Ten

This morning my master's wife came to the study door and called: "Dear, what time is it?" My master lay curled beneath his quilts and made no answer. She called again. Still no answer. "Dear, it's time to rise." He burrowed deeper. After a long while, a muffled grunt emerged, and the quilts were drawn still higher over his head.

　His wife gave up calling and opened the study door. She gathered the books scattered on the desk, dusted the cushions, went over every surface with a feather duster, polished the brazier until it shone, and departed. My master lay under the quilts the whole time, listening to her movements with one ear cocked, and not until he judged that she had safely retreated did he slowly poke his head out. The study, thanks to her attentions, was noticeably tidier than usual. My master lay staring at the ceiling for a while with no discernible purpose, and eventually rose and changed his clothes.

　At breakfast all three children were present. Ton-ko was nine, the second, Sun-ko, seven, and the youngest, called Bo-ba, had just turned three. Ton-ko and Sun-ko were old enough to manage without constant intervention, but Bo-ba was a thoroughgoing domestic catastrophe.

　Bo-ba spotted Sun-ko's rice bowl sitting nearby, and for reasons known only to herself seized it and pulled it to her own side, announcing, "This is Bo-ba's!" Sun-ko lunged for her chopsticks, crying, "No, those are Sun-ko's!" — but the chopsticks were already in Bo-ba's possession. Sun-ko burst into loud weeping. Ton-ko, hearing her sister cry, came over, inspected the situation, and announced, "Bo-ba is naughty!" Bo-ba, encouraged by the attention, slammed the rice bowl on the low table; grains of rice scattered in every direction. Ton-ko immediately began collecting the scattered grains one by one and depositing them carefully in her small basket, announcing that she was putting them back in the pot. Sun-ko wailed still more loudly.

　My master sat through all of this in perfect silence, steadily eating his rice and noticing nothing. His wife cajoled Bo-ba; Sun-ko wept without ceasing; Ton-ko continued her grain-salvage operation with scrupulous thoroughness; and my master consumed his miso soup with the placid detachment of a philosopher above earthly disturbance. It is difficult to say whether this represented enlightenment or simple indifference. His approach to child-rearing is one of absolute laissez-faire — he considers interference with the natural development of children to be philosophically unsound.

　Bo-ba grabbed a piece of roasted sweet potato from the table and shoved it in her mouth. It was apparently very hot; she spat it out onto the tatami. A moment later she bent down, picked it up from the floor, and put it back in her mouth. My master's eyebrows moved fractionally. He said nothing.

　After breakfast, my master changed into his going-out clothes. His wife asked: "Are you going out today?" He said "Mm." "Where to?" "Nihon Tsutsumi." "Near the police substation?" "Yes." "About that business?" "Mm." He called a rickshaw and departed.

　His wife, after seeing him off, happened to glance at the calendar and stopped dead. "Oh no — today is a holiday!" She checked the school calendar and confirmed it: a public festival day. She had, as usual, already sent word to the school announcing my master's absence — entirely needlessly, since the school was closed. And now my master had blundered off to the police substation, which would also, very likely, be closed. She shook her head at the doorway and sighed.

　That afternoon a visitor came: the niece Yukie. Yukie was seventeen or eighteen, a schoolgirl, her hair parted in the center, dressed in the standard female-student fashion — a purple hakama, a leather belt, shoes with slightly outward-leaning heels. The name Yukie was rather lovely; its owner was rather ordinary. She and my master's wife settled in the sitting room, talked of school and family, and the conversation drifted naturally to my master's character.

　"Your uncle is stubborn beyond all reason," said my master's wife. "Today of all days, a public holiday, and he didn't think to check the calendar — went all the way to the police substation for nothing."

　Yukie smiled. "Uncle has always been like that. Whatever you tell him not to do, he'll do; whatever you ask him to do, the more earnestly you ask, the more firmly he'll refuse. Though I've discovered a reliable method."

　"Have you?"

　"You must simply say the opposite of what you want. Last time I was here it was raining, and Uncle brought out an umbrella for me. I said I didn't want it — and he chased after me all the way down the street and absolutely insisted I take it."

　"Yes, that does work. Though honestly one grows tired of always having to approach him backwards." My master's wife sighed. "Did you hear about Dokusen's lecture at the Ladies' Society?"

　"Mother mentioned it. Something about a stone Jizo?"

　"Exactly. Shall I tell it to you? Here is how it went."

　My master's wife then recounted, in her own fashion, the story Dokusen had told: In a certain town, a stone Jizo stood at a busy crossroads and was causing everyone trouble. The strongest man in town tried to move it and failed entirely. The cleverest man tried bribing it — first with rice cakes and sake, then with counterfeit money — to no effect. Then the town's most pompous boaster had his turn: first he dressed as a policeman and threatened the Jizo with arrest; then he costumed himself as a wealthy man and strolled about importantly with a cigar; finally he got up as a nobleman of royal blood, draped in gold and ornament — and the Jizo paid no attention to any of it. When all had failed and the townspeople were at their wits' end, a simple, rather dull fellow known as Baka-take — Foolish Bamboo — came up quietly and, without preamble, said: "The good people of this town would like you to move, Jizo. Would you please?" The Jizo immediately replied: "Why didn't anyone say so in the first place?" — and walked away.

　Dokusen's point, delivered to the women's meeting, was that modern people — and particularly women — are so accustomed to roundabout methods, manipulation, and calculation that they have forgotten the power of simple honest speech. It was the Foolish Bamboo who succeeded, not the strong man, the clever man, or the important man. Rumour had it that Miss Tomiko Kaneda turned quite pale with indignation at this lecture.

　Yukie laughed. "Tomiko would certainly take it personally. Speaking of Tomiko — do you know who wrote that love letter?"

　My master's wife lowered her voice. "I don't. Do you?"

　"I have a pretty good idea. Kangetsu, interestingly, seems to have no idea at all."

　"How can he not know?"

　"That's just the way he is."

　At this moment my master returned. He was wearing an expression of mingled grievance and sheepishness, and was carrying an odd ceramic vessel.

　Yukie examined it. "Uncle, what is that? Is it an oil jar?"

　My master frowned with some severity. "It is a flower vase."

　The two women exchanged a glance and suppressed their smiles with some effort.

　The visit to the police substation had, as predicted, been a wasted journey — the substation was closed for the holiday. My master had loitered in the neighbourhood of Yoshiwara to pass the time, and on a stall had spotted this ceramic vessel, found it interesting, and purchased it.

　"Were the stolen things recovered?" asked his wife.

　"They're at the door. Have a look."

　She went and found the stolen articles — the cotton haori jacket and several other items — stacked neatly at the entrance, all cleaned, pressed, and folded more crisply than they had ever been when in the family's possession. She inspected them one by one.

　"The mountain yam is missing," she said.

　"Eaten, no doubt."

　"And one side of my sash is gone as well." She paused. "Where did you go while you were waiting?"

　"About."

　"Did you go into Yoshiwara proper?"

　My master reflected briefly. "I looked in, yes."

　Yukie's eyebrows rose. "Uncle! If anyone finds out, you could be dismissed from your position!"

　My master gave a slight shrug. "Nothing to be done about it now."

　Yukie covered her mouth; my master's wife turned away; both were laughing.

　Late in the afternoon, a student was shown in. He had left his card: Furui Buemon, calling on Kushami Sensei. My master went out to find a boy of seventeen or eighteen — an extraordinary specimen: his head was outsized to a remarkable degree, his hair cropped very short and bristling like a chestnut burr, his high-collared uniform black, his feet in straw sandals that had left several muddy impressions on the freshly changed tatami. Shown into the room and offered a cushion, he refused it and crouched on the bare floor with his head hanging, evidently in the grip of considerable anguish.

　"What brings you?" asked my master.

　The boy's face was crimson. He forced out the words with visible effort. "It is about the letter. The letter sent to the Kaneda house."

　"The love letter?"

　"Yes, sir. The truth of it is — Hamada wrote the letter. Endo delivered it, at night. I only lent my name. Because — because Furui Buemon sounds more — more impressive."

　My master regarded him steadily, said nothing for a moment, then: "Ah."

　"The three of us — Hamada and Endo and I — none of us has ever actually seen Miss Tomiko Kaneda's face. We had heard she was proud and arrogant, and thought it might be amusing to — to tease her a little. We did not imagine it would come to all this."

　"Ah," said my master again.

　"I am very frightened, sir. If my father learns of it, he will certainly turn me out. And there is my stepmother to consider as well —" The boy's eyes reddened.

　"That is a difficult situation."

　"Sir, is it — is it possible that you might let the matter drop?"

　My master was silent for a moment. "Well," he said, at last. "One must think it over."

　On the other side of the sliding doors, my master's wife and Yukie had heard every syllable of this exchange. They had been suppressing their laughter with mounting desperation, and when the wretched Furui Buemon finally took his leave and shuffled out with all the dignity of a wet cat, they dissolved completely.

　My master was sitting alone in the study when Kangetsu arrived, cheerful and brisk, proposing to take him to hear the tigers roar at the Ueno Zoo. My master, who had been somewhat at a loss since the departure of the wretched Furui, allowed himself to be persuaded.

　Kangetsu mentioned Furui briefly. "Let it go, Sensei," he said. "The Kaneda household probably considers it an honour that anyone thought of writing to them at all." My master harrumphed noncommittally.

　As for Furui Buemon — I observed him depart with a certain philosophical interest. Whether this experience would temper him into a genuine human being, or whether he would end, in time, as another Kaneda, it was impossible yet to say. The world contains examples of both outcomes, and the boy himself had not yet determined which he was.

　My master and Kangetsu went out together. The moment the door closed behind them, two bursts of laughter came from the direction of the sitting room, loud and unrestrained, and echoed for quite some time through the empty corridors of the house.