by Naoya Shiga
“Won’t you lend it to me?” She gave a little bow and looked at him furtively, grinning slyly all the while. “You see, it gets so cold at night, I can’t bear the pain in my hips.”
He looked at her with displeasure, thinking what an impertinent dried sardine she was. But he could hardly say no. “All right, you can have it for the time being,” he said ungraciously, knowing full well that he would be most reluctant to use anything that had once been in bed with this sardine. But there was something a little comic about the situation, he had to admit: the master had brought this heavy object all the way from Tokyo, only to have it confiscated by his sly, fishy housekeeper.
Among Kensaku’s belongings that had arrived earlier was a wooden washtub inside which he had packed a large metal brazier. Informed by Sen that the bottom of the tub was about to fall off, he said to her, “Did you send it away to be repaired?”
“No, I didn’t,” she said in a tone that suggested Kensaku had asked a silly question.
“Why not?”
“The cooper hasn’t been around yet, that’s why.”
“Then why didn’t you take it to him?”
“You’re not serious! You can’t expect a woman to go around carrying a tub that large. Mind you, I’ve no idea where the cooper’s shop is.”
“Get yourself a drum, put the tub on your head, then you can pretend you’re one of those sweet vendors.”
“Very funny.”
The harder he tried to control his irritation, the more irritated he became. It was just as well that soon afterward he went to the local public bath; for when he returned, his irritation had somewhat abated.
That it would take a while before he and Sen learned to be comfortable with each other, Kensaku was now forced to acknowledge. She had presumably come thinking that serving a bachelor with no regular employment would be relatively undemanding. He was in her eyes a sort of overage student, which was more or less what he in fact was, and he himself was more than willing to accept a certain informality from her, and not to insist on a clearly defined master-servant relationship. But such democratic intentions notwithstanding, he found her rough ways extremely trying. All he could do now was to hope that in time she would learn to be more restrained.
“Look here,” he said to her, “whenever I’m sitting at my desk I don’t want to be disturbed, no matter what it is that you want to say to me.”
She opened her small eyes wide. “Why not?”
“I don’t think I need to give you any reasons.”
“Yes, sir.”
She was fairly obedient to his command. Once in a forgetful moment she walked into his room saying something, but as soon as she saw him working at his desk she quickly withdrew. “Mustn’t speak, mustn’t speak,” she muttered, covering her mouth with her hand.
Kensaku knew little about Sen’s past. She had had a daughter who, if she had lived, would have been the same age as Kensaku; after her daughter’s death she had gone to live with her elder brother, but he died too; then she had been taken in by a nephew and his wife, but feeling that they regarded her as a nuisance, had decided to seek domestic employment. This much, Kensaku had heard.
She liked to sing in the kitchen. Her voice was not bad, but when under the influence of saké she was prone to get so loud that Kensaku would have to shout, “Quiet!”
But their relationship became less mutually annoying as the days went by. He began not to mind her ways so much, and she on her part showed greater willingness to respect his than he perhaps had the right to expect of someone her age. And being a Kyotoite, once she knew that the management of the household was entirely in her hands, she proved herself capable of hardheaded efficiency. Drinking and smoking were her weaknesses, and she would collect all the tobacco left in Kensaku’s cigarette butts and later smoke it in her pipe.
Gradually he came to feel more and more kindly toward Sen.
There was a brief communication from Oei saying that she had arrived safely, but other than that she offered no information.
He had looked forward to that time when he would be settled in his new house, and in a relaxed, leisurely frame of mind would start visiting his favorite temples again. But strangely, the more he felt settled, the more irksome that particular pastime began to seem to him. When he did go out, it was such busy places as Shinkyōgoku that he headed for; and he would come home thoroughly exhausted from the strenuous walk. There were no friends he could visit, and on some days he would feel helplessly lonely. Even then, he was spared such moments of desperation as he had known in Ōmori or in Onomichi. And although he did not write anything substantial, he was able to complete a slight piece or two.
One morning, while Kensaku was still asleep, Mr. S stopped by on his way to the office and handed a letter, still sealed, to Sen. Without coming into the house he left immediately.
About an hour later Kensaku read it. It was a letter of acceptance from Tsuruga. He read it over again, then said to Sen, “Did Mr. S bring this himself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I wanted to, but he stopped me. He said he was in a hurry to get to the office, and he would come again this evening.”
Kensaku was very pleased that Mr. S should have brought the letter himself. He had been kind to him in all sorts of ways right from the beginning; but, while feeling grateful to him, he had not once called on him to thank him properly. It was an omission, Kensaku was aware, yet he had somehow not been able to bring himself to correct it. And the fact that Mr. S for his part had not called on him had begun to worry Kensaku. Did Mr. S think him discourteous, he wondered, and was that why he hadn’t called? Might he have lost interest in the proceedings, and was that why the other party was so slow in replying? Would his proposal end in failure because he had incurred Mr. S’s displeasure?
His recent apprehensions, then, now instantly dispelled by the letter, made his newly found happiness all the more intense.
“It has gone well?” asked Sen.
“Yes.”
She sat down in front of Kensaku and with incongruous tenderness said, “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he said, bobbing his head.
“And when will it be?”
“I’m not sure, but it will be either this year or before Winter’s End next year.”
“There isn’t much time, then.”
“By the way, when is Winter’s End?
“The beginning of February, isn’t it?”
In his letter Mr. N said that a friend of his son’s who was on the arts faculty of a certain private university had said some very nice things about Kensaku’s work, much to the gratification of the entire family. How lucky he was, Kensaku thought, that the person whose opinion they happened to solicit had good things to say about him. But what would he himself have said had he been in that young academic’s place? Would he have been so generous? These were uncomfortable questions, and he hastily dismissed them.
He wrote almost identical letters to Nobuyuki, Ishimoto and Oei informing them of the latest development. He then wrote to Tatsuoka in Paris, to whom he had not written for a while.
In the afternoon he went to a cake shop called Surugaya to buy some bean cake to send to Tatsuoka. He then telephoned Mr. S’s office from the shop, and asked if he might call on him at his house later that day. Four o’clock would be convenient, said Mr. S. With about two hours to kill, Kensaku decided to go to Daimaru Department Store in Shijō Takakura. He would look at the bright women’s kimonos there, and dream of future happiness. A foolish indulgence, perhaps, one he would not have owned up to, but it was a need he felt very strongly then. Besides, he really did want to see the exhibit of the small airplane that had crashed recently in the parade ground of Fukakusa Barracks. Tatsuoka had once praised this monoplane—its name was Morane-Saulnier—and that very morning Kensaku had written about the crash in his letter to him. In preparation for a nonstop flight to Tokyo the pilot had taken the airplane up for a test
flight with an overload of fuel. The flight had lasted only a few minutes. The dead pilot’s clothes, half-burned away, charred calling cards found in his pocket, his gloves, also charred—these and other such items were neatly laid out in the display case. Kensaku had often seen the airplane, small and swift like a falcon, flying high up in the sky. The children playing in the streets would look up and shout excitedly, “There’s Mr. Ogino!” With the adults, too, Ogino had been immensely popular. But he was dead now, and there were all these people milling around, staring at his charred belongings. The spectacle made Kensaku feel a little queasy.
He left the department store in good time and headed for Mr. S’s house.
It was a graceful, Kyoto-style house, with a small outside gate and a paved path leading up to the front door. On either side of the path was a thick border of broad-leafed bamboos.
Mr. S solicited Kensaku’s opinions regarding the betrothal gift, the time and place of the wedding and so on, but Kensaku had none to give. He would leave everything in Mr. S’s and Ishimoto’s hands, he said. He did want to get married as quickly as possible, but he could hardly suggest that the approximate time set by the other party—before February—was anything but reasonable.
11
Kensaku decided to go up to Tokyo for two or three days. There was no pressing need for him to do so, but he wanted to see Tokyo again; besides, it would be a nice gesture to go and see Ishimoto, who had come down twice to see him.
He got off at Kamakura, and from there he and Nobuyuki went to Tokyo together. That evening they visited Ishimoto. The three of them talked until very late, but not about the betrothal, for there was not much to be said about that any more. Ishimoto persuaded the two brothers to stay; and as they got into their beds Nobuyuki said to Kensaku, “Have you any intention of going to Hongō while you’re in Tokyo?”
“I’m not particularly anxious to go there, but it’s true that I’d like to see Sakiko and Taeko again.”
“I told them about you just the other day, and they were very pleased.”
“Where could we get together, do you think?”
“Tomorrow is Sunday, isn’t it?”
“No, Saturday, I think.”
“Then I’ll ask them to come to Kamakura the day after tomorrow, shall I?”
“That would be nice.”
“All right, I’ll ask the girls tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be pleased.” The next morning they telephoned their sisters from Ishimoto’s house before leaving for Kamakura. Of course they would come, the girls said excitedly; what train should they catch?
On their way to Kamakura Nobuyuki said, “Do you mean to say you didn’t bring that photograph of her with you? Pretty thoughtless, I must say.”
“It did cross my mind, as a matter of fact.”
“Of course it’s just like you to deliberate about a thing like that and then decide not to do it.” Nobuyuki’s tone was sharp, and the laugh that followed did little to soften the effect of the remark.
“But you saw it in my house in Ōmori,” Kensaku said. “And I really didn’t think I would be seeing the girls.”
“That’s true,” Nobuyuki said, and as though to make up for his outburst nodded a few times.
They went to bed early that night. The next morning Kensaku went to the station alone to meet his sisters.
The girls stepped off the train almost immediately in front of Kensaku. They were both carrying large bundles. “Where’s Nobuyuki?” said Taeko.
“He’s waiting for you at the house.”
“How dare he! Here we are, loaded with all these delicacies, and he can’t be bothered to come and meet us!” She was bursting with energy and good cheer. How much she has grown, Kensaku thought as he looked at her.
Sending a rickshaw man ahead of them with the bundles, the three walked at a leisurely pace past Hachiman Shrine and the local school. It was a mild, sunny day, and their spirits were in keeping with it.
Kensaku talked about his house in Kyoto, what his life there was like, and so on, but made no mention of the impending marriage. The girls listened politely, thinking perhaps that Kensaku was waiting for an appropriate moment to bring up the subject. At last, unable to wait any longer, Sakiko said, “I was terribly happy to hear the news.”
“Yes, yes,” said Taeko. “When will it be? I suppose it will take place in Kyoto?”
“Probably.”
“I want to be there then.”
“Ask Nobuyuki to bring you.”
“Yes, I will. But when will it be? Don’t forget, I won’t be able to come unless it’s during the school holidays.”
“It may very well take place during the holidays.”
“Oh, please have it then!”
“What are you saying!” said Sakiko. “You can’t expect everybody to arrange something like that to suit your convenience!”
Taeko angrily stared back at her elder sister.
Kensaku knew what Sakiko was thinking: their father would never allow Taeko to go to Kyoto, holidays or no. He, too, thought so, and now he felt a little guilty about having encouraged Taeko to look forward to the wedding. He said no more about it.
When they were near Nobuyuki’s house in Nishimikado, Taeko started running, leaving the other two behind. The rickshaw man, having left the bundles at the house, was coming toward them.
Taeko was seated in the middle of the living room, bringing out the various things she and Sakiko had brought for Nobuyuki: a box of confectionery, tinned food, fresh fruit, shirts, and even underwear. She then brought out a square object wrapped in newspaper and tied securely with thick string. She put it aside ostentatiously, saying, “And this is for you, Kensaku. You may not open it here; you are to wait until you get back to Kyoto.”
Nobuyuki, seated beside her, reached for the package. “Here, let me see what it is.”
“Certainly not!”
“Why not? I won’t tell Kensaku.”
Taeko became cross. “No!”
“A wedding present, is it?”
“No, I have something else in mind for that.”
“A sort of preliminary present, I suppose.”
“Never you mind. It has nothing to do with you, so please leave me alone.” Picking up the package she stood up, walked to the alcove and put it on the shelf.
Nobuyuki, pretending to be offended, said roughly, “Who do you think you are? If you can’t show it to me, you can at least tell me what it is.”
Saikiko said, “It’s something Taeko made herself.”
Taeko glared at her elder sister. “Don’t you dare say any more!” She was becoming quite upset, and it was only when Kensaku gave his firm promise not to open the package until he was back in Kyoto that she was mollified.
Sakiko started to giggle. “Let’s hope it won’t be like that treasure casket in the fairy tale—full of unpleasant surprises!”
“That’s so unkind,” Taeko said, looking at her sister with wide-open eyes. She was about to cry.
Nobuyuki said, “It’ll soon be time for lunch. I expect you girls to get it ready.” But Taeko, now thoroughly put out, pretended not to hear.
In the afternoon they went to Engakuji Temple, and on their way back walked to the top of Hanzōbō Hill behind Kenchōji Temple.
Kensaku decided to accompany his sisters to Tokyo and catch the night train for Kyoto from there.
When Taeko went to the bathroom to get herself ready for the return journey, Nobuyuki mischievously picked up the package from the shelf. “What could it possibly be?” he said as he felt it.
“Now, now,” Kensaku said good-humoredly, taking the package away from Nobuyuki. Sakiko stood by, grinning.
Nobuyuki went with them to the station; and in Tokyo, it was the two sisters’ turn to stand on the platform and see Kensaku off.
Taeko’s package contained an embroidered picture frame and a jewelry box. Kensaku smiled as he saw the box. No wonder she was so angry when Sakiko mentioned the treasure casket. Inside it w
as a tiny envelope. “Congratulations, Kensaku,” said Taeko’s note. “When Nobuyuki told us the happy news the other day, I almost cried. I rushed out and hid myself in the Western-style room, I felt so funny. It was so sudden, and I felt so happy for you. I want you to give the box to my future sister-in-law, and I want you to put a picture of her or your wedding picture in the frame. My piano teacher showed me how to make them.”
On the platform in Kamakura Station when she arrived, she had been her usual buoyant, carefree self, and had not said a word about Kensaku’s engagement. Who could have guessed then that she cared so much?
12
The date for the wedding was agreed upon with greater dispatch than Kensaku had expected. This was thanks to Ishimoto’s and Nobuyuki’s efforts; they had succeeded in persuading the other party through Mr. S that the arrangements should be as simple as possible.
There was no need for the bride to bring much with her, they had said; Kensaku after all may decide to leave Kyoto in the near future, he had no intention of moving to a large house while in Kyoto, and he would not want his house cluttered with all kinds of unnecessary things. Besides, a very simple wedding ceremony would surely suffice.
On a certain day in early December Naoko, her mother and her elder brother arrived in Kyoto from Tsuruga. The next day they and Kensaku gathered at Mr. S’s house for the formal marriage interview; and in the evening they were all taken to the Minamiza Theatre by Mr. S to see the opening programme of the season.
The Naoko that he now saw was considerably different from the woman he had come to picture in his imagination. He was hard put to it to define the difference. At any rate, the woman of his imagination had been made to conform to what he, in his current condition, had found most desirable: she was like one of those women of the “Feather Screen,” beautiful and elegant in a classical sort of way; and if not that, she was a high-spirited but graceful girl from one of those pleasant comedies. In effect what he had done was to create, on the basis of his first impression of her, magnified versions of what he thought he had seen. That she was not like what he had imagined, then, was not surprising. The despondent-looking young woman sitting in the same box with him was rather well-built; she had a plump face, which made the faint crow’s-feet around her eyes slightly incongruous; and she wore her hair in an old-fashioned, low pompadour. Whatever her hair style might have been when he first saw her, it must have been less conspicuous and more casual.
