十 3

“That’s the sort of thing she said.” “Is Mr. Tatara a carefree sort?” “Yes, well, more or less. —So then Baka-chiku came before the Jizo statue, folded his arms, and said, ‘Jizo-sama, the people of the neighborhood say they want you to move, so you’d better move.’ And then the Jizo immediately said, ‘Oh, is that so? Well, you should’ve said so sooner,’ and toddled off.” “What a strange Jizo.” “And then came the speech.” “There’s more?” “Yes. Then Mr. Yagi said, ‘Today is a gathering of ladies, but I have taken the trouble to tell you this story for a particular reason. Though it may be rude to say so, women have a tendency to avoid the straight and shortcut path when doing things, and instead take roundabout means from afar. To be sure, this is not limited to women. In the Meiji era, even men, having been affected by the evils of civilization, have become somewhat feminine, and many mistakenly believe that wasting needless trouble and labor is the proper course and the gentlemanly policy. But these are deformed children bound by the fetters of enlightenment, and need no discussion. I only ask that the ladies remember this old tale I have told, and when the time comes, please deal with matters with the honest mindset of Baka-chiku. If you become Baka-chiku, surely a third of the hateful strife that arises between husband and wife, or between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, will be reduced. The more scheming a person is, the more that scheming becomes a curse and the source of misfortune. The reason many women are more unhappy than the average man is entirely because they scheme too much. Please become Baka-chiku,’ that was the speech.” “My, so Yukie, are you going to become Baka-chiku?” “Goodness, Baka-chiku indeed. I have no desire to become such a thing. Miss Tomiko of the Kaneda family was quite offended and very angry, I tell you.” “Miss Tomiko of the Kaneda family, the one on the street across the way?” “Yes, that fashionable lady.” “Does she go to your school, Yukie?” “No, she just came to observe, since it was a women’s association meeting. She’s truly fashionable. It’s quite astonishing.” “But isn’t she said to be very beautiful?” “She’s ordinary. Not as proud as she makes out. Anyone looks good with that much makeup.” “Then someone like Yukie, if she put on makeup like that, would be twice as beautiful as Miss Kaneda.” “Oh, stop. That’s fine, I don’t know. But that woman really overdoes it. No matter how much money she has—” “Even if she overdoes it, isn’t it better to have money?” “That may be so, but—that woman especially should become a bit more like Baka-chiku. She puts on such airs. The other day she was boasting to everyone that some poet or other presented her with a collection of new-style poetry.” “That would be Mr. Kocho.” “My, that he presented it to her—how very romantic.” “But Mr. Kocho is quite serious. He thinks it’s only natural to do such a thing.” “That’s exactly why it’s no good. —And there’s another amusing thing. Apparently someone sent her a love letter the other day.” “Oh my, how vulgar. Who did such a thing?” “They say no one knows who.” “Was there no name?” “There was a name written plainly enough, but it was someone they’d never heard of. And it was a letter a full six feet long, with all sorts of strange things written in it. Something like: ‘My love for you is just as a religious devotee longs for God; to be slaughtered as a lamb offered on the altar for your sake would be my supreme honor; my heart is triangular in shape, and at the center of that triangle stands Cupid’s arrow—if it were a blowdart, it would be a bullseye’…” “Is that serious?” “They say it’s serious. Why, among my friends, there are three who have seen the letter.” “How nasty, showing it off like that. She’s supposed to marry Mr. Kangetsu, so wouldn’t it be troubling if the world found out?” “Troubling? She’s delighted. You should tell Mr. Kangetsu when he comes. He probably hasn’t the faintest idea.” “I wonder. He only goes to school and polishes balls, so he likely doesn’t know.” “I wonder if Mr. Kangetsu really intends to take her. How pitiful.” “Why? She has money, and can be of help in a pinch. Isn’t that fine?” “Auntie, you’re always going on about money, it’s in poor taste. Isn’t love more important than money? Without love, marriage can’t exist.” “Very well, then Yukie, where will you marry into?” “How should I know? There’s nothing at all.”

As Yukie and her aunt were vigorously debating the matter of marriage, Tongo, who had been listening respectfully though understanding nothing, suddenly spoke up: “I want to get married too.” At this reckless wish, even Yukie, full of youthful spirit and normally quite sympathetic, was somewhat taken aback, but the mistress remained comparatively calm and, smiling, asked, “Where would you like to go?” “Well, actually, I’d like to marry into the Shokonsha shrine, but I hate crossing the Suidobashi bridge, so I’m wondering what to do.”

The mistress and Yukie, having received this brilliant answer, were so astonished they lacked the courage to question further, and collapsed into laughter. Just then, the second daughter, Sunko, made such a proposal to her sister: “Sis, do you like the Shokonsha too? I love it too. Let’s both marry into the Shokonsha. Hmm? No? If you won’t, that’s fine. I’ll ride in a rickshaw all by myself and be off in a flash.” “I’m going too,” and finally even Baby-chan decided to marry into the Shokonsha. If the three of them had gone off to marry into the Shokonsha together, the master would surely have been relieved.

Just then, the sound of a rickshaw rattled to a stop at the gate, and immediately a cheerful voice announced his return. The master had apparently come back from the Nihon-zutsumi police station. He had the maid take a large wrapped bundle from the rickshaw man, and the master strolled leisurely into the sitting room. “Ah, you’re here,” he greeted Yukie, and by the famous long brazier, tossed down the thing he held in his hand—a sake bottle-like object. It was of course not purely a sake bottle, nor did it seem a flower vase; it was merely a peculiar kind of pottery, so for lack of a better term it has been called thus. “What a strange bottle. Did you get that from the police?” Yukie asked her uncle, picking up the fallen thing. The uncle, looking at Yukie’s face, boasted, “Well? Fine shape, isn’t it?” “Fine shape? That? It’s not very good. Why did you bring an oil pot?” “An oil pot? That’s why you’re hopeless, saying such tasteless things.” “Then what is it?” “A flower vase.” “For a flower vase, the mouth’s too small and the body’s ridiculously bulged.” “That’s the interesting part. You’ve no artistic sense. Just like your aunt, no difference at all. Hopeless.” He picked up the oil pot himself and held it toward the shoji to gaze at it. “I’m tasteless, sure. I can’t go fetching oil pots from the police. Right, Auntie?” The aunt was in no state for that; she was untying the wrapped bundle with wide eyes, inspecting the stolen goods. “Oh, how surprising. Even thieves have progressed. Everything’s been taken apart and washed. Here, look at this.” “Who gets oil pots from the police? I was bored waiting, so while strolling around there I dug it up. You wouldn’t understand, but it’s a rare item.” “Too rare. Where on earth did you stroll, Uncle?” “Where? Around Nihon-zutsumi. I even went into Yoshiwara. Quite a lively place. Ever seen that iron gate? No, you haven’t.” “Who’d look? I’ve no reason to go to a place like Yoshiwara where fallen women are. For a teacher to go somewhere like that—really, I’m shocked. Auntie, Auntie.” “Yes, indeed. It seems the count’s a bit short. Is this everything returned?” “Only the yam is missing. They said come at nine, then made me wait till eleven—no proper police would do that. That’s why Japan’s police are no good.” “You say Japan’s police are no good, but strolling through Yoshiwara is worse. If that gets out, you’ll be dismissed. Auntie?” “Yes, you would be. Oh, one side of my obi is missing. I thought something was lacking.” “Forget one side of an obi. I was made to wait three hours and lost half a day of precious time.” He changed into Japanese clothes, leaned calmly by the brazier, and gazed at the oil pot. The mistress resigned herself, put the returned items as they were into the cabinet, and returned to her seat. “Auntie, he says this oil pot is a rare item. Isn’t it dirty?” “Did you buy that in Yoshiwara? My word.” “What ‘my word’? You don’t even know.” “Even so, a pot like that—you needn’t go to Yoshiwara, they’re anywhere.” “But there aren’t. It’s a very rare item.” “Uncle, you’re quite the stone Jizo.” “Again the child speaks impertinently. These schoolgirls have foul mouths nowadays. They should read some ‘Women’s University’ book.” “Uncle, you dislike insurance, don’t you? Which do you hate more, schoolgirls or insurance?” “I don’t dislike insurance. It’s necessary. Anyone with foresight joins. Schoolgirls are useless excess.” “Useless excess is fine. You haven’t even joined insurance.” “I intend to from next month.” “Really?” “Absolutely.” “Don’t, insurance and all. Rather buy something with that premium. Auntie?” The aunt smiled vaguely. The master turned serious: “You think you’ll live a hundred, two hundred years, so you say such careless things. Develop a bit more reason and you’ll naturally feel the need for insurance. I’m joining next month for sure.” “Well, then there’s no help. But if you have money to buy a parasol like the other day, joining insurance might be better. You forced it on me when I said I didn’t want it.” “You didn’t want it that much?” “No, I didn’t want a parasol.” “Then return it. Tongo happens to want one, I’ll give it to her. Did I bring it today?” “Oh, that’s too much. How cruel—after kindly buying it for me, to say return it.” “You said you didn’t want it, so I say return it. Not cruel at all.” “I don’t want it, but it’s cruel.” “What a senseless thing to say. You say you don’t want it, I say return it—where’s the cruelty?” “But—” “But what?” “But it’s cruel.” “Foolish, repeating the same thing.” “Uncle, you’re repeating the same thing too.” “You repeat, so I must. You said you didn’t want it.” “I said so. I don’t want it, but I won’t return it.” “Astonishing. Senseless and stubborn, hopeless. Don’t they teach logic at your school?” “Fine, I’m uneducated, say what you will. No stranger would say such heartless things as return someone’s gift. Try a bit of Baka-chiku’s act.” “What act?” “Be a bit honest and simple, I mean.” “You fool, yet stubborn. That’s why you fail.” “Even if I fail, you won’t pay my tuition.”

Yukie, as if unable to bear it, let a tear fall upon her purple hakama. The master, blankly, as if studying what psychological action caused the tear, stared at the hakama and at Yukie’s downcast face. Just then Omitsu, from the kitchen, placed red hands over the threshold: “A guest has come.” “Who?” asked the master. “A student from the school,” Omitsu answered, eyeing Yukie’s tearful face sidelong. The master went to the parlor. I, for the sake of gathering material and studying humans, followed him stealthily to the veranda. To study humans, one must choose times of turmoil, or no results come. Normally most people are most people, and seeing or hearing is so plain it’s pointless. But when the moment comes, this plainness suddenly, by a mysteriously spiritual action, heaves up into the strange, the odd, the queer, the bizarre—in short, events most educational for us cats appear everywhere like a crosswind. Yukie’s crimson tears were surely one such phenomenon. So incomprehensible, unfathomable of heart, Yukie had seemed ordinary while talking with the mistress, but the moment the master returned and tossed the oil pot, she was like a dead dragon injected with a steam pump, and abruptly displayed, without reserve, the deep, unknowable, exquisite, wonderful, mysterious, beautiful quality within. And this quality is common to all women. Only regrettably it rarely appears. Nay, it appears unceasingly, but not so prominently, so blazingly, so shamelessly. Fortunately, a master like mine—a whimsical man who always strokes my fur backward—was there, so we could witness such a drama. If one but follows the master, wherever he goes the actors move unwittingly. A funny man as master gives even a short cat life many experiences. How grateful. Who is this guest?

He looked seventeen or eighteen, a student trading words with Yukie as equals. A large head cropped close enough to see scalp, a dumpling nose centered on the face, sitting restrained in the corner. No particular feature, but the skull is very large. Even shaved it looks huge; grown long like the master’s, it would surely draw eyes. The master’s longstanding theory: such faces seldom study well. Perhaps true, but at a glance he looks like Napoleon, quite imposing. His clothes, like usual students—Satsuma kasuri, Kurume gasuri, or Iyo kasuri, unclear—but an unlined kasuri jacket with short sleeves, and apparently no shirt or under-robe. Bare jacket and bare feet are said stylish, but his give a most slovenly impression. Especially the three bare toes printed clearly like a thief’s on the tatami—surely the fault of bare feet. He sat properly on his fourth footprint, looking ill at ease. That a rude chestnut-burr head should be so humble is somehow incongruous. A crowd that prides itself on not bowing even to teachers on the road must suffer sitting like normal people for thirty minutes. Yet he poses as a humble gentleman, a virtuous elder; regardless of his discomfort, it looks quite funny. One-on-one like this, even a foolish master gains some weight before a student. The master must be pleased. As dust piles into a mountain, a tiny student in numbers becomes a force not to scorn, perhaps launching boycotts or strikes. Like a coward drinking courage, relying on the crowd to riot is drunken on mob spirit, losing sense—else such a cowering Satsuma kasuri would never slight a master. Cannot dismiss.

The master pushed a cushion: “Sit, please.” But the chestnut master stayed stiff: “Yes,” and did not move. Before his nose, a frayed sarasa cushion sat unspoken, behind it a live big head squatted—odd. A cushion is to sit on, not bought by the mistress from a bazaar to be stared at. Unused, its honor is damaged, and the master who offered it loses face. The chestnut fellow staring down the cushion at cost to the master’s face does not hate the cushion. Truth: he’s rarely sat formally since birth except his grandfather’s funeral, and his legs are going numb, toes complaining. Yet he won’t sit. The cushion waits idle, yet he won’t. The master says sit, yet he won’t. Troublesome chestnut priest. If so shy, shy more at school, at boarding house. He fears where he shouldn’t, and isn’t humble when he should—nay, rampages. Vicious chestnut priest.

Then the back shoji slid, and Yukie offered a bowl of tea respectfully. Normally she’d tease “Savage tea,” but before the master alone she’s pained, and a fair lady with new Ogasawara-style grace thrust the cup—the priest looked in agony. Yukie smiled slyly behind the closing shoji. Thus women, even same age, are formidable, far bolder than the priest. Especially after the earlier tear, the sly smile stood out.

After Yukie withdrew, both silent, enduring a while, the master realized this was like work and spoke: “You said something?” “Furui…” “Furui? Furui what. Name?” “Furui Buemon.” “Furui Buemon—indeed, a long name. Not modern, old-style. Fourth year?” “No.” “Third?” “No, second year.” “Class A?” “Class B.” “B, then under my charge. I see,” the master mused. In fact this big head caught his eye since enrollment, never forgotten. Nay, he dreams of it. But easygoing, he never linked head to old name to class B. So learning this dream head was his student, he clapped inwardly. Yet why this big head, old name, his student, comes now—he cannot guess. Unpopular master, students never visit New Year or year-end. This is first such guest, but puzzled by purpose, he’s stuck. No reason to visit dull man for play; if resignation advice, he’d be prouder; Buemon has no personal business. From any side, master knows not. Buemon himself may not know why he came. So master asked outright: “Came to play?” “No.” “Then business?” “Yes.” “School matter?” “Yes, I thought to talk a bit…” “Hm. What? Speak,” the master said. Buemon looked down, silent. Normally a talkative second-year, big head but undeveloped brain, yet top of Class B in chat. He’s the one who demanded Columbus in Japanese and troubled the master. That chatterer now fidgets like a stuttering princess—must mean something. Not mere shyness. Master doubts. “If you have to say, say it.” “Bit hard to say…” “Hard?” the master looked at his face, but he kept down, unreadable. Master changed tone: “Fine. Say anything. No one hears. I won’t repeat.” “May I speak?” Buemon still hesitates. “Sure,” master judged freely. “Then I’ll speak,” he said, lifted the chestnut head, squinted at the master. His eyes triangular. Master puffed cheek, blew Asahi smoke, looked aside. “Fact is… it’s become troubling…” “What?” “Troubling, so I came.” “So what’s troubling?” “No such intent, but Hamada kept saying lend, lend…” “Hamada, Hamada Heisuke?” “Yes.” “Lent him boarding fee?” “Not that.” “Then what?” “My name.” “Hamada borrowed your name for what?” “Sent a love letter.”

“Stories of the world, in your language.”