An Artist of the Floating World (4 page)

Although during the day the dining room is a rather gloomy place on account of the sun rarely reaching it, after dark, with the lightshade low over the table, it has a cosy atmosphere. We had been sitting around the table for several minutes, reading newspapers and magazines, when I said to my grandson: "Well, Ichiro, have you told your aunt about tomorrow?" Ichiro looked up from his book with a puzzled expression. "Shall we take the women with us or not?" I said. "Remember what we said. They might find it too scary." This time my grandson understood me and grinned. "It might be too scary for Aunt Noriko," he said. "Do you want to come, Aunt Noriko?" "Come to what, Ichiro-san?" Noriko asked. "Monster film." "I thought we would all go tomorrow to the cinema," I explained. "A family outing, so to speak." "Tomorrow?" Noriko looked at me, then turned to my grandson. "Well, we can't go tomorrow, can we, Ichiro? We"re going to the deer park, remember?" "The deer park can wait," I said. "The boy's looking forward to his film now." "Nonsense," Noriko said. "Everything's arranged. We"re going to call in on Mrs Watanabe on the way back. She's been wanting to meet Ichiro. Anyway, we decided a long time ago. Didn't we, Ichiro?" "It's very kind of Father," Setsuko put in. "But I understand Mrs Watanabe is expecting us. Perhaps we should leave the cinema until the day after." "But Ichiro's been looking forward to it," I protested. "Isn't that so, Ichiro? What a nuisance these women are." Ichiro did not look at me, apparently absorbed again in his book. "You tell these women, Ichiro," I said. My grandson continued to stare at his book. "Ichiro." Suddenly, dropping his book on the table, he got to his feet and went running out of the room, through into the piano room. I gave a small laugh. "There," I said to Noriko. "You"ve disappointed him now. You should have left things as they were." "Don't be ridiculous, Father. We"d arranged Mrs Watanabe's long ago. Besides, it's ridiculous to take Ichiro to see a film like that. He won't enjoy a film like that, will he, Setsuko?" My elder daughter smiled uncomfortably. "It's very kind of Father," she said, quietly. "Perhaps the day after..." I gave a sigh, shaking my head, and returned to my newspaper. But when after a few minutes it became clear that neither of my daughters was going to bring Ichiro back, I got up myself and went into the piano room. Ichiro, unable to reach the cord on the lightshade, had switched on the lamp on top of the piano. I found him sitting on the piano stool, one side of his head resting on the piano lid. His features, squashed against the dark wood, bore a disgruntled look. "I"m sorry about this, Ichiro," I said. "But don't be disappointed. We'll go the day after." Ichiro gave no reaction, so I said: "Now, Ichiro, this is nothing to be so disappointed about." I walked over to the window. It had become quite dark outside, and all I could see was my reflection and that of the room behind me. From the other room, I could hear the women talking in lowered voices. "Cheer up, Ichiro," I said. "This is nothing to get upset about. We'll go the day after, I promise you." When I turned again to Ichiro, his head was resting on the piano lid as before; but now, he was walking his fingers along the lid, as though playing the keys. I gave a light laugh. "Well, Ichiro, we'll just go the day after. We can't have the women ruling over us, can we?" I gave another laugh. "I expect they thought it would be too scary. Eh, Ichiro?" My grandson still gave no response, though he continued his finger movements on the piano lid. I decided it would be best to leave him alone for a few moments, and giving another laugh, went back through into the dining room. I found my daughters sitting in silence, reading their magazines. As I sat down, I gave a heavy sigh, but neither of them responded to this. I had replaced my reading glasses on my face and was about to start on my newspaper, when Noriko said in a quiet voice: "Father, shall we make some tea?" "That's kind of you, Noriko. But not for me just now." "What about you, Setsuko?" "Thank you, Noriko. But I don't think I will either." We continued to read in silence for a few more moments. Then Setsuko said: "Will Father be coming with us tomorrow? We could still have our family outing then." "I"d like to. But I"m afraid there"re a few things I have to be getting on with tomorrow." "What do you mean?" Noriko broke in. "What things are those?" Then turning to Setsuko, she said: "Don't listen to Father. He's got nothing to do these days. He'll just mope about the house like he always does now." "It would be very pleasant if Father would accompany us," Setsuko said to me. "It's regrettable," I said, looking down at my newspaper again. "But I have one or two things to attend to." "So you"re going to stay at home all on your own?" Noriko asked. "If you"re all going away, it seems I'll have to." Setsuko gave a polite cough. Then she said: "Perhaps then I'll remain at home also. Father and I have had little chance to exchange news." Noriko stared across the table at her sister. "There's no need for you to miss out. You"ve come all this way, you don't want to spend all your time indoors." "But I would very much enjoy staying and keeping Father company. I expect we have a lot more news to exchange." "Father, look what you"ve done," Noriko said. Then to her sister, she said: "So it's only me and Ichiro now." "Ichiro will enjoy spending the day with you, Noriko," Setsuko said with a smile. "You"re very much his favourite at the moment." I was glad about Setsuko's decision to remain at home, for indeed, we had had little opportunity to talk without interruption; and there are, of course, many things a father wishes to know about a married daughter's life which he cannot ask outright. But what never occurred to me that evening was that Setsuko would have her own reasons for wishing to remain in the house with me.

It is perhaps a sign of my advancing years that I have taken to wandering into rooms for no purpose. When Setsuko slid open the door of the reception room that afternoon on the second day of her visit--I must have been standing there lost in thought for some considerable time. "I"m sorry," she said. "I'll come back later." I turned, a little startled, to find my daughter kneeling at the threshold, holding a vase filled with flowers and cuttings. "No, please come in," I said to her. "I was doing nothing in particular." Retirement places more time on your hands. Indeed, it is one of the enjoyments of retirement that you are able to drift through the day at your own pace, easy in the knowledge that you have put hard work and achievement behind you. Nevertheless, I must be getting absent-minded indeed to be wandering aimlessly into--of all places--the reception room. For thoughout my years I have preserved the sense, instilled in me by my father, that the reception room of a house is a place to be revered, a place to be kept unsoiled by everyday trivialities, reserved for the receiving of important guests, or else the paying of respects at the Buddhist altar. Accordingly, the reception room of my house has always had a more solemn atmosphere than that to be found in most households; and although I never made a rule of it as my own father did, I discouraged my children while they were young from entering the room unless specifically bidden to do so. My respect for reception rooms may well appear exaggerated, but then you must realise that in the house I grew up in--in Tsuruoka Village, a half-day's train journey from here--I was forbidden even to enter the reception room until the age of twelve. That room being in many senses the centre of the house, curiosity compelled me to construct an image of its interior from the occasional glimpses I managed to catch of it. Later in my life I was often to surprise colleagues with my ability to realise a scene on canvas based only on the briefest of passing glances; it is possible I have my father to thank for this skill, and the inadvertent training he gave my artist's eye during those formative years. In any case, when I reached the age of twelve, the "business meetings" began, and then I found myself inside that room once every week. "Masuji and I will be discussing business tonight," my father would announce during supper. And that would serve both as my summons to present myself after the meal, and as a warning to the rest of the family to make no noise in the vicinity of the reception room that evening. My father would disappear into the room after supper, and call me some fifteen minutes later. The room I entered would be lit by a single tall candle standing in the centre of the floor. Within the circle of light it cast, my father would be sitting cross-legged on the tatami before his wooden "business box". He would gesture for me to sit opposite him in the light, and as I did so, the brightness of the candle would put the rest of the room into shadow. Only vaguely would I be able to discern past my father's shoulder the Buddhist altar by the far wall, or the few hangings adorning the alcoves. My father would then begin his talking. From out of his "business box" he would produce small, fat notebooks, some of which he would open so that he could point out to me columns of densely packed figures. All the while, his talking would continue in a measured, grave tone, to pause only occasionally when he would look up at me as though for confirmation. At these points, I would hurriedly utter: "Yes, indeed." Of course, it was quite impossible for me to follow what my father was saying. Employing jargon, recounting his way through lengthy calculations, he made no concessions to the fact that he was addressing a young boy. But it seemed equally impossible for me to ask him to stop and explain. For as I saw it, I had been allowed into the reception room only because I had been deemed old enough to understand such talk. My sense of shame was matched only by a terrible fear that at any moment I would be called upon to say more than "Yes, indeed" and my game would be up. And although month after month went by and I was never required to say anything more, I nevertheless lived in dread of the next "business meeting". Of course, it is clear to me now that my father never expected me for a moment to follow his talk, but I have never ascertained just why he put me through these ordeals. Perhaps he wished to impress upon me from that early age his expectation that I would eventually take over the family business. Or perhaps he felt that as future head of the family, it was only right I should be consulted on all decisions whose repercussions were likely to extend into my adulthood; that way, so my father may have figured it, I would have less cause for complaint were Ito inherit an unsound business. Then when I was fifteen, I remember being called into the reception room for a different kind of meeting. As ever, the room was lit by the tall candle, my father sat at the centre of its light. But that evening, instead of his business box, he had before him a heavy earthenware ashpot. This puzzled me, for this ashpot--the largest in the house--was normally produced only for guests. "You"ve brought all of them?" he asked. "I"ve done as you instructed." I laid beside my father the pile of paintings and sketches I had been holding in my arms. They made an untidy pile, sheets of varying sizes and quality, most of which had warped or wrinkled with the paint. I sat in silence while my father looked through my work. He would regard each painting for a moment, then lay it to one side. When he was almost half-way through my collection, he said without looking up: "Masuji, are you sure all your work is here? Aren't there one or two paintings you haven't brought me?" I did not answer immediately. He looked up and asked: "Well?" "It's possible there may be one or two I have not brought." "Indeed. And no doubt, Masuji, the missing paintings are the very ones you"re most proud of. Isn't that so?" He had turned his eyes down to the paintings again, so I did not answer. For several more moments, I watched him going through the pile. Once, he held one painting close to the candle flame, saying: "This is the path leading down from Nishiyama hill, is it not? Certainly you"ve caught the likeness very well. That's just how it looks coming down the hill. Very skilful." "Thank you." "You know, Masuji"--my father's eyes were still fixed on the painting--"I"ve heard a curious thing from your mother. She seems to be under the impression you wish to take up painting as a profession." He did not phrase this as a question, so I did not at first reply. But then he looked up and repeated: "Your mother, Masuji, seems to be under the impression that you wish to take up painting as a profession. Naturally, she is mistaken in supposing this." "Naturally," I said, quietly. "You mean, there has been some misunderstanding on her part." "No doubt." "I see." For a few more minutes, my father continued to study the paintings, and I sat there watching him in silence. Then he said without looking up: "In fact, I think that was your mother going by outside. Did you hear her?" "I"m afraid I didn't hear anyone." "I think it was your mother. Ask her to step in here since she's passing." I rose to my feet and went to the doorway. The corridor was dark and empty, as I had known it would be. Behind me, I heard my father's voice say: "While you"re fetching her, Masuji, gather together the rest of your paintings and bring them to me." Perhaps it was simply my imagination, but when I returned to the room a few minutes later, accompanied by my mother, I received the impression the earthenware ashpot had been moved slightly nearer the candle. I also thought there was a smell of burning in the air, but when I glanced into the ashpot, there were no signs of its having been used. My father acknowledged me distractedly when I placed the last examples of my work beside the original pile. He appeared still to be preoccupied with my paintings, and for some time, he ignored both my mother and me, seated before him in silence. Then finally, he gave a sigh, looked up and said to me: "I don't expect, Masuji, you have much time for wandering priests, do you?" "Wandering priests? I suppose not." "They have a lot to say about this world. I don't pay much attention to them most of the time. But it's only decent to be courteous to holy men, even if they strike you sometimes as nothing more than beggars." He paused, so I said: "Yes, indeed." Then my father turned to my mother and said: "Do you remember, Sachiko, the wandering priests who used to come through this village? There was one who came to this house just after our son here was born. A thin old man, with only one hand. But a very sturdy fellow for all that. You remember him?" "Yes, of course," my mother said. "But perhaps one should not take to heart what some of these priests have to say." "But you remember," my father said, "this priest gained a deep insight into Masuji's heart. He left us with a warning, you remember, Sachiko?" "But our son was no more than a baby then," my mother said. Her voice was lowered, as though she somehow hoped I would not hear. In contrast, my father's voice was needlessly loud, as if addressing an audience: "He left us with a warning. Masuji's limbs were healthy, he told us, but he had been born with a flaw in his nature. A weak streak that would give him a tendency towards slothfulness and deceit. You remember this, Sachiko?" "But I believe the priest also had many positive things to say about our son." "This is true. Our son had a lot of good qualities, the priest did point that out. But you recall his warning, Sachiko? He said if the good points were to dominate, we who brought him up would have to be vigilant and check this weak streak whenever it tried to manifest itself. Otherwise, so the old priest told us, Masuji here would grow up to be a good-fornothing." "But perhaps," my mother said cautiously, "it is unwise to take to heart what these priests have to say." My father appeared a little surprised by this remark. Then, after a moment, he nodded thoughtfully, as though my mother had made a perplexing point. "I was myself reluctant to take him seriously at the time," he continued. "But then at every stage of Masuji's growing up, I"ve been obliged to acknowledge that old man's words. It can't be denied, there is a weakness running through our son's character. There's little in the way of malice in him. But unceasingly, we"ve had to combat his laziness, his dislike of useful work, his weak will." Then, with some deliberation, my father picked up three or four of my paintings and held them in both hands as though to test their weight. He turned his gaze towards me and said: "Masuji, your mother here was under the impression that you wished to pursue painting as a profession. Has there perhaps been some misunderstanding on her part?" I lowered my eyes and remained silent. Then I heard my mother's voice beside me, almost whispering, say: "He's still very young. I"m sure it's just a childish whim of his." There was a pause, then my father said: "Tell me, Masuji, have you any idea what kind of a world artists inhabit?" I remained silent, looking at the floor before me. "Artists", my father's voice continued, "live in squalor and poverty. They inhabit a world which gives them every temptation to become weak-willed and depraved. Am I not right, Sachiko?" "Naturally. Yet perhaps there are one or two who are able to pursue an artistic career and yet avoid such pitfalls." "Of course, there are exceptions," my father said. My eyes were still lowered, but I could tell from his voice that he was again nodding in his perplexed manner. "The handful with extraordinary resolve and character. But I"m afraid our son here is far from being such a person. Indeed, quite the contrary. It is our duty to protect him from such dangers. We do, after all, wish him to become someone we can be proud of, don't we?" "Of course," my mother said. I looked up quickly. The candle had burned half-way down its length and the flame was sharply illuminating one side of my father's face. He had now placed the paintings on his lap, and I noticed how his fingers were moving impatiently along their edges. "Masuji," he said, "you may leave us now. I wish to speak with your mother." I can remember a little later that night, coming across my mother in the darkness. In all likelihood, it was in one of the corridors that I encountered her, though I do not remember this. Neither do I remember why I was wandering around the house in the dark, but it was certainly not in order to eavesdrop on my parents--for I do recall being resolved to pay no heed to what occurred in the reception room after my departure. In those days, of course, houses were all badly lit, so it was not at all unusual that we should stand in the dark and converse. I could make out my mother's figure in front of me, but could not see her face. "There's a smell of burning around the house," I remarked. "Burning?" My mother was silent for a while, then she said: "No. I don't think so. It must be your imagination, Masuji." "I smelt burning," I said. "There, I just caught it again. Is Father still in the reception room?" "Yes. He's working on something." "Whatever he's doing in there," I said, "it doesn't bother me in the least." My mother made no sound, so I added: "The only thing Father's succeeded in kindling is my ambition." "That is good to hear, Masuji." "You mustn't misunderstand me, Mother. I have no wish to find myself in years to come, sitting where Father is now sitting, telling my own son about accounts and money. Would you be proud of me if I grew to be like that?" "I would indeed, Masuji. There is much more to a life like your father's than you can possibly know at your age." "I would never be proud of myself. When I said I was ambitious, I meant I wished to rise above such a life." My mother fell silent for some moments. Then she said: "When you are young, there are many things which appear dull and lifeless. But as you get older, you will find these are the very things that are most important to you." I did not reply to this. instead, I believe I said: "Once, I was terrified of Father's business meetings. But for some time now, they"ve simply bored me. In fact, they disgust me. What are these meetings I"m so privileged to attend? The counting of loose change. The fingering of coins, hour after hour. I would never forgive myself if my life came to be like that." I paused and waited to see if my mother would say anything. For a moment, I had a peculiar feeling she had walked silently away while I had been speaking and I was now standing there alone. But then I heard her move just in front of me, so I repeated: "It doesn't bother me in the