An Artist of the Floating World (15 page)

rather more like the sort of thing I myself would declare to my own pupils after we had been drinking a little at the Migi-Hidari. "As the new generation of Japanese artists, you have a great responsibility towards the culture of this nation. I am proud to have the likes of you as my pupils. And while I may deserve only the smallest praise for my own paintings, when I come to look back over my life and remember I have nurtured and assisted the careers of all of you here, why then no man will make me believe I have wasted my time." And whenever I made some such statement, all those young men congregated around the table would drown each other out in protest at the way I had dismissed my own paintings--which, they clamoured to inform me, were without doubt great works assured of their place in posterity. But then again, as I have said, many phrases and expressions which came to be most characteristic of me I actually inherited from Mori-san, and so it is quite possible that those were my teacher's exact words that night, instilled in me by the powerful impression they made on me at the time. But again I have drifted. I was trying to recall the lunch I had at the department store with my grandson last month following that annoying conversation with Setsuko in Kawabe Park. In fact, I believe I was remembering in particular Ichiro's extolling of spinach. Once our lunch had arrived, I recall, Ichiro sat there preoccupied with the spinach on his plate, sometimes prodding at it with his spoon. Then he looked up and said: "Oji, you watch!" My grandson proceeded to pile as much spinach as possible on to the spoon, then raised it high into the air and began pouring it into his mouth. His method resembled someone drinking the last dregs from a bottle. "Ichiro," I said, "I"m not sure that's such good manners," But my grandson continued putting more spinach into his mouth, all the time chewing vigorously. He put down his spoon only when it was empty and his cheeks were full to bursting. Then, still chewing, he fixed a stern expression on his face, thrust out his chest and began punching at the air around him. "What are you doing, Ichiro? You tell me now what you"re up to." "You guess, Oji!" he said, through the spinach. "Hmm. I don't know, Ichiro. A man drinking sake and fighting. No? Then you tell me. Oji can't guess." "Popeye Sailorman!" "What's that, Ichiro? Another of your heroes?" "Popeye Sailorman eats spinach. Spinach makes him strong." He thrust out his chest again and threw more punches at the air. "I see, Ichiro," I said, laughing. "Spinach is a wonderful food indeed." "Does sake make you strong?" I smiled and shook my head. "Sake can make you believe you"re strong. But in reality, Ichiro, you"re no stronger than before you drank it." "Why do men drink sake then, Oji?" "I don't know, Ichiro. Perhaps because for a little while, they can believe they"re stronger. But sake doesn't really make a man stronger." "Spinach makes you really strong." "Then spinach is much better than sake. You go on eating spinach, Ichiro. But look, what about all these other things on your plate?" "I like drinking sake too. And whisky. At home, there's a bar I always go to." "Is that so, Ichiro. I think it's better you go on eating spinach. As you say, that makes you really strong." "I like sake best. I drink ten bottles every night. Then I drink ten bottles of whisky." "Is that so, Ichiro. Now that's real drinking indeed. This must be a real headache for Mother." "Women never understand about us men drinking," Ichiro said, and turned his attention to the lunch in front of him. But soon he looked up again and said: "Oji's coming for supper tonight." "That's right, Ichiro. I expect Aunt Noriko will prepare something very nice." "Aunt Noriko's bought some sake. She said Oji and Uncle Taro will drink it all up." "Well, we may do indeed. I"m sure the women will like a little too. But she's right, Ichiro. Sake's mainly for the men." "Oji, what happens if women drink sake?" "Hmm. There's no telling. Women aren't as strong as we men are, Ichiro. So perhaps they'll get drunk very quickly." "Aunt Noriko might get drunk! She might have a tiny cupful and get completely drunk!" I gave a laugh. "Yes, that's quite possible." "Aunt Noriko might get completely drunk! She'll sing songs then fall asleep at the table!" "Well, Ichiro," I said, still laughing, "we men had better keep the sake to ourselves then, hadn't we?" "Men are stronger, so we can drink more." "That's right, Ichiro. We"d best keep the sake to ourselves." Then, after I had thought for a moment, I added: "I suppose you"re eight years old now, Ichiro. You"re growing to be a big man. Who knows? Perhaps Oji will see to it you get some sake tonight." My grandson looked at me with a slightly threatened expression, and said nothing. I smiled at him, then glanced out at the pale grey sky through the large windows beside us. "You never met your Uncle Kenji, Ichiro. When he was your age, he was as big and strong as you are now. I remember he had his first taste of sake at around your age. I'll see to it, Ichiro, you get a small taste tonight." Ichiro seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he said: "Mother might be trouble." "Don't worry about your mother, Ichiro. Your Oji will be able to handle her." Ichiro shook his head wearily. "Women never understand men drinking," he remarked. "Well, it's time a man like you tasted a little sake. Don't you worry, Ichiro, you leave your mother to Oji. We can't have the women bossing us around now, can we?" My grandson remained absorbed in his thoughts for a moment. Then suddenly he said very loudly: "Aunt Noriko might get drunk!" I laughed. "We'll see, Ichiro," I said. "Aunt Noriko might get completely drunk!" It was perhaps fifteen minutes or so later, as we were waiting for ice-cream, that Ichiro asked in a thoughtful voice. "Oji, did you know Yujiro Naguchi?" "You must mean Yukio Naguchi, Ichiro. No, I never knew him personally." My grandson did not respond, apparently absorbed by his reflection in the glass pane beside him. "Your mother," I went on, "also seemed to have Mr Naguchi on her mind when I was speaking with her in the park this morning. I take it the adults were discussing him at supper last night, were they?" For a moment, Ichiro went on gazing at his reflection. Then he turned to me and asked: "Was Mr Naguchi like Oji?" "Was Mr Naguchi like me? Well, your mother for one doesn't seem to think so. It was just something I said to your Uncle Taro once, Ichiro, it was nothing very serious. Your mother seems to have picked it up far too earnestly. I hardly remember what I was talking to Uncle Taro about at the time, but Oji just happened to suggest he had one or two things in common with people like Mr Naguchi. Now you tell me, Ichiro, what were the adults all saying last night?" "Oji, why did Mr Naguchi kill himself?" "That's hard to say for sure, Ichiro. I never knew Mr Naguchi personally." "But was he a bad man?" "No. He wasn't a bad man. He was just someone who worked very hard doing what he thought was for the best. But you see, Ichiro, when the war ended, things were very different. The songs Mr Naguchi composed had become very famous, not just in this city, but all over Japan. They were sung on the radio and in bars. And the likes of your Uncle Kenji sang them when they were marching or before a battle. And after the war, Mr Naguchi thought his songs had been--well--a sort of mistake. He thought of all the people who had been killed, all the little boys your age, Ichiro, who no longer had parents, he thought of all these things and he thought perhaps his songs were a mistake. And he felt he should apologise. To everyone who was left. To little boys who no longer had parents. And to parents who had lost little boys like you. To all these people, he wanted to say sorry. I think that's why he killed himself. Mr Naguchi wasn't a bad man at all, Ichiro. He was brave to admit the mistakes he"d made. He was very brave and honourable." Ichiro was watching me with a thoughtful expression. I gave a laugh and said: "What's the matter, Ichiro?" My grandson seemed about to speak, but then turned again to look at his face reflected in the glass. "Your Oji never meant anything by saying he was like Mr Naguchi," I said. "It was a sort of joke he was making, that's all. You tell your mother that, the next time you hear her talking about Mr Naguchi. Because from what she was saying this morning, she's picked the whole thing up quite wrongly. What's the matter, Ichiro? Suddenly so quiet."

After lunch we spent some time wandering around shops in the city centre, looking at toys and books. Then, towards the latter part of the afternoon, I treated Ichiro to another ice-cream at one of those smart refectories along Sakurabashi Street, before making our way to Taro and Noriko's new apartment in Izumimachi. The Izumimachi area, as you may be aware, has now become very popular with young couples from the better backgrounds, and there is certainly a clean, respectable atmosphere there. But most of the newly-built apartment blocks that have drawn these young couples seem to me unimaginative and constrictive. Taro and Noriko's apartment, for instance, is a small two-room affair on the third floor: the ceilings are low, sounds come in from neighbouring apartments and the view from the window is principally of the opposite block and its windows. I am sure it is not simply because I am accustomed to my more spacious, traditional house that even after a short lime I begin to find the place claustrophobic. Noriko, however, seems very proud of her apartment, and is forever extolling its "modern" qualities. It is, apparently, very easy to keep clean, and the ventilation most effective; in particular, the kitchens and bathrooms throughout the block are of Western design and are, so my daughter assures me, infinitely more practical than, say, the arrangements in my own house. However convenient the kitchen, it is very small, and when I stepped inside it that evening to see how my daughters were progressing with the meal, there seemed no space for me to stand. Because of this, and because my daughters both seemed busy, I did not remain chatting with them long. But I did remark at one point: "You know, Ichiro was telling me earlier he's keen to taste a little sake." Setsuko and Noriko, who had been standing side by side slicing vegetables, both stopped and glanced up at me. "I gave it some thought and decided we could let him have a small taste," I went on. "But perhaps you should dilute it with some water." "I"m sorry, Father," Setsuko said, "but you"re suggesting Ichiro drink sake tonight?" "Just a little. He's a growing boy after all. But as I say, you"d best dilute it." My daughters exchanged glances. Then Noriko said: "Father, he's only eight years old." "There's no harm so long as you mix it with water. You women may not understand, but these things mean a great deal to a young boy like Ichiro. It's a question of pride. He'll remember it for the rest of his life." "Father, this is nonsense," said Noriko. "Ichiro would just be sick." "Nonsense or not, I"ve thought this over carefully. You women sometimes don't have enough sympathy for a boy's pride." I pointed to the sake bottle standing on a shelf above their heads. "Just a small drop will do." With that, I began to leave. But then I heard Noriko say: "Setsuko, it's out of the question. I don't know what Father can be thinking." "Why all this fuss?" I said, turning at the doorway. Behind me, from the main room, I could hear Taro and my grandson laughing over something. I lowered my voice and continued: "Anyway, I"ve promised him now, he's looking forward to it. You women sometimes just don't understand about pride." I was making to leave again, when this time it was Setsuko who spoke. "It is very kind of Father to consider Ichiro's feelings so carefully. However, I wonder if it wouldn't perhaps be best to wait till Ichiro is a little older." I gave a small laugh. "You know, I remember your mother protesting in just the same way when I decided to let Kenji have a taste of sake at this age. Well, it certainly did your brother no harm." I regretted immediately introducing Kenji into such a trivial disagreement. Indeed, I believe I was momentarily quite annoyed with myself, and it is possible I did not pay much attention to what Setsuko said next. In any case, it seems to me she said something like: "There is no doubt Father devoted the most careful thought to my brother's upbringing. Nevertheless, in the light of what came to pass, we can perhaps see that on one or two points at least, Mother may in fact have had the more correct ideas." To be fair, it is possible she did not say anything quite so unpleasant. Indeed, it is possible I misinterpreted entirely what she actually said, for I distinctly recall Noriko not reacting at all to her sister's words other than to turn wearily back to her vegetables. Besides, I would not have thought Setsuko capable of introducing so gratuitously such a note to the conversation. Then again, when I consider the sort of insinuations Setsuko had been making in Kawabe Park earlier that same day, I suppose I have to admit the possibility that she did say something along such lines. In any case, I recall Setsuko concluding by saying: "Besides, I fear Suichi would not wish Ichiro to drink sake until he is a little older. But it is most kind of Father to have given such consideration to Ichiro's feelings." Conscious that Ichiro might overhear our conversation, and not wishing to put a cloud over what was a rare family reunion, I let the argument rest there and left the kitchen. For a while after that, as I recall, I sat in the main room with Taro and Ichiro, exchanging enjoyable talk as we awaited supper. We eventually sat down to eat an hour or so later. As we were doing so, Ichiro reached over to the sake flask on the table, tapped it with his fingers and looked over at me knowingly. I smiled at him, but said nothing. The women had prepared a splendid meal and the conversation was soon flowing effortlessly. At one point, Taro had us all laughing with the story of a colleague of his at work, who through a mixture of misfortune and his own comical stupidity, had gained a reputation for never meeting deadlines. Once, while relating this story, Taro said: "Indeed, things have got to such a state it seems our superiors have taken to calling him "the Tortoise". During a meeting recently, Mr Hayasaka forgot himself and actually announced: "We'll hear the Tortoise's report, then break for lunch." "Is that so?" I exclaimed with some surprise. "That's very curious. I myself once had a colleague who had that nickname. For much the same reasons, it would seem." But Taro did not seem particularly struck by this coincidence. He nodded politely, and said: "I remember at school, too, there was a pupil we all called "the Tortoise". In fact, just as every group has a natural leader, I suspect every group has its "Tortoise"." With that, Taro returned to the relating of his anecdote. Of course, now I come to think of it, I suppose my son-in-law was quite correct; most groups of peers would have their "Tortoise", even if the name itself is not always used. Amongst my own pupils, for instance, it was Shintaro who fulfilled such a role. This is not to deny Shintaro's basic competence; but when placed alongside the likes of Kuroda, it was as though his talent lacked an entire dimension. I suppose I do not on the whole greatly admire the Tortoises of this world. While one may appreciate their plodding steadiness and ability to survive, one suspects their lack of frankness, their capacity for treachery. And I suppose, in the end, one despises their unwillingness to take chances in the name of ambition or for the sake of a principle they claim to believe in. Their like will never fall victim to the sort of grand catastrophe that, say, Akira Sugimura suffered over Kawabe Park; but by the same token, notwithstanding the small sorts of respectability they may sometimes achieve as schoolteachers or whatever, they will never accomplish anything above the mediocre. It is true, I grew quite fond of the Tortoise during those years we spent together at Mori-san's villa, but then I do not believe I ever respected him as an equal. This had to do with the very nature of our friendship, which had been forged during the days of the Tortoise's persecution at Master Takeda's firm and then through his difficulties in our early months at the villa; somehow, after a time, it had cemented itself into one in which he was perpetually indebted to me for some undefined "support" I gave him. Long after he had grasped how to paint without arousing the hostility of the others at the villa, long after he had come to be generally well liked for his pleasant, obliging nature, he was still saying to me things like: "I"m so grateful to you, Ono-san. It's due to you I"m treated so well here." In one sense, of course, the Tortoise was indebted to me; for clearly, without my initiative, he would never have considered leaving Master Takeda's to become Mori-san's pupil. He had been extremely reluctant to take such an adventurous step, but once having been compelled to do so, he had never doubted the decision. Indeed, the Tortoise held Mori-san in such reverence that for a long time--for the first two years at least--I cannot recall his being able to hold a conversation with our teacher, other than to mumble: "Yes, Sensei" or "No, Sensei." Throughout those years, the Tortoise continued to paint as slowly as he ever did, but it did not occur to anyone to hold this against him. In fact, there were a number of others who worked just as slowly, and this faction actually had a tendency to mock those of us with faster working habits. I remember they labelled us "the engineers", comparing the intense and frantic way we worked once an idea had struck with an engine driver shovelling on coal for fear the steam would at any moment run out. We in turn named the slow faction "the backwarders". A "backwarder" was originally a term used at the villa for someone who, in a room crowded with people working at easels, insisted on stepping backwards every few minutes to view his canvas--with the result that he continually collided with colleagues working behind him. It was of course quite unfair to suggest that because an artist liked to take time with a painting--stepping back, as it were, metaphorically--he was any more likely to be guilty of this antisocial habit, but then we enjoyed the very provocativeness of the label. Indeed, I recall a lot of goodhumoured bantering concerning "engineers" and "backwarders". In truth, though, just about all of us were prone to be guilty of "backwarding", and because of this, we would as far as possible avoid crowding together when working. In the summer months, many of my colleagues would set up easels spaced out at points along the verandas, or else out in the yard itself, while others insisted on reserving large numbers of rooms because they liked to circulate from room to room according to the light. The Tortoise and I always tended to work in the disused kitchen--a large, barn-like annex behind one of the wings. The floor as one entered was of trodden earth, but towards the back was a raised boarded platform, wide enough for our two easels. The low crossbeams with their hooks--from which once hung pots and other kitchen utensils--and the bamboo racks on the walls, proved most useful for our brushes, rags, paints and so on. And I can recall how the Tortoise and I would fill a large old blackened pot full of water, carry it on to the platform and suspend it on the old pulleys so that it hung at shoulder height between us as we painted. I remember one afternoon, we were painting in the old kitchen as usual, when the Tortoise said to me: "I"m very curious, Ono-san, about your present painting. It must be something very special." I smiled without taking my eyes from my work. "Why do you say that? It's just a little experiment of mine, that's all." "But Ono-san, it's a long time since I"ve seen you working with such intensity. And you"ve requested privacy. You haven't requested privacy now for at least two years. Not since you were preparing "Lion-dance" for your first exhibition." I should perhaps explain here that occasionally, whenever an artist felt a particular work would be hampered by comments of any sort before its completion, he would "request privacy" for that work, and it was then understood that no one would attempt to look at it until such time as the artist withdrew his request. This was a sensible arrangement, living and working as we did so closely, and gave one room to take risks without fear of making a fool of oneself. "Is it really so noticeable?" I said. "I thought I was hiding my excitement rather well." "You must be forgetting, Ono-san. We"ve been painting side by side for almost eight years now. Oh yes, I can tell this is something quite special for you." "Eight years," I remarked. "I suppose that's right." "Indeed, Ono-san. And it's been a privilege to work so close to one of your talent. More than a little humbling at times, but a great privilege nonetheless." "You exaggerate," I said, smiling and continuing to paint. "Not at all, Ono-san. Indeed, I feel I would never have progressed as I have over these years without the constant inspiration of seeing your works appearing before my eyes. No doubt you"ve noted the extent to which my modest "Autumn Girl" owes itself to your magnificent "Girl at Sunset". One of many attempts on my part, Ono-san, to emulate your brilliance. A feeble attempt, I realise, but then Mori-san was good enough to praise it as a significant step forward for me." "I wonder now." I ceased my brush strokes for a moment and looked at my work. "I wonder if this painting here will also inspire you." I continued to regard my half-finished painting for a moment, then glanced across to my friend over the ancient pot suspended between us. The Tortoise was painting happily, unaware of my gaze. He had put on a little more flesh since the days I had first known him at Master Takeda's, and the harassed, fearful look of those days had been largely replaced by an air of childlike contentment. In fact, I recall someone around that time comparing the Tortoise to a puppy who had just been petted, and indeed, this description was not inappropriate to the impression I received as I watched him paint that afternoon in the old kitchen. "Tell me, Tortoise," I said to him. "You"re quite happy with your work at present, are you?" "Most happy, thank you, Ono-san," he replied immediately. Then glancing up, he added hastily with a grin: "Of course, it has a long way to go before it can stand alongside your work, Ono-san." His eyes returned to his painting and I watched him working for a few more moments. Then I asked: "You don't consider sometimes trying some... some new approaches?" "New approaches, Orto-san?" he said, not looking up. "Tell me, Tortoise, don't you have ambitions to one day produce paintings of genuine importance? I don't mean simply work that we may admire and praise amongst ourselves here at the villa. I refer to work of real importance. Work that will be a significant contribution to the people of our nation. It's to this end, Tortoise, I talk of the need for a new approach." I had watched him carefully as I said all this, but the Tortoise