十 1

“It is already seven o’clock, my dear,” his wife called through the sliding door. Whether the master was awake or still asleep, he lay face to the wall and made no answer. Not answering was this man’s habit. When he absolutely had to break the silence, he would say “un.” But even this “un” did not come easily. When a man grows so lazy that even replying becomes a nuisance, there is a certain charm about him, yet such men are precisely the ones who have never been liked by women. Even the wife who now shares his life does not seem to think much of him, so one may safely infer the rest. Abandoned by parents and siblings, and with no hope of being doted on by some stranger courtesan, as the saying goes, a master who cannot even win his own wife’s favor is hardly likely to be pleasing to the genteel ladies of the world. There is no particular need to expose the master’s unpopularity with the opposite sex here, but since he himself is under the mistaken impression that it is purely a matter of his yearly fortune that his wife does not care for him, it only breeds confusion; so out of kindness, merely to help him realize the truth, I add this note.

Even when told the hour had come and reminded of it, since the other party ignored the reminder and, lying face to the wall, would not even utter his “un,” the wife concluded that the fault lay with the husband, not the wife, and, assuming the attitude of “I know nothing if you are late,” shouldered her broom and duster and went off toward the study. Presently the patter of beating and sweeping throughout the study announced, as usual, the commencement of her customary cleaning. The purpose of cleaning—whether for exercise or for play—is no concern of mine, who bear no duty to clean, so I might well ignore it; yet her method of cleaning is such that one must call it utterly meaningless. Why meaningless? Because this wife cleans purely for the sake of cleaning. She gives the shoji a pass with the duster, slides the broom once over the tatami, and considers the cleaning done. She bears not the slightest responsibility for the cause or the result of cleaning. Hence the clean spots stay clean every day, while the places with dust and dirt always remain dusty and dirty. There is an old tale of the solitary sheep at the announcement of the new moon, so perhaps this is better than nothing. Yet it does her master no good. The admirable part of the wife is that she troubles herself daily with what does him no good. Wife and cleaning, through long years of habit, have formed a mechanical association, stubbornly linked, yet the reality of cleaning remains as if the wife were not yet born, as in the ancient days before broom and duster were invented—not the least advanced. I suppose the relation of these two is like the terms in a proposition of formal logic, joined regardless of content.

Unlike the master, I am by nature an early riser, and by now I was hungry. There was no question of my, a cat, getting to the breakfast table before the humans did, but that is the shamelessness of cats: thinking perhaps the savory steam of the abalone broth might be rising pleasantly from the shell, I could not stay still. When one hopes for the hopeless, knowing it hopeless, the wiser course is to picture only the hope and sit motionless; but I could not. Mind and reality must be tested whether they match. Even knowing the test must end in disappointment, one cannot accept the final letdown until it is actually felt. Unable to bear it, I crawled out to the kitchen. First I peered into the abalone shell by the stove, and sure enough, licked clean the night before, it lay silent, gleaming in the early autumn sunlight leaking through the side window. O-San had already transferred the freshly cooked rice to the wooden tub and was now stirring the pot on the charcoal brazier. Around the kettle, the boiled-over rice broth had dried in many streaks, some looking as if pasted with Yoshino paper. The rice and broth being ready, I thought she might feed me. To stand on ceremony then is foolish; even if my wish is not granted, I lose nothing, so I decided to boldly beg for breakfast. A boarder though I be, hunger is hunger. Having decided, I cried “nyaa nyaa,” coaxing, complaining, resentful. O-San paid no heed. Born indifferent, she was always known to be lacking in human feeling, but to wail skillfully and stir sympathy is my art. Next I tried “nyago nyago.” The cry, I myself believe, carried a tragic note enough to pierce the heart of a wanderer under heaven. O-San remained calm and heedless. Perhaps she is deaf. A deaf girl cannot serve as maid, but maybe she is deaf only to cat voices. The world has color-blindness; a person thinks himself fully sighted, yet the doctor calls him half-crippled—perhaps O-San is voice-blind. Voice-blind is surely crippled. Crippled yet impudent. Even at midnight, however much I ask her to open up, she never does. If she occasionally lets me out, then she will not let me in. In summer the dew is poison; how much more in frost—to stand under the eaves all night awaiting dawn is beyond imagining. Once when shut out, I was attacked by a stray dog and barely escaped by scrambling onto the woodshed roof, trembling till morning. All such troubles stem from O-San’s inhumanity. To cry before such a one brings no response, but hunger makes one pray to any god; as they say, poverty steals, love writes letters—so one tries most anything. On the third cry, “nyago-o nyago-o,” I deliberately complicated the wail to draw attention. I was certain it rivaled Beethoven’s symphony in beauty, yet O-San showed no effect. Suddenly she knelt, flipped up a board, and pulled out a four-inch hard charcoal stick. She tapped it on the brazier corner—crack—and it broke into three, blackening the vicinity with dust, some likely falling into the broth. O-San is not one to care. She shoved the three pieces under the pot into the brazier. No ear for my symphony. Defeated, I turned back toward the sitting room, and passing the bath, found three girls washing faces—quite lively.

Washing faces—the elder two are kindergarten pupils, the third too small to follow her sister, so proper washing or clever makeup is impossible. The smallest drags a wet rag from the bucket and rubs her face; a rag wash must feel foul, but she is the child who cries “omochi roi” at every quake, so no surprise. Perhaps she understands more than Dokusen. The eldest, aware of her rank, throws a rinsing cup clattering: “Boya-chan, that’s a rag,” and reaches to take it. Boya-chan is confident, ignores her: “Iyaa-yo, babu,” pulling the rag back. None knows the meaning or origin of “babu”; only that Boya-chan uses it in tantrums. The rag, pulled both ways, drips on Boya’s feet, then knees—he wears a “Genroku” pattern. Asked what Genroku means, apparently any chrysanthemum pattern counts. Who taught him? “Boya-chan, Genroku gets wet, stop,” says the sister, stylish—though until recently she confused Genroku with sugoroku.

Speaking of Genroku, children’s miswords are many, sometimes absurd. “Mushrooms fly from fires,” “go to the miso girls’ school,” “list Ebisu and kitchen together,” once “I am not a straw-shop child”—meaning back-alley. The master laughs, yet he teaches English with worse errors.

Boya—he says “Boyaba”—seeing Genroku wet, cried “Gen-dokoga beta-i.” Cold Genroku being serious, O-San rushed from kitchen, took the rag, wiped him. Quiet through the fuss was the second daughter, Sunko, who turned away, opened a fallen powder jar, and made up. She drew a white line down the nose, then a patch on the cheek. Just done, the maid wiped Boya and then Sunko’s face; Sunko looked displeased.

I watched and went to the bedroom; the master’s head was nowhere, only a foot poking from the quilt. He had hidden to avoid waking. His wife, finished cleaning, came with broom and duster: “Still not up?” Silence. She stepped in: “Still, dear?” The master was awake, had hidden his head to evade. No mercy. First call from threshold, safe; but the broom tapped three feet away startled him. The second call, louder and nearer, reached inside; he muttered “un.”

“You will be there by nine. Hurry or you’ll be late.”

“I’m getting up now,” from the sleeve—odd. The wife, fooled before, pressed: “Get up.” The master resents being told to rise after saying he will. He flung off the quilt; both eyes open.

“Noisy. I said I’d rise.”

“You say but don’t.”

“Who lied?”

“Always.”

“Fool.”

“Who’s fool,” she said, broom planted by the pillow—brave. Then the cartman’s child, Hachan, wailed; his mother makes him cry whenever the master rages, hoping for coin. Hachan is the victim. The master, softened a bit, might lengthen Hachan’s life, but hired by Kaneda, the foolery is worse than Tenpō-kōhei. Hachan cries preemptively. Then who is master? To hit the master, just hit Hachan. Like the West burning effigies when the criminal flees, they know the stratagem. The school and Hachan’s mother are his betes noires; others too, maybe the whole town, but I defer.

At Hachan’s cry the master rose in rage, scratching his head raw, dandruff flying. His beard bristled, each hair angry. Yesterday before the mirror he mimicked the German emperor; a night erased it. Only Japan’s breadth lets such a man teach, and Kaneda and his dog pass as human; while they do, the master keeps his post, or so he trusts, ready to post a card to Tenpō-kōhei.

The master opened his primeval eyes at the cabinet—two sliding doors upper and lower. The lower, near the quilt, showed torn paper and scraps. He wanted to read. From raging to reading is his way, like a child given candy. Once boarding at a temple, nuns sang “the crying crow now laughs” to his rhythm; he hated them since. He laughs, cries, rejoices, grieves, doubly, but briefly. Call it unstuck, or a shallow stubborn brat. So he turned to the scraps. First, Itō Hirobumi upside down: “Meiji 11, Sept 28.” The Resident-General chased edicts even then. What was the general doing? “Minister of Finance.” Upside down, still minister. To the left, the minister naps sideways—natural. Below, “You are” on wood, rest hidden. Next line “Early,” then gone. A detective might tear it; detectives stop at nothing, even framing the innocent—better they refrain. The middle: Ōita Prefecture somersaults; fitting after Itō. The master raised both fists and yawned—a whale’s howl—then rose, dressed, went to wash.

The wife folded the quilt and cleaned. The master washed as ever, “gā gā, ge ge,” parted his hair, threw a towel over his shoulder, and sat by the long brazier—not the fine keyaki or bronze, but a dim, unpolished thing of unknown wood, taken from a late relative’s house when he watched it. Borderline theft; but bankers and officials do the same with others’ money and power, so one cannot call him a thief alone. If he is, all are.

By the brazier, the three girls ate: Boya with rag-face, Tonko of the miso school, Sunko with powder. The master looked: Tonko’s face like a sword guard, Sunko a vermilion tray, Boya long—not vertical but horizontal. No fashion favors that. The master, though his child, wondered. He must grow, fast as bamboo; each time the master thought “grown,”

“Stories of the world, in your language.”