A Dark Night's Passing Read online

  Our notion of immortality, too, undergoes a similar process of extension. As children we care only about our own individual, bodily immortality; that is the only kind that has any emotional meaning for us then. (And even now, I dread death.) But as we grow, our own personal immortality comes to have less and less meaning. We come to have no faith in it. Instead we seek satisfaction in the work we do, hoping that that at least will remain, hoping that though we as individuals will die, our own species will continue forever. Perhaps we may eventually reach a point when we are delivered from this hope. There are indeed faiths in which such deliverance is offered. Be that as it may, men instinctively strive for progress no matter what they do. Often, this strife becomes a blind obsession, the end becomes forgotten, and what is reaped in the name of progress is unhappiness for mankind. But no matter what the result may be, the driving force behind this strife is the desire for immortality for the human race, the terrible need to deny the inevitability of its fate. I remember the day when for the first time in Japan an airplane was flown. The pilot’s name was Marse. As I watched the plane taxiing along the ground, then suddenly rise into the air, I found myself moved almost to tears. Where did this emotion come from? I suppose the excitement of the crowd around me was partly responsible. But there was something besides that. After all, have I not been equally moved when all alone I have read accounts in the newspaper of great scientific discoveries? And I think that at such times, it is the human will within me, hidden from my consciousness, that is responding.

  We all know that mankind will eventually disappear. But this knowledge does not bring despair to our daily lives. Sometimes, it is true, when we contemplate the destiny of the human race, we may feel unbearably forlorn. But this forlornness is of the kind we feel when we think about infinity. The strange thing is that while we recognize the inevitability of man’s extinction, we ignore it emotionally. And the desperate struggle for progress continues. Is this not because somewhere in us is the hope that man may somehow escape the destiny of this very planet? And is there not some great subconscious will at work in all of us, the will that this hope shall be realized?

  10

  Such, then, was what Kensaku wrote in his diary, neglected this past fortnight or so. These thoughts had of late been haunting him, though in a form less articulated. For some time now, he had felt that people around him were chasing after shadows, working toward some objective whose nature was undefined in their minds, as though propelled by a great will which too was unknown. In art, in religion, or in science it was all the same, he thought. And he himself was no exception. Too often, when in a nervous state, he would feel as if he was being pursued by this unknown thing.

  Excitedly he started to walk around the room.

  “Kensaku! Kensaku!” It was Oei calling from the bottom of the stairs. “Do you want lunch?”

  He stopped, like a man awakening from a dream. It was his habit to get up late and eat a meal which was a combination of breakfast and lunch. But this morning he had been forced out of bed early by Nobuyuki and had eaten a proper breakfast.

  “I suppose so,” he said, a little ungraciously. “I’m not hungry, but I’ll come down.”

  During the meal Oei said worriedly, “I hear you’re going to see this young hooligan. Are you sure it’s safe going alone? Don’t you think you should ask Mr. Tatsuoka to come with you?”

  Kensaku now remembered his promise to Nobuyuki. “There’s no need to worry,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll turn out to be quite harmless.” But he felt a twinge of uneasiness, not so much about what the other fellow might do as about what he, so prone to fly into a temper, might do.

  Deciding he had perhaps eaten too much, he took some digestive aid, then went upstairs. He pulled out the wastepaper basket from under his desk, and using this as a pillow, lay down on the floor. The earlier excitement had passed, and he was left with a certain sense of emptiness. Not long after, Miyamoto came.

  “Where should we have the farewell dinner for Tatsuoka?” he asked. “We must decide pretty soon.”

  “You mean to say you haven’t decided yet? We’ve got only a week left, you know. Just pick a place, it doesn’t matter where, then ask Tatsuoka when he’ll be free.”

  Chastised, Miyamoto said hesitantly, “But I’ve already made sure when he’ll be free. It’s just that I’m not sure what sort of place we should pick. I mean, we oughtn’t to go to a place like Seihintei or Nishimidori, ought we?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m glad you agree,” Miyamoto said and began to laugh. “You see, I wasn’t sure. I mean, those places are all right, but I didn’t think they were quite appropriate for a farewell dinner. On the other hand, I didn’t know how all of you would feel, and I had to make sure.”

  Kensaku began to laugh too. Miyamoto continued: “I’m inclined to choose Fujimiken or San’entei. I don’t know what sort of food we’ll get there, but they’re pleasantly old-fashioned, don’t you think? It would be just like the old days, when they used to give all those send-off parties for people going abroad. And we should get our photographer from some well-established shop, like Takebayashi, for example.” When it came to such matters, everyone in their circle deferred to Miyamoto’s experience.

  Kensaku told Miyamoto about the young man who had written to his younger sister. “I’m about to go and talk to him if I find him. Do you want to come along?”

  “No, thanks. He might produce a pistol, you know. ‘Hands up!’ as they say.” This last remark was accompanied by the appropriate gesture.

  “All right. Wait for me here.”

  It was two o’clock. Carrying his umbrella though it had stopped raining, Kensaku walked to Hikawa Shrine, no more than a quarter of a mile from his house. It was normally a popular gathering place for the neighborhood children, but because of the rain it was quite deserted. Kensaku walked about the grounds in search of his sister’s admirer. Behind the hall of sacred music he came upon a pale, undernourished young man sitting on a stone. He was a pitiful sight. On this chilly day he wore only a thin, summer kimono, slightly soiled. No wonder he looked shriveled. There was fear in his eyes as he watched Kensaku approaching. “It can’t be him,” Kensaku said to himself, and walked past the young man nonchalantly. At the tea-shop beside one of the small chapels the owner was putting away the benches. There was no one else, except for an occasional passerby, clearly innocent, who would walk quickly through the grounds.

  Then Kensaku suddenly remembered Seigen, the lovesick priest, as he was portrayed on the kabuki stage. It was a passing fancy, nothing that he himself could take seriously, but the association was enough to make him wonder if the shabby young man wasn’t perhaps the culprit after all. The young man was still sitting in the same place; it was possible that he was indeed waiting for someone. Kensaku went toward him. Yellow leaves lay on the wet ground, fallen from the large gingko tree above. Spearing a leaf here and a leaf there with the point of his umbrella, Kensaku walked past him and back again. Moving only his eyes, the young man watched Kensaku uneasily. At last Kensaku stopped in front of him and said, “Are you waiting for someone?”

  The young man, too frightened to speak, could only fidget guiltily. Kensaku began to think that perhaps he had found his man. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not … , I’m not … ” Unable to complete the sentence, he began to shake his head frantically. Then at last he added, panting, “ … waiting for anyone.” He was shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes were like a beaten dog’s. His thin hair, lackluster from undernourishment, was about two inches long all over. The skin on his hands and feet was dry and scaly. Looking up at Kensaku’s cross face he said, still panting, “I have a home. It’s in Tansumachi.” Unconsciously he began picking at a hangnail until it bled. Still he continued to pick at it, seemingly unaware of the pain. He was not a vagrant, he was saying. He had clearly mistaken Kensaku for a detective.

  “I beg your pardon,” Kensaku said, with a slight bow. He
did not know it, but his face still looked cross.

  He walked over to the main gate and stood there. He saw the young man, still seated on the stone, periodically throwing surreptitious glances in his direction.

  Another young man—this one was a little younger than the other, eighteen or nineteen—approached the gateway. Though not in uniform, he looked to Kensaku like a student. He carried an open book which he would briefly look at from time to time. Kensaku guessed that he was trying to memorize something. Or was he pretending to be doing so, just in case he was being watched? The young man, realizing that he was being stared at, became visibly embarrassed.

  There was no other way than to confront him, Kensaku decided. He walked up to him and said, “Excuse me, but are you by any chance waiting for someone?” Having learned his lesson from the last encounter, he was considerably more polite this time.

  The young man was very controlled. He looked Kensaku straight in the eye and said, “No, sir.” His manner was simple, without a touch of insolence. No doubt about it, this was a well-bred young man.

  “I see,” Kensaku said and stepped aside with a bow.

  He might as well hang around until three, Kensaku decided, and went into the teashop. He found one bare bench, without so much as a cloth on it, that had not yet been put away. As he sat down the owner called out, “Welcome.” But he seemed in no mood to serve his solitary customer, and continued to sweep away the dead leaves in his little rock garden. Kensaku didn’t mind. He lit a cigarette, enjoying the quiet, autumnal mood and thinking it was not a bad way to wait for the writer of the letter. He glanced at his watch now and then, determined to leave at three o’clock. The shabby young man was still there. Kensaku remembered the bleeding hangnail, and thought how it must be hurting now. He wanted very much to go over to him and say something comforting. But what was he doing there, clad in that thin kimono, sitting forever all by himself? He was not ill surely, and he was not a beggar. What kind of life did he lead? Kensaku could not begin to guess.

  Seeing that his tenacious customer was not about to leave, the man in the shop resignedly brought out some tea and cookies. A few minutes later Kensaku was ready to go home, having given up any hope of catching the culprit. As he put some coins down on the bench and stood up, he caught sight of Oei coming up the stone steps toward the main gate. Their eyes met, and instinctively they exchanged smiles.

  “This way is quicker,” he said, and together the two walked toward one of the side gates. As they passed the young man on the stone, Kensaku stopped and made as if to speak to him. The young man suddenly stiffened and looked away. Silently Kensaku walked on.

  Once out on the street Oei said, “You know where he lives, so just write to him.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  When they got home, Kensaku asked Miyamoto to wait a little and went upstairs to write his letter. In it he mentioned threateningly that Matsuyama, the viscount’s grandson, had been a friend of his since boyhood.

  Miyamoto’s first comment as Kensaku rejoined him was, “You know, it might be fun being a young hooligan like this fellow.” He laughed, and Kensaku laughed with him. But he felt a certain discomfort; for he could not help feeling that Miyamoto was in fact giving expression to a desire they all shared.

  Again the mistlike rain began to fall. The two decided to play chess. They played until it got almost too dark to see the board, until the pleasure of the game wore off. The electric lights came on, and Kensaku, who had been staring at the board for some time in a vain effort to concentrate, finally said, “Let’s stop, shall we?”

  “Yes, by all means,” Miyamoto said, and threw his pieces down on the board. Then he collapsed on the floor and closed his eyes.

  Immediately after dinner they went out. Afraid of catching another cold, Kensaku took his Inverness cape with him. From Tameike they went by streetcar to Shinbashi, and from there walked toward Ginza. There was a breeze, and the delicate branches of the willow trees that stood side by side with the street lamps swayed prettily in the light.

  Miyamoto was interested in pouches, and whenever he saw a shop that specialized in them he would go up to the window and intently scrutinize the display. “You’re still interested in such things, are you?” Kensaku asked. “Of course I am,” Miyamoto replied. Then he proceeded to give a discourse on the subject. The intricate ones, he said, the sort made by true artisans, were necessarily old and thus weren’t very clean. After all, you had no idea who might have had them before. But there was a lot to be said for the kind made for common use by the less pretentious peasant craftsmen. You could buy them new, they were therefore clean, they were also cheap, and there was something appealing about their honest simplicity. Besides, you could always throw them away without compunction. “I bought quite a few of them around Kyoto this time,” he said. “I’m thinking of visiting Korea soon, you know. They’ve got very nice ones there.” As they passed by the Formosan Cafe, Kensaku had a feeling Ogata might be inside. He looked in, and sure enough Ogata was there, wearing a raincoat and a felt hat with the front of the brim pulled down. “Hey, Ogata’s inside,” Kensaku said to Miyamoto who was a few steps ahead. Miyamoto came back and peered shortsightedly through the doorway.

  “Shall we go in?” Kensaku said.

  “No, let’s not. The ‘Spider Monkey’ is there. Let’s tell Ogata to come out.” Miyamoto then called a waitress over and asked her to give Ogata their message. Ogata came out, then went back inside to fetch his walking stick.

  As the three walked toward Kyobashi Ogata pointed to a cafe on the other side of the street. “How about going in there?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Miyamoto said. “We’ll find even worse bores than the ‘Spider Monkey’ in a place like that.”

  “What’s the matter with you tonight? Don’t you want to drink?”

  “Oh, I have nothing against drinking,” said Miyamoto, grinning. “It’s people that I’m worried about.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t suggest a place that provides drink and guarantees there’ll be no people around.”

  In the end they agreed to retrace their steps and go to Seihintei. The three sat down in a little room upstairs with Okayo and another waitress, not very attractive, named Omaki. Osuzu was busy with customers downstairs.

  Kensaku was in a relatively settled mood that evening and did not feel like drinking. Okayo, too, refused to drink despite pressure from Ogata.

  “There’s a reason,” she said bitterly. “I got into a lot of trouble with the management recently.”

  “That’s right,” said Omaki. “She got drunk and made a fool of herself again.”

  “What do you mean ‘again’!” Okayo said, allowing a certain coarseness to creep into her voice, and gave Omaki’s shoulder a shove. Then she added thoughtfully, “Someone with ambitions like me has to be careful, I can’t afford to get drunk.”

  Kensaku remembered that the day before, he had written a postcard to Ogata in which he wondered if Okayo had double or single eyelids. As if reading his mind, Ogata now suddenly mentioned the postcard: “Okayo, it might interest you to know that Tokitō here was trying to remember if you had double eyelids or not. Why don’t you show him.”

  Okayo, who had until then appeared to be in a bad temper, cheered up and looked coyly at Kensaku. “They’re both. What I mean is, one is single and the other is double. This one here is single, and this one is double.”

  “It’s the other way round,” said Kensaku.

  “Really?” she said. She rubbed her eyes gently with her fingertips, then blinked them. “You’re right.”

  Once more she looked at Kensaku coyly, then gave him a strange smile. Kensaku began to feel a trifle uncomfortable. In writing that postcard he hadn’t quite expected such overwhelming results.

  But all in all it proved to be a rather dull evening. Kensaku toyed with the idea of telling them about his visit to Hikawa Shrine, but decided against it. It wouldn’t do to have the waitresses repeat the st
ory to their other customers. The two women, seeing that the men had little to say for themselves, were having a private conversation of their own.

  “You know the alley. It’s where the movers have their shop.”

  “You mean the shop where Mr. Handsome works?”

  “That’s it.”

  Ogata was listening without interest, but he felt obliged to say something. “I don’t think I like this Mr. Handsome.”

  “We aren’t talking about him,” she said, almost in rebuke. “We are talking about the alley where he hangs out.”

  “I like alleys even less.” Ogata made the joke with an air of defeat. He grinned weakly.

  Omaki said, “This neighborhood is full of good-looking men, you know.”

  “Let’s hope they admire you as much as you admire them,” Ogata said.

  “That reminds me, O-san,” said Okayo, giggling. “Okiyo—you know Okiyo, she’s one of the girls here—well, she told us recently that there was a stunning-looking barber somewhere in Rogetsuchō. So Omaki here and I went for a walk to see if we could catch a glimpse of this man. The trouble was we hadn’t bothered to ask Okiyo where exactly the barbershop was, so we ended up walking around for miles, peeking into every barbershop we happened to see.” The two women exchanged sidelong glances, then blushed and burst out laughing. At that moment Okayo’s face appeared particularly vulgar to Kensaku. He looked uneasily at Miyamoto and found his friend smiling at him. The smile was almost a sneer, but there was a touch of sympathy in it too.

  Okayo and Omaki, now in their element, began an endless discussion of the various good-looking fellows in the neighborhood. There was the chief clerk at the movers (Mr. Handsome), there was the grocer’s son, and what about the taxi driver, and so on. And all the while, Miyamoto stared at them with open disgust.

  It was her custom, Okayo said, to go to the public bath at about ten o’clock every morning. And if the place was empty she would swim about in the bath, holding a wooden bucket in each arm. “She’s awfully good,” Omaki interjected.