An Artist of the Floating World (6 page)

garden, and with his back turned to the hum of conversation, was gazing out into the darkness. I went up to him and said: "Setsuko tells me, Suichi, these ceremonies make you angry." He turned and smiled. "I suppose they do. I get angry thinking about things. About the waste." "Yes. It's terrible to think of the waste. But Kenji, like many others, died very bravely." For a moment, my son-in-law gazed at me with a still, expressionless face; it is something he does from time to time which I have never quite got used to. The gaze, no doubt, is quite innocent, but perhaps because Suichi is a physically powerful man and his features rather fearsome, it is easy to read something threatening or accusing there. "There seems to be no end of courageous deaths," he said, eventually. "Half of my high school graduation year have died courageous deaths. They were all for stupid causes, though they were never to know that. Do you know, Father, what really makes me angry?" "What is that, Suichi?" "Those who sent the likes of Kenji out there to die these brave deaths, where are they today? They"re carrying on with their lives, much the same as ever. Many are more successful than before, behaving so well in front of the Americans, the very ones who led us to disaster. And yet it's the likes of Kenji we have to mourn. This is what makes me angry. Brave young men die for stupid causes, and the real culprits are still with us. Afraid to show themselves for what they are, to admit their responsibility." And it was then, I am sure, as he turned back to the darkness outside, that he said: "To my mind, that's the greatest cowardice of all." I had been drained by the ceremony, otherwise I might have challenged some of his assumptions. But I judged there would be other opportunities for such talk and moved the conversation to other matters. I recall standing there with him, looking out into the night, enquiring about his work and about Ichiro. At that point, I had hardly seen Suichi since his return from the war, and that was my first experience of the changed, somewhat bitter son-in-law I have now come to get used to. I was surprised that evening to find him talking in that way, with no trace of the rigid manners he had had before going to war; but I put it down to the emotional effect of the burial ceremony, and more generally, to the enormous impact of his war experience--which, so Setsuko had hinted, had been of a terrible nature. But in fact the mood I found him in that evening proved to be typical of his general mood these days; the transformation from the polite, self-effacing young man who married Setsuko two years before the war is quite remarkable. Of course, it is tragic that so many of his generation died as they did, but why must he harbour such bitterness for his elders? There is a hardness, almost a maliciousness to Suichi's views now which I find worrying--even more so since they appear to be influencing Setsuko. But such a transformation is by no means unique to my son-in-law. These days I see it all around me; something has changed in the character of the younger generation in a way I do not fully understand, and certain aspects of this change are undeniably disturbing. For instance, just the other night down at Mrs Kawakami's, I overheard a man sitting further along the counter saying: "I hear they took that idiot to hospital. A few broken ribs and concussion." "You mean the Hirayama boy?" Mrs Kawakami asked, with a look of concern. "Is that his name? The one's who's always wandering around shouting things out. Someone really ought to get him to stop. It seems he got beaten up again last night. It's a shame, taking on an idiot like that, whatever he's shouting out." At this point, I turned to the man and said: "Excuse me, you say the Hirayama boy's been attacked? For what reason?" "it seems he kept singing one of those old military songs and chanting regressive slogans." "But the Hirayama boy's always done that," I pointed out. "He's only able to sing two or three songs. It's what he was taught." The man shrugged. "I agree, what's the sense in beating up an idiot like that? It's just callousness. But he was over by the Kayabashi bridge, and you know how sleazy things get there after dark. He"d been sitting up on the bridge post, singing and chanting for about an hour. They could hear him in the bar across the way, and it seems a few of them got tired of it." "What sense is there in that?" Mrs Kawakami said. "The Hirayama boy means no harm." "Well, someone should teach him to sing new songs," the man said, drinking from his glass. "He'll only get beaten up again if he goes around singing those old ones." We still call him "the Hirayama boy" though he must now be at least fifty. But then the name does not seem inappropriate, for he has the mental age of a child. As far back as I can remember, he has been looked after by the Catholic nuns at the mission, but presumably he was born into a family called Hirayama. In the old days, when our pleasure district was flourishing, the Hirayama boy could always be found sitting on the ground near the entrance to the Migi-Hidari or one of its neighbouring establishments. He was, as Mrs Kawakami had said, quite harmless, and indeed, in the years before and during the war he became a popular figure in the pleasure district with his war songs and mimicking of patriotic speeches. Who had taught him his songs, I do not know. There were no more than two or three in his repertoire, and he knew only a verse of each. But he would deliver these in a voice of considerable carrying power, and between the singing, he would amuse spectators by standing there grinning at the sky, his hands on his hips, shouting: "This village must provide its share of sacrifices for the Emperor! Some of you will lay down your lives! Some of you will return triumphant to a new dawn!"--or some such words. And people would say, "The Hirayama boy may not have it all there, but he's got the right attitude. He's Japanese." I often saw people stop to give him money, or else buy him something to eat, and on those occasions the idiot's face would light up into a smile. No doubt, the Hirayama boy became fixated on those patriotic songs because of the attention and popularity they earned him. Nobody minded idiots in those days. What has come over people that they feel inclined to beat the man up? They may not like his songs and speeches, but in all likelihood they are the same people who once patted his head and encouraged him until those few snatches embedded themselves in his brain. But as I say, there is a different mood in the country these days, and Suichi's attitudes are probably by no means exceptional. Perhaps I am being unfair if I credit young Miyake, too, with such bitterness, but then the way things are at present, if you examine anything anyone says to you, it seems you will find a thread of this same bitter feeling running through it. For all I know, Miyake did speak those words; perhaps all men of Miyake's and Suichi's generation have come to think and speak like that.

I believe I have already mentioned that yesterday I took a trip down to the south of the city, to the Arakawa district. Arakawa is the last stop on the city tramline going south, and many people express surprise that the line should extend so far down into the suburbs. Indeed, it is hard to think of Arakawa, with its cleanly swept residential streets, its rows of maple trees on the pavements, its dignified houses each set apart from the next, and its general air of being surrounded by countryside, as being part of the city. But to my mind, the authorities were correct to take the tramline as far as Arakawa; it can only be of benefit to city-dwellers that they have easy access to calmer, less crowded surroundings. We were not always so well served, and I can recall how the hemmed-in feeling one gets in a city, especially during the hot summer weeks, was significantly greater in the days before the present tramlines were laid down. I believe it was 1931 when the present lines began to operate, superseding the inadequate lines which had so irritated passengers for the previous thirty years. If you were not living here then, it is perhaps hard to imagine the impact these new lines had on many aspects of life in the city. Whole districts seemed to change character overnight; parks that had always been busy with people became deserted; longestablished businesses suffered severe losses. There were, of course, those districts which found themselves unexpectedly benefited, and among these was that area on the other side of the Bridge of Hesitation soon to become our pleasure district. Prior to the new tramlines, you would have found there only a few dull back streets with rows of shingled-roof houses. No one at that time considered it a district in its own right and one could only locate it by saying "east of Furukawa". The new tram circuit, however, meant that passengers disembarking at the terminus in Furukawa could reach the city centre more quickly on foot than by making a second, highly circuitous tram journey, and the result was a sudden influx of people walking through that area. The handful of bars that were there already began, after years of mediocre trade, to flourish dramatically, while new ones opened one after the other. The establishment that was to become the Migi-Hidari was known at that time simply as "Yamagata's"--after its proprietor, an old veteran soldier--and was the longestestablished bar in the district. It was a somewhat colourless place in those days, but I had used it regularly over the years since first coming to the city. As far as I recall, it was not until a few months after the arrival of the new tramlines that Yamagata saw what was happening around him, and began to formulate his ideas. With the area set to become a fully fledged drinking quarter, his own establishment--being the oldest, and situated as it was at the intersection of three streets--stood naturally to become a sort of patriarch among local establishments. In view of this, so he saw it, it was his responsibility to expand and re-open in grand style. The tradesman above him was ready to be bought out, and the necessary capital could be raised without difficulty. The main stumbling block, both as regards his own establishment and the district as a whole, was the attitude of the city authorities. In this, Yamagata was undoubtedly correct. For this was 1933 or 1934--an unlikely time, you may recall, to be contemplating the birth of a new pleasure district. The authorities had been applying arduous policies to keep the more frivolous side of the city's life in check, and indeed, in the city centre, many of the more decadent establishments were in the process of being closed down. At first, then, I did not listen to Yamagata's ideas with much sympathy. It was only when he told me just what sort of place he had in mind that I became sufficiently impressed and promised I would do what I could to help him. I believe I have already mentioned the fact that I played a small part in the Migi-Hidari's coming into existence. Of course, not being a man of wealth, there was little I could do financially. But by that time my reputation in this city had grown to a certain extent; as I recall, I was not yet serving on the arts committee of the State Department, but I had many personal links there and was already being consulted frequently on matters of policy. So then, my petition to the authorities on Yamagata's behalf was not without weight. "It is the owner's intention", I explained, "that the proposed establishment be a celebration of the new patriotic spirit emerging in Japan today. The decor would reflect the new spirit, and any patron incompatible with that spirit would be firmly encouraged to leave. Furthermore, it is the owner's intention that the establishment be a place where this city's artists and writers whose works most reflect the new spirit can gather and drink together. With respect to this last point, I have myself secured the support of various of my colleagues, among them the painter, Masayuki Harada; the playwright, Misumi; the journalists, Shigeo Otsuji and Eiji Nastuki--all of them, as you will know, producers of work unflinchingly loyal to his Imperial Majesty the Emperor." I went on to point out how such an establishment, given its dominance in the neighbourhood, would be an ideal means by which to ensure that a desirable tone prevailed in the district. "Otherwise," I warned, "I fear we are faced with the growth of another quarter characterised by the very sort of decadence we have been doing our best to combat and which we know so weakens the fibre of our culture." The authorities responded not simply with acquiescence, but with an enthusiasm that surprised me. It was, I suppose, another of those instances when one is struck by the realisation that one is held in rather higher esteem than one supposed. But then I was never one to concern myself with matters of esteem, and this was not why the advent of the Migi-Hidari brought me so much personal satisfaction; rather, I was proud to see borne out something I had maintained for some time--namely that the new spirit of Japan was not incompatible with enjoying oneself; that is to say, there was no reason why pleasure-seeking had to go hand in hand with decadence. So then, some two-and-a-half years after the coming of the new tramlines, the Migi-Hidari was opened. The renovations had been skilful and extensive, so that anyone strolling that way after dark could hardly fail to notice that brightly-lit front with its numerous lanterns, large and small, hung along the gables, under the eaves, in neat rows along the window ledges and above the main entryway; then, too, there was that enormous illuminated banner suspended from the ridgepole bearing the new name of the premises against a background of army boots marching in formation. One evening, shortly after its opening, Yamagata took me inside, told me to choose my favourite table, and declared that thereafter it was reserved for my sole use. Primarily, I suppose, this was in recognition of the small service I had done him. But then, of course, I had always been one of Yamagata's best customers. Indeed, I had been going into Yamagata's for over twenty years prior to its transformation into the Migi-Hidari. This was not really through any deliberate choice on my part--as I say, it was an undistinguished sort of place--but when I first came to this city as a young man, I was living in Furukawa and Yamagata's place happened to be at hand. It is perhaps hard for you to picture how ugly Furukawa was in those days. Indeed, if you are new to the city, my talking of the Furukawa district probably conjures up the park that stands there today and the peach trees for which it is renowned. But when I first came to this city--in 1913--the area was full of factories and warehouses belonging to the smaller companies, many of them abandoned or in disrepair. The houses were old and shabby and the only people who lived in Furukawa were those who could afford only the lowest rents. Mine was a small attic room above an old woman living with her unmarried son, and was quite unsuitable for my needs. There being no electricity in the house, I was obliged to paint by oil-light; there was barely enough space to set up an easel, and I could not avoid splashing the walls and tatami with paint; I would often wake the old woman or her son while working through the night; and most vexing of all, the attic ceiling was too low to allow me to stand up fully, so I would often work for hours in a half-crouched position, hitting my head continually on the rafters. But then in those days I was so delighted at having been accepted by the Takeda firm, and to be earning my living as an artist, that I gave little thought to these unhappy conditions. During the day, of course, I did not work in my room, but at Master Takeda's "studio". This, too, was in Furukawa, a long room above a restaurant--long enough, in fact, for all fifteen of us to set up easels all in a row. The ceiling, though higher than that in my attic room, sagged considerably at the centre, so that whenever we entered the room we always joked that it had descended a few more centimetres since the previous day. There were windows along the length of the room, and these should have given us a good light to work by; but somehow the shafts of sunlight that came in were always too sharp, giving the room something of the look of a ship's cabin. The other problem with the place was the fact that the restaurateur downstairs would not allow us to remain after six o"clock in the evening when his customers would begin to come in. "You sound like a herd of cattle up there," he would say. We would thus have no choice but to continue our work back at our respective lodgings. I should perhaps explain that there was no chance of our completing our schedule without working in the evenings. The Takeda firm prided itself on its ability to provide a high number of paintings at very short notice; indeed, Master Takeda gave us to understand that if we failed to fulfil our deadline in time for the ship leaving harbour, we would quickly lose future commissions to rival firms. The result was that we would work the most arduous hours, late into the night, and still feel guilty the next day because we were behind schedule. Often, as the deadline date approached, it would not be unusual for us all to be living on just two or three hours of sleep each night, and painting around the clock. At times, if several commissions came in one after the next, we would be going from day to day dizzy with exhaustion. But for all that, I cannot recall our ever failing to complete a commission on time, and, I suppose, that gives some indication of the hold Master Takeda had over us. After I had been with Master Takeda for a year or so, a new artist joined the firm. This was Yasunari Nakahara, a name which I doubt will mean much to you. In fact, there is no reason why you should have come across it, since he never achieved any kind of reputation. The most he did was eventually to gain a post as art teacher at a high school in the Yuyama district a few years before the war--a post, I am told, he still holds today, the authorities seeing no reason to replace him as they did so many of his fellow teachers. Myself, I always remember him as "the Tortoise", the name given to him during those days at the Takeda firm, and one which I came to use affectionately throughout our friendship. I have still in my possession a painting by the Tortoise--a self-portrait he painted not long after the Takeda days. It shows a thin young man with spectacles, sitting in his shirtsleeves in a cramped, shadowy room, surrounded by easels and rickety furniture, his face caught on one side by the light coming from the window. The earnestness and timidity written on the face are certainly true to the man I remember, and in this respect, the Tortoise has been remarkably honest; looking at the portrait, you would probably take him to be the sort you could confidently elbow aside for an empty tram seat. But then each of us, it seems, has his own special conceits. If the Tortoise's modesty forbade him to disguise his timid nature, it did not prevent him attributing to himself a kind of lofty intellectual air--which I for one have no recollection of. But then to be fair, I cannot recall any colleague who could paint a self-portrait with absolute honesty; however accurately one may fill in the surface details of one's mirror reflection, the personality represented rarely comes near the truth as others would see it. The Tortoise earned his nickname because, joining the firm in the midst of a particularly busy commission, he proceeded to produce only two or three canvasses in the time it took the rest of us to complete six or seven. At first, his slowness was put down to inexperience and the nickname was used only behind his back. But as the weeks went by and his rate had not improved, the bitterness against him grew. It soon became commonplace for people to call him "Tortoise" to his face, and although he fully realised the name was anything but affectionate, I remember him trying his best to take it as though it were. For instance, if someone called across the long room: "Hey, Tortoise, are you still painting that petal you began last week?" he would make an effort to laugh as though to share in the joke. I recall my colleagues often attributing this apparent inability to defend his dignity to the fact that the Tortoise was from the Negishi district; for in those days, as today, there prevailed the rather unfair myth that those from that part of the city invariably grew up weak and spineless. I remember one morning, when Master Takeda had left the long room for a moment, two of my colleagues going up to the Tortoise's easel and challenging him about his lack of speed. My easel stood not far from his, so I could see clearly the nervous expression on his face as he replied: "I beg you to be patient with me. It is my greatest wish to learn from you, my superior colleagues, how to produce work of such quality so quickly. I have done my utmost in these past weeks to paint faster, but sadly I was forced to abandon several pictures, because the loss of quality on account of my hurrying was such that I would have disgraced the high standards of our firm. But I will do all I can to improve my poor standing in your eyes. I beg you to forgive me and to be patient a while longer." The Tortoise repeated this plea two or three times over, while his tormentors persisted with their abuse, accusing him of laziness and of relying on the rest of us to do his share of the work. By this time, most of us had ceased to paint and had gathered round. I believe it was after his accusers had begun to abuse the Tortoise in particularly harsh terms, and when I saw that the rest of my colleagues would do