An Artist of the Floating World

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ I said, and gave him a smile. ‘As you say, no doubt your generation has a splendid future. And you are all so confident. I can only wish you the best.’

  My son-in-law seemed about to respond to this, but just then, Ichiro reached across the table and tapped the sake flask with his finger, as he had done once before. Taro turned to him, saying: ‘Ah, Ichiro-san. Just who we needed for our discussions. Tell us, what do you think you’ll be when you grow up?’

  My grandson continued to regard the sake flask for a moment, then glanced over towards me with a sullen look. His mother touched his arm, whispering to him: ‘Ichiro, Uncle Taro’s asking you. You tell him what you want to be.’

  ‘President of Nippon Electrics!’ Ichiro declared loudly.

  We all laughed.

  ‘Now are you sure of that, Ichiro-san?’ Taro asked. ‘You don’t instead wish to lead us at KNC?’

  ‘Nippon Electrics is the best company!’

  We all laughed again.

  ‘A great shame for us,’ Taro remarked. ‘Ichiro-san is just who we’ll need at KNC in a few years.’

  This exchange seemed to take Ichiro’s mind off the sake, and from then on, he seemed to enjoy himself, joining in loudly whenever the adults laughed at something. Only towards the very end of our meal did he ask in a quite disinterested voice:

  ‘Is the sake all finished now?’

  ‘All gone,’ Noriko said. ‘Would Ichiro-san like more orange juice?’

  Ichiro refused this offer in a well-mannered way, and turned back to Taro, who had been explaining something to him. For all that, I could imagine his disappointment and felt a wave of irritation at Setsuko for not being a little more understanding of her little boy’s feelings.

  I got my chance to talk alone with Ichiro an hour or so later when I went into the small spare room of the apartment to say good-night to him. The light was still on, but Ichiro was under the quilt, on his front, a cheek pressed against his pillow. When I turned off the light, I discovered the blinds did not prevent light from the opposite apartment block coming into the room to throw shadowy bars across the walls and ceiling. From the next room came the sounds of my daughters laughing over something, and as I knelt down beside Ichiro’s quilt he whispered:

  ‘Oji, is Aunt Noriko drunk?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ichiro. She’s just laughing at something, that’s all.’

  ‘She might be a little bit drunk. Don’t you think, Oji?’

  ‘Well, perhaps. Just a little. There’s no harm in that.’

  ‘Women can’t handle sake, can they, Oji?’ he said, and giggled into his pillow.

  I gave a laugh, then said to him: ‘You know, Ichiro, there’s no need to be upset about the sake tonight. It really doesn’t matter. Soon you’ll be older, and then you’ll be able to drink sake as much as you like.’

  I rose and went to the window to see if the blinds could not be made more effective. I opened and shut them a few times, but the slats remained sufficiently separated so that I could always see the lighted windows of the block opposite.

  ‘No, Ichiro, it’s really nothing to get upset about.’

  For a moment, my grandson gave no response. Then I heard his voice say behind me: ‘Oji’s not to worry.’

  ‘Oh? Now what do you mean by that, Ichiro?’

  ‘Oji’s not to worry. Because if he worries, he won’t get to sleep. And if old people don’t sleep, they get ill.’

  ‘I see. Very well then, Ichiro. Oji promises not to worry. But you’re not to be upset either. Because really, there’s nothing to be getting upset about.’

  Ichiro remained silent. I opened and closed the blinds again.

  ‘But then, of course,’ I said, ‘if Ichiro had actually insisted on sake tonight, Oji was ready to step in and see to it he got some. But as it was, I think we were right to let the women have their way this time. It’s not worth getting them upset over such little things.’

  ‘Sometimes at home,’ Ichiro said, ‘Father wants to do something and Mother tells him it’s not allowed. Sometimes, even Father’s no match for Mother.’

  ‘Is that so,’ I said, with a laugh.

  ‘So Oji’s not to worry.’

  ‘There’s nothing for either of us to worry about, Ichiro.’ I turned away from the window and knelt down again beside his quilt. ‘Now you try and fall asleep.’

  ‘Is Oji staying the night?’

  ‘No, Oji’s going back to his own house soon.’

  ‘Why can’t Oji stay here too?’

  ‘There’s not enough room here, Ichiro. Oji has a large house all to himself, remember.’

  ‘Will Oji come to say goodbye at the station tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, Ichiro. I’ll do that. And no doubt, you’ll be down to visit again before long.’

  ‘Oji’s not to worry he couldn’t make Mother give me sake.’

  ‘You seem to be growing up very fast, Ichiro,’ I said, laughing. ‘You’ll be a fine man when you’re grown. Perhaps you really will be head of Nippon Electrics. Or something just as grand. Now, let’s keep quiet for a while and see if you fall asleep.’

  I went on sitting beside him for several more moments, giving quiet replies whenever he spoke. And I believe it was during those moments, as I waited in that darkened room for my grandson to fall asleep, listening to the occasional burst of laughter from the neighbouring room, that I began turning over in my mind the conversation I had had that morning with Setsuko in Kawabe Park. That was probably the first opportunity I had had to do so, and until that point, it had not really occurred to me to be so irritated by Setsuko’s words. But by the time I left my sleeping grandson to rejoin the others in the main room, I believe I had become quite annoyed with my elder daughter, and this no doubt accounts for my saying to Taro, not long after I had sat down:

  ‘You know, it’s odd when one thinks about it. Your father and I must have been acquainted for over sixteen years, and yet it’s only over this past year we’ve become such good friends.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said my son-in-law, ‘but I suppose it’s often that way. One always has so many neighbours one does no more than exchange good mornings with. A great pity when you think about it.’

  ‘But then of course,’ I said, ‘as regards Dr Saito and myself, it wasn’t simply that we were neighbours. Connected as we both were with the art world, we knew of each other by reputation. All the more pity then that your father and I didn’t make more effort to be friends from the beginning. Don’t you think so, Taro?’

  As I said this, I gave a quick glance towards Setsuko to make sure she was listening.

  ‘A great pity indeed,’ Taro said. ‘But at least you had the chance to become friends in the end.’

  ‘But what I mean, Taro, is that it’s all the more pity since we knew each of other’s reputations in the art world all that time.’

  ‘Yes, a great pity indeed. One would think the knowledge that a neighbour was also a distinguished colleague would lead to more intimate relations. But then I suppose, what with busy schedules and the next thing, this is too often not the case.’

  I glanced with some satisfaction towards Setsuko, but my daughter showed no sign at all of registering the significance of Taro’s words. It is possible, of course, that she was not really attending; my guess, though, is that Setsuko had indeed understood, but was too proud to return my glance, confronted as she was with proof that she had been quite mistaken in making her insinuations that morning in Kawabe Park.

  We had been walking down the wide central avenue of the park at an easy pace, admiring the autumnal trees lined on either side of us. We had been comparing our impressions on how Noriko was taking to her new life, and had agreed that to all appearances, she was very happy indeed.

  ‘It’s all very gratifying,’ I was saying. ‘Her future was becoming a grave worry to me, but now everything looks very good for her. Taro is an admirable man. One could hardly have hoped for a better match.’
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  ‘It seems strange to think’, Setsuko said with a smile, ‘it was only a year ago we were all so worried for her.’

  ‘It’s all very gratifying. And you know, Setsuko, I’m grateful to you for your part in it all. You were a great support to your sister when things weren’t going so well.’

  ‘On the contrary, I could do so little, being so far away.’

  ‘And of course,’ I said, with a laugh, ‘it was you whowarned me last year. “Precautionary steps” – you remember that, Setsuko? As you see, I didn’t ignore your advice.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, what advice was this?’

  ‘Now Setsuko, there’s no need to be so tactful. I’m quite prepared now to acknowledge there are certain aspects to my career I have no cause to be proud of. Indeed, I acknowledged as much during the negotiations, just as you suggested.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not at all clear what Father is referring to.’

  ‘Noriko hasn’t told you about the miai? Well, I made sure that evening there’d be no obstacles to her happiness on account of my career. I dare say I would have done so in any case, but I was nevertheless grateful for your advice last year.’

  ‘Forgive me, Father, but I don’t recall offering any advice last year. As for the matter of the miai, however, Noriko has indeed mentioned it to me a number of times.’ Indeed, she wrote to me soon after the miai expressing surprise at Father’s … at Father’s words about himself.’

  ‘I dare say she was surprised. Noriko always did underestimate her old father. But I’m hardly the sort to allow my own daughter to suffer simply because I’m too proud to face up to things.’

  ‘Noriko told me she was extremely puzzled by Father’s behaviour that night. It seems the Saitos were equally puzzled. No one was at all sure what Father meant by it all. Indeed, Suichi also expressed his bewilderment when I read him Noriko’s letter.’

  ‘But this is extraordinary,’ I said, laughing. ‘Why, Setsuko, it was you yourself who pushed me to it last year. It was you who suggested I take “precautionary steps” so that we didn’t slip up with the Saitos as we did with the Miyakes. Do you not remember?’

  ‘No doubt I am being most forgetful, but I am afraid I have no recollection of what Father refers to.’

  ‘Now, Setsuko, this is extraordinary.’

  Setsuko suddenly stopped walking and exclaimed: ‘How wonderful the maples look at this time of year!’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘No doubt they’ll look even better further into the autumn.’

  ‘So wonderful,’ my daughter said, smiling, and we began to walk again. Then she said: ‘As a matter of fact, Father, it so happened that last night we were discussing one or two things, and Taro-san happened to mention a conversation he had had with you just last week. A conversation concerning the composer who recently committed suicide.’

  ‘Yukio Naguchi? Ah yes, I remember that conversation. Now let me see, I believe Taro was suggesting the man’s suicide was pointless.’

  ‘Taro-san was somewhat concerned Father should be so interested in Mr Naguchi’s death. Indeed, it would seem Father was drawing a comparison between Mr Naguchi’s career and his own. We all felt concern at this news. In fact, we have all been somewhat concerned lately that Father is not becoming a little downhearted following his retirement.’

  I laughed and said: ‘You can put your mind at rest, Setsuko. I am not for one moment contemplating taking the sort of action Mr Naguchi did.’

  ‘From what I understand,’ she continued, ‘Mr Naguchi’s songs came to have enormous prevalence at every level of the war effort. There would thus appear to have been some substance to his wish that he should share responsibility along with the politicians and generals. But Father is wrong to even begin thinking in such terms about himself. Father was, after all, a painter.’

  ‘Let me assure you, Setsuko, I wouldn’t for a moment consider the sort of action Naguchi took. But then I am not too proud to see that I too was a man of some influence, who used that influence towards a disastrous end.’

  My daughter seemed to consider this for a moment. Then she said:

  ‘Forgive me, but it is perhaps important to see things in a proper perspective. Father painted some splendid pictures, and was no doubt most influential amongst other such painters. But Father’s work had hardly to do with these larger matters of which we are speaking. Father was simply a painter. He must stop believing he has done some great wrong.’

  ‘Well now, Setsuko, this is very different advice from last year. Then it seemed my career was a great liability.’

  ‘Forgive me, Father, but I can only repeat I do not understand these references to the marriage negotiations last year. Indeed, it is some mystery to me why Father’s career should have been of any particular relevance to the negotiations. The Saitos, it would seem, were certainly not concerned and, as we have said, they were very puzzled by Father’s behaviour at the miai.’

  ‘This is quite astonishing, Setsuko. The situation was that Dr Saito and I had been acquainted for a long time. As one of the city’s most eminent art critics, he would have followed my career over the years and have been fully aware of its more regrettable aspects. It was therefore right and proper that I should make my attitude clear at that point in the proceedings. Indeed, I’m quite confident Dr Saito much appreciated my doing so.’

  ‘Forgive me, but it would appear from what Taro-san has said that Dr Saito was never so familiar with Father’s career. Of course, he always knew Father as a neighbour. But it would seem he was unaware that Father was connected with the art world at all until last year when the negotiations began.’

  ‘You’re quite wrong, Setsuko,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Dr Saito and I have known about each other for many years. We often used to stop in the street and exchange news about the art world.’

  ‘No doubt then I am mistaken. Forgive me. But it is nevertheless important to stress that no one has ever considered Father’s past something to view with recrimination. One hopes then that Father will cease to think of himself in terms of men like that unfortunate composer.’

  I did not persist in arguing with Setsuko, and I seem to recall we soon moved on to discussing more casual topics. However, there is surely no doubt that my daughter was in error over much of what she asserted that morning. For one thing, it is impossible that Dr Saito could have been ignorant of my reputation as a painter for all those years. And when that evening after supper I contrived to get Taro to confirm this, I did so merely to make the point clear to Setsuko; for there was never any doubt in my mind. I have, for instance, the most vivid recollection of that sunny day some sixteen years ago when Dr Saito first addressed me as I stood adjusting the fence outside my new house. ‘A great honour to have an artist of your stature in our neighbourhood,’ he had said, recognizing my name on the gatepost. I remember that meeting quite clearly, and there can be no doubt that Setsuko is mistaken.

  JUNE, 1950

  After receiving the news of Matsuda’s death late yesterday morning, I made myself a light lunch, then went out for a little exercise.

  The day was pleasantly warm as I made my way down the hill. On reaching the river, I stepped up on to the Bridge of Hesitation and looked around me. The sky was a clear blue, and a little way down the bank, along where the new apartment blocks began, I could see two small boys playing with fishing poles at the water’s edge. I watched them for some moments, turning over in my mind the news about Matsuda.

  I had always meant to pay Matsuda further visits since re-establishing contact with him during Noriko’s marriage negotiations, but in fact had not managed to get out to Ara-kawa again until just a month or so ago. I had gone on sheer impulse, having no idea at the time he was so near his end. Perhaps Matsuda would have died a little happier for having shared his thoughts with me that afternoon.

  On my arrival at his house, Miss Suzuki had recognized me instantly and shown me in with some excitement. The way she did this seemed to suggest Matsuda had n
ot had many callers since my visit eighteen months earlier.

  ‘He’s much stronger than the last time you were here,’ she said happily.

  I was shown into the reception room and a few moments later, Matsuda came in unaided, dressed in a loose kimono. He was clearly glad to see me again,and for some moments we talked of small matters and of mutual acquaintances. I believe it was not until Miss Suzuki had brought our tea and left again that I remembered to thank Matsuda for his letter of encouragement during my recent illness.

  ‘You appear to have made a good recovery, Ono,’ he remarked. ‘To look at you, I’d never guess you’d been ill so recently.’

  ‘I’m much better now,’ I said. ‘I have to be careful not to overexert myself. And I’m obliged to carry this stick around with me. Otherwise I feel as well as I ever did.’

  ‘You disappoint me, Ono. And I thought we could be two old men discussing our ill health together. But here you are and it’s just like the last time you came. I have to sit here and envy you your health.’

  ‘Nonsense, Matsuda. You’re looking very well.’

  ‘You’ll hardly convince me of that, Ono,’ he said with a laugh, ‘though it’s true I’ve regained a little weight over this past year. But tell me, is Noriko-san happy? I heard her marriage went through successfully. When you last came here, you were very worried for her future.’

  ‘Things have turned out very well. She’s now expecting a child in the autumn. After all that worry, things have gone as well as I could ever have hoped for Noriko.’

  ‘A grandchild in the autumn. Now that must be something to look forward to.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, ‘my elder daughter is expecting her second child next month. She’s been longing for another child, so it’s particularly good news.’