A Dark Night's Passing Read online

  Kensaku, who could not believe that anyone truly loved him, cherished all such memories of his dead mother, for they tied him, no matter how tenuously, to the one person who he was sure had loved him. She had not been exactly a kind mother; yet her love for him he had never doubted. Oei, of course, had shown him fondness; and so had his brother Nobuyuki. But what he could call real love, he had known only from his mother. And with the passing of the years since her death, this love he had known became more and more dear to him. How real it might have seemed to him had she lived, he could not say.

  It was in Aiko’s mother, then, that Kensaku had sought and found reminders of his own dead mother. Once, at a gathering in his father’s house in Hongō—the occasion was probably the thirteenth anniversary of his mother’s death—Kensaku had seen Aiko’s mother sitting on the other side of the room, dressed in a severe, fine-patterned kimono, quite out of style, with a black satin sash. Somehow the sight of her dressed thus had filled him with a sense of longing; and from time to time he had caught himself gazing at her. Later in the ceremony, when by chance they were seated next to each other, she said, “You know, this dress was your mother’s.” Kensaku was very moved—what the emotion was, he did not know—and could not think of anything to say. After a while she smiled and said, “See how short the sleeves are?” Then she pulled her arms up inside the sleeves. “There’s no material left to let down, which means I’ve got to shorten my arms, right?”

  Aiko had an elder brother by the name of Keitarō. He was the same age as Nobuyuki, two years older than Kensaku, and though they went to different schools, the three of them played together a great deal. Yet neither Nobuyuki nor Kensaku liked Keitarō much. There was something in his nature that kept him apart from them. Of the two brothers, Kensaku saw Keitarō more; for he visited Keitarō’s house constantly, in the hope of finding Keitarō’s mother in.

  Aiko was younger than Kensaku by five years. As a boy he was wont to regard her as a nuisance. Whenever she found Kensaku and Keitarō playing she would want to join in, though of course she could never keep up with them. Or when she found Kensaku having a chat with her mother she would try to drag her away, saying, “Time for beddy-bies, time for beddy-bies.” Having known her through childhood, then, he was not particularly conscious of her sex when she reached puberty.

  She was fifteen or sixteen when her father died. And it was at the funeral, when he saw her dressed in funeral white and crying, that he was first drawn to her.

  There were many occasions after that when they were alone together, such as when he helped her prepare for the English examination, and at such times he was particularly careful not to show his newly awakened feelings toward her. Timidity was one reason, but another was that what he felt was not yet exactly a passion. Besides, she seemed to him still so innocent, hardly a fit object for whatever it was that he felt. Here he was perhaps mistaken, for she was no more immature than other girls her age. If indeed she behaved at times childishly in his presence, that was probably because having known him for so long, she felt no need to put on airs.

  As her graduation from high school approached, he began to hear talk of marriage plans for her. He believed that were he to propose, he could not be turned down. Yet there were times when he would not be so sure, when he would be assailed by an inexplicable uneasiness. He would then tell himself that the fear was groundless, that he was simply being timid.

  He wondered to whom he should declare his intentions: was it to be Aiko’s mother, or Keitarō? He was loath to go to Aiko’s mother; it would be too much like taking advantage of her past goodwill. But he was no less reluctant to approach Keitarō first. Their life ambitions, their views on everything, were so markedly different that naturally a mutual contempt had developed between them. Keitarō was then employed by a certain company in Osaka, and was engaged to the company president’s daughter. It was quite clearly to be a marriage of convenience for Keitarō, and he had more than once said as much to Kensaku, seemingly without shame. To tell such a man that he wished to marry his sister was something Kensaku could hardly relish, certain though he was that he would be accepted.

  There was no other way, he reluctantly concluded, than to inform his father of his wish and ask him to approach Aiko’s family.

  It has been his habit since childhood not to speak to his father unless he absolutely had to. This had come to be accepted as a matter of course by both sides, and neither minded it very much. Yet, despite the absence of open resentment between them, it was still a difficult thing for Kensaku to have to talk to his father about so personal a matter.

  At last one evening he visited his father and made his request. “I have no objection at all to the marriage,” said his father, “if they haven’t. But you are now the head of your own household, so I should think it would be more proper if you, rather than I, were to approach them. Don’t you agree?”

  Kensaku had not gone to his father expecting much in the way of spontaneous support. But of course he was hurt. For however prepared he might have thought he was for any lack of enthusiasm on his father’s part, he had harbored in some corner of his mind the hope that he would be friendlier. Besides, the response was even more negative than he had reasonably anticipated. There was in his father’s manner not only coldness but something strangely menacing. Why must he trip me up like this, he wondered, just as I am about to take a step forward? Why?

  He thought of going to Nobuyuki to ask if he would act as intermediary. He remembered how happy his brother had seemed when he had first told him of his desire to marry Aiko. “What a wonderful idea,” he had said. “Let’s hope that they’ll give their consent. She’s a fine girl.” But could he go to Nobuyuki now, after being told by his father that the proposal should come from himself? No, he decided, he had better leave Nobuyuki out of it. What difference did it make anyway? It was his business, and he might as well take care of it himself. Besides, it would be simpler that way.

  Thus resolved he had gone one day to Aiko’s house to speak to her mother. She was at first shocked, then became pitifully nervous as Kensaku proceeded to explain the purpose of his visit. In the unbearably tense atmosphere Kensaku, too, lost what little assurance he had had earlier, and began seriously to wonder if Aiko had already been promised to some other man.

  Aiko’s mother said at last, “Of course I can’t give you an answer now. I have to consult Keitarō and the other members of the family. We’ll then get in touch with your family in Hongō.”

  Kensaku explained that though his father knew about it, his proposal had nothing to do with Hongō, and that indeed it was his father’s wish that it should come from him directly. “How strange,” Aiko’s mother had replied unhappily.

  With a heavy heart Kensaku went home. His father’s response had not been entirely unexpected—at least he could tell himself that. But he had really hoped for more from Aiko’s mother. On the surface there was nothing untoward in what she had said; but it was the coldness that lay under the surface that bewildered him.

  He refused to lose hope. He would now wait until Keitarō next came up to Tokyo, and get a firm answer from him. Surely there was something not quite right about Aiko’s mother.

  Ten days later he learned from Nobuyuki that Keitarō was in town. He waited for four or five days to hear from Keitarō, not wanting to take the initiative and so appear forward. But there was no word from him. It was irritating, not to say insulting. Unable to wait any longer Kensaku decided to telephone him.

  With his usual adroitness Keitarō said, “I wanted to come and see you right away, but I came up this time specifically to take care of some business at the branch office here, and I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to see anyone.”

  Suppressing his anger, Kensaku said, “Will you be at home tonight?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve been asked to a dinner party.”

  “How about tomorrow then?”

  “Tomorrow night? Let’s see—yes, that will be all rig
ht. Come to dinner if you like.” His tone was light and friendly, but Kensaku didn’t have to see his face to know he was being blatantly insincere.

  Kensaku had resolved from the start not to mention his desire to marry her directly to Aiko and not to involve her personally in any of the discussions. This was in keeping with custom, and custom was very important to Aiko’s mother; besides, he wanted to save Aiko any embarrassment, for it took very little, he well knew, to throw her into a state of confusion. But now he began to regret his resolve, and to realize that had he not been so confident of the outcome, he would surely have involved her. He had never thought it possible that he could receive such treatment from her family. Could it be that his father was in some way being obstructive behind his back?

  He had told Oei, before telling anyone else, of his wish to marry Aiko. She had been very glad for him, yet, he remembered, a look of sadness had momentarily crossed her face. Had she known something then? No, he quickly told himself, he was being silly. After all, if he were to get married, she would have to leave him. Why shouldn’t she have been saddened by the prospect?

  When he visited Keitarō the next evening he found two other guests already there. He knew neither of them. They had been fellow students at the commercial college, Keitarō said. “I was supposed to meet them earlier in the day, but I couldn’t because of unexpected business, so I asked them to come over this evening. In two or three days’ time I shall be quite free, so I’ll come over to your place then for a nice, long chat. Anyway, stick around tonight if you can stand to listen to the inanities of Philistines like us. Who knows, we may even provide you with material you can use later in your work.” He laughed merrily.

  Kensaku could barely hide his anger. Had the man no shame? How dare he lie like this, with not a hint of embarrassment? And together with the anger came the realization that all this lying and evasion by Keitarō could only mean that his suit was not likely to succeed. “How long are you staying in Tokyo?” he said at last.

  “I’m not sure,” Keitarō said. “I’m needed back in Osaka, of course, and I should leave as soon as I’ve finished my work here. But no matter what, I’ll visit you the day after tomorrow, sometime in the evening. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Kensaku stayed for an hour, then left. Aiko and her mother had gone out for the evening; they were visiting relatives, he was told. That their absence had been deliberately arranged, he had no doubt.

  His own house at that moment seemed too bleak a place to return to. Besides, he could not bear to be questioned by Oei. Had she been tied to him by blood, he might have rushed home like a dejected boy and sought consolation from her. Aimlessly, then, he walked about the deserted streets, not caring what he saw or where he was.

  When finally he returned to his house, it was past eleven o’clock. His brother Nobuyuki was waiting for him. He said as soon as Kensaku sat down, “Tell me, must it be Aiko? Is she the only one that will do?”

  “Well, no, not exactly.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  Kensaku said nothing.

  “Look, if you really want her, I’ll be willing to talk to her mother and Keitarō—quarrel with them, if I must. I don’t know if they’ll listen to anything I have to say, but I’ll do all I can. Mind you, I’m willing only if you are absolutely bent on marrying her and no one else. If, on the other hand, she doesn’t mean all that much to you, then my advice is give up the idea. Which is it to be?”

  “All right then, I’ll simply forget about it.”

  “Good,” said Nobuyuki, nodding his head. The nod was almost a bow. There was a brief silence, then he spoke again: “Yes, that’s the best thing to do. I know how unpleasant the whole thing has been for you. And I know it wasn’t just once that you had cause to feel insulted. But you know what sort of a fellow Keitarō is. True, Aiko’s mother likes you, but a woman is pretty helpless at a time like this.”

  “It’s Keitarō’s way of doing things that I don’t like. If he wants to say no, why doesn’t he say no and be done with it? Why must he be so evasive and so devious? By being unpleasant, he hopes that I’ll get the hint and stop bothering him.”

  Nobuyuki was silent. “He has no shame,” Kensaku said.

  “But he has always been like that,” was Nobuyuki’s answer. Little more was said before he left.

  Kensaku thought it most unlikely that Keitarō would come as he had promised. He wished nevertheless that Keitarō would keep his promise, if only because a blunt rejection, with reasons given, would be better at least than this quagmire of uncertainty and indirect insults. He was sure that Keitarō intended to arrange a marriage for Aiko that would benefit himself. The man would of course never tell him to his face that such was his intention; but if only he would!

  As expected Keitarō failed to appear two evenings later. Instead a letter from him, sent by express mail, arrived. It was written hurriedly. “I have just received a telegram from Osaka,” it said, “requesting my immediate return. I intend to come to Tokyo again in about two weeks. I have heard all about your proposal from mother, and I shall write to you about it in detail from Osaka. You must think me very unreliable. Do forgive me.”

  A week later a much longer letter arrived from Osaka. This was the gist of it: “The fact of the matter is, about a month before I came to Tokyo, Mr. Nagata [Keitarō’s immediate superior and a protege of Kensaku’s father] came to me on behalf of a fellow employee of the company, suggesting that I give Aiko to this man in marriage. I agreed, though of course only tentatively. And I must admit that part of my purpose in coming to Tokyo this last time was to talk about the proposal with my family. So imagine my surprise when mother told me of your proposal. Of course I was at fault for not having got in touch with mother immediately after my conversation with Mr. Nagata. But as you know, I hardly ever write home. Besides, I was rather busy, and I knew that I would be in Tokyo soon. Anyway, when I heard about your proposal from mother, I simply didn’t know what to do. True, I had only given a tentative promise, without consulting anyone in the family. But a commitment is a commitment, no matter how much I might wish to see my sister get married to an old friend of mine like you. Before I could say anything to you, I owed the other party at least the courtesy of an explanation. There was no other way, I felt, than to approach Mr. Nagata after I got back to Osaka, try to make him understand the situation and get his consent, then proceed to present your case to Aiko and the rest of the family. Well, Mr. Nagata was agreeable enough; but his candidate, alas, was another matter. The fellow simply refused to back down. His relatives and friends had already been informed of the engagement, he said, and he was not about to make a fool of himself by telling them that the other party had decided to cancel it. If I still insisted on going back on my word, he said, there was nothing he could do about it; but it was unconscionable of me to try to do so without his express consent. He was, in short, outraged—with some justification, I think. You see, Aiko had always said she would leave all marriage negotiations up to me. I should not have taken her quite so literally and been so rash as to more or less promise her to someone without consulting her and others. But what’s done is done, and I am forced to keep my promise. I expect that I gave you much cause for displeasure just before I left Tokyo, and all I can do now is to ask you to understand my position and to continue to regard me with goodwill.”

  Many times as Kensaku read the letter he muttered, “Liar! Liar!” And he wondered how any man could write such stuff with so little shame.

  Three months or so later, Aiko went down to Osaka as a bride. But the man she married was not Keitarō’s fellow employee, whoever that might have been. He was some rich man’s younger son.

  The episode left a wound in Kensaku deeper than he would have thought possible. It was more than mere disappointment in love; rather, it was the sudden awareness brutally forced on him of his own capacity for disappointment in people. Aiko had been hardly more than a pawn in the entire
affair. Her part in it, he could learn to view with resigned acceptance. Even Keitarō’s behavior, unforgivable as it had struck him at the time, ceased to gnaw at him, for the fellow had never been any different. What hurt him most, then, was the attitude of Aiko’s mother.

  He had been so certain of her affection for him. But what could that “affection” have been? What could it have meant to her? If, before the rejection of his suit, she had shown him some sign of fondness or concern, he would have found some consolation in it. But what puzzled him was that she had pushed him away as though no bond had ever existed between them.

  It was beyond him to resign himself to some simple, cynical generality about life. Had he been able to do so, he would have been more comfortable. But because he could not, the heaviness in his heart persisted.

  He thought that perhaps if he were to write about the affair, some things might become clearer to him. But as he began to put down on paper all that had happened, the narrative could not get past the inevitable question, why had he been treated thus?

  He realized with distaste that gradually a vulgar, unpleasant suspicion of all people’s motives was taking root in his mind. His recent experiences with Sakaguchi, besides, had only intensified his suspicious mood. He tried to resist this growing suspicion in himself, not wanting it to color his view of everything around him. He told himself, this is a temporary sickness. Yet he was very careful to avoid any situation that might again betray him. Indeed, his present state of mind went beyond mere cautiousness; it was more akin to fear.