四 2

Though she did not say it aloud, she thought to herself: “I don’t remember when it came about, but what does a bald spot matter?” She had come to a great realization. “What do you mean, ‘what does it matter’—it’s your own head,” said the master, with a touch of anger. “It’s because it’s my own head that it doesn’t matter,” she replied, but apparently she did care a little after all, for she placed her right hand on her head and began stroking the bald patch round and round. “My, it’s gotten quite large—I didn’t think it was like this,” she said, and from this it seemed she had finally become aware that the bald spot was rather too large for her years. “When a woman does her hair in a bun, this part gets pulled tight, so everyone goes bald,” she began, somewhat on the defensive. “If everyone went bald at that rate, by the time they’re forty there’d be nothing but shiny kettles. It must be a disease. It might even be contagious—you’d better go see Dr. Amano about it now, while there’s still time,” said the master, repeatedly stroking his own head. “You talk about other people, but haven’t you got white hairs growing out of your nostrils? If baldness is contagious, then white hair is contagious too,” said the mistress, a little put out. “White hairs in the nose aren’t visible, so they do no harm, but a bare crown—especially on a young woman—is unsightly. It’s a deformity.” “If it’s a deformity, then why did you marry me? You chose me yourself, and now you call me a deformity…” “Because I didn’t know. I truly had no idea until today. If you’re so proud of it, why didn’t you show me your head when you came to marry me?” “Don’t be ridiculous! What country has a custom where a woman only comes to marry after passing a head examination?” “Well, I can put up with the baldness, but you’re abnormally short. It’s most unsightly and quite unacceptable.” “Anyone can see I’m short just by looking. Didn’t you marry me knowing full well from the start that I was short?” “I knew, of course I knew, but I thought you might still grow a bit, so I married you.” “At twenty years old, to think you’d still grow—you must take people for fools,” said the mistress, flinging aside her sleeve-less kimono and twisting to face the master. Depending on his reply, she looked ready to make him pay for it then and there. “There’s no law saying you can’t grow after twenty. I thought that once you came here and ate some nutritious food, there was a chance you’d grow a little,” he said with a straight face, spouting a strange logic, when the doorbell rang vigorously and a loud voice called out a request. It appeared Suzuki had at last tracked down Mr. Kushami’s Goryōkutsu, with the pennywort as his objective.

The mistress deferred the quarrel to another day and, clutching her sewing box and sleeve-less kimono, fled to the sitting room. The master rolled up the mouse-colored blanket and tossed it into the study. Presently, glancing at the visiting card the maid had brought, the master looked somewhat startled, but merely said “Show him in,” and, still clutching the card, went off to the lavatory. Why he suddenly went to the lavatory is quite beyond comprehension, and why he took Suzuki Tōjūrō’s card with him there is even harder to explain. In any case, the unfortunate one was the card, condemned to accompany him to that smelly place.

The maid straightened a sarasa cushion before the alcove and withdrew with a “Please, sit here.” After she left, Suzuki looked around the room. He inspected in turn the fake Mokuan hanging that read “Flowers bloom, spring fills the world,” and the higan cherry arranged in a cheap Kyoto celadon vase, then happened to look at the cushion the maid had offered—and there, as if it belonged there, sat a cat. Needless to say, this was none other than me. At that moment, a ripple invisible even in Suzuki’s expression stirred in his breast. This cushion was unquestionably laid out for Suzuki. Before he himself had sat on the cushion prepared for him, a strange creature had calmly squatted there without a by-your-leave. This was the first condition that broke Suzuki’s inner equilibrium. Had the cushion been left as offered, with no owner and at the mercy of the spring breeze, Suzuki might have modestly endured the hard tatami until the master said “Please, sit.” But sooner or later, who was it that had boarded the cushion destined to be his without so much as a greeting? Had it been human, he might have yielded, but a cat was outrageous. That the occupant was a cat made the unpleasantness all the keener. This was the second condition that broke his equilibrium. Lastly, the cat’s attitude was the most infuriating. It might have shown some regret, but instead, on a cushion to which it had no right, it sat proudly, blinking its round, charmless eyes, staring at Suzuki as if to say “And who might you be?” This was the third condition that destroyed the balance. With such grievances, one would think he might grab me by the scruff and drag me off, but Suzuki just watched in silence. That a dignified human should fear a cat and not lay a hand on it is unthinkable, so why did he not promptly dispose of me and vent his discontent? The answer, one infers, lies wholly in Suzuki’s self-respect as a man, his need to maintain his dignity. Had he resorted to brute force, even a three-foot child could toss me about, but from the standpoint of valuing face, not even Suzuki Tōjūrō, right-hand man to Mr. Kaneda, could do a thing to the Great Cat Deity enthroned in the center of that two-foot square. To quarrel over a seat with a cat, even where no one sees, would somewhat impair human dignity. To seriously argue right and wrong with a cat is most unbecoming and ridiculous. To avoid this disgrace, one must endure some inconvenience. But the more one endures, the more the loathing for the cat grows, so Suzuki now and then looked at me and made a sour face. As for me, I found his disgruntled face amusing, so I suppressed my mirth and kept as blank an expression as possible.

While this silent drama between me and Suzuki played out, the master, having adjusted his collar, emerged from the lavatory and sat down with a “Well!” Judging from the fact that not even a shadow of the card he had held was visible, Suzuki Tōjūrō’s name seemed to have been sentenced to life imprisonment in that smelly place. Scarcely had I thought the card had met a strange fate when the master grabbed me and the collar of my neck and, crying “You brute!” flung me out onto the veranda. “Sit, sit. This is rare. When did you come to Tokyo?” the master said, offering the cushion to his old friend. Suzuki turned it over once, then sat. “I’ve been so busy I didn’t notify you, but actually, since a while back I’ve been transferred to the head office here in Tokyo…” “That’s good. It’s been a long time. This is the first since you went to the country, isn’t it?” “Yes, nearly ten years now. I’ve come to Tokyo now and then since, but always so busy with business I’d slip away—hope you didn’t take it ill. Unlike your profession, the company keeps one terribly busy.” “Ten years makes a big difference,” said the master, looking Suzuki up and down. Suzuki had his hair beautifully parted, wore British-tailored tweed, a flashy necktie, and even flashed a gold chain on his chest—he looked nothing like Kushami’s old friend. “Yes, one ends up hanging even this sort of thing,” Suzuki said, fussing with the gold chain. “Is that real?” the master asked bluntly. “Eighteen karat,” Suzuki answered with a laugh. “You’ve aged quite a bit too. You surely had children—just one?” “No.” “Two?” “No.” “More? Then three?” “Yes, three. Who knows how many more will come.” “Still so carefree. The oldest—how old now? Quite big, I’d think.” “Yes, I don’t rightly know, but probably six or seven.” “Haha, teachers have it easy. I should’ve been a teacher.” “Try it—you’d hate it in three days.” “Really? It seems refined, carefree, with leisure to study as you like—sounds fine. Business isn’t bad, but our sort are hopeless. To be a businessman you must rise high; if you’re low down, you’re just spreading flattery and visiting disliked boors with cups—quite foolish.” “I’ve hated businessmen since school. They’ll do anything for money—in old terms, mere townsmen,” he declared, with the businessman before him, in utter ease. “Come now—not entirely, but there’s something vulgar about it. In short, you can’t get through without resolving to die for money. But money’s a tricky thing—I just heard from a businessman: to make money you must use the triangle method.” “Who’s such a fool?” “Not a fool, a clever man, rather famous in business. Know him? Lives just down the alley.” “Kaneda? What, that guy?” “You’re angry. Well, it’s just a joke, a metaphor that you can’t save without doing that much. You shouldn’t take it so seriously.” “The triangle method may be a joke, but what about that wife’s nose? You went, you saw it—that nose.” “The mistress? She’s quite a sensible woman.” “The nose! I’m talking about the big nose. The other day I wrote a haikai-style poem about that nose.” “What’s a haikai-style poem?” “You don’t know? You’re behind the times.” “Ah, someone busy like me can’t keep up with literature. And I was never much inclined that way.” “Do you know the shape of Charlemagne’s nose?” “Hahaha, quite carefree. No, I don’t.” “Erlinton was nicknamed ‘Nose’ by his subordinates. Know that?” “Always on about noses—what’s got into you? A nose, round or pointed, what’s it matter?” “Not at all. Do you know Pascal?” “Again ‘do you know’—like an exam. What about Pascal?” “Pascal said this.” “What?” “Had Cleopatra’s nose been a little shorter, the face of the world would have greatly changed.” “Indeed.” “So you shouldn’t dismiss noses so carelessly.” “All right, I’ll value it from now. That aside, I came today on a bit of business with you—that former student of yours, Mizushima—eh, Mizushima, can’t quite recall—the one who’s always at your place.” “Kangetsu?” “Yes, yes, Kangetsu. I came to ask about him.” “The marriage matter?” “Something of that sort. Today at Kaneda’s…” “The nose came herself the other day.” “Is that so? She said so, and the mistress said so too. She went up meaning to ask you properly, but unfortunately Meitei was there, interfering, and it became a muddle.” “It’s because she came with that nose.” “No, I mean you. With Meitei there, she couldn’t ask deeply, and regretted it, so she asked me to come and hear properly. I’ve never meddled like this, but if the two aren’t averse, to act as go-between is no bad thing—so here I am.” “Much obliged,” the master answered coldly, but hearing “the two themselves,” for some reason he felt a stir within, like a wisp of cool wind slipping through his sleeve on a hot summer night. This master was a blunt, stubborn, matte-finished man, but not thereby a cold, inhuman product of civilization. When he flies into a rage, one can read the situation. His quarrel with the nose was because he disliked the nose; the daughter had no fault. He hates businessmen, so Kaneda, half of one, he must dislike—but that’s unrelated to the daughter. He bears the girl no grudge or favor, and Kangetsu is a disciple he loves more than a brother. If, as Suzuki said, the two are willing, to hinder them even indirectly is not a gentleman’s act—Mr. Kushami considers himself a gentleman. If they are willing—but that is the question. To change his stance, he must first ascertain the truth. “Does the girl want to come to Kangetsu? Kaneda and the nose aside, what is the girl’s own wish?” “Well, that is—she surely does want to, doesn’t she?” Suzuki’s answer was vague; he had meant only to hear about Kangetsu and report back, not confirm the daughter’s wishes, so even the smooth Suzuki looked slightly flustered. “‘Doesn’t she’—that’s unclear,” said the master, who must scold head-on or be unsatisfied. “No, that was my poor phrasing. The young lady surely has feelings. Yes, truly—eh? The mistress told me. Though she says the girl sometimes speaks ill of Kangetsu.” “The girl?” “Yes.” “Outrageous, to speak ill. Then she has no feelings for Kangetsu.” “That’s the curious thing—one may speak ill of those one likes, on purpose.” “What fool does that?” The master was quite insensitive to such human subtleties. “Many such fools exist, so nothing to be done. Kaneda’s wife interprets it so: ‘Like a loofah bewildered,’ she says, speaking ill of Kangetsu, so surely she thinks of him deeply.” Hearing this strange interpretation, the master, taken quite aback, rounded his eyes and, speechless, stared at Suzuki like a street fortune-teller. Suzuki, seeming to think “This fellow may botch it,” shifted the talk to something the master could judge. “Think: with that fortune and that beauty, she could match anywhere. Kangetsu may be great, but in station—no offense—in wealth, anyone sees they don’t match. That the parents worry enough to send me shows the girl has feelings, no?” Suzuki gave a clever explanation. The master now seemed convinced and Suzuki relaxed, but thinking further dawdling risked a rebuff, he resolved to press on and fulfill his mission swiftly. “So, as said, the other side says they need no money, but want the qualification attached to the person—a title, say. They’re not boasting ‘only if he’s a doctor’—don’t misunderstand. When the mistress came, Meitei said odd things—no, not your fault; she praised you as an honest, no-flattery sort. It was Meitei’s fault. If he’d become a doctor, they’d hold their head high socially. So, might Mizushima soon submit a doctoral thesis and take the degree? Kaneda alone needs no doctor, but society complicates things.” Thus pressed, the demand for a doctor seemed not wholly unreasonable; if not unreasonable, he wanted to oblige Suzuki. The master’s life or death lay in Suzuki’s hands. Truly, the master was simple and honest. “Then when Kangetsu comes, I’ll urge him to write a doctoral thesis. But whether he means to take Kaneda’s daughter, I must ask him first.” “Ask him? That bluntness ruins things. Best draw it out naturally in talk.” “Draw it out?” “Yes—or not even that; in conversation it’ll show.” “You may see, but I won’t know if not told plainly.” “If you don’t know, fine. But don’t let Meitei interfere and wreck it. Even if not urging, such things should be left to the person. When Kangetsu comes, don’t hinder him—no, not you, Meitei. With him, it’s hopeless.” As he heard Meitei scolded in his stead, lo, as the saying goes, speak of the devil—Meitei drifted in through the back door on the spring breeze as ever. “Well, a rare guest. A familiar like me, Kushami treats carelessly. One should come to Kushami’s but once a decade. This confection is finer than usual,” he said, gulping Tōson’s yōkan carelessly. Suzuki fidgeted; the master smirked; Meitei mumbled with full cheeks. Watching from the veranda, I thought silent drama well possible. If Zen’s wordless dialogue is mind-to-mind, this silent play was plainly such a curtain—short but sharp. “I thought you’d roam forever, but you’ve returned. Longevity is good; who knows what luck awaits,” Meitei said to Suzuki with no more reserve than to the master. Even self-cooking friends apart ten years grow distant, but Meitei showed none of it—great or foolish, hard to say. “Don’t mock me so,” Suzuki answered vaguely, ill at ease, nervously toying with his chain. “Ridden the electric railway?” the master suddenly asked Suzuki. “Today I’m here to be teased. Even a countryman holds sixty shares of the streetcar.” “That’s no mockery. I held eight hundred eighty-eight and a half, but worms ate most; now half a share. Had you come sooner, I’d have given you ten un-eaten ones—pity.” “Still sharp-tongued. But joking aside, such shares are no loss; they rise yearly.” “True, even half a share in a thousand years builds three granaries. You and I are modern talents, but Kushami’s pitiful—thinks shares are kin to radishes,” Meitei took more yōkan; the master, infected, reached for the dish. In this world, the active may be imitated. “Shares aside, I’d put Sorachi on a train once, at Nerosaki.” The master gazed ruefully at the bitten yōkan. “Sorachi on a train would ride to Shinagawa each time; better he stay carved as Tennen-koji on a daikon stone.” “Speaking of Sorachi, he died. Pity, a good mind,” Suzuki said; Meitei took up: “Good mind, worst cook. On his turn, I’d slip out for soba.” “Truly, his rice was burnt-smelling, and he served raw tofu—cold, uneatable,” Suzuki recalled ten-year grievances. “Kushami was Sorachi’s friend, nightly sweet-bean soup; now chronic weak stomach. He ate more, so should die first.” “What logic? You, under ‘exercise,’ nightly with a bamboo sword at the stupa, caught by the priest!” the master retorted. “Hahaha, the priest said stop tapping Buddha’s head. But Suzuki’s hands were rougher—wrestled three stones down.” “The priest was fierce: ‘Restore them!’ We said hire laborers; he said no, you must rise them yourself to show penance.” “You looked a sight—calico shirt, Etchū loincloth, groaning in puddles…” “You sketched me, calm-faced—cruel. I rarely anger, but then thought you rude. Recall your words?” “Who recalls ten years? But the stone read ‘Returned-spring Hermitage, Yellow-crane Great Layman, An’ei five, dragon January’—fine Gothic, I’d have stolen it.” Meitei swung his random aesthetics. “Fine, but your words: ‘I specialize in aesthetics’—”}

“Stories of the world, in your language.”