And Then

  Of course, Daisuke did not intend to elaborate on this philosophy to his sister-in-law. But sometimes, driven into a corner, he would ask in despair, “But is it absolutely necessary that I get a wife?” Daisuke was of course perfectly serious in asking this, but his sister-in-law was aghast. She would end up interpreting it as Daisuke’s making fun of her. That night, after going through the usual procedure with him, Umeko said, “It’s strange, how much you don’t want to get married— you say it’s not that you don’t want to, but if you won’t get married it comes to the same thing as your not wanting to. In that case, there must be someone you like. Why don’t you tell me her name?”

  Of all the prospects thus far, Daisuke could not recall a single one whom he had mentally designated as a woman he liked. But now, confronted with Umeko’s question, the name Michiyo came floating to his mind, and behind it, the words “that’s why I’d like you to lend me the money’’ formed of their own accord. But Daisuke only smiled ironically and sat quietly before his sister.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE NIGHT WAS LATE by the time Daisuke left for home without having succeeded with his sister-in-law. So late, in fact, that he barely managed to catch the last streetcar from Aoyama. Even so, all the while he was talking, neither his father nor his brother came home. Umeko was called to the telephone twice. Since there was nothing unusual in her manner, Daisuke had not bothered to ask after them.

  That night, the sky, which threatened rain, seemed to have taken on the color of the earth. As he waited all alone by the red pole marking the streetcar stop, a small ball of fire appeared in the distance. It struck him as terribly forlorn as it flickered up and down, heading straight toward him. When he got on, he found himself the only passenger. Sandwiched between the black-garbed conductor and the driver, he moved on, buried in a certain kind of sound, and saw that everything was black outside the moving train. Seated all alone in the spotlight, Daisuke felt as if he might ride on and on, and, in the end, without having had the chance to get off, be dragged along forever.

  When he got off at Kagurazaka, the deserted road, hemmed in by two-storied houses on either side, closed in long and narrow before him. When he was halfway up, the road began to reverberate. Daisuke thought that it must be the wind hitting the ridges of the houses. He stopped and looked up at the dark eaves. As he swept his eyes from the roofs to the sky, he was suddenly overcome by a kind of terror. The rattling of the doors, glass panels, and shoji became furious, and by the time he said to himself, it’s an earthquake, his legs, though still standing, were bent double. At that instant he thought the two-storied houses would come toppling down from both sides and bury the hill. Just then, a small side door burst open and a man came out carrying a child, shouting, it’s an earthquake, it’s an earthquake, it’s a huge earthquake! Hearing the man’s voice, Daisuke felt reassured at last.

  When he got home, the old woman and Kadono were full of talk about the earthquake. But Daisuke thought that neither of them could have felt it as he had. When he got into bed, he tried once more to think of how he should handle Michiyo’s request. But he did not go so far as to tax his mind. He tried to guess what lay behind his father’s and brother’s recent extreme activity. He resolved to continue to vacillate on the marriage question. Finally, he fell asleep.

  The next day, the so-called Japan Sugar Company Incident appeared in the newspapers for the first time. The report was that the executives of a sugar refinery had used company funds to bribe several members of the Diet. Kadono, as usual, found it “thrilling” that business executives and politicians were being taken into custody, but Daisuke could not find it all that thrilling. In two or three days, as the number of those under investigation increased, people began to clamor as if it were a major scandal. One paper even termed it a “roundup for England.’’ The explanation went that the British ambassador had bought up Japan Sugar stock and lost on it; when he began to register his dissatisfaction, the Japanese government had embarked on this course to mollify him.

  Shortly before the Japan Sugar Incident, a firm called the Oriental Steamship Company had reported a loss of eight hundred thousand yen in the six-month period following payment of a 12 percent dividend. Daisuke remembered this incident. He also remembered that at the time, the newspapers had questioned the credibility of the report.

  Daisuke knew nothing about the firm with which his father and brother were associated. But he had always thought that something could happen any day. And he did not believe that his father and brother were blameless in every respect. He even wondered if, under strict scrutiny, they might not both qualify for investigation. Even if it did not go that far, he certainly would not affirm that their fortunes had been made with sheer skill and daring. In the early years of the Meiji Period, the government, in order to encourage immigration to the Yokohama area, had offered free land. There were people today who enjoyed considerable wealth because of the land they had received at that time. This belonged to the category of heaven-bestowed good fortune. But, men like his father and brother, thought Daisuke, built their own hothouses in which they could artificially, and moreover, calculatingly, go about creating the good fortune that would benefit only themselves.

  With thoughts such as these, Daisuke was not particularly surprised by the newspaper reports. Nor was he so honest as to worry about his father’s and brother’s company. Only Michiyo weighed on his mind somewhat. But to go to her empty-handed was disagreeable; he resolved to do something in the near future, and then he spent four or five days immersed in his reading. Strangely enough, he heard not a word from either Hiraoka or from Michiyo about the money. In his heart, Daisuke thought that Michiyo might come alone to get his answer, and he waited expectantly. But the waiting was in vain.

  In the end, he began to be beset by ennui. Wondering if there might not be some place where he could divert himself, he began to look through the entertainment guides and thought of going to a play. He took the Sotobori line from Kagurazaka, but by the time he got to Ochanomizu, he changed his mind and decided instead to visit an old classmate named Terao in Morikawachō. This fellow, upon graduation, had announced that since he did not want to teach, he was going to make literature his business. Heedless of the warnings of those around him, he had launched out on a risky venture. Three years had gone by, but he had yet to make his name. Gasping and panting, he continued to make his living by writing. Daisuke, pressed to write something—anything—for a magazine with which Terao was associated, had once sent in a humorous piece. For one month it had lain exposed to the elements in the stands at the front of magazine shops and then was doomed to disappear forever from the world of man. Since then, Daisuke had refused to pick up his brush. Every time he saw Daisuke, Terao urged him to write again, never failing to add, look at me. But report had it that he was actually on the verge of giving up. He was partial to Russian works, especially those by writers whom others had never heard of, and his vice was to spend his last penny on a newly published book. Once, when he had become too bombastic, Daisuke had teased that as long as writers were obsessed with Russia they would never get anywhere. It was impossible to talk with those who hadn’t gotten beyond the Russo-Japanese War. Looking serious, Terao had answered that he was willing to do battle any time, but simply to ascend to paradise as postwar Japan had done was terribly dull. It might be cowardly, but it was still safer to be afflicted with a passion for Russia. Thus Terao persisted in championing Russian literature.

  Going in from the entranceway, Daisuke found Terao seated at a lacquered desk in the middle of the room, a towel tied around his head (a headache, he said), sleeves rolled up, working on a manuscript for Imperial Literature. Daisuke offered to come another day if he was busy, but Terao answered no, there was no need to leave, he had already done (here he paused to calculate) five times five, two yen and fifty sen’s worth of work since the morning. Presently, he took off the towel and began to talk, almost immediately comme
ncing to rail—with a ferocity that all but took one’s breath away—at contemporary Japanese writers and critics. Daisuke listened, entertained. But he secretly thought that Terao was engaging in mudslinging because no one would praise him. Why not publish some of those views, he urged; that wouldn’t do, Terao laughed. Asked why not, he refused to answer. After a while, he came back with, of course, if he were in Daisuke’s shoes and had an easy life, he would not hesitate to speak out; as it was, he had to eat after all. It wasn’t a serious business anyway. That was all right, he should just do his best, encouraged Daisuke. It wasn’t all right at all, answered Terao. He very much wanted to do something serious. How about it, didn’t Daisuke feel like lending him a little money and making a serious fellow out of him? No, when the time came that Terao felt he was being serious doing just the kind of thing he was now doing, then he would lend him money, teased Daisuke. With these words he stepped outside.

  He came out to the street in Hongō, but the feeling of ennui was the same as ever. No matter where he wandered, he felt unsatisfied, and he had lost the urge to visit.

  Examining himself, he realized that his whole body felt as if it had turned into an enormous upset stomach. He caught the streetcar from Fourth Street and arrived at Dentsūinmae. Each time the train shook, he felt as if something rotten inside his five-foot-plus upset stomach were pulsating in waves. It was past three when he listlessly meandered home. Kadono met him at the door, saying “There was a messenger from your home. I left the letter on your desk in the study. I signed the receipt for it myself.”

  The letter was in an old-fashioned message case. Nothing, not even the addressee’s name, was written on its red exterior; it was marked with black ink where the narrow folds had been sealed and pushed through a brass ring. Daisuke took one look at the top of his desk and knew the sender to be his sister-in-law. There was no mistaking Umeko’s quaint tastes, which from time to time found unexpected expression. Poking at the sealed folds with scissors, Daisuke thought she had gone to troublesome lengths.

  But the letter within was just the opposite of its container. It was simple, colloquial, and to the point. She was sorry that she had been unable to comply with his request the other day when he had taken the trouble to come over. Looking back, she was disturbed that she had been so forward and rude. She hoped he would not think badly of her. But she was giving him the money. Though she couldn’t quite manage the entire sum. She had put together just two hundred yen. He should take it to his friends right away. This was to be kept a secret from his brother, so he should bear that in mind. She had not forgotten the question about his wife, so he should think his answer over carefully.

  Rolled inside the letter was a check for two hundred yen. As he looked at it, Daisuke began to feel apologetic toward Umeko. On his way out the other night, she had asked, didn’t he need the money, then? When he had thrust the request at her, she had flung it back sharply, yet when he had given up and was about to leave, she had anxiously sought his reassurance. Daisuke saw in her behavior both the beauty and the frailty of women. And he lost the heart to take advantage of such a weakness, because he could not bear to trifle with such beautiful frailty. Saying no, he didn’t need it, things would probably work out somehow, he had left. No doubt Umeko had thought that a cruel response. It must have been those cold words that had caught somewhere behind her normal resoluteness and led to this letter.

  Daisuke answered immediately. He tried to express his gratitude as warmly as possible. Daisuke never felt such inclinations toward his brother. Nor toward his father. Nor, naturally, toward society at large. And lately, he had seldom felt this way even toward Umeko.

  Daisuke thought of going to Michiyo’s right away. But the fact was, two hundred yen was an odd sum. He even thought that as long as she was going to give him this much, she should have gone all the way and satisfied him completely by giving him what he had asked for to begin with. But this thought came to him only when his mind turned from Umeko to Michiyo. And for Daisuke, who believed that all women, even the most resolute, wavered when it came to matters of the heart, Umeko’s action did not seem cause for complaint. Indeed, insofar as it was indicative of a more expansive sympathy, he found the attitude more agreeable than the intransigency of men. If it had been his father instead of Umeko who had sent the two hundred yen, Daisuke would have seen it as an instance of financial wavering and doubtless would have found it more disagreeable.

  Daisuke went out without eating dinner. He followed the banks of the Edogawa River from Gokenchō, and by the time he crossed the river, the spiritual fatigue that had beset him during his afternoon walk had lifted. Climbing the hill and coming out at the side of the Dentsūin, he came upon a tall, narrow chimney, spewing dirty smoke from between the temples into the cloudy sky. The labored breathing of a puny industrial force struggling to survive was unsightly to Daisuke. He could not help half-consciously associating this chimney with Hiraoka, who lived nearby. At such times his esthetic sense always took precedence over his sympathy. Daisuke was so affected by the wretched coal smoke dispersing into the sky that for an instant, he all but forgot Michiyo.

  In Hiraoka’s doorway, a pair of women’s sandals lay where they had been flung off. When Daisuke opened the grating, Michiyo came out from the back, letting her hem rustle softly. It was already dark in the cramped vestibule. Michiyo sat down and greeted him from the midst of the darkness. At first, she could not seem to tell who it was, but as soon as she heard Daisuke’s voice, she said, rather low, that she had wondered who it was. Daisuke gazed at Michiyo’s indistinct form and found it more beautiful than usual.

  Hiraoka was absent. When he heard this, Daisuke found it at once easier and harder to go on talking; it was a peculiar feeling. But Michiyo, for her part, was as composed as ever. The two sat together without even lighting a lamp or opening up the dark room.

  Michiyo said the maid was also out. She herself had been out to do an errand and had just finished her dinner. Eventually, Hiraoka’s name was mentioned.

  As Daisuke had anticipated, Hiraoka was still running about busily. But in the past week or so, he had begun not to go out very much. He said he was tired and often stayed home to sleep. Or else he drank. If anyone came to visit, he drank still more. And he scolded a good deal. He railed all the time. This was Michiyo’s story.

  “I don’t know what to do, he’s become so violent, so different from the way he used to be,” said Michiyo, as if tacitly seeking sympathy. Daisuke was silent. The maid had returned and was rattling the kitchen door. Presently, she brought in a lamp with a spotted bamboo base. As she went out, she stole a glance at Daisuke’s face.

  Daisuke took the check from his kimono. He placed it as it was, folded in two, before Michiyo and said, Okusan. It was the first time he had ever called her “Okusan.”

  “The money that you asked for the other day . . .”

  Michiyo said nothing. She only lifted her eyes and looked at Daisuke.

  “I meant to bring it right away, but I couldn’t quite arrange it, so it’s late—but how about it, have you managed to settle that affair?” he asked.

  Then Michiyo’s voice suddenly became low and forlorn. She sounded bitter as she said, “No, not yet. There’s no reason why we should be able to clear it up.” With these words, she continued to gaze steadily at Daisuke.

  Daisuke opened the folded check and said, “This much wouldn’t do?”

  Michiyo extended her hand to take the check.

  “Thank you. Hiraoka will be glad.” She quietly placed the check on the tatami.

  Daisuke briefly explained how he had obtained the money, and added, as if to excuse himself, that carefree as his situation seemed, whenever he attempted to do anything for someone else, he became quite incompetent; he hoped she would not think badly of him on that account.

  “Of course, I know that perfectly well, too. But I just didn’t know w
hat to do, that’s why I made such an unreasonable request.” Michiyo’s apology was sympathetic.

  Daisuke wanted to be sure. “Will that be enough to settle the affair? If, not, I’ll try something else.”

  “Something else?”

  “I’ll put my seal down and get a high-interest loan.”

  “No, not that!” said Michiyo immediately, as if to erase the thought. “That would really be terrible, you know.”

  Daisuke learned that Hiraoka’s woes had all begun when he borrowed from usurers; those loans had bounced around and were still plaguing him. When they first went to Kansai, Hiraoka had the reputation of being a diligent worker, but after Michiyo’s pregnancy, when she began to suffer from heart trouble, he had started to play around. At first it had not been terribly excessive, and Michiyo had resigned herself, thinking it was out of social obligation; in the end it had exceeded all bounds and Michiyo had worried. If she tried to improve matters, her health would deteriorate. If her health deteriorated, his debauchery would be aggravated. It wasn’t that he was unkind. It was her fault, Michiyo protested. But looking lonely again, she confessed that there were times when she thought that if only the child had lived, things might have been much better.