“There’s no doubt about it, Umeko’s giving it away behind your back. You’re pretty gullible, aren’t you,” said Daisuke, laughing heartily. “Of course not. Nothing of the sort is going on.” Seigo looked the same as ever. He lifted the sake cup before him to his lips.
CHAPTER VI
THAT DAY SEIGO WOULD NOT readily agree to lending him the money. For his part, Daisuke avoided whining about how pitiable Michiyo was, or how touching her situation. Even if he himself had such feelings toward her, it would take no ordinary effort to lead his brother, who knew nothing, to that point. Besides, if he were to rashly mouth sentimental phrases, his brother would be scornful—as it was, Seigo seemed to find him a trifle ridiculous. So Daisuke went on in his usual aimless way, wandering from one point to another as he drank. And as he drank, he thought that this was what his father meant by his lack of zeal. But he prided himself on not being so vulgar as to attempt to persuade people with tears. If anything was offensive, it was affected tears, anguish, earnestness, or zeal. His brother also understood this. Hence, if Daisuke were to use such a ploy and fail, he would forever lower himself in his brother’s eyes.
Daisuke gradually moved away from the issue of money. He touched upon such topics as would make them both feel that it was only because they were there, face to face, that they had been able to drink so pleasantly. But when it came time to have their rice and tea, Daisuke suddenly asked, as if he had just remembered it, if Seigo wouldn’t find Hiraoka a position in his company even if he wouldn’t lend him money.
“No, I don’t want to have anything to do with people like that. Besides, business is bad. There’s nothing I can do.”
The next morning, Daisuke’s first thought upon waking was that only a business colleague could persuade Seigo; it did no good to appeal to him as a brother.
After he had determined as much, however, it still did not occur to him to regard his brother as particularly unsympathetic. Indeed, he felt that Seigo had given the appropriate response. Strangely enough, this same brother had willingly paid off the money that Daisuke had dissipated. What if Daisuke were now to affix his seal beside Hiraoka’s and go into joint debt? Would Seigo clean it up as he had before? Had his brother in fact been anticipating as much when he refused? Or was he confident that he, Daisuke, would never try such a thing and therefore had not lent him the money?
Judging from Daisuke’s current tendencies, anyone would think it most unlikely for him to affix his seal for another person. Daisuke himself thought so. But if Seigo had seen through this and in refusing to lend his younger brother the money was gambling on Daisuke’s acting in character, then Daisuke was not immune to the temptation of doing the unexpected and seeing how his brother would react. Having gotten this far, Daisuke himself found his thoughts rather ill-natured and mentally gave himself a sarcastic smile.
But one thing was certain: sooner or later, Hiraoka would come, loan note in hand, seeking Daisuke’s seal.
With these thoughts, Daisuke got out of bed. Kadono had been sitting cross-legged, reading the newspaper, but as soon as he saw Daisuke coming from the bath with wet hair, he sat up and folded the papers away beside the cushion. “It’s really something, isn’t it, what’s happening in Smoke,” he said loudly.
“Have you been reading it?” “Yes. Every morning.”
“Is it interesting?”
“Yes. It seems interesting, somehow.” “In what way?”
“In what way? I can’t answer when you ask like that, Sensei, so formal and all. Well, you know, doesn’t it seem like it really shows that modern anxiety?”
“And doesn’t it smell of the flesh?” “Yes, it does. A good deal.” Daisuke fell silent.
Teacup in hand, he went into the study and sat down. As he gazed vacantly at the garden, he noticed that young shoots were springing in profusion from the knobby, dead branches and roots of the pomegranate; their color was like a mixture of dark green and dark red. They flashed for an instant in his eyes, then immediately lost their effectiveness as a stimulus.
There was nothing concrete in Daisuke’s head at the moment. It was just quietly at work, almost like the weather outside. But an infinite number of undefinable particles were pushing against each other in the back of his mind. No matter how much the particles of mold in a piece of cheese move about, the motion goes undetected so long as the cheese remains stationary. Similarly, Daisuke himself barely noticed the seismographic movements taking place in his head. It was just that each time they provoked a physiological response, he was forced to shift in his seat.
Daisuke seldom used such words as modern or anxiety, which were very much in fashion. This was because, first of all, he thought it went without saying that he was modern; secondly, he clung steadfastly to the belief that modernity did not necessarily cause anxiety.
Daisuke explained the anxiety depicted in Russian literature by the climate and the oppressive political system; he saw the anxiety in French literature as a product of the prevalence of adultery. The anxiety in Italian literature, as represented by D’Annunzio, he judged to be a sense of self-loss resulting from uninhibited decadence. Thus, when Japanese writers chose to depict society exclusively from the angle of anxiety, Daisuke regarded it as an importation.
In his school days, Daisuke had indeed had some experience with the kind of anxiety that follows upon intellectual doubt. But after developing to a certain point, this anxiety had come to an abrupt halt and then had begun to reverse itself. It was as if he had thrown a rock at heaven; he wished he hadn’t done it in the first place. That “doubt of all things visible,” so dear to the heart of Zen priests, belonged to a land in which he had yet to set foot. Daisuke was far too cleverly made to doubt everything with such sincere impetuosity.
Daisuke, too, had been reading the newspaper serial Smoke which Kadono had praised. Today, he put the newspaper beside his teacup; he did not even feel like opening it. All of D’Annunzio’s heroes were men without money worries, so it was not unreasonable that their excesses should lead to folly; when it came to the hero of Smoke, there was no such leeway. That he should push so far, this notwithstanding, must mean that he was under the power of love; it would be impossible otherwise. Yet, neither this character, named Yōkichi, nor the woman, Tomoko, gave any indication of being forced outside society because of true love. When he tried to identify the inner force that was driving the two, Daisuke grew skeptical. The hero, who could act so resolutely in such circumstances, was probably not subject to anxiety. It would be much more reasonable to suppose that the seeds of anxiety resided in Daisuke, who would hesitate in such a situation. Daisuke had always regarded himself as an original. But he was forced to recognize that Yōkichi was far ahead of him in this respect. He had started reading Smoke out of curiosity, but lately, since he had begun to feel too great a distance between himself and Yōkichi, he had let many days go without even scanning the day’s installment.
From time to time, Daisuke stirred in his chair. He thought that he was completely relaxed. He finished his tea and began to read as usual. For about two hours he read steadily, but when he came to the middle of a certain page, he stopped and rested his chin on his hands. He picked up the newspaper and read the day’s installment of Smoke. As before, he was out of tune with it. Then he read various articles here and there. Count Ōkuma was vigorously supporting the dissident students in the Tokyo Higher Commercial School dispute. This was written up in fairly strong language. Whenever he read something like this, Daisuke was apt to interpret it as a maneuver by Count Ōkuma to draw students to his own Waseda University. Daisuke tossed the paper aside.
Past noon, he finally began to realize that he was not at ease. He felt as if a thousand tiny wrinkles were constantly moving and changing position and shape in his stomach. Daisuke was occasionally dominated by such sensations, but up to now, he had always treated this kind of experience as a purely physiol
ogical phenomenon. He somewhat regretted having eaten eel with his brother the day before. He thought he might take a walk and drop in on Hiraoka, but he could not tell whether his real goal was to take a walk or to see Hiraoka. He had the old woman get out a change of clothing and was just about to dress when his nephew Seitarō arrived. Cap in hand, he bowed his well-shaped round head before Daisuke and sat down.
“Is school out already? It’s too early.”
“It’s not early at all,” said Seitarō, laughing and watching Daisuke’s face.
Daisuke clapped his hands to call the old woman and asked, “Seitarō, would you like some hot chocolate?”
“Yes.”
Daisuke ordered two hot chocolates and began to tease Seitarō. “Seitarō, your hands have gotten awfully big these days from playing baseball all the time. They’re bigger than your head!”
Seitarō grinned and rubbed his round head with his right hand. He really did have large hands.
“I hear Daddy treated you yesterday, Uncle.”
“That’s right, I had quite a feast. Thanks to him, my stomach isn’t feeling well today.”
“It’s nerves again.”
“It’s not nerves, it’s real. It’s all his fault.” “That’s what Daddy said.’’
“What did he say?”
‘“Go to Daisuke’s after school and get him to treat you to something.’”
“Oh—in return for yesterday?”
“That’s right—I treated him today, so it’s his turn tomorrow, he said.”
“You came all the way just for that?” “Yes.”
“You’re my brother’s son all right, good and shrewd. That’s why I’m giving you the hot chocolate. That’ll do, won’t it?” “Hot chocolate?”
“You won’t drink it?”
“Oh, I’ll drink it all right, but . . .”
It turned out that what Seitarō wanted was to be taken to the Ekōin when the sumō tournament opened and to watch the matches from the best seats in the center section. Daisuke agreed readily.
Then Seitarō, looking happy, suddenly came out with, “Even though you loaf around, Uncle, they say you’re really a great man.”
Even Daisuke was a trifle taken aback by this. He lamely answered, “Well, you knew that all along.”
“But I heard it for the first time last night from Father,” protested Seitarō.
Evidently, from what Seitarō had to say, after Seigo had come home the night before, he and Umeko and their father had undertaken an evaluation of Daisuke. Because the account was that of a child, it was somewhat confused, but since Seitarō was quite intelligent, he remembered some of the precise words even if they were fragmentary. Daisuke’s father’s assessment apparently was that Daisuke had little promise. His brother had countered with yes, maybe that was so, but he still understood some things rather well. It would be best to leave him alone for a while. It would work out all right; there was no need to worry. He would probably do something one of these days. His sister-in-law had seconded this. She had been to a fortuneteller about a week ago, and his judgment was that Daisuke was a man who was sure to stand at the head of others. Therefore, he was bound to be all right.
Daisuke had been listening with interest to all the details, from time to time prompting Seitarō with “yes, and then,” but when he came to the part about the fortuneteller, he was genuinely amused. Presently, he changed his clothes, and seeing Seitarō home, went over to Hiraoka’s.
Hiraoka’s house was a good illustration of the tightening squeeze exerted on the middle class by a decade of inflation. It was an exceedingly crude, unsightly construction. And Daisuke was especially sensitive to its esthetic shortcomings.
There were only about two yards between the gate and the entranceway and the same distance between the gate and the kitchen door. Next to this house, in every direction stood similarly cramped houses. They were the work of the smallest of financiers, who, taking advantage of Tokyo’s pitiful swelling, schemed to multiply their own meager funds two and three times by putting up these shabby structures, mementos to the struggle for survival.
In today’s Tokyo, particularly in the outskirts, such houses were to be found everywhere. Moreover, like flies in summer, they continued to multiply every day at an extraordinary rate. Daisuke had once termed it the advance of defeat. He regarded these structures as the most accurate symbols of modern Japan.
Some of them were covered with the bottoms of kerosene cans patched together, like square fish scales. Not one among their inhabitants was spared the sound of pillars cracking in the middle of the night. Their doors always had knotholes. Their sliding doors were sure to become warped. Those who stored their capital in their heads and tried to live off the monthly interest earned by their mental endeavors invariably burrowed in such places. Hiraoka was one of them.
As Daisuke passed by the fence, the first thing to catch his eye was the roof. The murky black of the tiles had a singular effect on him and it seemed that the lusterless slabs of dirt could suck in endless quantities of water. In front of the entrance, bits of sawdust from the unpacking still lay scattered about. When he went into the living room, Hiraoka was seated at a desk, in the midst of writing a long letter. Michiyo was in the next room, softly clattering the handles as she opened and closed drawers. A large wicker trunk lay open beside her, and the sleeve of a pretty underkimono showed halfway. Sorry, but would he wait a minute, Hiraoka asked; Daisuke watched the trunk and the underkimono and the slender hand that occasionally dipped into the trunk. But Michiyo’s face was hidden from his view.
Eventually, Hiraoka threw his brush at the table and sat up. He had evidently been grappling with something quite involved, for his ears were red, as well as his eyes, for that matter.
“How are you? Thanks for everything the other day. I meant to come thank you but I haven’t gotten around to it.”
Hiraoka’s words had more the air of a challenge than an apology. Although he was wearing neither an undershirt nor long drawers, he immediately crossed his legs. Since his collar was not properly drawn together, his chest hair showed a little.
“You must not be quite settled yet?” Daisuke asked.
“Settled? At this rate, I won’t be settled for the rest of my life.” With these words, he began to smoke hurriedly.
Daisuke understood very well why Hiraoka was greeting him in this way. He wasn’t striking out at Daisuke, he was striking out at society; or rather, he was striking out at himself, Daisuke thought, and he even felt sorry for him. Still, the tone was jarring to nerves like his. He could not, however, be angered by it.
“How’s the house? The rooms seem to be arranged well enough, don’t they?”
“Well, yes. Even if they aren’t there’s nothing I can do about it. If I wanted to move into a house of my liking, I’d have to play the stock market or something. Don’t they say that all the fine houses going up in Tokyo these days are built by stockbrokers?”
“Maybe so. But for every fine house that goes up, who knows how many have to come down?”
“That’s why they’re all the more comfortable to live in!”
Hiraoka laughed hard at his own words. At this point, Michiyo came in. She greeted Daisuke lightly, thanking him for the other day. She sat down and took the red flannel that she had rolled in her hands and placed it in front of her to show Daisuke.
“What do you have there?”
“It’s the baby’s kimono. I made it and just haven’t gotten around to undoing it. I found it at the bottom of the trunk so I took it out.” She undid the tie strings and opened the sleeves.
“Hey! What do you have something like that around for? Tear it up quick and make some cleaning rags out of it or something.”
Michiyo did not answer, but sat with the baby’s kimono on her lap, her eyes cast down.
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“I made it just like yours,” she said, and looked at her husband. “You mean this?” Underneath his lined, printed kimono, next to his skin, Hiraoka wore a layer of flannel. “This is no good any more. It’s too hot.”
For the first time, Daisuke caught a flash of the old Hiraoka. “It’s too hot now to wear flannel underneath a lined kimono. Why don’t you wear an underkimono?”
“Yeah, I just keep wearing this because it’s too much trouble to change.’’
“I tell him to take it off so I can wash it, but he won’t.”
“No, I’ll take it off, I’m pretty sick of it myself.” The conversation had finally moved from the dead child. There was even a little more warmth in the air. Hiraoka said that they should have a drink, they hadn’t done it in such a long while. Michiyo said she would make a few things too, so wouldn’t Daisuke please make himself at home. Her invitation sounded like a plea. Watching her from behind as she left for the next room, Daisuke wished he could somehow raise the money.
“Have you found some place to work?” he asked.
“Well, yes, I have and I haven’t. If there isn’t anything, I’ll play around for a while. If I take my time and look, something’s bound to turn up.”
His words were calm, but as Daisuke listened he could not help feeling that in fact, Hiraoka was in quite a hurry. Daisuke had been planning to report the exchange that had taken place with his brother the day before, but on hearing these words, he decided to put it off for the time being. It would seem as if he were deliberately wrecking the defense that Hiraoka had erected. Moreover, Hiraoka himself had not said a word about the money to him; therefore, there was no need to say anything explicit. Yet if he just remained silent, Hiraoka was sure to resent him inwardly as a heartless fellow. Daisuke, though, had almost become insensible to such charges, and he thought that in fact, he was not such a terribly passionate person. If he were to return to the Daisuke of three or four years ago and evaluate his present self, he might find that he had degenerated. Yet, when his present self looked back at the old Daisuke, it was evident that he had been exaggerating his own moral sense and flinging it about proudly. Rather than painfully contrive to pass off gold plating for solid gold, Daisuke now thought it easier to proffer brass as brass and bear the contempt appropriate to the inferior metal.