Modern Japanese Short Stories

by Ivan Morris

  All this came to an end now that Sōichi had fallen in with his old gambling associates. A small group would get together during the lunch break and secretly play their game behind a pile of crates in one of the factory warehouses. In the evenings they would go to some house and gamble until late at night, and sometimes even until dawn. Most of them worked under Wasao. In theory, the foreman was supposed to prohibit gambling by his subordinates, but in fact Wasao usually turned a blind eye to what was going on. He had got into the habit of advancing money at interest to those who could not pay their gambling debts, and this obliged him to settle Sōichi’s losses out of his own pocket when his son fell hopelessly in arrears. Wasao secretly fumed at the stupidity and shiftlessness of this son who, despite his utter lack of skill, had let himself become involved with experienced gamblers. But there was nothing that he could do. As a matter of fact, he himself was far from being ignorant about the game, and he would not have minded Sōichi’s gambling if only the young man had been able to win a little money from time to time—money enough, for instance, to pay for an occasional visit to a brothel. But even on those rare occasions when Sōichi did manage to win, his fellow gamblers, who were well aware that his father had saved up a good sum of money over the years, were far too shrewd to let him leave while he was ahead.

  Once Sōichi stayed away from home for two whole days. Kanako waited up till late at night, repairing socks that had come from the factory with imperfections. Now all their household expenses had to come out of her own earnings. The New Year’s holidays were only a few days off, yet she did not even have enough money left over to buy herself a new collar for her kimono. Sōichi had started to run up debts. He had borrowed money left and right, thirty yen from one man, fifty from another, until his debts, including interest, amounted to some four hundred yen. Whatever happened, he would have to pay this sum before the end of the year. He had been cudgeling his brains about how he could extract the money from his father. The trouble was that Wasao had deliberately entrusted the responsibility for all such matters to his wife. Sōichi found it extremely difficult to approach his stepmother. Despite her good heart she had a very sharp tongue, and any request for money was bound to be met with shouts of “You stupid fool!” or “You good-for-nothing trash!” Sōichi did not relish the prospect.

  As she sat sewing her socks, Kanako remembered what her husband had intimated a few days before. “If I don’t pay back that money,” he had said, “I can’t possibly go on living.” He was a rather weak-kneed fellow, to be sure, but Kanako could not help worrying lest in a moment of desperation he might have decided to take his life. Perhaps at that very moment he was lying on some railway line waiting for the train to run over him. Since an attack of appendicitis this autumn, he had become more uncontrolled than ever. “I shan’t live long anyhow,” he had blurted out, “so I might as well enjoy the short time that’s left and do just what I feel like.”

  Kanako was half awake all night, listening for his footsteps at the door. Finally dawn broke and she heard the sound of shutters being opened in the nearby houses and of people going out to empty their buckets. Next to her house was a large yard where a construction company stored stones and rocks, and behind this a small house shared by an umbrella mender and an industrious Korean scrap peddler with a Japanese wife. Directly on the other side of the wall was a widower with two children. Until recently this man had been a traffic policeman and he had made a good reputation for himself. Now he was confined to bed with tuberculosis and had been obliged to leave the force.

  Kanako noticed that the Korean scrap peddler used to change into a neat cotton kimono every evening as soon as he came home from work and that he would then take his children out to the public bath. It looked like a happy family. People say a lot of unflattering things about Koreans, thought Kanako, but Koreans can be much kinder than Japanese men. The scrap peddler’s wife often used to speak to Kanako at the back door, and Kanako began to wonder whether this woman’s marriage to a foreigner wasn’t far happier than her own.

  She also began to observe the other neighbors. The tubercular policeman received regular calls from the ward physician, and various members of the neighborhood committee would also come to see him. She heard that one of his children had died of tuberculosis that winter and that the father had caught the disease from him. The other two children were no doubt doomed to catch the illness themselves in due course.

  In the next house lived a woman of about fifty. After working for twenty long years as a charwoman in an oil company, she had received a retirement allowance of one thousand yen. This piece of luck had completely unhinged her and during the following year she had spent the entire sum on visits to department stores and theaters. Now she scraped along by doing various odd jobs and by using the minute wages of her fifteen-year-old stepdaughter.

  Kanako was accustomed to seeing all these people from morning till night, but it was only now that she began to think about them. Their fates struck her as an ironic commentary on human existence. Life, it seemed to her, was a very gloomy business indeed.

  Toward morning Kanako managed to doze off for a while. When she awoke, Sōichi had still not returned. It occurred to her that he might have gone to her sister’s teashop, and asking one of the neighbors to look after the house, she set out for Shitaya. But he was not there.

  “I’m fed up with him,” she told her sister. “I want to leave him and work here with you.”

  Her sister laughed. “It’s funny,” she said. “You’re the one who was always talking about marriage. But look, Kanako, surely the sensible thing would be to go and talk to his parents.”

  “I don’t want to see those people.”

  “Well, in that case why don’t I phone Wasao at the factory for you? He certainly ought to be told about his son’s debts.”

  As a result of the telephone call, Wasao came directly from the factory in his overalls. It was evening when he reached the teashop in Shitaya. Hearing about the debts, he instantly surmised who had lent his son the money.

  “Ah well,” he said, “I should have kept Sōichi living with me. I’d have stopped him from this nonsense. I’m not saying that I won’t settle for him, but I don’t see how I’m going to hide it from the old woman. She’ll make a terrible fuss when it comes to paying off those debts. I suppose you think I’m too easy on my wife—letting her control the money like that. But that’s how I keep things peaceful and happy at home. Well, I’ll manage somehow. Still, it’s terrible to have this idiot son of mine fleeced of the money that I’ve sweated for all these years.” He sat there sunk in thought and did not touch the whisky and the plate of cheese that they set before him.

  With the help of his first wife’s brother, Wasao started making discreet inquiries about his son’s whereabouts. Perhaps there was some basis for Kanako’s concern. It was just possible that Sōichi might have jumped under a passing train or thrown himself into the crater on Ōshima Island.2 Tragic as this would be, it would not, Wasao told himself, be an unmitigated disaster: at least it would save him from having to worry about his feckless son.

  There was no news on the following day, but on the evening of the twenty-eighth, just at the beginning of the New Year’s holidays, Kanako’s parents sent word that Sōichi had returned. So after three days’ absence his boy was safe and sound. Wasao hurried off to see him, bringing along the money that he had secretly put aside.

  Sōichi was in the middle of supper when his father arrived. He had evidently been involved in a long bout of gambling. His face was unshaven, his cheeks were pale and emaciated; but there was a glitter in his sunken eyes.

  “You’re safe, my boy,” said Wasao. “That’s all I care about. I don’t know what I’d have done if anything had happened to you. What do four or five hundred yen matter so long as you’re all right?”

  The tears streamed down his face as he seized his son’s hands in his own.

  * * *

  One day the following summer Kanako a
ppeared by herself at the back entrance of her sister’s teashop. Since the crisis in December she had been there only twice, once to pay a New Year’s call, once at the cherry-blossom season. On both occasions she had been accompanied by her husband. The sister had assumed that Kanako’s married life had improved. In view of Sōichi’s character this had surprised her somewhat, hut at the same time she had felt greatly relieved.

  Now a glance at Kanako’s dejected face made her realize that her optimism had been unjustified. She put aside her cinema magazine and turned off the electric fan that had been cooling her plump body.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Nothing … nothing really,” answered Kanako, looking aside awkwardly. It soon turned out that she had come once again to speak to her sister about separating from Sōichi. Kanako’s desire for a separation, however, was rather vague and as soon as she was confronted with her direct, efficient sister she felt that her resolution was ebbing.

  After the December crisis Sōichi had made a show of controlling himself. He still did not turn over his full salary, but Kanako decided that she too should try to change her attitude, and she avoided speaking about money matters. Sōichi lost no time in taking advantage of this.

  One day Sōichi announced that he was being granted a decoration of the eighth rank and a war medal, together with a small pension for his overseas service. He was as delighted as a child who has received a toy saber from his parents.

  “I happened to see it in a copy of the Official Gazette at the milk bar,” he told Kanako.

  Kanako was overjoyed. “That’s splendid,” she said. “Really splendid. Don’t forget to buy me a little souvenir, will you?”

  “Hm,” replied Sōichi dubiously. “I don’t expect I’ll have much money left over. You see, I’ve promised to stand all my friends a treat.”

  “What? Already?”

  “Yes. But I’m waiting till they’ve given me the decoration.”

  A few days later Sōichi received the official notice. He went to the Military Affairs Section of the War Office and was handed a box containing the Order of the White Paulownia and the war medal. On his way home he took them round to show his acquaintances.

  Two days later he invited seven of his friends for dinner. He ordered the food from a nearby restaurant and also provided a generous supply of saké. After everyone had had plenty to drink, they turned on the radio and listened to a program of popular songs. One of their group, who despite his rough appearance and raucous voice pretended to some artistic talent, was inspired to give a solo recital. Next a few of the guests sang folk songs. After a time someone complained loudly about the absence of a samisen accompaniment.

  “Let’s go somewhere and have a good time. What about it, Sōichi?” said one of his friends.

  “Good idea,” chimed in another of the guests. “Let’s get some girls to play for us.”

  “No, better stay here,” someone demurred. “The Order of the White Paulownia will start weeping if it sees us celebrating like that.” Meanwhile the saké was flowing freely and soon their supply was exhausted. Kanako was wondering whether she should go and buy some more when she noticed that a couple of the guests had stood up and were about to leave. Wasao got to his feet, stuffed his purse securely in his pocket, and hurried out. Just then Sōichi came up to her.

  “Money,” he whispered into her ear. “For God’s sake, let me have some money!”

  Kanako went to her drawer and took out the thirty-three yen that she had been planning to deposit in their postal savings account. Even as she handed the sum over to her husband, she knew that she was throwing good money away on the spur of the moment, and afterwards she cursed herself for having been so spiritless.

  Now as she sat in her sister’s room with a bowl of sherbet in front of her, Kanako felt the hot tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Of course he didn’t come home that night,” she said. “Three yen and a few coppers—that’s all he left me with. Then a couple of days ago he told me that on his next half holiday he was planning to go to the seaside. I haven’t been away a single time all summer and I was sure that he would offer to take me along. But no, it turned out that he had arranged to go to Enoshima with some friend and that he couldn’t take me. It’s really more than I can stand. I even have to go to the cinema by myself now. And those thirty yen—I never dreamed he’d go and spend the whole lot.”

  Kanako pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.

  “You’re partly to blame yourself,” said her sister impatiently. “You should do things in a more clear-cut way.”

  As usual, they telephoned the factory and in the evening Wasao appeared at the teashop. He was accompanied by his brother, who was the exact image of Sōichi. It was extremely hot, but Wasao did not touch the iced coffee that was placed before him. Instead he sat there wiping his forehead and complaining of his parasitic children.

  “I’m not going to try to keep you from leaving him,” he said after he had been told of Sōichi’s latest behavior. “All the same, my girl, you were very foolish to give him such a large sum of money. I know how a woman feels in a case like that. She hands over the money before she knows what she’s doing. But that’s exactly the point I’d like to advise you about. You must be a little firmer, Kanako. You must take a strong attitude with Sōichi instead of just moping. The reason he behaves badly isn’t that he dislikes you but that you’re too easy with him. I wish you’d give him another chance. But I’m through with him myself and I really don’t have the right to ask you.”

  The uncle, who until then had said nothing, announced his opinion. “I strongly believe that you should go back to your husband,” he said.

  At this, Kanako’s sister took a firmer stand.

  “Yes, Kanako,” she said, “you really can’t continue like this. Each time something goes wrong and you’re unhappy, you slip into this sort of irresponsible talk about separation. After all, marriage is a very different thing from what you find in cinemas and novels.”

  “Yes, I know it is,” said Kanako. “But I can’t believe it’s meant to be like ours. My husband has never shown me the slightest appreciation. Never once. And now I suppose he’s got someone else on the side. What a fool I’ve been!”

  “But really, Kanako, you should listen to what everyone’s telling you. There’ll always be the time later on to break up the marriage if it turns out to be completely hopeless.”

  In the end Kanako was won over by the uncle’s firm attitude and she decided to try again.

  * * *

  A few days later a large photograph of Kanako and her husband arrived at the teashop. Sōichi was in uniform; the Order of the White Paulownia and the war medal were neatly pinned to his chest. Kanako had her hair in the old-fashioned style and was wearing a silk kimono with a splashed pattern. Behind them was a Shinto shrine sacred to the spirits of the war dead.

  Footnotes

  1 All Japanese-style rooms are measured by the number of straw mats (tatami). A mat is about three by six feet.

  2 The crater of Mt. Mihara, a truncated volcano on Ōshima Island (some 60 miles southwest of Tokyo), is a popular place for suicides.

  HYDRANGEA

  BY Kafū Nagai

  TRANSLATED BY Edward Seidensticker

  Kafū Nagai was born in Tokyo in 1879 and died there in 1959. Although descended from a samurai family, he preferred to seek his spiritual ancestors in the merchant class that made Edo culture. The changing city was his great subject: nostalgia for the Edo (Tokyo) of the past; dislike for the untidy, semi-Westernized Tokyo of the present; affection for the near-outcasts, the geisha and (as in the story translated below) their hangers-on, who have managed to preserve a little of Edo culture.

  His first important work appeared at about the turn of the century, strongly under the influence of French naturalism. The influence of late-Edo fiction is also to be detected, however, and with it a lyrical awareness of the moods of the city that characterized his best work afte
r that. It might be worth noting that place names play an important part in this lyricism. Japanese literature has always had a sort of symbolic vocabulary of place names, and a name like Honjō in “Hydrangea” brings memories of plebeian Edo.

  Kafū was in the United States from 1903 to 1907 and in France for a few months in 1907. The chief products of the years abroad were two volumes of short stories and sketches, written under the somewhat contradictory influences of Maupassant and Musset. The major works of the years after his return were filled on the one hand with rather querulous irritation at Meiji Tokyo, and on the other with longing for France and affection for the disappearing remains of Edo. Probably the best of them is “The River Sumida,” which, as will be teen from the Bibliography, is available in English translation. By now Kafū, like so many other writers of his time was reacting against naturalist trends.

  The First World War brought rapid changes to Tokyo, and a growing note of sadness and loneliness to Kafū’s writing. Perhaps concluding that the last of Edo was gone, he fell silent from about 1921. When the silence was broken, a decade or so later, it was with novels and short stories which marked a return to his earliest manner, half French and half Edo. The subjects were now barmaids and prostitutes, unlovely successors to the Meiji geisha. Kafū’s inability to hide his dislike for his characters rather marred the works of these years.

  From about 1937, nostalgia came back again—nostalgia now for the Meiji Tokyo that was once so distasteful. A number of works denied publication during the war appeared after the surrender. They were for the most part expressions of an old man’s loneliness, the more intense because the old man had seen so much happen to the most changeable of the world’s great cities. “A Strange Tale from East of the River” is usually considered to be the masterpiece of his late years. About half of it has been translated into English.