Kokoro Part 9

My father's expression was clouded with apprehension. At his words, I felt a sudden flicker of anxiety that he might die at any time.

"But I'm sure it will be all right," he went on. "Mere n.o.body that I am, I'm I'm still doing fine, after all." Even as he was congratulating himself on his state of health, he seemed to antic.i.p.ate the danger that threatened to descend at any moment. still doing fine, after all." Even as he was congratulating himself on his state of health, he seemed to antic.i.p.ate the danger that threatened to descend at any moment.

"Father is actually afraid of his illness, you know," I told my mother. "He's not really determined to live another ten or twenty years as you say he is."

Bewilderment and distress appeared on her face. "Try to interest him a bit in playing shgi shgi again, will you?" she said. again, will you?" she said.

I retrieved the shgi shgi board from the alcove and wiped off the dust. board from the alcove and wiped off the dust.

CHAPTER 41.

Slowly my father's health and spirits declined. His big straw hat with its handkerchief, the one that had taken me by surprise when I first arrived, now lay neglected. Whenever I caught sight of it on the soot-blackened shelf I was filled with pity for him. While he still managed to be up and about with ease, I anxiously cautioned him to take things more carefully. Now, seeing him sitting pensive and silent, I realized he had indeed been relatively well before.

My mother and I had many discussions about it.

"It's his state of mind that's doing it," she maintained, connecting his illness with that of the emperor.

But I felt it was not so simple. "I don't think it's just his state of mind; I think he's actually gone downhill physically. It's his health that's the problem, not his mood."

As I spoke, I began to feel it would be wise to call in a good doctor from somewhere else to have a look at him.

"You're having a very boring summer, aren't you?" my mother remarked. "We can't celebrate this fine graduation of yours, and your father so unwell. And then there's His Majesty's illness-we really should have had that party as soon as you got home."

I had returned on the fifth or sixth of July, and my parents had begun to talk about the celebration a week later. The date that had finally been chosen was over a week after this. This leisurely country approach, free of any sense of urgency, had spared me the social occasion I so disliked. But my uncomprehending mother seemed unaware of my relief.

The day word of the emperor's death arrived, my father groaned aloud, newspaper in hand. "His Majesty has pa.s.sed away! And I too . . ." He said no more.

I went into the town to buy some black mourning cloth. We wrapped it around the s.h.i.+ny metal ball on the tip of our flag-pole, hung a long three-inch-wide strip from the top of the pole, and propped it at our front gate, pointing at an angle into the street. The flag and the black mourning strip hung listlessly in the windless air. The little roof over our old gate was thatch; long exposure to rain and wind had discolored it to a pale gray, and the surface was visibly pitted. I stepped out into the street to examine the effect, taking in the combination of black strip of cloth and white muslin flag with its red rising sun symbol dyed in the center, and the look of this flag against the dingy thatch of the roof. Sensei had once asked me what sort of street front our house had. "I imagine it looks very different from the gate at the house where I grew up," he'd said. I would have liked to show Sensei this old house I was born in, but the idea also made me embarra.s.sed.

Back inside, I sat alone at my desk, reading the newspaper and imagining the scenes in distant Tokyo. The images in my mind coalesced into a scene of the vast city stirring everywhere with movement in the midst of a great darkness; I saw Sensei's house, a single point of light in the seething, anxious throng that struggled blindly through the blackness.

I could not know that even then the little light was being drawn irresistibly into the great soundless whirl of darkness, and that I was watching a light that was destined soon to blink out and disappear.

I reached for my writing brush, thinking I would write to Sensei about the emperor's death, but having written about ten lines, I stopped. I tore the page into shreds and threw it in the bin-it seemed pointless to write these things to Sensei, and besides, judging from previous experience, I would receive no reply. I was lonely. This was why I wrote letters: I hoped for a response.

CHAPTER 42.

In mid-August I received a letter from one of my friends, saying that a certain middle school in the provinces had an opening for a teacher and asking me if I would like to take it. This friend was himself actively searching for such a position, from financial necessity. The offer had originally been directed to him, but he had found a position in a better part of the country, so he'd kindly offered it to me. I quickly sent back a refusal, saying that a number of other people we knew were doing their best to find teaching positions, and he should offer it to one of them.

After I sent the letter, I told my parents about it. Neither seemed to object to the fact that I had declined the offer. "There'll be other good jobs. You don't need to go off to a place like that," they both said.

Behind these words I read their exaggerated expectations for my future. Unthinkingly, they seemed to a.s.sume I would be able to find a position and salary far above what I could hope for as someone freshly graduated.

"It's actually very difficult to find a decent position these days, you know. I'm in a different field from my brother, remember, and we're different generations. Please don't go a.s.suming it will be the same for me as for him."

"But you must at least get yourself some independent means now that you're graduated, or it makes things awkward for us too," my father said. "How do you think I'd feel if people asked, 'What's your son doing now that he's through university? ' and I couldn't reply?" He frowned unhappily.

His view of life was firmly confined to the little world where he'd spent his life. Inquisitive locals had been asking him how much salary a graduate could expect to earn, guessing at princely sums of around a hundred yen a month. That made him uncomfortable, and he very much wanted to get me settled into a position that would save his face.

My own point of view, based as it was on the great cosmopolitan world of Tokyo, made me seem to my parents as bizarre as someone who walked upside down. Even I found myself on occasion considering myself this way. My parents were so many light-years from my own position that I couldn't begin to confess what I really thought, so I held my tongue.

"Why don't you go to this Sensei you keep talking about and ask for his a.s.sistance?" my mother suggested. "This is surely the very moment he could help."

These were the only terms in which she could comprehend Sensei. But this was the man who had urged me, when I got home, to ensure that I got my share of the property before my father's death. He was hardly likely to try to find me a position.

"What does your Sensei do for a living?" my father inquired.

"He doesn't do anything." I thought I had told them this long ago. Surely my father remembered.

"So why doesn't he do anything, eh? I'd have thought someone you respect so much would be in a profession." My father was gently taunting me. To his way of thinking, useful people must be out in the world, engaged in something suitably impressive. There you are, There you are, he was insinuating, he was insinuating, the fellow's worthless, that's why he's lazing about doing nothing. the fellow's worthless, that's why he's lazing about doing nothing. "Look at me, now. I don't get a salary, but I'm far from idle, you know." "Look at me, now. I don't get a salary, but I'm far from idle, you know."

I remained silent.

"If he's as fine a person as you say, he'll surely find you a position," my mother said. "Have you tried asking?"

"No," I replied.

"Well, what's the good of that? Why won't you ask? Go on, just write a letter at least."

"Mmm," I replied vaguely, and stood up.

CHAPTER 43.

My father was clearly afraid of his illness, yet he wasn't the type to plague the doctor with difficult questions when he came to visit. For his part, the doctor kept his opinions to himself and made no p.r.o.nouncements.

My father was apparently giving some thought to what would happen once he died, or at any rate he was imagining the posthumous household.

"Giving your children an education has its good and bad points, I must say. You go to the trouble of training them, and then they don't come home again. It seems to me an education is the easy way to split up a family."

Thanks to my brother's education, he was living far away, and my own education had resulted in my decision to live in Tokyo. My father's grumblings were perfectly understandable. He must certainly have been feeling forlorn at the thought of my mother left all alone in this big old country house they'd lived in so long together.

My father was of the firm belief that there could be no change in the house, and that my mother would remain there until the day she died. The thought of leaving her to live out her lonely existence in this echoing sh.e.l.l of a place filled him with anxiety, and yet he was insisting I find a job in Tokyo. I found this contradiction rather funny, but it also pleased me, since it meant I could go back to live in the city.

In their company I was forced to pretend that I was doing my very best to look for a job. I wrote to Sensei, explaining the situation at home in great detail. I asked if he could recommend me for any position, and I a.s.sured him that I'd be happy to do whatever was in my power. As I wrote, I was aware that he was unlikely to take any notice of my request, and that even if he wished to help me, he lacked the contacts to be able to do so. But I did think that the letter would at least elicit a response from him.

Before I sealed it, I said to my mother, "I've written to Sensei, just as you wanted. Here, have a look."

As I'd antic.i.p.ated, she didn't read it. "Have you? Well, then, be quick and send it off. You should have done this long ago, without having to be told."

She still thought of me as a child, and indeed I still felt like one. "But a letter by itself isn't enough," I said. "Nothing will happen unless I'm there in person. I really ought to go back to Tokyo around September."

"That may well be true, but you never know what fine offer may come up in the meantime, so it's best to put in an early request."

"Yes," I replied. "Anyway, I'll tell you more when Sensei's answer comes. He'll certainly reply." I was in no doubt that he would. Sensei was a meticulous man.

I waited expectantly for a letter from him. But I had a.s.sumed wrongly. A week pa.s.sed, and still nothing arrived.

"He must have gone off somewhere to escape the summer heat," I told my mother, forced to defend him with some explanation. This justification was intended not only for her but for myself. I needed a hypothesis that would somehow justify Sensei's silence, to spare myself a growing unease.

From time to time I forgot my father's illness and felt inclined to escape back to Tokyo early. My father himself forgot that he was ill, in fact. Anxious though he was about the future, he made no moves to deal with the problem. Time pa.s.sed, and I found no opportunity to bring up the matter of the division of property with him as Sensei had advised.

CHAPTER 44.

When September arrived, I was impatient to return to Tokyo. I asked my father if he would continue to send money for a while, as he had for my studies.

"While I'm here, you see, I can't find myself the position you say I should," I said. This was my explanation to him for returning to Tokyo. Of course, I added, he need only send the money until I found myself a job.

Privately, I felt that such a thing was unlikely to actually come my way. My father, on the other hand, knew nothing of actual circ.u.mstances and firmly believed the opposite.

"Well, then, it's only for a short while, so I'll see what I can do. But not for long, you understand. You have to get yourself some good work and become independent, you know. You really should not have to rely on anyone from the day you graduate. Young people these days seem just to know how to spend money and never think of how to make it."

He had various other things to say on the subject as well, including, "In the old days children fed their parents, but these days they devour them."

I heard him out in silence. When his lecturing seemed to have run its course, I stood quietly to leave.

He asked me when I was planning to go. The sooner the better, as far as I was concerned.

"Ask your mother to find an auspicious day in her almanac," he said.

"I will."

I was extraordinarily meek with him. I hoped to be able to leave without having to stand up to him, but he held me back.

"We'll be lonely when you're gone, with just the two of us here. It would be fine if I were well, but as things stand, there's no knowing what might happen when."

I did my best to console him and returned to my desk. Sitting among my jumble of books, I thoughtfully turned over in my mind my father's unhappy words and what lay behind them. As I did so, I heard again the cicada's song. This time it wasn't a continuous shrill but the intermittent call of the cicada known as tsutsukubs.h.i.+, tsutsukubs.h.i.+, which sings toward the end of summer. In past summers when I had been home, I had often tasted a strange sadness as I sat quietly in the midst of the seething cicada song. This sorrow seemed to pierce deep into my heart along with the piercing insect cry. Always at such times I would sit alone and still, gazing into myself. which sings toward the end of summer. In past summers when I had been home, I had often tasted a strange sadness as I sat quietly in the midst of the seething cicada song. This sorrow seemed to pierce deep into my heart along with the piercing insect cry. Always at such times I would sit alone and still, gazing into myself.

Since returning home this time the sadness had undergone a gradual change. As the summer cicada's strident song gradually gave way to the more hesitant call of the tsutsukubs.h.i.+, tsutsukubs.h.i.+, the fates of those around me also seemed to be slowly turning through the great karmic wheel. As I pondered my father's lonely words and feelings, I thought of Sensei, from whom I had received no reply. Since Sensei and my father seemed exactly opposite types, they easily came to mind as a pair, through both a.s.sociation and comparison. the fates of those around me also seemed to be slowly turning through the great karmic wheel. As I pondered my father's lonely words and feelings, I thought of Sensei, from whom I had received no reply. Since Sensei and my father seemed exactly opposite types, they easily came to mind as a pair, through both a.s.sociation and comparison.

I knew almost everything about my father. When we parted, the emotional bond between parent and child would be all that remained. Of Sensei, on the other hand, I still knew very little. I had had no chance to hear from him the promised story of his past. Sensei was, in a word, still opaque to me. I could not rest until I had moved beyond this state and entered a place of clarity. Any break in relations with him would cause me anguish.

I asked my mother to consult the almanac and fixed on a date for my return to Tokyo.

CHAPTER 45.

It was almost time for me to leave-it must have been my second-to-last evening at home-when my father had another fall. I was tying up the wicker trunk packed with my books and clothes. My father had just gone into the bathroom. My mother went in to wash his back, then cried out to me. When I rushed in, my naked father was slumped over, supported from behind by my mother. By the time we brought him back into his room, however, he was declaring that he was all right. Nevertheless, I sat by his pillow cooling his forehead with a damp towel until nine o'clock, when I finally got up to eat a light supper.

The next day my father was in better shape than expected and insisted on getting up to go to the toilet himself, despite our protests.

"I'm fine again," he announced, repeating the words he had spoken to me the previous winter, after he had had the first fall. At that time he had indeed been more or less fine, and I hoped that the same would prove to be the case this time. But the doctor just cautioned us to be careful, and even when we pressed him, he would say nothing more definite.

Because of this fresh anxiety, when the day of my departure arrived, I no longer felt inclined to go. "Should I stay a bit longer, just to see how it goes?" I said to my mother.

"Yes, please do," she begged me.

My mother, who had been unconcerned as long as my father could still go out into the garden or the backyard, now overreacted in the opposite direction and was consumed with worry.

"Wasn't this the day you were going back to Tokyo?" my father inquired.

"Yes, but I've put it off for a while," I told him.

"Is it because of me?" he asked.

I hesitated. If I said it was, it would only confirm that he was seriously ill. I didn't want to unnerve him.

But he must have read what was in my heart, for he said, "That's a shame for you," and turned away to face the garden.

I went back to my room and looked at the wicker trunk abandoned there. It was securely fastened, ready to leave at a moment's notice. I stood vacantly before it, wondering whether to untie the straps.

I spent three or four days in a state of awkward suspension, like one half-risen from his seat to leave. Then my father had another fall. The doctor ordered absolute rest.

"What will we do?" my mother murmured to me, in a voice hushed so that my father would not hear. She looked miserable.

I got ready to send telegrams to my brother and sister. But my father was experiencing almost no pain. The way he talked, he might have been in bed with no more than a cold. And he had an even better appet.i.te than usual. He was disinclined to listen to warnings from those around him.

"Since I'm going to die, I intend to die eating tasty food."

These words struck me as both comic and tragic. After all, he was not in the city, where really tasty food was actually to be had. In the evening he asked for strips of persimmon-flavored rice cake, which he munched on with relish.