Seven Japanese Tales Read online

  Two days later Dr. Kato learned the results of the examination from his friend: just as he had feared, both the cystoscope and the X-rays showed clearly that the disease was tuberculosis of the kidneys, and that Father's condition was fatal. If only one of his kidneys had been attacked he could probably have been saved by its removal. Even in such cases, the prognosis was bad: thirty or forty per cent of the patients died. Unfortunately both of my father's kidneys were affected, so nothing could be done for him. Though he still didn't seem to be a very sick man, he would soon have to take to his bed — at the longest, he might live another year or two.

  “This isn't the kind of thing you can afford to neglect,” Dr. Kato had warned him at the time, in a roundabout way. “From now on I'll come to see you once or twice a week — you ought to stay at home and rest as much as possible.” And he added: “I must ask you to refrain from sexual intercourse. There's no danger of respiratory contagion at present, so you needn't worry as far as the rest of the family is concerned. But your wife will have to be careful.”

  “Is it some kind of tuberculosis?”

  “Well, yes. But it isn't tuberculosis of the lungs.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “The bacilli have attacked the kidney. Since you have two kidneys, it's nothing to be so alarmed about.”

  Dr. Kato managed to gloss it over for the moment in that way, and Father quietly accepted his advice. “I understand,” he said. “I'll do as you've told me. But I like going out for walks, and as long as I'm able to get around I'll come to your office.”

  Father continued to visit Dr. Kato as usual, apparently not wishing to have him call at our house. Most of the time he came alone, but now and then Mother accompanied him. Although Dr. Kato felt an obligation to inform her frankly of her husband's condition, he had not yet found an opportunity to do so.

  Then one day Father surprised him by saying: “Doctor, how much longer do I have, the way things are going?”

  “Why do you talk like that?” Dr. Kato asked him.

  Father smiled faintly. “You needn't keep anything from me. I've had a premonition about it all along.”

  “But why?”

  “I don't know. . . maybe you'd call it instinct. It's just a feeling I've had. How about it, Doctor? I know what to expect, so please tell me the truth.”

  Dr. Kato was well acquainted with Father's character and took him at his word. Father had always been an acutely perceptive man; possibly he had been able to guess the nature of his illness from the way the specialists at the university treated him. Sooner or later I'll have to tell him or tell someone in his family, Dr. Kato thought; if he's so well prepared for it maybe I'd better do it now and get it over with. Indirectly, but without trying to evade my father's questions any longer, he confirmed his fears.

  This is what Dr. Kato reported to me. Then he warned me that, since the disease often ended by invading the lungs, all of us — not just my mother — had to be careful.

  I come now to the part of my narrative that I find most difficult.

  I have tentatively given this narrative the title of The Bridge of Dreams, and have written it, however amateurishly, in the form of a novel. But everything that I have set forth actually happened — there is not one falsehood in it. Still, if I were asked why I took it into my head to write at all, I should be unable to reply. I am not writing out of any desire to have others read this. At least, I don't intend to let anyone see it as long as I am alive. If someone happens across it after my death, there will be no harm in that; but even if it is lost in oblivion, if no one ever reads it, I shall have no regret. I write for the sake of writing, simply because I enjoy looking back at the events of the past and trying to remember them one by one. Of course, all that I record here is true: I do not allow myself the slightest falsehood or distortion. But there are limits even to telling the truth; there is a line one ought not to cross. And so, although I certainly never write anything untrue, neither do I write the whole of the truth. Perhaps I leave part of it unwritten out of consideration for my father, for my mother, for myself. . . If anyone says that not to tell the whole truth is in fact to lie, that is his own interpretation. I shall not venture to deny it.

  What Dr. Kato revealed to me about my father's physical condition filled my mind with wild, nightmarish fancies. If it was last fall that Father became aware of his unhappy fate, he was then forty-three years old, Mother was thirty, and I was eighteen. At thirty, however, Mother looked four or five years younger — people took her for my sister. Suddenly I recalled the story of her earlier life, which Okane had told me as we walked through the shrine forest before she left us last year. “You mustn't let your father hear about it,” she had said, but might she not have done so on his instructions? Perhaps he had reason to want to sever the connection between my real mother and my stepmother, who had become so closely linked in my mind.

  Also, I thought of what had happened not long ago in the Silk-Tree Pavilion. Perhaps Father had had something to do with that. I hardly think Mother would have tried to tantalize me so shamelessly without his permission. The fact is, although I stayed away from the pavilion for several weeks after that incident, I went there to suckle at Mother's breast more than once. Sometimes Father was away, sometimes at home: it seems unlikely that he didn't realize what she was doing, or that she concealed it from him. Possibly, knowing he hadn't long to live, he was trying to create a deeper intimacy between Mother and me, so that she would think of me as taking his place — and she made no objection. That is all I can bring myself to say. However, such a theory would explain why they sent Takeshi to Seriu. . . It may seem that I have imagined the most preposterous things about my parents, but what Father told me on his deathbed, as I shall relate presently, appears to bear me out.

  I don't know when Mother learned that Father's days were numbered; perhaps he told her as soon as he knew. But that afternoon in the pavilion when she used the phrase “your mother” — was it really by chance, as it seemed then, or had she intended to say that? Indeed, Father must have told her about his illness even before she gave birth to Takeshi in May. Once they anticipated what the future held in store for them they may have come to an understanding — even if they never discussed the matter openly — and sent Takeshi off for adoption.

  What seemed strange was that, as far as I could tell, Mother showed no sign of gloom or depression at the impending separation from her husband. It would have been contrary to her nature to display her emotions plainly — but was there even a shadow of secret grief across that bland, lovely face? Was she forcibly suppressing her tears, thinking she must not let me see her lose control of herself? Whenever I looked at them, her eyes were dry and clear. Even now I cannot say that I really understand how she felt, the complex emotions that seem to have existed beneath her surface calm. Until Father was at his dying hour she never tried to talk to me about his death.

  It was in August that Father lost the strength to get out of bed. By then his entire body was swollen. Dr. Kato came to see him almost every day. Father grew steadily weaker, losing even the will to sit up to eat. Mother hardly left his bedside.

  “You ought to hire a nurse,” Dr. Kato told her.

  But Mother said: “I'll take care of him myself.” She let no one else touch him. Evidently that was also my father's wish. All his meals — though he ate only a few bites — were carefully planned by her; she would order his favorite delicacies, such as sweetfish or sea eel, and serve them to him. As his urination became more and more frequent she had to be always ready to give him the bedpan. It was during the midsummer heat, and he suffered from bedsores, which she also cared for. Often, too, she had to wipe his body with a solution of alcohol. Mother never spared herself any pains at these tasks, all of which she did with her own hands. Father grumbled if anyone else tried to help him, but he never uttered a word of complaint about what she did. His nerves became so tense that the least sound seemed to bother him: even the bamboo mortar in the garde
n was too noisy, and he had us stop it. Toward the end he spoke only when he needed something, and then only to Mother. Occasionally friends or relatives came to visit him, but he didn't seem to want to see them. Mother was busy with him day and night; whenever she was too exhausted to go on, her place was taken by my old nurse, Okane, who had come back to help us. I was amazed to discover that Mother had so much stamina and perseverance.

  It was one day in late September, the day after an unusually heavy rainstorm when the “Shallow Stream” overflowed its banks and backed up into our pond, clouding the water, that Mother and I were summoned to Father's bedside. He was lying on his back, but he had us turn him over on his side so that he could look into our faces more easily. Beckoning me to sit close to him, he said: “Come here, Tadasu. Your mother can listen from where she is.” He kept his gaze fixed on me all the while he spoke, as if he were seeking something in the depths of my eyes.

  “I haven't much longer,” he said. “But this was meant to be, so I am resigned to it. When I go to the other world your mother will be waiting for me, and I'm happy at the thought of meeting her again after all these years. What worries me most is your poor stepmother. She still has a long life ahead of her, but once I'm gone she'll have only you to rely on. So please take good care of her — give her all your love. Everyone says you resemble me. I think so myself. As you get older you'll look even more like me. If she has you, she'll feel as if I am still alive. I want you to think of taking my place with her as your chief aim in life, as the only kind of happiness you need.”

  Never had he looked at me that way before, deep into my eyes. Though I felt I could not fully understand the meaning of his gaze, I nodded my consent; and he gave a sigh of relief. Then, after pausing a few minutes until he was breathing easily once more, he went on:

  “In order to make her happy you'll have to marry, but instead of marrying for your own sake you must marry for your mother's, to have someone who will help you take care of her. I've been thinking of Kajikawa's daughter Sawako. . .”

  Kajikawa was a gardener who had come to our house regularly for many years. (His father had been an apprentice of the man who laid out the garden at Heron's Nest.) We saw him frequently, since he and his helpers still worked in our garden several days a week. And we knew his daughter Sawako too: ever since she had been in Girls High School she used to call on us once a year, on the day of the Aoi Festival.

  Sawako had a fair complexion and a slender, oval face of the classic melon-seed shape, the kind of face you see in ukiyoye woodblock prints. I suppose some people would consider her beautiful. After graduating from high school, she began wearing extremely heavy makeup, and was even more striking. It had seemed to me that a girl with a lovely white skin needn't paint herself so; but the year before last she stopped by during the midsummer festival, after viewing the great bonfire in the Eastern Hills from the Kamo riverbank, and since she said she was hot we invited her to have a bath, which she did, reappearing later and passing so near me that I noticed a few freckles on her cheeks. That explains why she wears so much make-up, I thought. After that I didn't see her for a long time, but about ten days ago she and Kajikawa had come to pay a sick call. I found their visit rather disturbing. Father, who usually refused to see any visitors, asked that they be brought to his room and spent over twenty minutes talking with them. Realizing that something was up, I half expected what he had to say to me.

  “I dare say you know a good deal about the girl,” Father continued; and he gave me a brief description of how Sawako had been brought up and what she was like. But there was nothing particularly new to me, since I had been hearing about her for years. She was nineteen, my own age, having also been born in 1906; she was intelligent and talented, and had been graduated from Girls' High School three years ago with an excellent record; after graduation she had kept busy taking lessons of one kind or another, acquiring a range of accomplishments far beyond what one might have expected of a gardener's daughter. Thus she had all the qualifications to make a fine bride for any family — except that 1906 was the Year of the Fiery Horse, by the old calendar, and she was a victim of the superstition that women born in that year are shrews. As a result, she had not yet received an attractive offer of marriage.

  All this was long since familiar to me, and Father concluded by asking me to take her as my wife. Then he added that both the girl and her parents would be delighted to accept such a proposal. “If you'll only agree to it, everything will be settled,” he said. “But in that case there's one thing more I'd like to ask of you. If you have a child, send it elsewhere, just as your mother gave up her own child for your sake. There's no need to say anything to Sawako or her parents right away — you might as well keep this to yourself until the time comes when you have to tell them. The earlier you're married, the better. Have the ceremony as soon as the year of mourning is over. I can't think of a suitable go-between at the moment, but you and your mother can discuss that with Kajikawa and decide on someone.”

  After having talked for such a long time, Father closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He seemed suddenly reassured that I would obey his wishes. Mother and I turned him on his back again.

  The next day Father began to show symptoms of uremia. He could eat nothing whatever, his mind was hazy, and now and then he talked deliriously. He lived about three more days, until the beginning of October; but all that we could catch of his incoherent speech was my mother's name, “Chinu,” and the broken phrase “the bridge. . . of dreams,” a phrase he repeated over and over. Those were the last words I heard my father utter.

  Okane had come back from the country in August to help us, and as soon as the Buddhist service of the Seventh Day was over she went home. Relatives we hadn't seen for years gathered at the house even for the services of the Thirty-fifth and Forty-ninth Days; but their number gradually dwindled until, on the Hundredth Day, only two or three people made an appearance.

  The following spring I was graduated from higher school and entered the law department of the university. After the death of my unsociable father the guests who called at Heron's Nest, never very many, became so rare that at last there was hardly anyone but Sawako and her parents, who came about once a week. Mother would spend the whole day indoors, worshipping before Father's memorial tablet or, if she needed diversion taking out my first mother's koto and playing it for a while. Because our house seemed so lonely and quiet now, she decided to start the bamboo mortar up again after its long silence; and she had Kajikawa cut a piece of green bamboo for it. Once again I could hear the familiar clack, clack that I had always loved.

  Mother had borne up well while she was nursing Father the year before; even throughout the long series of Buddhist services that followed his death she always received our guests with dignity and self-control, and looked as full-cheeked and glowing with health as ever. But lately she seemed to show signs of fatigue, and sometimes had one of the maids massage her. Sawako offered her services whenever she was there.

  One day when the silk tree was beginning to blossom I went out to the pavilion, knowing that I would find Mother and Sawako. Mother was lying in her usual place, on two cushions, while Sawako was energetically rubbing her arms.

  “Sawako's good at massaging, isn't she?” I said.

  “She's really wonderful!” Mother replied. “I don't know anyone who can equal her. She makes me so drowsy I almost drop off to sleep — it's a delicious feeling!”

  “She does seem to know how to use her hands. Sawako, did you ever take lessons at this?”

  “No, no lessons,” she answered; “but I'm used to massaging my parents every day.”

  “That's what I thought,” Mother said. “No wonder she'd put even a professional to shame. Tadasu, let her try it on you.”

  “I don't need a massage. But maybe I'll be her pupil and learn how to do it.”

  “Why should you learn?” asked Mother.

  “Then I can massage you too. I ought to be able to learn that m
uch.”

  “But your hands are too rough —”

  “They're not rough, for a man. Isn't that so, Sawako? Just feel them!”

  “Let's see,” Sawako said, clasping my fingers in her own, and then stroking my palms. “My, you really do have nice smooth hands! You'll be fine!”

  “It's because I've never gone in much for sports.”

  “Once you get the knack of it you'll soon be an expert!”

  For some weeks after that I had Sawako teach me the various massaging techniques, and practiced them on Mother. Sometimes she got so ticklish that she shrieked with laughter.

  In July the three of us would sit by the pond together to enjoy the cool of evening. Like my father, I would take a few bottles of beer to put under the spout of the bamboo mortar. Mother drank too, several glasses if I urged her; but Sawako always refused.

  Mother would dangle her bare feet in the water, saying: “Sawako, you ought to try this. It makes you delightfully cool!”

  But Sawako would sit there primly in her rather formal summer dress, with a heavy silk sash bound tightly around her waist. “Your feet are so pretty!” she would say. “I couldn't possibly show ugly ones like mine beside them!”

  It seemed to me that she was too reserved. She might have been a little freer and more intimate with someone who would eventually become her mother-in-law. But she seemed too solicitous, too eager to please; often her words had a tinge of insincerity. Even her attitude toward me was curiously old-fashioned, for a girl who had been graduated from high school. Perhaps marriage would change her, but at the moment I couldn't help feeling that our relations were those of master and servant. Of course, it may have been precisely that quality in her which appealed to my father, and no doubt Mother's strength and firmness made her seem retiring, by contrast. Yet she seemed inadequate, somehow, for a young girl who was to become the third member of our small family.