As usual, I sneak into the Kaneda mansion.
As usual—there is no need to explain that phrase now. It is a term indicating a frequency squared beyond mere repetition. Having done something once makes one want to do it twice; having tried it twice makes one want to try it thrice—this is not a curiosity limited to humans alone. Even a cat must be acknowledged as born into this world possessing this psychological privilege. Only when something is repeated three times or more is it first crowned with the name “habit,” and that this act evolves into a necessity of daily life is, again, no different from humans. If you suspect why I frequent the Kaneda residence with such diligent feet, I should first like to counter-question humanity. Why does man inhale smoke through his mouth and exhale it through his nose? It neither fills the belly nor serves as medicine for women’s ailments, yet without shame they puff and swallow unabashed; given that, I would prefer you not loudly censure my coming and going at Kaneda’s. The Kaneda mansion is my tobacco.
To say “sneak in” is misleading; it sounds unpleasant, as if I were a thief or a lover on the sly. I go to the Kaneda house unbidden, but never to filch a slice of bonito, nor to hold secret counsel with that snub-nosed Pekingese whose eyes and nose are convulsively crammed into the center of his face. —A spy, you ask?—Preposterous. I believe that in this world, next to moneylending, there is no baser trade than detective work. True, for the sake of Mr. Kangetsu I once stirred a chivalry unbecoming a cat and peeped from afar at the Kaneda household’s comings and goings; but that was a single instance, and never since have I acted in so foul a manner as to shame a cat’s conscience. —Then why use such dubious words as “sneak in”?—Well, that is deeply meaningful. According to my view, the great sky was made to cover all things and the vast earth to bear all things—not even the most obstinate debater could deny this. Yet how much labor did humanity expend in manufacturing this sky and earth? None whatsoever. One cannot claim ownership of what one did not make. Though one may deem it one’s own, there is no reason to forbid others’ entry. To fence off this boundless earth with petty walls and posts, marking thus-and-such as private property, is like roping off the blue heavens and filing that this part is my sky, that part his. If one may cut and sell the land by the tsubo, then one might as well cube the air we breathe and sell it by the cubic foot. If air cannot be thus retailed, and roping the sky is unjust, then private ownership of land is equally unreasonable. Holding this view and believing this law, I enter wherever I please. True, I do not go where I would not, but toward my chosen quarter there is no east-west-south-north distinction; with an untroubled face I saunter in. There is no reason to stand on ceremony before the likes of Kaneda. —Yet, the sorrow of cats is that by sheer force we are no match for humans. In this floating world where the maxim “might is right” prevails, however just our side, a cat’s argument carries no weight. To force it through risks suddenly biting the greengrocer’s carrying pole like the cartman’s black dog. When right is ours but power is theirs, shall we bend our reason and submit utterly, or slip past the eye of power and uphold our right? Naturally I choose the latter. Since the carrying pole cannot be avoided, one must sneak. Since entering another’s grounds is unobjectionable, one cannot but enter. Therefore I sneak into the Kaneda mansion.
The more often I sneak in, the less I intend to spy, yet inevitably sights I care not see imprint upon my unwilling eyes, and facts I care not learn lodge in my unwilling brain. How Mrs. Hanako wipes only her nose with particular care each time she washes her face; how Miss Tomiko consumes abekawa mochi without restraint; and then Mr. Kaneda himself—Mr. Kaneda, unlike his wife, is a low-nosed man. Not only the nose, but the whole face is low. As a child, in a fight, seized by the nape by the neighborhood bully and pressed flat against the earthen wall with all his might, that face persists to this day, forty years later, suspiciously unchanged in its flatness. Surely a most peaceful, harmless face, yet somehow lacking in variety. However angry, it stays smooth. —How this Kaneda eats maguro sashimi and slaps his own bald pate; how, being not only low-faced but short, he wears absurdly tall hats and high geta; how the cartman laughs at this and tells the student; how the student admires his keen observation—endless to recount.
Lately I pass through the garden by the kitchen door, and from behind the rockery survey the far side; when I confirm the sliding doors are shut and all is quiet, I mount leisurely. If voices are lively, or I fear being seen from the parlor, I circle the pond east and slip beneath the eaves by the privy unawares. I have done no wrong, so nothing to hide or fear; but meeting such lawless humans, one can only resign to ill luck, and were the world all Kumosaka Chohan, even the worthiest sage would act as I do. Mr. Kaneda is a great实业家, hardly one to swing a five-foot-three frame like Kumosaka; yet I hear he suffers a sickness of not thinking men men. If he thinks not men men, he’ll think not cats cats. Thus no cat, however virtuous, may lower its guard within his house. Yet that very unguardedness amuses me, and my frequenting his gate may be but for the thrill of danger. On that, having thoroughly dissected the cat brain, I shall later proclaim.
Wondering today’s look, I press my chin to the lawn atop the rockery and survey ahead: the fifteen-mat guest room stands open to the March spring, and within, Mr. and Mrs. Kaneda and one visitor are mid-conversation. Unfortunately Mrs. Hanako’s nose faces this way, glaring across the pond straight at my forehead. To be glared at by a nose is a first in life. Mr. Kaneda luckily shows his profile, so half his flat part is hidden, though the whereabouts of his nose unclear. Only his sesame-salt mustache grows ragged from a vague region, yet one readily concludes two holes must sit above. I imagined, by the way, how pleasant for spring wind to blow only such smooth faces. The guest has the most ordinary looks of the three. Ordinary as that is, there is nothing worth special introduction; the extreme of ordinary, entered the hall of mediocrity and the room of vulgarity, is rather pitiful. Who was fated with such meaningless features, born into Meiji’s bright age? As usual, I must go under the eaves to hear.
“…So my wife went all the way to that man’s to ask how things stood…” Mr. Kaneda uses his usual sidelong speech. Sidelong, yet not at all sharp; his language, like his face, is flat and vast.
“Indeed, since that man taught Mizushima… indeed, a fine notion… indeed,” the guest is all indeed.
“But somehow we got nothing conclusive.”
“Well, Kusamori would give nothing conclusive—since our lodging days he’s been utterly wishy-washy—must have been troubling, madam,” the guest turns to Mrs. Hanako.
“Troubling? Whether troubling or not, in all my years I never went to a house and got such treatment,” Hanako snorts as usual.
“Did he say something rude? Stubborn from of old—teaching riddles for ten years straight, you’d guess,” the guest smoothly joins.
“Why, he’d not even speak; when my wife asked, curt as could be…”
“Shocking—a little learning breeds pride, and poverty breeds spite—ah, the world’s full of scoundrels. Unaware of their own uselessness, they snap at the wealthy as if they’d seized their fortune—absurd, haha,” the guest greatly pleased.
“Truly beyond words; such arise from selfish ignorance of the world, so we thought to teach him a lesson, and pressed a bit.”
“Indeed, then he answered well; for his own good,” the guest agrees before knowing the pressing.
“But Suzuki, how stubborn! At school he won’t speak to Fukuchi or Tsuki. Thought he’d slunk off meek, but the other day chased our student with a cane—barefoot! Thirty years senior, how foolish! Quite cracked, I’d say.”
“Why such violence…?” even the guest seems puzzled.
“Oh, he just passed and said something; then suddenly out with the cane, barefoot. Even if he said a thing or two, he’s no child, a bearded teacher!”
“Being a teacher…” says the guest; “Being a teacher…” echoes Kaneda. That a teacher must, under any insult, stay woodenly quiet, seemed their unspoken consensus.
“And that Meitei is a queer one. Spins useless lies. Never met such a weirdo.”
“Ah Meitei, still blowing? Met at Kusamori’s? He’s hopeless. We self-cooked together, fought often, he mocked so.”
“Anyone’d rage. Lies are fine—when ashamed, or to cover—but his pour out needlessly, impossible. What wants him to spout such? Brazen!”
“Quite, a hobbyist’s lie, troublesome.”
“My earnest inquiry on Mizushima ruined. Infuriating—yet courtesy is courtesy, so I sent the cartman with a dozen beer. But guess? He said no reason to take, take back. The cartman said a gift, please—then rude: I lick jam daily but never drank bitter beer, and vanished inside. What cheek!”
“Outrageous,” the guest seems truly annoyed.
“So I called you today,” Kaneda’s voice pauses, “fools may be mocked in shadow, but it’s troublesome…” he slaps his bald head as when eating maguro. Though under the eaves I can’t see, I know the sound well, like a nun knows her wooden fish; from below, that tap means bald head. “So I’d trouble you…”
“Anything I can, pray command—my Tokyo post is thanks to your care,” the guest readily accepts. By tone, he’s Kaneda’s dependent. The case grows interesting; I came idly on fine weather, yet hit jackpot like a temple visit finding sweet cakes. What will Kaneda ask? I listen beneath the eaves.
“That freak Kusamori, for some reason, puts ideas in Mizushima’s head, hinting he shouldn’t take Kaneda’s daughter—Hanako, right?”
“Hint? He says no fool would take such a wretch’s daughter, tells Kangetsu absolutely not.”
“Such a wretch! So rude?”
“Not just said—the cartman’s boy reported it.”
“Suzuki, hear that? Troublesome, no?”
“Troubling; unlike else, one shouldn’t meddle in such; Kusamori should know. Why, though?”
“You lodged with him, once close, so I ask: meet him, show the stakes. He may be angry, but that’s his fault; if he behaves, we’ll accommodate, cease annoyance. If not, we’ll act too—his stubbornness hurts him.”
“True, foolish resistance only harms; I’ll speak well.”
“The girl has offers, can’t promise Mizushima, but he seems learned, decent; if he strives and soon becomes doctor, hint we might accept.”
“That’ll spur him. Good.”
“And strange—Mizushima calls Kusamori ‘master’ and heeds him, troubling. Not only Mizushima, but Kusamori’s meddling doesn’t hinder us…”
“Poor Mizushima,” Mrs. Hanako interjects.
“Never met him, but marriage with us is lifelong bliss, he’d agree.”
“He wants her, but Kusamori, Meitei, queer ones, say this and that.”
“Bad, unbecoming educated men. I’ll go talk.”
“Please, trouble you. And Kusamori knows Mizushima best, but my wife got nothing; ask his character, learning.”
“Understood. Saturday, he’ll be home; where’s he live?”
“Right ahead, left a cho, a broken black fence,” Hanako says.
“Near. I’ll drop by. The plate will tell.”
“Plate’s on and off; he pastes name cards with rice grains, rain peels them, sunny day pastes again. Useless; a wooden board would do. Truly unknowable.”
“Astonishing, but broken black fence, I’ll find.”
“Only such dirty house in town; or seek grass on roof, sure thing.”
“Quite distinctive, ahaha.”
Before Suzuki comes, I’d best leave. Enough heard. Along the eaves, west by the privy, out by the rockery to the road, quick home to the grass-roofed house, and calmly round to the veranda.
My master lies prone on a white wool blanket on the engawa, basking in spring sun. Sunlight is fair even on a hovel marked by pennywort; warm as Kaneda’s parlor, but the blanket unspringlike. Made white, sold white, bought white—twelve years ago—now deep gray. Whether it survives to black is doubtful; threads show, “blanket” is flattery, better “-et.” Yet master thinks one year, two, ten, must last life. Leisurely. On it, prone, he props his chin, holds a cigarette between fingers, nothing more. Though behind his scurfy head a great truth may whirl, outwardly no dream.
The ash falls on the blanket; he watches smoke rise. The smoke drifts in spring wind, rings toward the wife’s washed hair. —Ah, forgot the wife.
She faces her rear to master—rude? No. Rudeness is mutual interpretation. He rests cheek by her rear, she sets rear by his face; no rudeness. Within a year married, they’re transcendent. She, facing thus, today washed her long green-black hair with wheat gluten and raw egg, flings it shoulder to back, sews a child’s sleeve silently. To dry it, she put a crepe quilt and box out, presenting rear. Or he brought face to rear. The smoke flows into the rich hair, a strange heat; he gazes. Smoke rises, so his eyes follow: waist, back, shoulder, neck, to crown—and starts. —His wife’s crown bears a round bald spot, reflecting warm sun, triumphant. He stares, pupils wide. First he recalls the family Buddhist lamp dish, gold lacquer, brass, dim light; the contrast made it shine, imprinted as a child. Then a pigeon at Asakusa, fed beans in red clay like this spot.
“Indeed alike,” he says; “What?” she not looking.
“Your head’s got a big bald spot. Know?”
“Yes,” she sews on, unafraid. Transcendent wife.
“From before marriage, or after?” he asks; if before, he’s deceived.