Why would Okayo show such interest in him? Or was she just being whimsical? He simply had no way of guessing. His own feelings about her were somewhat ambivalent. He had found her attractive enough the first time he saw her, but she had a rough, almost coarse way about her that repelled him, though it had its attraction too. And he could sense that if he were to get involved with her, their affair would not be a particularly pleasant one.
All in all, then, he had been mildly intrigued by the very thought that she would be more than he could hope to handle—and that had been the extent of his interest. Besides, he had been quite sure that he had made no more of an impression on her than numerous other casual customers.
But all such reservations notwithstanding, there was of course pleasure in being told that he had found favor in her eyes. And he suddenly caught himself falling into an incongruously romantic frame of mind. He looked at Ogata quickly, hoping that his face showed none of the sweetness he was feeling.
The pleasurable mood soon turned into annoyance, however, when he remembered that Oei and the maid had said nothing about the rickshaw that had been sent to fetch him. Such an occurrence could hardly have been forgotten by Oei, whose daily life was after all routine and uneventful. Obviously, she had omitted to tell him on purpose; and she must have instructed the maid to say nothing about it either.
Ogata said, “Look here, I’ve got to go to Tōkaiji Temple today at four—there’s to be a family memorial service—but I’m free until then, so how about going out somewhere for a meal?”
They chose a restaurant in Sannōshita, not far away, where they were shown to a room that faced a small, cleanly swept garden. It was a quiet time of day for the restaurant. They decided to sit out on the verandah under the eaves, and there they talked pleasantly, enjoying the peaceful scene.
“In a few days’ time I’ll be going to Kyoto,” Ogata said. “I’ve been put in charge of a group of women relatives who want to visit Momoyama. I told them I wouldn’t mind being with them during the day so long as I was left alone at night, free to do as I pleased.”
A neatly dressed maid came in to change the flowers in the alcove. Presumably because the two customers were far enough away not to be dist
urbed, she spent an inordinately long time arranging and rearranging the flowers until she was quite satisfied.
“Call that old lady, will you?” said Ogata to the maid. “You know the one I mean. And what was the other one’s name—Chiyoko, was it?”
The maid went out to the corridor, put the old flowers down on the floor, then came back in and sat down to await further orders. “Just call those two,” said Ogata. The maid bowed and left.
In a short while the geisha referred to as “the old lady” came. She was in her forties, small and skinny and rather pale. She had the look of a very heavy drinker; and she loved to talk.
“We’ll be leaving as soon as we’ve finished eating,” said Ogata to the maid as she brought in the first course, “so tell Chiyoko to hurry.”
The old geisha said to Ogata, “And when are you going to take me there?”
Instead of answering her, Ogata turned to Kensaku and said, “I promised granny here I would take her to Yoshiwara. She was terribly impressed when I told her about our visit there.”
“I certainly was,” said the geisha with an ingratiating laugh.
“Those Nakanochō geisha won’t associate with boys, you know.”
She and Ogata then began gossiping about people Kensaku had never heard of. She talked incessantly, and laughed rather too often. It was a cheap, brassy laugh, highly irritating.
“And is Fukiko around?” Ogata asked suddenly. A look of wary anxiety came over the old geisha’s face. She was for once at a loss for words. Ogata was trying to appear casual, but one could tell he was tense. Kensaku guessed that Fukiko was the geisha Ogata had recently told him about.
The old geisha at last said, “She’s away on a trip.” That she was lying was obvious even to Kensaku.
“Where?” Ogata asked.
“I have an idea it’s Shiobara,” she said, then quickly and not very naturally began to talk about maple-viewing in Shiobara and Nikkō, whether it was too late or too early for it, and so on. Ogata maintained his bland expression and said no more about Fukiko, as though she were now totally forgotten. It amused Kensaku to see how uncomfortable Ogata’s two innocent-seeming questions had made this pretentiously worldly-wise woman.
