An Artist of the Floating World (8 page)

the old crowd. Everyone always looked up to Sensei as the natural leader around here." "A good point, Obasan," Shintaro said. "In olden times, if a lord had his troops scattered after a battle, he"d soon go about gathering them together again. Sensei is in a similar position." "What nonsense," I said, laughing. "That's right, Sensei," Mrs Kawakami went on, "you find all the old people again and tell them to come back. Then after a while, I'll buy the place next door and we'll open up a grand old place. Just like that big place used to be." "Indeed, Sensei," Shintaro was still saying. "A lord must gather his men again." "An interesting idea, Obasan," I said, nodding. "And you know, the Migi-Hidari was just a small place once. No bigger than this place here. But then in time we managed to turn it into what it was. Well, perhaps we'll just have to do the same thing again with this place of yours. Now things are settling a little, the custom ought to be coming back." "You could bring in all your artist friends again, Sensei," Mrs Kawakami said. "Then before long, all the newspaper men will follow." "An interesting idea. We could probably pull it off. Except I wonder, Obasan. You may not be able to handle such a big place. We wouldn't want you getting out of your depth." "Nonsense," Mrs Kawakami said, putting on an offended look. "If Sensei will hurry up and do his part, you'll see how well things will be managed around here." Recently we have had such conversations over and over. And who is to say the old district will not return again? The likes of Mrs Kawakami and I, we may tend to make a joke about it, but behind our bantering there is a thread of serious optimism. "A lord must gather his men." And so perhaps he should. Perhaps, when Noriko's future is once and for all settled, I will give some serious consideration to Mrs Kawakami's schemes.

I suppose I might mention here that I have seen my former prot�, Kuroda, just once since the end of the war. It was quite by chance on a rainy morning during the first year of the occupation--before the Migi-Hidari and all those other buildings had been demolished. I was walking somewhere, making my way through what was left of our old pleasure district, looking from under my umbrella at those skeletal remains. I remember there were workmen wandering around that day, and so at first I paid no attention to the figure standing looking at one of the burnt-out buildings. It was only as I walked by that I became aware the figure had turned and was watching me. I paused, then looked around, and through the rain dripping off my umbrella, saw with a strange shock Kuroda looking expressionlessly towards me. Beneath his umbrella, he was hatless and dressed in a dark raincoat. The charred buildings behind him were dripping and the remnant of some gutter was making a large amount of rainwater splash down not far from him. I remember a truck going by between us, full of building workers. And I noticed how one of the spokes of his umbrella was broken, causing some more splashing just beside his foot.

Kuroda's face, which had been quite round before the war, had hollowed out around the cheekbones, and what looked like heavy lines had appeared towards the chin and the throat. And I thought to myself as I stood there: "He's not young any more." He moved his head very slightly. I was not sure if it was the beginning of a bow, or if he was just adjusting his head to get out of the splash of rainwater from his broken umbrella. Then he turned and began to walk off in the other direction. But it was not my intention to dwell on Kuroda here. Indeed, he would not be on my mind at all had his name not turned up so unexpectedly last month, during the chance meeting on the tram with Dr Saito. It was the afternoon I eventually took Ichiro to see his monster film--a trip he had been denied the previous day by Noriko's stubbornness. In fact, my grandson and I went by ourselves, Noriko refusing to come and Setsuko again volunteering to remain at home, it was, of course, simple childishness on Noriko's part, but Ichiro had his own interpretation of the women's behaviour. As we sat down to lunch that day, he continued to say: "Aunt Noriko and Mother aren't coming. It's much too scaring for women. They"d be much too scared, isn't that right, Oji?" "Yes, I expect that's right, Ichiro." "They"d be much too scared. Aunt Noriko, you"d be far too scared to see the film, wouldn't you?" "Oh yes," Noriko said, pulling a frightened face. "Even Oji's scared. Look, you can see even Oji's scared. And he's a man." That afternoon, as I was standing at the end of the entryway waiting to leave for the cinema, I witnessed a curious scene between Ichiro and his mother. While Setsuko was strapping up his sandals, I could see my grandson continually trying to say something to her. But whenever Setsuko said: "What is it, Ichiro, I can't hear," he would glare angrily, then cast a quick glance towards me to see if I had heard. Finally, once the sandals had been put on, Setsuko bent down so that Ichiro could whisper into her ear. She then nodded and disappeared into the house, returning a moment later with a raincoat, which she folded and handed to him. "It's unlikely to rain," I remarked, looking out beyond the front entrance. Indeed, it was a fine day outside. "All the same," Setsuko said, "Ichiro would like to take it with him." I was puzzled by this insistence on the raincoat. Then once we were out in the sunshine, and making our way down the hill towards the tram stop, I noticed the swagger with which Ichiro walked--as though the coat slung through his arm had transformed him into someone like Humphrey Bogart--and concluded it was all in imitation of some comic-book hero of his. I suppose we were almost at the bottom of the hill when Ichiro declared loudly: "Oji, you used to be a famous artist." "I expect that's right, Ichiro." "I told Aunt Noriko to show me Oji's pictures. But she won't show me." "Hmm. They"re all tidied away just for the moment." "Aunt Noriko's disobedient, isn't she, Oji? I told her to show me Oji's pictures. Why won't she show me?" I laughed and said: "I don't know, Ichiro. Perhaps she was busy with something." "She's disobedient." I gave another laugh, saying: "I suppose so, Ichiro." The tram stop is ten minutes" walk from our house; down the hill to the river, then a little way along the new concrete embankment, and the northbound circuit joins the road just beyond the site of the new housing schemes. That sunny afternoon last month, my grandson and I boarded there for the city centre, and it was on that journey we encountered Dr Saito. I realise I have said very little so far about the Saito family, the eldest son of which is presently involved in marriage talks with Noriko. The Saitos are, all in all, a very different sort of prospect from the Miyakes of last year. The Miyakes were, of course, decent enough people, but they could not, in all fairness, be called a family of any prestige, whereas the Saito family, without exaggeration, is just that. In fact, although Dr Saito and I were not properly acquainted before, I had always known of his activities in the world of the arts, and for years, whenever we had passed in the street, we had exchanged greetings politely to acknowledge our familiarity with each other's reputations. But of course, on the occasion on which we met last month, things had become very different. The tram does not become crowded until it has crossed the river at the steel bridge opposite Tanibashi Station, and so, when Dr Saito boarded one stop after us, he was able to take a vacant seat beside me. Inevitably, our conversation began a little uncomfortably; for the negotiations were at an early, delicate stage, and it did not seem proper to discuss them openly; but then it would have been absurd to pretend they were not going on. In the end, we both praised the merits of "our mutual friend, Mr Kyo"--the go-between in the proposal --and Dr Saito remarked with a smile: "Let us hope his efforts bring us together again shortly." And that was as close as we came to discussing the matter. I could not help noticing the marked contrast between the assured way Dr Saito had responded to the slightly awkward situation, and the nervous, clumsy way the Miyake family had handled things from start to finish last year. Whatever the eventual outcome, one does feel reassured to be dealing with the likes of the Saito family. Otherwise, we talked mainly of small things. Dr Saito has a warm, genial manner, and when he leaned forward to ask Ichiro how he was enjoying his visit, and about the movie we were about to see, my grandson showed no inhibitions about conversing with him. "A fine boy," Dr Saito said to me, approvingly. It was shortly before his stop--he had already put his hat back on--that Dr Saito remarked: "We have another mutual acquaintance. A certain Mr Kuroda." I looked at him, a little startled. "Mr Kuroda," I repeated. "Ah, no doubt that would be the same gentleman I once supervised." "That's right. I came across him recently and he happened to mention your name." "Is that so? I haven't come across him for some time. Not since before the war, certainly. How is Mr Kuroda these days? What is he up to?" "I believe he is about to take up an appointment at the new Uemachi College, where he will teach art. This was how I came across him. I was kindly asked by the college to advise on the appointments board." "Ah, so you don't know Mr Kuroda well." "Indeed not. But I hope to see more of him in future." "Is that so?" I said. "So Mr Kuroda still remembers me. How good of him." "Yes, indeed. He mentioned your name when we happened to be discussing something. I"ve not had the opportunity to talk to him at any length. But should I see him again, I'll mention that I saw you." "Ah, indeed." The tram was crossing the steel bridge and the wheels made a loud clanging noise. Ichiro, who had been kneeling on his seat to see out of the window, pointed out something down in the water. Dr Saito turned to look, exchanged a few more words with Ichiro, then got to his feet as his stop approached. He made a last allusion to "the efforts of Mr Kyo" before bowing and making his way to the exit. As usual, many people crowded on at the stop after the bridge, and the rest of our journey was rather uncomfortable. When we got off just in front of the cinema, I could see the poster prominently displayed at the entrance. My grandson had achieved a close likeness in his sketch of two days earlier, though there was no fire in the picture; what Ichiro had remembered were the impact lines--resembling streaks of lightning--which the artist had painted in to emphasise the ferocity of the giant lizard. Ichiro went up to the poster and burst into loud laughter. "It's easy to see that's a made-up monster," he said, pointing. "Anyone can see that. It's just made up." And he laughed again. "Ichiro, please don't laugh so loudly. Everyone's looking at you." "But I can't help it. The monster looks so made up. Who"d be scared of a thing like that?" It was only once we were seated inside, and the film had begun, that I discovered the true purpose of his raincoat. Ten minutes into the film, we heard ominous music and on the screen appeared a dark cave with mist swirling about it. Ichiro whispered: "This is boring. Will you tell me when something interesting starts to happen?" And with that, he threw the raincoat over his head. A moment later, there was a roar and the giant lizard emerged from the cave. Ichiro's hand was clutching at my arm, and when I glanced at him his other hand was holding the raincoat in place as tightly as possible. The coat continued to cover his head for more or less the whole duration of the film. Occasionally, my arm would be shaken and a voice would ask from underneath: "Is it getting interesting yet?" I would then be obliged to describe in whispers what was on the screen until a small gap appeared in the raincoat. But within minutes--at the slightest hint that the monster would reappear--the gap would close and his voice would say: "This is boring. Don't forget to tell me when it gets interesting." When we got home, though, Ichiro was full of enthusiasm for the film. "The best movie I"ve ever seen," he continued to say, and he was still giving us his version of it when we sat down to supper. "Aunt Noriko, shall I tell you what happened next? it gets very scary. Shall I tell you?" "I"m getting so frightened, Ichiro, I can hardly eat," Noriko said. "I"m warning you, it gets even more frightening. Shall I tell you more?" "Oh, I"m not sure, Ichiro. You"ve got me so frightened already." It had not been my intention to make heavy talk at the supper table by bringing up Dr Saito, but then it would have been unnatural not to mention our meeting when recounting the day's events. So, when Ichiro paused a moment, I said: "Incidentally, we met Dr Saito on the tram. He was travelling up to see someone." When I said this, my two daughters both stopped eating and looked at me with surprise. "But we didn't talk about anything significant," I said, with a small laugh. "Really. We just exchanged pleasantries, that's all." My daughters seemed unconvinced, but they began to eat again. Noriko glanced over to her elder sister, then Setsuko said: "Dr Saito was well?" "He appeared to be." We ate on quietly for a while. Perhaps Ichiro began to talk about the movie again. In any case, it was a little later in the meal that I said: "An odd thing. It turns out Dr Saito met a former pupil of mine. Kuroda, in fact. It seems Kuroda's taking up a post at the new college." I looked up from my bowl and saw my daughters had again stopped eating. It was clear they had just exchanged glances, and it was one of those instances last month when I got a distinct impression they had at some point been discussing certain things about me. That night, my two daughters and I were sitting around the table again, reading our newspapers and magazines, when we were disturbed by a dull thudding noise coming rhythmically from somewhere within the house. Noriko looked up in alarm, but Setsuko said: "It's just Ichiro. He does that when he can't fall asleep." "Poor Ichiro," Noriko said. "I expect he keeps dreaming of the monster. It was so wicked of Father to take him to see a film like that." "Nonsense," I said. "He enjoyed it." "I think Father just wanted to see it himself," Noriko said to her sister with a grin. "Poor Ichiro. Being dragged along to a nasty film like that." Setsuko turned towards me with an embarrassed look. "It was so kind of Father to take Ichiro,' she murmured. "But now he can't sleep," Noriko said. "Ridiculous to take him to a film like that. No, you stay, Setsuko. I'll go." Setsuko watched her sister leave the room, then said: "Noriko is so good with children. Ichiro will miss her when we go home." "Yes, indeed." "She was always good with children. Do you remember, Father, how she used to play those games with the Kinoshitas" little children?" "Yes, indeed," I said, with a laugh. Then I added: "The Kinoshita boys are far too big these days to want to come around here." "She's always been so good with children," Setsuko repeated. "How sad to see her reach this age and still unmarried." "Indeed. The war came at a bad time for her." For a few moments we continued with our reading. Then Setsuko said: "It was fortuitous to have met Dr Saito on the tram this afternoon. He sounds an admirable gentleman." "He is indeed. And from all accounts, the son is well worthy of his father." "Is that so?" Setsuko said, thoughtfully. We returned to our reading for a few more moments. Then my daughter again broke the silence. "And Dr Saito is acquainted with Mr Kuroda?" "Only slightly," I said, not looking up from my paper. "It seems they met somewhere." "I wonder how Mr Kuroda is these days. I can remember how he used to come here, and you would talk together for hours in the reception room." "I"ve no idea about Kuroda these days." "Forgive me, but I wonder if it may not be wise if Father were to visit Mr Kuroda soon." "Visit him?" "Mr Kuroda. And perhaps certain other such acquaintances from the past." "I"m not sure I follow what you"re saying, Setsuko." "Forgive me, I simply meant to suggest that Father may wish to speak to certain acquaintances from his past. That is to say, before the Saitos" detective does. After all, we do not wish any unnecessary misunderstandings to arise." "No, I suppose we don't," I said, returning to my paper. I believe we did not discuss the matter further after that. Neither did Setsuko raise it again for the remainder of her stay last month.