by Ivan Morris
“How old are you, Ryō?” Tsuruishi asked her. “I should guess twenty-five.”
Ryō laughed. “I’m afraid not, Tsuru, I’m already an old woman. I’m twenty-eight.”
“A year older than me.”
“Goodness, you’re young.” said Ryō. “I thought you must be at least thirty.”
She looked straight at him, into his dark, gentle eyes with their bushy brows. He seemed to be blushing slightly. Then he bent forward and took off his wet socks.
The rain continued unabated. Presently the maid came with some cold noodles and soup. Ryō woke the boy and gave him a plate of soup; he was half asleep as he sipped it.
“Look, Ryō,” Tsuruishi said, “we might as well all spend the night at this inn. You can’t go home in this rain, can you?”
“No,” said Ryō. “No, I suppose not.”
Tsuruishi left the room and returned with a load of quilted bedrolls which he spread on the floor. The whole room seemed to be full of bedding. Ryō tucked her son in one of the rolls, the boy sleeping soundly as she did so. Then she turned out the light, undressed, and lay down. She could hear Tsuruishi settling down at the other end of the room.
“I suppose the people in this inn think we’re married,” said Tsuruishi after a while.
“Yes, I suppose so. It’s not very nice of us to fool them.”
She spoke in jest, but now that she lay undressed in her bedroll, she felt for the first time vaguely disturbed and guilty. Her husband for some reason seemed much closer than he had for years. But of course she was here only because of the rain, she reminded herself. And gradually her thoughts began to wander pleasantly afield, and she dozed off.
When she awoke it was still dark. She could hear Tsuruishi whispering her name from his corner, and she sat up with a start.
“Ryō, Ryō, can I come and talk to you for a while?”
“No, Tsuru,” she said, “I don’t think you should.”
On the roof the rain was still pattering down, but the force of the storm was over; only a trickle was dropping from the gutter into the yard. Under the sound of the rain she thought she could hear Tsuruishi sigh softly.
“Look, Tsuru,” she said after a pause. “I’ve never asked you before, but are you married?”
“No. Not now,” Tsuruishi said.
“You used to be?”
“Yes. I used to be. When I got back from the army, I found that my wife was living with another man.”
“Were you—angry?”
“Angry? Yes, I suppose I was. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. She’d left me, and that was that.”
They were silent again.
“What shall we talk about?” Ryō asked.
Tsuruishi laughed. “Well, there really doesn’t seem to be anything special to talk about. Those noodles weren’t very good, were they?”
“No, you certainly couldn’t call them good. And they charged us a hundred yen each.”
“It would be nice if you and Ryukichi had your own room to live in, wouldn’t it?” Tsuruishi remarked.
“Oh yes, it would be marvelous! You don’t think we might find a room near you? I’d really like to live near you, Tsuru, you know.”
“It’s pretty hard to find rooms these days, especially downtown. But I’ll keep a lookout and let you know…. You’re a wonderful person, Ryō.”
“Me?” said Ryō laughing. “Don’t be silly!”
“Yes, yes, you’re wonderful… really wonderful!”
Ryō lay back on the floor. Suddenly she wanted to throw her arms around Tsuruishi, to feel his body close to hers. She did not dare speak for fear that her voice might betray her; her breath came almost painfully; her whole body tingled. Outside the window an early-morning lorry clattered past.
“Where are your parents, Tsuru?” she asked after a while. “In the country near Fukuoka.”
“But you have a sister in Tokyo?”
“Yes. She’s all alone, like you, with two kids to take care of. She’s got a sewing machine and makes clothes. Her husband was killed several years ago—in the war in China.”
Outside the window Ryō could make out the first glimmer of dawn. So their night together was almost over, she thought unhappily. In a way she wished that Tsuruishi hadn’t given up so easily, and yet she was convinced that it was best like this. If he had been a man she hardly knew, or for whom she felt nothing, she might have given herself to him with no after-thought. With Tsuruishi it would have been different—quite different.
“Ryō, I can’t get to sleep.” His voice reached her again. “I’m wide awake. I suppose I’m not used to this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Why—sleeping in the same room with a girl.”
“Oh, Tsuru, don’t tell me that you don’t have girl friends occasionally!”
“Only professional girl friends.”
Ryō laughed. “Men have it easy. In some ways, at least….”
She heard Tsuruishi moving about. Suddenly he was beside her, bending over her. Ryō did not move, not even when she felt his arms round her, his face against hers. In the dark her eyes were wide open, and before them bright lights seemed to be flashing. His hot lips were pressed to her cheek.
“Ryō… Ryō.”
“It’s wrong you know, wrong to my husband …” she murmured.
But almost at once she regretted the words. As Tsuruishi bent over her, she could make out the silhouette of his face against the lightening sky. Bowed forward, he seemed to be offering obeisance to some god. Ryō hesitated for a moment. Then she threw her warm arms about his neck.
* * *
Two days later Ryō set out happily with her boy to visit Tsuruishi. When she reached the bombsite, she was surprised not to see him before his cabin, the red kerchief tied about his head. Ryukichi ran ahead to find out if he was home and came back in a moment.
“There are strangers there, Mummy.”
Seized with panic, Ryō hurried over to the cabin and peered in. Two workmen were busy piling up Tsuruishi’s effects in a corner.
“What is it, ma’am?” one of them said, turning his head.
“I’m looking for Tsuruishi.”
“Oh, didn’t you know? Tsuruishi died yesterday.”
“Died?” she said. She wanted to say something more, but no words would come.
She had noticed a small candle burning on the shelf for family gods, and now she was aware of its somber meaning.
“Yes,” went on the man, “he was killed about eight o’clock last night. He went in a truck with one of his mates to deliver some iron bars in Omiya, and on their way back the truck turned over on a narrow bridge. He and the driver were both killed. His sister went to Omiya today with one of the company officials to see about the cremation.”
Ryō stared vacantly before her. Vacantly she watched the two men piling up Tsuruishi’s belongings. Beside the candle on the shelf she caught sight of the two bags of tea he had bought from her that first day—could it be only two weeks ago? One of them was folded halfway over; the other was still unopened.
“You were a friend of his, ma’am, I imagine? He was a fine fellow, Tsuru! Funny to think that he needn’t have gone to Omiya at all. The driver wasn’t feeling well and Tsuru said he’d go along to Omiya to help him unload. Crazy, isn’t it—after getting through the war and Siberia and all the rest of it, to be killed like that.”
One of the men took down the postcard of Yamada Isuzu and blew the dust from it. Ryō stood looking at Tsuruishi’s belongings piled on the floor—the kettle, the frying pan, the rubber boots. When her eyes reached the blackboard, she noticed for the first time a message scratched awkwardly in red chalk: “Ryō—I waited for you till two o’clock. Back this evening.”
Automatically she bowed to the two men and swung the rucksack to her back. She felt numb as she left the cabin, holding Ryukichi by the hand, but as they passed the bombsite the burning tears welled into her eyes.
> “Did that man die, Mummy?”
“Yes, he died,” Ryō said.
“Why did he die?”
“He fell into a river.”
The tears were running down her cheeks now; they poured out uncontrollably as she hurried through the downtown streets. She came to an arched bridge over the Sumida River, crossed it, and walked north along the bank in the direction of Shirahige.
“Don’t worry if you get pregnant,” Tsuruishi had told her that morning in Asakusa, “I’ll look after you whatever happens, Ryō.” And later on, just before they parted, he had said: “I haven’t got much money, but you must let me help you a little. I can give you two thousand yen a month out of my salary.” He had taken Ryukichi to a shop that specialized in foreign goods and bought him a baseball cap with his name written on it. Then the three of them had walked gaily along the tram lines, skirting the enormous puddles left by the rain. When they came to a milk bar, Tsuruishi had taken them in and ordered them each a big glass of milk….
An icy wind seemed to have blown up from the dark river. A flock of water fowl stood on the opposite bank looking frozen and miserable. Barges moved slowly up and down the river.
“Mummy, I want a sketchbook. You said I could have a sketchbook.”
“Later,” answered Ryō. “I’ll get you one later.”
“But Mummy, we just passed a shop with hundreds of sketchbooks. I’m hungry, Mummy. Can’t we have something to eat?”
“Later. A little later.”
They were passing a long row of barrack-like buildings. They must be private houses, she thought. The people who lived there probably all had rooms of their own. From one of the windows a bedroll had been hung out to air and through the window a woman could be seen tidying the room.
“Tea for sale!” called Ryō softly. “Best quality Shizuoka tea!”
There was no reply and Ryō repeated her call a little louder.
“I don’t want any,” said the woman. She pulled in the bedroll and shut the window with a bang.
Ryō went from house to house down the row, calling her ware, but nobody wanted any tea. Ryukichi followed behind, muttering that he was hungry and tired. Ryō’s rucksack dug painfully into her shoulders, and occasionally she had to stop to adjust the straps. Yet in a way she almost welcomed the physical pain.
* * *
The next day she went downtown by herself, leaving Ryukichi at home. When she came to the bombsite she noticed that a fire was burning inside the cabin. She ran to the door and walked in. By Tsuruishi’s stove sat an old man in a short workman’s overcoat, feeding the flames with firewood. The room was full of smoke and it was billowing but of the window.
“What do you want?” said the old man, looking around.
“I’ve come to sell Shizuoka tea.”
“Shizuoka tea? I’ve got plenty of good tea right here.”
Ryō turned without a word and hurried off. She had thought of going to the address of Tsuruishi’s sister and of burning a stick of incense in his memory, but suddenly this seemed quite pointless. She walked back to the river, which reflected the late afternoon sun, and sat down by a pile of broken concrete. The body of a dead kitten was lying on its back a few yards away. As her thoughts turned to Tsuruishi, she wondered vaguely whether it would have been better never to have met him. No, no, certainly not that! She could never regret knowing him, nor anything that had happened with him. Nor did she regret having come to Tokyo. When she had arrived, a month or so before, she had planned to return to the country if her business was unsuccessful, but now she knew that she would be staying on here in Tokyo—yes, probably right here in downtown Tokyo where Tsuruishi had lived.
She got up, swung the rucksack on her back, and walked away from the river. As she strolled along a side street, she noticed a hut which seemed to be made of old boards nailed haphazardly together. Going to the door, she called out: “Tea for sale! Would anyone like some tea?” The door opened and in the entrance appeared a woman dressed far more poorly than Ryō herself.
“How much does it cost?” asked the woman. And then, seeing the rucksack, she added: “Come in and rest a while, if you like. I’ll see how much money we’ve got left. We may have enough for some tea.”
Ryō went in and put down her rucksack. In the small room four sewing-women were sitting on the floor around an oil stove, working on a mass of shirts and socks. They were women like herself, thought Ryō, as she watched their busy needles moving in and out of the material. A feeling of warmth came over her.
Footnotes
1 Leyera ochnacea, the sacred tree of Shinto which decorates shrines and other holy places.
2 Asakusa in downtown (shitamachi) Tokyo has become an amusement district roughly corresponding to Montmartre. It has an ancient Buddhist temple dedicated to Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy.
A MAN’S LIFE
BY Taiko Hirabayashi
TRANSLATED BY George Saitō
The fact that Taiko Hirabayashi was born in Nagano Prefecture is of considerable significance to her literary career. The family into which she was born, in 1903, soon fell on hard times, and thus from early childhood Mrs. Hirabayashi knew the uncertainty of life. Nagano Prefecture, in the mountainous region of central Japan, is noted for its scenic beauty and its independence, as well as for being the birthplace of a number of educational and literary leaders of modern Japan.
In her prewar works Mrs. Hirabayashi seems to close her eyes to the beautiful and tranquil aspects of her native home, probably because of bitter memories.
Her grandfather ran a silk mill and led an active life as a conservative politician. He dissipated practically all his property, however, and was reduced to the position of a small farmer. Although her brothers and sisters were graduated only from primary school, Taiko went on to high school by taking the entrance examination without her parents’ permission. She passed the examination and placed first on the list. Because of this her parents were persuaded to let her receive higher education. During her high-school days she devoted herself to reading the works of Russian authors and works by socialist writers and thinkers. After graduating from high school, she went to Tokyo, where she worked for a brief time as a telephone operator. Thereafter she worked at various jobs; she was a waitress for a time and also a maid. During this period she joined a group of anarchists.
From her youth she had set her heart on writing and she early earned her livelihood by writing fairy tales and detective stories. Her novel, “To Mock,” won a prize in a contest sponsored by the Osaka Asahi Shimbun in 1927, and the publication of an autobiographical story, “In the Charity Hospital,” also in 1927, established her fame as a proletarian writer. It was based upon experiences in Manchuria.
The decline of leftist literature which followed, and the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese Incident in 1937, left her in straitened circumstances. After a critical illness while in prison, she spent eight years in bed. With the end of the war, however, Mrs. Hirabayashi started writing again, this time transcending class consciousness and moving toward humanism. In “Song of the Underworld,” dealing with the life of gamblers, she showed a mature skill and a broadened vision.
The present story (Hito no Inochi in Japanese) was first published in 1930, when the author was forty-five. It is representative of Mrs. Hirabayashi’s postwar work.
“I WONDER if conversion is a word that anyone can use. If it doesn’t sound too funny for a fellow like me to be using it … well, I suppose I’ve experienced a sort of conversion too.”
We’d been talking about something else when Sei, an ex-gangster, said this to me.
“What?”
Noting my bewilderment, Sei hesitatingly began to tell me his story, one which he apparently had kept to himself for a long time, and one which in its telling seemed most natural.
* * *
Now let me tell it in my own way. Because if you don’t understand what kind of fellow I am, the story won’t make much sense.
It
was when things were beginning to turn bad for Japan in the Pacific War and people’s lives were being increasingly upset by conscription and forced labor. As for me, for about a year I’d been a prisoner at Sugamo—a convicted murderer.
In the spring of the year before I’d knifed a fellow named Shida. He ran a little hotel in Togoshi-Ginza. In my own mind, there were two motives for the killing. But even today I don’t know which of the two provided the decisive strength to drive me to murder.
Both the police and the public procurator’s office were convinced that I did away with Shida to eliminate his influence in the Ebara district and thus strengthen the power of the Kawanaka gang.
As you probably know, my boss, Kawanaka, was an old man of eighty. Taking this fact into consideration, it seemed only natural that I, who was the real power in the Kawanaka gang, should kill Shida to expand my own influence. The assumption wasn’t far wrong.
To tell the truth, however, there was one thing else. Working in that hotel run by Shida there was a woman I’d fallen in love with. Her name was Machiko. She had a face likely to draw attention, and she had a gentle disposition. When I had to make duty calls on Shida for my boss, it was she who would attend to me and pour the wine.
Without quite realizing it, I’d become attracted to this woman and I found myself speaking to her affectionately. But I never laid a hand on her, nor asked her to marry me. Maybe I’m not the passionate type—the kind that falls blindly in love.
Then by chance I learned that Machiko was Shida’s woman. With the feeling of having been betrayed by a woman, a livid anger surged in me against Shida … whom, of course, I had no reason to resent.
It was on a dark night not very long after I’d learned about Machiko that I called Shida outside the kitchen, where I was hiding behind a large trash bin, and killed him with a single knife thrust.
As was our standard practice, I turned myself in and exaggerated Shida’s supposed breach of faith into an unpardonable betrayal. Where gang wars are concerned, even in case of a killing one can usually expect to get off with a sentence of five or six years at the most.
