by Ivan Morris
“I hear you got into plenty of trouble over women in Tokyo,” he said, filling his cup once more. “Well, to tell you the truth, I got into trouble myself during my Tokyo period. But I got myself out of it all right. Yes, it takes more than a woman to hold me. Of course, once they’ve set their hearts on you, they don’t let go easy. Mine still writes me every now and then. Why, only the other day she sent me a packet of rice cakes. Women are fools, aren’t they, damned fools! When they’re in love with you, they don’t care about your looks or even about how much money you’ve got. All they think about is feelings and heart and all that claptrap.” He laughed raucously. “Yes, I had quite a wild time in my Tokyo period. Come to think of it, I must have been in Tokyo about the same time that you were there, breaking the hearts of your geisha girls. You made quite a name for yourself, didn’t you? Ha, ha! Funny we never bumped into each other. Where did you hang out in those days?”
I had no idea to which days he was referring, nor did I remember breaking the hearts of any geisha. To be sure, I had had various emotional complications when I lived in Tokyo. For this I had been amply abused by my literary acquaintances and even by so-called friends, until their criticisms had now ceased utterly to affect me. Yet something about this man’s tone made me feel, for the first time in years, that I had to defend myself from the charge of being a callous libertine.
“You know,” I said, looking straight at him, “I’ve never set myself up as a lady-killer. And I don’t get any pleasure from going round seducing women indiscriminately.”
“I know all about you,” he said, looking at me with a snigger, and I realized that he did not believe a word I had said. An unpleasant feeling of cheapness came over me. This man with his ugly mind seemed to see right through me—into the ugliest recesses of my being.
I suddenly wanted to ask him to leave. Yet the fact was that I did not dare to. Our position in this village was far from secure and I could not risk offending someone who appeared to be an old and well-established inhabitant. Besides, I was afraid that if I asked him to go, he might think that I looked down on him for being an uneducated farmer. I went into the living room and came back with a plate of fruit.
“Have a pear,” I said. “It’ll do you good.”
I was terrified that the man would soon become roaring drunk and it occurred to me that some fruit might avert this calamity. He looked blankly at the plate and reached for his cup of whisky.
“I hate politics,” he said abruptly. “In fact we farmers all hate politics. What good have those politicians ever done us? If they helped us in any way, we’d support them. We’re grateful folk, you know, us country people, and we always return favors. But all those politicians can do is jabber away, while we get on with the real work. Socialists, Progressives, Liberals—bah! They’re all the same to us!”
For a moment I wondered where this new line was leading.
“Your brother was campaigning in the last elections, wasn’t he?” continued the farmer.
“Yes,” I said, “this was his district. He lost.”
“I suppose you did quite a bit of campaigning yourself?”
“No, I didn’t even bother to vote. I stayed at home and worked.”
“Nonsense,” he said, “of course you campaigned for your own brother! It’s just a simple matter of humanity. I may not be a great scholar like you, but at least I know what humanity is. That’s one thing we farmers understand. I hate politics, but when I heard that the brother of my old school pal was a candidate, I went right out and voted for him without even waiting for anyone to ask me. That’s humanity for you! As long as we don’t lose that quality, we farmers are going to be all right.”
His object was now transparent: his vote—if, indeed, he had ever cast it—was to be a passport for an indefinite amount of whisky.
“It was very good of you to support my brother,” I said with a sardonic smile.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I did it out of common humanity—not because I thought he was any good. Your family may have got ahead in the world now, but a couple of generations ago they were just common oil-sellers. Did you know that? I’ve been doing a bit of research. Your family used to sell cans of oil and if anyone bought half a pint or more, they gave him a piece of toffee as a premium. That’s how they made their money. It’s the same with almost all the so-called ‘good’ families. Take the Oike family, for instance, who own half the land around here and go about lording it over us all. It’s not so long ago that their ancestors were putting buckets by the roadside for the passersby to piss in. As soon as the buckets were full, they sold them to the farmers to mix with their fertilizer. That’s how they started their fortune. You can’t fool me!”
“I’m sure I can’t,” I said, wondering whether he was inventing all this on the spur of the moment or whether he had come folly prepared.
“I myself come from a really old family, though,” he continued. “My ancestors moved to this village hundreds of years ago from Kyoto.”
“Really? In that case, I expect you are of noble lineage.”
“You may not be far wrong,” he said with a nasal laugh. “Of course, you wouldn’t think it to see me in these clothes. But both my brothers went to university. The older one’s made quite a name for himself in the government. You’ve probably seen his name in the papers.”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Well, I didn’t bother to go to university myself. I decided to stay in the country and do some really useful work. And now, of course, I’m the one who’s got ahead and they have to come begging me for rice and all the things they can’t get in Tokyo. Not that I begrudge them anything. And look here,” he said, sticking his finger almost into my face, “if you’re ever short of food, you can come to my farm too and I’ll give you whatever you need. I’m not the sort of fellow who’d drink a man’s liquor for nothing. I’ll repay you—down to the last penny. We farmers are grateful folk.”
He examined his empty cup pensively and then all of a sudden shouted: “Call in the little woman! I won’t drink another drop unless she pours it for me herself. Not another drop, d’you hear?” He staggered to his feet. “Where is the little woman, anyway? In the bedroom, I expect, snug in bed, eh? D’you know who I am? I’m Hirata, I’m a lord among farmers! Haven’t you heard of the great Hirata family?”
My worst fears were being realized and I saw that there was nothing for it but to fetch my wife.
“Do sit down, Mr. Hirata,” I said calmly. “I’ll call her right away, if it means all that much to you.”
I went into the bedroom, where my wife was busy darning some socks.
“Would you mind coming in for a minute?” I asked her casually. “An old school friend has come to see me.” I said no more, as I did not want my wife to be prejudiced in advance against the visitor. In particular I did not want her to think that I considered him in any way inferior to us. She nodded and followed me into the back room.
“Let me introduce Mr. Hirata,” I said, “my old friend from primary school. We were always fighting when we were kids. He’s got a mark on the back of his hand where I scratched him. Today he’s come to get his revenge.”
“How terrifying!” she said, laughing. “Anyhow, I’m glad to meet you.” She bowed in his direction.
Our visitor seemed to relish these courtesies.
“Glad to meet you, Madam,” he said. “But you needn’t stand on ceremony with me. By the way, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d pour me some whisky.”
I noticed that he was sober enough to address my wife politely, although a few moments before he had been referring to her as “the little woman.”
“You know, Madam,” he said, when my wife had filled his cup, “I was just telling Osamu here that if you ever need any food, be sure to come round to my place. I’ve got plenty of everything: potatoes, vegetables, rice, eggs, chickens. What about some horse meat? Would you like a nice hunk of horse meat? I’m a great expert at strip
ping horsehides, you know. Come along tomorrow and I’ll give you a whole horse’s leg to take home. Do you like pheasant? Of course you do! Well, I’m the most famous shot in these parts. Just tell me what you want and I’ll shoot it. Maybe Madam would fancy some nice wild duck. Right, I’ll go out tomorrow morning and shoot a dozen for you. That’s nothing—a dozen. I’ve shot five dozen before breakfast in my day. If you don’t believe me, ask anyone round here. I’m the greatest marksman in the district. The young people are all scared stiff of me. That’s right—they know I can show them a thing or two. Hey, you there, bookworm!” he shouted at me. “Why don’t you come along to the Shinto gate one of these evenings? There’s usually a good fight going on down there—a lot of rowdy youngsters slogging at each other. Well, as soon as I get there, I throw myself right into the middle of them all and make them stop fighting. Of course, I’m risking my life every time I go there, but what does that matter? I’ve got a bit of money put aside for my wife and little ones. They’ll be all right even when I’m gone.”
For a moment his tone was maudlin. Then, suddenly turning to me again, he shouted almost ferociously: “Hey you, Mr. Bookworm! I’ll call for you tomorrow evening and we’ll go down to the gate together. I’ll show you what life is really like. You won’t be able to write anything good just sitting here on your backside all day long. What you need is a little experience. What sort of books do you write anyway? Books about geisha girls, I suppose. Ha, ha, ha! The trouble is, you don’t know what life’s all about. Now take me. I’ve had three wives already. But I always like the present one best. How many wives have you had? Two? Three? What about it, Madam? Does he know how to make love to you right?”
“Please go and fetch some cakes,” I said to my wife, with a sigh.
“I imagine you’re going back to Tokyo pretty soon,” said Mr. Hirata, as my wife left the room. “You’ll be playing around with those girls again. Ha, ha! Where do you live in Tokyo?”
“I lost my house in the war.”
“So you were bombed out, were you? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Well, in that case you must have got that special allocation of a blanket that they gave each family of evacuees. Would you mind letting me have it?”
I looked at him with renewed amazement.
“That’s right,” he said, calmly refilling his cup, “give me the blanket. It’s meant to be quite good wool. My wife can make me a jumper with it…. I suppose you think it’s funny of me to ask you for the blanket like this. But that’s the way I do things. If I want something, I just ask for it. And when you come to my place, you can do the same. I’ll give you whatever you like. What’s the use of standing on ceremony with each other? Well, what about it? Are you going to let me have that blanket?”
I still stared at him blankly. This wool blanket, which we had been given as a sort of consolation prize, seemed to be my wife’s most treasured possession. When our house was bombed and we moved to the country with our children, like a family of crabs whose shells have been smashed and who crawl naked and helpless across a hostile beach, she had kept the blanket constantly in sight, as though it were some sort of talisman. The man who now faced me could never know how a family felt who had lost their house in the war, or how close to committing mass suicide such families often were.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to forget about the blanket,” I said firmly.
“You stingy devil!” he said. “Why can’t I have it?”
At this moment I was delighted to see my wife reappear with a tray of cakes. As I expected, our visitor instantly forgot about the blanket.
“Good gracious, Madam,” he said, “you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. I don’t want anything to eat. I came here to drink. But I want you to do the pouring from now on. This husband of yours is too damned stingy for my liking.” He glared at me. “What about it, Madam? Shall I give him a good beating? I used to be quite a fighter in my Tokyo days. I know a bit of jujitsu too. He’ll be an easy match, even though he may be a few years younger than me. Well, Madam, if he ever gives you any trouble, just tell me and I’ll let him have a thrashing he won’t forget in a hurry. You see, I’ve known him since we were boys together at school and he doesn’t dare put on any of his airs with me.”
It was then that the various stories which I had read years ago in textbooks on moral training came back to me—stories about great men like Kimura Shigenari, Kanzaki Yogoro, and Kanshin, who, on being abused by unmannerly rogues like this, did not answer in kind, but instead displayed their true moral superiority, as well as their fathomless contempt for these ruffians, by forthrightly asking them for forgiveness, when by all rights it was they who deserved apology. I remembered how, in the case of Kanzaki Yogorō, his assailant, who was a pack-horse driver, had been so impressed by the great man’s humility and forbearance that he had spent days trying to compose an adequate letter of apology and had thereafter fallen into a decline and taken to drink. Until now, rather than admire the much-vaunted patience of these men, I had always tended to despise it as concealing an arrogant sense of superiority; my sympathy had, in fact, been on the side of the so-called rogues, whose behavior was at least natural and unpretentious. But now unexpectedly I found myself in the role of Kimura, Kanzaki, and Kanshin. All of a sudden I knew the sense of isolation which they too must have felt when being attacked. It occurred to me that these didactic stories should be classified, not under the usual headings of “Forbearance” or “Great Men and Little Men,” but, rather, under “Loneliness.” At the same time I perceived that forbearance really had very little to do with the matter. It was simply that these “great men” were weaker than their assailants and knew that they would not stand a chance if it came to a fight.
“Always fly a wild horse!”—that simple maxim explained their conduct, as well as my own behavior in face of this “old friend.” I had a horrible vision of our visitor suddenly running amuck and smashing the screens, sliding doors, and furniture. Since none of the property belonged to me, I lived in a constant state of apprehension that the children might scribble on the walls or push the doors too roughly; the idea of the terrible ravages that this farmer might now perpetrate made cold shivers run down my spine. At all cost, I thought in my lonely cowardice, I must avoid offending him.
Suddenly I heard him roaring at the top of his lungs; “Ho, ho!” I looked up aghast. “Good Lord, I’m drunk!” he shouted. “Yes, damn it, I’m drunk!”
Then he gave a groan, closed his eyes tightly, and planting both elbows on his knees, sat there with a look of complete concentration, as if desperately fighting his drunkenness. The perspiration glistened on his forehead and his face was almost purple. He looked like some great struggling behemoth. He certainly must have been drunk: he had finished over half of the second bottle of whisky. My wife and I looked at each other uneasily. Then, to our amazement, he opened his eyes and said calmly, as if nothing whatever had happened: “When all’s said and done, I like an occasional nip of whisky. It makes me feel good. Come over here, Madam, and pour me another cup. Don’t worry, us farmers can drink as much as we like without getting tipsy.”
Seeing that my wife made no move, he reached for the bottle himself, filled his cup, and drained it at a single draught.
“Well, you’ve both been very civil,” he said, smacking his lips. “Next time you must be my guests. The trouble is, though, I really don’t know what I’d give you if you did come to my place. I have a few birds, of course, but I’m keeping them for the cockfights in November. You’ll have to wait till November. I suppose I could let you have a couple of pickled radishes….” His words trailed off into a murmur and for a while he was silent.
“I’ve really got nothing in my place,” he continued, “nothing at all. That’s why I came here today for a drink. Of course, I could try to shoot a wild duck. We’d eat it together—just the three of us—and Osamu here would provide the whisky. But I’ll do it only on one condition: while you’re eating it you’ve got to ke
ep saying: ‘How delicious! What a splendid duck!’ If you don’t, I’ll be furious. In fact I’ll never forgive you. Ha, ha, ha! Yes, Madam, that’s the way we farmers are. Treat us right and there’s nothing in the world we won’t do for you. But if you’re snooty and standoffish, we won’t give you as much as a piece of string. No use putting on airs with me, Madam. You look pretty cool and haughty right now, don’t you, but I bet when you’re in bed you let yourself go—just like other women.”
My wife laughed good-naturedly and stood up. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you,” she said. “I hear the baby crying.”
“She’s no good!” he shouted, as soon as my wife had left the room. “Your missus is no damned good, I tell you! Now take my old woman, for instance. There’s a real wife for you! We’ve got six lovely kids and we’re as happy a family as you’ll find anywhere in these parts. Ask anyone in the village if you don’t believe me.” He glared at me defiantly. “Your missus thinks she can make a fool of me by walking out like that. Well, I’m going to bring her right back to say she’s sorry. Where is she? In the bedroom, I expect. I’ll go and drag her out of her bedroom.”
He staggered to his feet. I immediately got up and took him by the hand.
“Forget about her.” I said. “Sit down and have another drink.” He flopped heavily into the chair. I tried to smile, but my face was frozen.
“I knew it all along,” he said. “You’re having trouble with your wife. You’re unhappily married, aren’t you? I felt it right away.”
I did not bother to contradict him.
“Well, it’s none of my business,” he said, filling his cup. “What about a poem to make you forget your troubles? Shall I recite you a poem?”
This was a welcome departure. Not only would it take his mind off my wife and her imagined insult, but to hear him recite a poem—perhaps some ancient melancholy verses handed down from generation to generation in this remote little village—might mitigate the picture of unrelieved loathsomeness that I had by now formed of my “old friend,” a picture that I feared would pursue me to the end of my days.
