Something Strange Across the River (9 page)

Oyuki was the very image of the old, nostalgic world made manifest as muse to my exhausted heart. If my manuscript, now placed on my desk for so long, had not drawn Oyuki’s gaze in my direction—or at least if I hadn’t felt that it had, I would have ripped it to shreds and abandoned it long ago. She was a mysterious encouragement that saw to the completion of this aged, ignored author’s final work. A glance at her face fills me with gratitude. Effectively I have taken this girl, so lacking in life experience, and toyed with not only her body, but her very self. I am filled with the desire to apologize for my unforgivable sin, all the while grieving at my inability to do so.

According to what Oyuki said by the window that night, the sad loneliness of my heart seemed to have finally dissipated. To avoid it, all I could do was avoid her face. If only I could have acted then, it might have all ended without necessitating serious pain and desperation for Oyuki. But Oyuki never met with an opportunity to learn of my real name or position in life, and we parted without her ever even asking.

That night, as the moment of our parting grew ever closer, it brought with it a sadness that the truth would never be shared between us, and that when the moment passed it would trail in its wake an irreparable sadness. The deepening night served only to intensify my apprehension.

This feeling, this overwhelming, oppressive, hounding feeling was swept up in the sudden wind that swept into the alley from the main street, twisted here and here, blew into the house through the small window and shook the string hanging from the small curtain bell. The soft chime further agitated my restlessness. It was different than the bells on the sales carts, this bell could only be heard here, in this small and separate world. From the end of summer and into autumn I had never noticed it in the hot, hot nights, but now, the bell softly announced the deepening dark and lengthening nights as if autumn had finally come. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the footsteps outside grew sharper. Somewhere, a woman sneezed.

Oyuki came into the tea room from her perch at the window, drew a flame to her tobacco and, as if recalling from somewhere ancient, said “Can you come earlier than usual tomorrow?”

“How early? In the evening?”

“Earlier. Tomorrow’s Tuesday, so there’s a checkup. They close at 11, so we can’t go to Asakusa. It’s fine if you come back around four.”

I had thought I could go with her. I had wanted to go and drink to our final farewell, but I didn’t want to be seen by reporters or the literati, so I said, “I don’t want to go out in public. Do you have something you need to buy or something?”

“I wanted to get a watch. I’ll need a winter kimono soon enough too.”

“We’ve been complaining about the heat this whole time, but I suppose winter’s almost on us. How much does one cost? You going to try one on at a shop?”

“Probably 30 yen at least.”

“If that’s all I’ve got it here,” I said pulling out my wallet. “Go get one made.”

“Darling,” she said. “Are you serious?”

“Is it awkward? Don’t worry about it.”

Her eyes filled with unexpected joy, and it filled her face. I gazed at it for a moment, as if to keep from forgetting it, before removing the bills from my wallet and placing them on the tea table.

There came a knock on the door and the voice of the owner. Oyuki had made to say something but she quickly snapped her mouth shut and hid the bills in her belt. I jumped to my feet and passed the boss on my way outside.

I made my way out to the fox statues. The wind was much stronger there, it blew straight in from the street and tousled my hair. Aside from my time in Terajima, I normally wore a hat on my trips about the city, so as the wind whipped through my hair I quickly threw up a hand to secure my phantom hat. Not finding it, I broke into an awkward grin. The white flags whipped in the wind, their poles bending under the strain alone, with the violent flapping of the curtains from an oden stand. In the abandoned lot the leaves of the figs and grapes jostled in dry, crackling sounds. Out in the main street the widened, clear sky was filled with the Milky Way and the sharp, pointed lights of stars shining across the sky in silence. There was an unspeakable loneliness to it, which combined with the thudding sounds of trains passing behind people’s houses, the sirens of police cars, and the sudden, violent winds, all of which further deepened the isolation. On my way home I walked in the direction of the Shirahige Bridge, passed the Sumida Post Office, and ducked into a side street off by a little theater known as the Mukojima, followed it through its twists and turns out past the Rokyoku tower, and came out just behind the Shirahige Shrine.

At the end of August and the beginning of September the nights would fill with rains that would clear the sky, in which a bright moon would hang, bright enough to light the streets and remind me of the old times. On those nights I’d often walk all the way to Kototoi Hill without a thought, but tonight there was no moon in the sky. The howling wind over the river carried a chill, and as soon as I got to the bus stop on Jizo Hill, I made for the waiting spot and wedged myself between the wall and a Jizo statue to get out of the wind.

Chapter Ten

Four or five days went by, and despite having no plans to visit her again, despite having given her the money for the kimono, I found myself longing to make the trip out to her house by the embankment. I wondered what Oyuki was doing. Despite being very sure she was sitting by the window just as usual, I felt, more than ever, that I simply had to see her face to confirm it. I could go to check on her, just get a look, and if I were careful she’d never know. If I went out there and took a stroll around the town all the radios would be switching off near the time I returned. And so, placing the fault squarely with the radios, I crossed the Sumida River and headed east.

Before entering the alleyway I bought a hat to hide my face and waited for a throng of pedestrians to come. I stepped in among them and peered over at Oyuki’s house from the embankment. She was sitting by the window, her hair tied up in a new knot. Everything appeared as usual, except—a window of the same building, to the right of Oyuki’s usually darkened one, was lit from within, and the silhouette of an elaborately styled chignon could be seen on the blind. Again and again, another fresh face in the district. I couldn’t see very clearly from so far away, but she seemed older than Oyuki, and far less attractive. I rejoined a throng of pedestrians and ducked down a different alleyway.

That night, as had been for so long, the breeze vanished with the sunset and a humid heat over took the city, which I can only assume was the reason that pedestrians came out into the streets in such number you’d think it midsummer and you had to edge sideways by them to get around corners. Sweat running down my brow and out of breath, I rushed for the exit and came to a wide street with no cars. I walked in the opposite direction of the shops and, with every intention to go home, walked to the bus stop on the seventh block and quickly began mopping my forehead. Perhaps because the stop was only one or two blocks from the beginning of the line, the city bus that came, as if rushing there solely for my benefit, was devoid of passengers. I made to board the bus when suddenly, and for no apparent reason, I was overcome with a feeling of regret and pain which caused me to step back and walk of with no particular destination in mind; after a few minutes I found myself at the sixth district bus stop, by the post office box that stood before the liquor shop. There were five or six people waiting for a bus. I stood there, filled with regret, and let three or four buses go by while I gazed off across the poplar-lined street at an empty lot that stood at the corner to an alleyway. The lot, in the period that stretched from summer to autumn of that year, had become once a horse ring, once a space for a man and his monkey tricks, and finally a show that blared its phonograph at all hours of the night, hoping to lure in customers to see their reputed ghosts and ghouls. Now it stood silent once more, its dim lanterns hanging in the deepening twilight, their reflections captured on the surface of its puddles

I decided to see Oyuki one last time, tell her I was leaving on extended travels, and break it off. That would be better than just weaseling away and leaving her alone, at least she would not feel like she needed to wait for me. If I could have, I would have preferred to tell her how I really felt. There would be no direction for my walks. Anyone I would have liked to visit has long since passed on. This was not the time for the elderly to slurp at cups of tea and debate the intricacies of medieval arts and their practitioners. In a corner of these labyrinthine streets, and without the intent to do so, I’d discovered what becomes of this sort of life. Therefore, I wished to explain that, even at the chance of becoming a nuisance, I’d have liked to come, however infrequently, to pass some leisurely time. I’d have liked to explain it, though it seemed I was too late. I entered the alleyway once again, and made for Oyuki’s house.

“Come on in,” she said. Her manner and cadence suggested she felt as if her expected guest had arrived though, instead of sending me into the tea room as usual she stopped and made to go up the stairs. I looked her over. “Is the boss here or something?”

“Yes, with the landlady…”

“Something new, huh?”

“The lady who cooks came too.”

“You don’t say. Things sure are lively.”

“I’d been alone for a while, so I can’t stand all the noise anymore,” and then, as if in sudden recollection, “Thank you for the other day.”

“Did you find a good one?”

“Yes, they said it would be ready tomorrow. I bought a new belt as well. This thing is so tattered I just had to. I’ll go down and show you in a bit.”

Oyuki went downstairs and came back with tea. She sat at the window and we made small talk for a little while, but the bosses made no sign of leaving anytime soon. Pretty soon a bell at the inner stairwell rang out— the sign a familiar customer had arrived.

Unlike when the house had been just Oyuki, it now felt as though I could not stay long. Oyuki seemed preoccupied with the boss as well, so, without ever saying what I’d come to say, and within the space of a half hour, I found myself walking out the door.

Four or five days later, the city had plunged into autumn. The sky seemed somehow changed, and the heavy clouds pushed in by the southerly winds fell low in the sky, dumping their heavy drops across the city before stopping just as quickly. There were times when the rain would continue through the night without pause. The leaves began to fall from the trees in my garden. The bush-clover flowers fell along with them, and the begonias, long bereft of their fruit, painfully lost their color in splotches over their expansive leaves. The garden, thrown into disorder by the wet trees, fallen twigs and leaves, and the remnants of summer crickets and cicadas, left me wishing for breaks in the rain, for the sky to clear just once, and it filled me with grief.

Each year, when I’m overcome with the winds and rains of the season, I’m reminded of a particularly poignant passage from
Dream of the Red Chamber
:

The flowers in fall are lonely and fading, the grasses grow yellow.

The moon grows brighter, the nights grow longer. Autumn, observed from the window, seems never to end.

The winds and rain bring with them a difficult cool dampness.

These rains that rush autumn to us, from where do they come?

From the window, a shock—autumn’s dreams of green.

Furthermore, despite knowing full well that I cannot do it, every year I am struck by the desire, and grief with my inability, to translate it properly.

The seasons changed with the wind and rain, and when the weather cleared, crisp and final, the last September nights were filled with the full moon.

The moon had been lovely for days, but on the night of the full moon all the clouds left the sky.

That was the night I learned that Oyuki was sick and in the hospital. I only heard it from the woman at her window. There was no way for me to learn the specifics.

October brought a chill with it, much earlier than most years. Already, on the night of the full moon there were signs posted near the Tamanoi Inari Shrine saying the time to change out your screens had come. Low prices on good material. The season for open wooden sandals and torn slacks and no-hat walks had passed. It seemed I could enjoy the lights from my room, as my neighbors needed to keep their windows shut, which cut the noise of the radios to a tolerable level.

* * *

Perhaps this is where I should stop
Something Strange Across the River
. But if the reader would desire a more traditional ending to the novel I suppose I could oblige by adding that once, half a year later and unexpectedly, I ran into Oyuki in the streets; she was a normal woman then. Furthermore, if I were to elaborate on the meeting to arouse sentiment, I could construct it so that I saw her in a car, or from the window of a passing train, and while we caught each other’s gaze we were unable to say the things we wanted to say before the moment had passed. Perhaps we’d catch sight of one another on passing ferries, drifting down the Tone River among the flaming autumn leaves. The odd things people imagine!

Oyuki and I never gave each other our real names or addresses. We had simply grown close in a mosquito-filled house by the embankment that runs through a back town somewhere east of the river. It was a relationship that, once separated, would have been impossible to rekindle, no matter what the desire may have been. While admitting to a certain lighthearted play, if I was to try and speak of the feeling of our parting, despite knowing from the start it would be that way and not expecting or hoping for something else, I could force it and fall into exaggeration, yet if I were to pretend it was nothing would be unjust to the emotion. The ending of Pierre Loti’s
Madame Chrysanthème
has already perfectly encapsulated such emotions, and if I were to attempt to conjure them with the ending of
Something Strange Across the River
, it would only draw the scorn of others, those aware of my poor attempts to imitate Pierre Loti.