Modern Japanese Short Stories

by Ivan Morris

  “Throw them in as hard as you can. It isn’t the rocks, it’s the feel you have for packing them. If you’re so damned tired, just dry your shirt and go on home.” So Akaza would shout at them. One after another he dismissed laborers who showed signs of laziness. “Your undershirt’s dry. I don’t remember that I’ve been able to go through life myself with a dry undershirt. You’re not working for me any more.” Before the morning sun had turned the stones white he would be out to see who was at work early, and whoever showed up five minutes late would have no work that day. “I’ve got my rules too.” Tools over his shoulder, the fellow would go back up the dike and on to the house he had just left. Akaza had no time for such fools.

  He had other things to do: he would oversee the loading of the seven boats, dive naked into the river to see that the stakes were properly driven, have a round of the bank to inspect the basket-weaving, stop the boats in mid-river, and work out the number of baskets assigned to the various depths. On one of his boats a three-pronged spear with a long bamboo handle was always ready. When he caught sight of a young trout, almost the color of the water, his spear would plunge, thrust forward another six inches or so, and come up with the fish, its mouth open in disbelief, its head a deep green, wriggling on the strong points. A flip of a trout’s tail sends needles up the arm. One slap from Akaza, however, and the trout lay still in his hand like a worn-foot.

  Even at the bottom of the river the workers were unable to cheat. Under Akaza’s watchful eye they would dive, come up for air, dive again. In early spring the river too would seem to have come into leaf. Small fish and even the rocks would be a pleasant green for the seas. Annoyed at something, Akaza would plunge into the water, give one of the men a shove or a rap on the head, send down the big rocks for the paving that is so important in breaking a current. That hoarse voice seldom stopped. However strong the undercurrent, Akaza would plunge down through it, slender as a flatfish. None of the workers was longer-winded than he. In the water they had a healthy respect for that angry face, but once out again, Akaza would be in good spirits, thought it less a river of which he was master than a lake he had built for himself.

  On payday twice a month his wife Riki appeared at the shelter—so quiet and understanding a woman that she was known as “the saint.” Riki would show no mercy in an argument, however: “That’s the sort of person he is, and you’ll just have to take him for what he is. No amount of talking will make him listen to what he doesn’t want to hear.”

  But Akaza would only snort and turn away.

  The payment was remarkably precise for river work. Riki avoided the usual trimming of fractions. She added to her popularity by paying for job-work in advance, and when on payday she came over the dike with packages of biscuits the rough laborers would all wave at her. Gathered around for their afternoon tea, they would chatter happily and as they put their money inside their shirts or wrapped it in kerchiefs the river rang with their voices. Akaza only received a report from his wife. He had long made it a practice to leave money matters to her. Even during tea he would stare at the river cutting between its two banks. He had come to work. As is the way with men who work in the sun, he was sunburned even to his eyes—eyes that seemed to have been made for the river. When the river was high from days of rain he would go out to gaze at the boiling, muddy waters. Turned sadly on the river, his eyes would cloud over. The boats would be high against the dike, and the whole expanse under muddy waters that had washed away the shelter. However much he might command the respect of his fellows, Akaza could do nothing now. He had lived with the river since he was six, he was a full-fledged stoneman at fourteen, he came to manhood with his feet lacerated by bamboo splints. Even so, the terror of the flood was new each year. How did it manage to take away a hundred massive rock-baskets? Since he had become his own master at nineteen, he had seen his baskets go in less than a year. Yet those at the bottom of the river always remained. “Akaza’s baskets,” his colleagues would say admiringly.

  “Has Mon come home yet?” he would ask as Riki was about to leave. His voice showed no emotion.

  “Not yet.”

  “Has Inosuké gone to work?”

  “He’s asleep, just as you left him.”

  “No good in him.”

  With that Akaza would turn and walk off toward the men, back at their posts. He carried himself in powerful strides, the stout walk of a stout man.

  Akaza had three children. Inosuké was undeniably Akaza’s son, but though he was now twenty-seven and had finished his apprenticeship and become a stonecutter in his own right, he was not a hard worker, and it was hard to imagine where he found the dubious women he was always having trouble with. Even among accomplished stonecutters no one could do an epitaph quite as Inosuké could. He would have made good money if he had worked steadily, but he would work for a week or so, go off with the money, and not be seen for some days. The horns and the streetcars of Asakusa were in his ears, said his sister Mon, though perhaps not in exactly those words.

  Presently he would return, go to work, and leave again when he had a little money. He listened to nothing Riki said, and he managed to be out of the house when his father came home in the evening.

  Inosuké had two sisters, both younger than he. The older was Mon. She had gone to work as a maid in a Tokyo temple and had struck up a liaison with a student. When she became pregnant he fled to the provinces and she heard no more from him. She took lover after lover, and soon was doing the rounds of Tokyo as a barmaid. She came home not once in six months, and when she did appear she would lie sprawled on the floor, breathing in noisy, sluggish gasps, and order Riki about. Riki would grumble a little: the child had her troubles, but couldn’t she let well enough alone? Riki’s manner suggested revulsion, and at the same time it suggested the deepest pity as she cooked the things Mon liked and left her to sleep as she would. Mon slept until her face was blanched from sleep. She never got a decent night’s sleep, it would seem. Riki thought she understood. Inosuké too, back from his nights out, would sleep the whole day through, as though he meant to sleep himself to extinction. When one or the other finally awoke, he would prop himself drowsily up and, eyes still narrow from sleep, look dully at the bustling Riki. Occasionally it occurred to Inosuké that he would have to leave home if she were to collapse from overwork. He would then look at her with real compassion, but he soon managed to forget the matter.

  And Mon would say: “At least I’ll never bother you for money.” To her that seemed to be the most important question.

  A year had passed when Kobata, her student friend, came calling at Akaza’s house. Mon was working in Tokyo, but as usual she had left no address. She had only said that she would come home some day. Riki went down to call Akaza. Silently, Akaza left the shelter, climbed the dike, and hurried toward the house. The boy was only a student, said Riki, and Akaza was not to be rough with him.

  “Probably he’s come to ask about the child,” she added. “He must think it’s still alive.”

  “Does he seem like a slippery sort?”

  “He’s only a boy.”

  Akaza tried to talk, but Kobata was overawed by his appearance and manner.

  “Let’s hear what you have to say,” said Akaza.

  There was no answer. At length the boy said that he should at least have written, he knew, and that it was hardly proper of him to come calling now. His father in the country had kept such a close watch over him, however, that he had had no chance to sneak out. Now that he had made his way back to the capital he hoped to take care of all the expenses. There was no mention of the main problem: of whether he wanted to marry Mon, whether he wanted to see her again. Indeed Akaza sensed that the fellow was relieved at finding her away. There was an appearance of honesty about him that made one want to dismiss him as another spineless but well-meaning student, and yet he could calmly retire to the country and not say a word for a whole year, in spite of a flood of letters. Not one to be led into a bad bargain, thought A
kaza as he watched the pale youth make his show of forthrightness.

  “The baby was born dead. Mon’s lost control of herself since.”

  Akaza caught a suggestion of relief in the startled look that greeted his remark. The fellow had played it clever. It had been worth the trouble of making his way up the river—the thought came from deep inside Akaza’s stout frame.

  Where might Mon be, Kobata asked. Might he have her address? He had so many things to apologize for, he wanted to apologize and start over with clean conscience. His voice became strangely excited as he gathered momentum. Akaza was annoyed at the transparent complacency in the child, now so pleased with himself. He remembered the day he had heard from Riki that Mon was pregnant. How many of his men had he hit that day, he wondered. Akaza must be tired, he had heard them mutter.

  Mon had taken to her bed in the back room. The girl had been defeated, she had been made a plaything and then sent home. Akaza, who had never in his life been defeated, did not want to see her.

  The woman-chasing Inosuké for his part lashed out at Riki whenever he found the chance. Hadn’t he said exactly what would happen? Hadn’t he said it would be dangerous to let her leave home? Riki listened in silence. Sometimes, as Mon lay with an ice-bag on her forehead, he would stand by the bed and bawl at her as if he had stumbled on something filthy.

  “So you fasten yourself on some pretty little schoolboy, do you, and he starts slobbering for his mother’s milk, and now look at what you’ve got pushing at your belt. Well, get rid of it before it jumps out on you, whatever it is. I’m not going to have any damned schoolboy’s squalling brat waking me up in the middle of the night.”

  “You’re going too far.” Riki would try to intervene. “And it’s none of your business. Come on outside.”

  But Inosuké was again having trouble with a woman, and this bellowing was his revenge.

  Riki was finally stunned into silence. Trouble between brother and sister could descend to such abuse, then, could it?

  Inosuké was beginning to hit his stride, and the abuse flowed without interruption. “Makes me want to throw up, thinking of that face snuggling up to some schoolboy. Well, he’s ten times as smart as you, that’s a fact. He knew from the start that when he’d had his fill of you he could make his getaway. And as a matter of fact who could stand looking at that face year after year? Off he goes without telling you his name or his address, and not a peep from him afterwards. And you think he’s so sweet and you want to protect him. God. Are you in love with him or are you feeble-minded or both? You’re a fine piece anyway, that much is sure. And that thing inside you, getting fatter and fatter. Nobody’s going to have much use for you the day it gets in shape and pops out on you. Take it and get on a boat and go straight to Tokyo and have it squashed like a frog.”

  When Riki again tried to intervene he turned on her. “You’re her mother, aren’t you? She’s the sort of daughter you had, and now you try to shut me up. I’m feeling sorry for San, that’s all.” Inosuké’s other sister, San, was working soberly as a maid somewhere, and occasionally she came home with appropriate gifts. At the mention of San everyone fell silent.

  “There are good, quiet children like her,” said Riki at length, “and look at you, not doing an honest day’s work and eating off your father and then saying things like that. There are times when it’s right to get worked up and times when it isn’t, and this isn’t your time. If someone has to be after her, let it be your father. He hasn’t said a word. None of us should say a word. We should just leave her alone.” Riki could make remarks the sharpness of which was out of keeping with her soft voice.

  Mon’s face was twisted from a headache, but she too had her say, “You should talk! How many times have you waddled off like a duck and left them to hatch for themselves, and Mother to clean up after you? How about the time you dragged that woman to the back door and Father found out and I had to go out and hide her? You almost knelt down to thank me out there in the dark. Remember? And now when I’m in trouble you don’t lose a chance to shout at me like some mongrel puppy. Well, I’ve had enough of it. You’re not the one who’s feeding me, and I don’t see that you have much right to talk. Once I’ve had the baby I’ll pay for everything, whatever I have to do while I’m about it, and I don’t mean to worry Mother or Father again. I may not be a girl any more, but now that I’ve gone this far at least I’m my own boss, and I’m not taking any advice. Didn’t Father tell me to look after myself? He didn’t even want to see me, he said. Well, I don’t need anyone like you standing there looking like my big brother. You make the headache worse, that’s all. Whining at me because you’re having trouble with some woman—no wonder women don’t like you.”

  Now Akaza remembered how it had been to live with all that. He could hardly believe that the child here before him, almost on the point of weeping, could have been Mon’s partner. Riki had said not to be rough. She need not have worried: Akaza felt his irritation recede. This was only a boy in trouble. Akaza had thought of taking him out to the dike and giving him full payment for what he had done to Mon. But the boy was only a boy and Akaza was no longer up to such roughness. The baby was dead, Mon herself had not been blameless. It might be best to let Kobata go.

  “I doubt if Mon will want to see you. Suppose we just say goodbye.” Akaza got up, indicating that he had work to do. As he glanced at the boy again, he too seemed on the verge of tears. “You’d better not commit any more crimes,” he said, as if more important things must remain unsaid. “You came out on top this time.”

  In confusion, he hurried up the dike. The weather had been good for some days, and the strand—here shining a pure white, there broken into patches of weed-fringed stone, and yet farther on colored a rich tan by seeping water—the whole wide expanse came into his eyes, the shining white spots first. The seven boats out in the current were like so many white moths. They had reared Mon and Inosuké and San too. Riki was still young when she bore Mon and San, and she had softly pointed breasts. While she was waiting for him to empty his lunch box she would nurse a child or gather herbs along the dike. It did not seem such a very long time ago, and yet Mon had had her baby and gone on, and Akaza could not find it in him to roar at the man who was responsible—a sign, surely, that the affair had hurt him.

  Riki knew from the surprisingly genial conversation that Akaza wanted only to tear his thoughts away. She was a little grateful. He had improved, he had become more understanding. She had expected to see him use his fists before the interview was half over. It had been one of his rules that a good punch was ten times as effective as any number of words. When a discussion with his wife became even a little circumspect and wordy he knew nothing better than to hit her. Riki had gone on being hit through the years, but the frequency of blows had decreased, and some time had passed now since the fear of being hit had last troubled her. She was glad he had not hit Kobata. Kobata had been too lightly punished, it was true, but to Riki it seemed that the heedless act had been his and Mon’s too. In her heart she still hoped that the two might somehow be brought together. Now that Mon had fallen so low, however, no man was likely to take her, and Kobata seemed too quiet and docile for a good argument. Riki thought she understood why Mon had loved him and she was sorry to see him leave.

  “I’ll tell Mon when she comes again that you were good enough to call.”

  “And find out where she’s living, please.” Kobata took out a packet of money and pressed it upon her.

  She would never see him again, thought Riki as she went with him to the gate. Kobata seemed to feel something motherly in her, and he was slow to leave the garden for the street. He looked at the summer chrysanthemums and the irises, asked what color the chrysanthemums were, and seemed to be taken by a strange, wistful sadness.

  “How old are you?” she asked abruptly.

  “How old am I? Just twenty-three.”

  Pale and nervous, he looked younger. It was in the spring of his twenty-second year, then, th
at he had had the affair with Mon. Only a year separated their ages. Riki had married Akaza when she was twenty-one. She had been no better informed than a baby on what it meant to be a woman.

  A year had passed since the affair, and clearly the boy had come in good faith. How foolish of her not to have seen the purity of his motives earlier! A really bad one would surely be clever enough not to come calling at this late date.

  Kobata took out a pen and wrote his address on a calling card. “Give this to Mon, please.” After repeated bows, the tall young figure went off through the paddies toward the dike.

  Inosuké had been away for two or three days. At the worst moment be could have chosen, he came wandering back. He looked at Kobata with narrowed eyes. Riki told him that it was Mon’s student friend, and a spasm of anger passed over the pale, drawn face. As Kobata climbed from the paddies to the dike Inosuké went after him, taking care that his mother did not see. Kobata knew who it was. Recognition quickly changed to fear. Inosuké followed for a hundred yards or so and remained silent even after they were abreast. Their shoulders almost brushed. The face, so like Akaza’s, was twisted in open, animal anger. Kobata wondered when the man would leap. Spasms of fear went through his legs. If only he would speak; but Inosuké was in fact so strangled with malice and resentment that he could not speak. His ears were ringing.

  “Just a minute.” That was all he said, but the words meant release for Kobata.

  “Yes?” Kobata tried to make his tone as unprovocative as possible.

  “I’m Mon’s brother.”

  Kobata was a ghostly white.

  “I want to talk to you. Sit down. Over there. I want to talk to you.” It was an order, and Kobata obediently sat down on the dike.