The Ghost Brush (65 page)

We felt reassured; we would get around this one too.

We children all went to sleep. It was the best way to keep warm.

A
nother night:

The Old Man was working. It was rude to call him that, but that is what he was. Forty years already when I was born. Most men died by the time they were forty-five. I was with him. My mother had put the three older children down on the mat and lay sleeping beside them. She would wake up very early, when he was just lying down, and pluck at him to come to her for sex. This was not wise: how did they feed us four children who had already made our appearance? I never knew. But she was an impetuous soul. She must have been to marry him.

From my close proximity I could smell my father’s frustration.

“Look at this picture—it’s hopeless. Hopeless.” He acted out his feelings: artist flings down brush, covers eyes with fists.

I looked at the design. It was a view of the banks of the Sumida River, which ran through our city. There were tiny people and ox carts, bridges and boats everywhere. Not bad, I thought. He smacked it.

“Where is the life?” he cried, rhetorically. “You can’t smell the tannery downriver or the incense from the temple; you can’t hear ferrymen grunt as they’re poling on the river.”

He was harsh with himself. There were hundreds like my father who lived in that world and painted it, making shop signs, theatre sets, and the woodcut prints that were cheap and for sale everywhere. Since he had displeased his master and was discarded, we were on our own. It was difficult; there were always others, more willing, to do any work.

For a time he was a middleman of peppers. He bought red peppers from a peasant and sold them from his back. And sometimes he found a private commission for a laughing picture, one that told a little sexual story and was useful in its way. Artists were in fashion, out of fashion, only as good as the day’s work—that was their lot.

Once in a while he was famous, then he couldn’t sell. This was the way; he could not keep a good name. He had taken a new one recently. He called himself Sori.

I liked the picture. “It is good,” I told him. Still, he did have a point. It was maybe too pretty.

“What about the cries of the men being flogged on the grounds of the jailhouse? Fifty times for the light sentence, one hundred for the heavy? No no no no no. How about that glimmer of lantern light in the black canal water? I want the people who look at my pictures to hear the angry sob of a nighthawk”—that was a riverbank prostitute; I knew them already—“taken by force!”

He stomped around.

“You can’t feel the rain.”

He was wrong there. You could feel the rain. His rain was good.

“How to capture it all? I want it, want it. I need to learn. But how can I? There’s no teacher for what I need.”

I held out my arms to be lifted. I tried to melt into his body.

He walked in small circles and patted my back. It calmed him. The proper teacher was his ears and eyes.

“I know it’s in me. But how many years before I find it?”

W
ith a father like that my mission was clear: someone had to look out for him. Even now that he is long gone, if I close my eyes and breathe deeply I can bring him back. I can feel, in the muscles inside my thighs, his back and waist, where I clung to him as he jogged along. I feel the sweat of his neck on my arms. I lay my chest along his spine; his arms twine behind his back and turn so they prop up the sling, and I sit in the crossed palms of his hands. Oh, seduction. Oh, that safe nest of cupped fingers on my bottom. The warmth of them, the stir that only many years later I would know was sexual.

In my ears there is still the cold slosh of water against a wooden wharf and the charcoal sellers’ shouts in the alley. And in my nose I hold the musty air of autumn, the bitter chrysanthemum, the wet, smeared leaves on the stones. All of it, all of it now gone, a paper world, a weightless world, a world of mad colours and things that died.

He didn’t have to say I was the one. He knew it and I knew it. The others belonged to my mother. Together we made the rounds of the city, with me slung on his back. It was a wonderful world. The bang of clogs over the arched bridges was music. Beautiful objects were being made in every doorway: silk and velvet cut in patterns; hair combs and painted lanterns; baskets, bowls, and cards of celebration. Firemen ran by with long poles on their shoulders; bannermen shoved us into ditches so the daimyo could pass. The ghosts of dead servants lived under the bridges, and sword-bearing gods leaned out of the clouds.

W
E LIVED IN SHITAMACHI
, downtown, in two rooms, each one six tatami mats in size, in a single-storey terraced house made of wood. This was the Low City, built on marshy land claimed from the tides, criss-crossed by canals and bridges. In the sun it was pretty, with bamboo overhanging the shacks and rushes along the waterways. The doors of whitewashed warehouses shone, and pilot boats pushed their way up the mirrored surface. On summer nights the dark water clucked invisibly from every side. There was the soft
burr-up
of frog and
coo
of roosting bird. But in winter it was dank and comfortless.

Farther down our alley, tucked away, were a storytellers’ hall, a barbershop, and a shooting gallery. This last was mainly an entertainment for lovers. My sisters and I used to watch the men put their arms around the ladies’ shoulders, showing them where to rest the shaft of the arrow. At the end, with its back to the water, stood a small temple to the God of the Harvest, Inari. Wild cats lived on that water margin, feeding on rats and garbage. I liked the cats very much, and their stealthy ways.

Beyond the alley were shops and stalls. You could buy anything: a bolt of indigo cotton, wooden bowls, cutting tools of every size and shape, mulberry paper, straw sandals. Raw voices were always hawking, shouting to make way, or crying down abuse on animals. Everything moved by—people and barrows and horses and mules and more people.

The High City loomed over us. On top of the hill the castle stood, in a huge empty space. People said its dungeon used to be higher than the distant peak of Mt. Fuji, three days’ walk away. But it burned down in a fire, and most of the Low City too. That happened before I was born, and before my father was born. But we knew the story. Flames ate the bridges and trapped the inhabitants between the canals so they couldn’t escape. On windy nights you could hear their ghosts screaming still.

From the castle, moat water trickled down to join the Sumida River, which ran down to Edo Bay, where the patient fishermen stood on stilts. Beyond the bay was a wide world of water—nothing more. My father said there were other countries and other peoples in a great world beyond. It was hard to believe him.

We were at the starting place: from here, foot roads led to the far points of our country. We had no idea of its shape. Maps were illegal for us. Townsmen were not to know where the limits of the Shogun’s power might lie. But we could follow the dark ribbon of the Sumida against its current, northward.

That being the only journey we could make, we often made it. The Sumida was wide and powerful. The water gleamed despite the garbage it swilled away. The banks of the river were worn smooth by constant foot traffic and the loading of boats. Those banks divided the city itself from the water. They were a long strip of playground, a free place somehow agreed upon by the bakufu to belong to us, the disreputables. I would sit in the ferry as it plugged along and watch. Down on those banks I might see anything—fortune tellers, beggars, children flying kites, women dancing.

T
HE NORTH SEVEN STARS
formed the Great Dipper. My father showed me how to find them in the sky. We looked along the line made by the outside of the bowl. Followed it to see Myoken, the shining eye of all the gods. Myoken was constancy; it was the writers’ star. My father worshipped it.

I remember the night he decided to rename himself. This time his name would honour the North Star: it would be Hokusai.

“We will follow it,” he said.

Beyond the reach of our few mon fare, we walked. (Always.) Too big to ride on my father’s shoulders. As we walked I could hear the river chug, could hear his feet on the stones and the wailing of cats. But I could not see much. It was late afternoon, winter, and darkness was already on us. Women stood around their outside cooking fires, children tugging their skirts. There was the pounding of a wooden club on barrels, a girl fulling cloth. A rowing song echoed on the water.

We walked on. We came into light, lamplight from teashops, bookstores, a man with hot coals in an iron pot. On we went, and the city dwindled to marsh and then began to rise again. We came to the kabuki area. Here were the great theatres with their waving banners, pushing crowds, the thundering drums announcing a play about to begin.

“Kabuki is just as wicked as our pictures. But they’ll never shut this place down,” muttered my father. “They wouldn’t dare.”

But the theatre was not respectable either. Actors were like us—not officially people. They were restricted to this part of town, in the heart of the city. Still the rich merchants came, and their wives. The poor came too, going without a meal to buy the ticket. Even the noble ladies came, in disguise. They fell in love with actors. I had often heard those stories. Banned, and therefore popular. That was the joke.

“I used to paint here,” he grumbled, “before you were born. The actors, the wrestlers—I hated it. You have to sit in the audience. You have to be a reporter.”

Two of the slender boys who were training to play the parts of women in the kabuki theatre came giggling along.

We listened to their squeaky voices.

“He said he would give us one gold if—”

“You didn’t believe him, did you? Don’t be an idiot.”

I agreed. One gold ryo was enough money to buy rice for one person for a full year.

The other one started to wail in a high, breaking voice.

“You’re not supposed to cry; you’re an actor. All this is a play.”

“But I’m hungry.” The smaller boy plucked the other boy’s costly coat sleeve. The first boy hurried him along. The wind was blowing and the lantern was swinging overhead, giving its gaudy light. I watched them go. I was hungry too. But I had a father and a home. Boys like that lived in the part of town where children were sold as prostitutes.

I was so tired. It seemed I walked through sleep into wakefulness, from darkness into light. Ahead I saw a street bobbing with lanterns. We had arrived at the Nightless City, the pleasure district. We had walked from poverty into the jolly, gaudy plenitude that turned men from serfs into new, free creatures. Men, not women. I didn’t even hope for the women. They were always servants.

I heard the drums, the wailing singers, the shrieks of laughter. I stepped more quickly, holding my father’s hand. This was the Yoshiwara, the licensed quarters, where pleasures prohibited elsewhere were magically permitted as long as a tax was paid to the bakufu.

My father was in search of work.

I
loved the Yoshiwara. In the Yoshiwara, we townspeople were kings—better than kings, if we had a little money. We stood by the docks. Boat after ferryboat pushed off, the high curved bows and sterns looming over us, the oarsmen with their long poles standing up in the wind and shouting to one another as they steered out into the clear. There was a lot of traffic. Travellers, labourers, bored samurai—all of these flocked northward into the wind as the sun began to set. The men would stay until they were shooed out and the Great Gate locked in the hours before dawn.

In the Yoshiwara, pleasure cost money. Money bought silk and velvet futons and food, music and sake—and women. The women collected the money, but they never kept it. They gave it to housekeepers and brothel owners, drummer boys and caterers. The clients too were bled dry, then ejected by the guard. But that would be later, after the long night of pleasure. If we ever came here in the day, we would come face to face with these defeated ones trudging south. But now it was evening, the best time, and we climbed over the rounded bridge with the Seven Stars above us and the houses of pleasure laid out in front.

O
n Nakanocho Boulevard, the main street, paper lanterns cast pools of red light on the wet snow. The noodle shop with its cartoon—“Fortify Yourself Before the Deed!”—was dark. Cauldrons that had boiled all day, rattling and steaming, now crouched half-seen on the burners. Next door, Waki’s tattoo parlour was also dark, but Waki himself lay on the floor in the rectangle of streetlight under his door curtain. My father stopped only a few steps from his ear.

“What are you doing, Waki?” He nudged him with his toe.

It was plain that he was sleeping. But my father hated to see anyone idle.

Waki came up to sitting, all elbow. “I am concocting a design of dragon’s tail and thunderbolt entwined. It will take hours to do the needlework, but it will be astonishing.” He smiled with his eyes closed, envisioning it.

“Ah,” said Hokusai. He loosened my hand and let me go. He stretched, soaking in the air of this place.

Waki lifted his curtain to let us into his shop. He had a high table there for his customers to lie on. He lit a small oil lamp. His designs were pinned on the walls. My father liked Waki: he was a simple peasant who had come to the city from the southern provinces to make his fortune. He stood beside his curtain, bowed, and gave his spiel automatically when we entered.