Something Strange Across the River Page 2

  The protagonist will be called Junbei Taneda. He is a little over 50 years old, and is employed as an English teacher at a private middle school. At the start of the story it has been three or four years since Junbei lost his wife and became a widower. Soon he meets Mitsuko, whom he will remarry.

  Mitsuko was employed at a certain famous politician’s estate, where she was the personal maid of the politician’s wife. However, she was deceived by the owner of the estate and became pregnant. The politician asked a butler who saw to his affairs, a certain Endo, to attend to the matter. If Mitsuko complied with the estate owner’s requests he promised to send her five yen every month, for the first 20 years of the child’s life, to secure the child’s wellbeing. In return Mitsuko was never to mention the child in connection to his name, and he was never to be declared the father or included in any official documentation. There was also talk, in the event that Mitsuko was to marry, of awarding the family an impressive dowry.

  So Mitsuko left to stay with Endo, the butler, and gave birth to a baby boy. In the space of two months, through the mediation of Endo, she found herself married to Junbei, the middle school English teacher. At the time she was 19. Junbei was 30.

  Since losing his first wife, Junbei had been living on a small salary and was unable to perceive hope around him. As middle age approached he became sluggish and exhausted, a shadow of a man, but after talking with his friend Endo, he was momentarily enticed and confused at the mention of Mitsuko’s money. Soon they were married.

  Because the child had been born so recently, Mitsuko had yet to file the proper documentation. With consideration to their marriage, Endo arranged to have both Mitsuko and the child registered officially on Junbei’s family records. If one were to look into their records, it would have appeared as though they had been in a common-law marriage, and only decided to register with the state due to the birth of their son.

  Two years went by, and Mitsuko gave birth to a daughter. Soon after, they had another son.

  Their oldest son, who was not Junbei’s, soon reached the age where it was time for him to set out on his own, at which point a letter suddenly arrived from the politician. His monthly payments were to be cut off. It was not just that the agreed-upon timeframe had passed. In fact, the actual father had died of a terrible illness, and shortly after his wife followed him to the grave.

  Their oldest daughter Hoko was raised much as second children often are—her allowance was raised ever higher by the year. Eventually Junbei was forced to take on two or three night jobs to cover their expenses.

  The oldest son, while studying at a private college, became an athlete and soon went overseas. The oldest daughter Hoko, became active in theater circles and found herself a sort of star actress from nearly the moment she graduated from her girl’s school.

  Mitsuko, who’d had a charming, rounded face at the time of their marriage, grew heavier with time, and the lines on her face stretched into the crevices and wrinkles of an old woman. She became deeply invested in a school of Buddhism, the Nichirenshu, and eventually became a member of their managing body.

  Junbei spent his time teaching, and finding moments between his lessons to run back and forth to theaters and athletic fields to wish his children well and participate in the formal greeting of their superiors. The house was always in such an uproar of activity that even the mice were afraid to poke their noses from their holes at night.

  Junbei had, ever since his childhood, a low tolerance for socializing and noise, and with age that tolerance was tried by the incessant hustle and bustle in his own home. He discovered an unaffected scorn for all of Mitsuko’s beloved things. He made a concerted effort to suffer his family, but his need for revenge found manifestation in the cold look he often gave his wife. There was no other way for a soft-spoken man like himself to behave.

  Junbei quit his job in the spring of his 51st year. On the day of his retirement he did not go home. He disappeared and told no one where he was going.

  One day, on the train, he randomly met a girl who had once worked at his home as a maid. Her name was Sumiko, and as it turned out she was employed at a cafe in Asakusa. Junbei went there a few times and got tipsy on beer.

  After sometime had passed he received his retirement severance pay, which he quickly stashed in his pocket and made for Sumiko’s apartment, told her of his situation, and spent the night…

  * * *

  I am not sure how to end the story.

  His family will put out a missing persons report. A detective will track him down and force an explanation out of him. These pleasures, pursued late in life, are often likened to rain just before twilight. I could make his end as miserable as I saw fit.

  I have thought of many ways for Junbei to fall, and of the emotions that would accompany that fall. But I am still undecided as to the course he should take. I’ve thought about how it would feel for him to be handcuffed and taken away by the detective. I’ve thought about how it would feel for him to be given back over to his wife, the embarrassment and shame of it. How would it feel to be put in that situation?

  When I bought the tattered singlet in the back alley of Sanya, I was taken in by the police and had my background thoroughly investigated. That experience will prove incredibly instructive in my effort to describe the state of Junbei’s mind.

  When composing a novel I find the time when the characters make choices that will affect their lives and lead to the development of events to be the most interesting. Those moments of development and their descriptions are fascinating. Conversely, I have also fallen into the trap of placing to much weight and descriptions on the sets and the background when I should have been focusing on the characters and their personalities.

  I developed Junbei’s story from a desire to depict Tokyo, and how its old lovely streets lost their individuality and beauty in the post-earthquake reconstruction. To that end Junbei will, no doubt, hide out in Honjo or Fukakawa or on the outskirts of Asakusa, or even hidden in an alleyway further to the east in those lands that had been farms until but a few years before.

  Up until this point I have, on my occasional walks, intended to give a flavor of the life around Suna, Kamedo, Komatsugawa, and Terajima, but when it comes time for me to put down my brush, I feel as though my descriptions lack some effect. At one point (near the turn of the century), I composed a novel about the brothels of Fukagawa Asaki, and when I showed it to a friend of mine his reaction was, “You cannot hope to capture the feeling of the Asaki brothel towns without putting in something about the torrential rains of August and September. You know the tower of the very building you speak of has blown down once or twice in those incredible storms.” To precisely capture the background of the story, attention must be given to the seasons and the climate. The great Lafcadio Hearn did so elegantly in his Chita and Youma.

  It was an evening in June. The season of heavy rains was not over yet, but the sky had been clear since morning. I finished my dinner while the shadows were still long across the street. Twilight showed no sign of descending. I put down my chopsticks and left the shop with plans to walk far out to Senju or Kameido or wherever my feet felt like taking me, and with that intention I caught a streetcar to Kaminarimon, which just so happened to arrive concurrently with a bus on its way Tamanoi, on the other side of the river.

  We crossed Azuma Bridge and turned left on the wide street. We crossed Genmori Bridge and went straight on past Akiha Shrine, which brought us to a set of train tracks, where the car came to a stop at the gate. Taxis and cars lined up on either side of the tracks and waited for the train to slowly rumble by. There were few people out walking, but there were crowds of children from the poor houses, hordes of them, playing games in the streets. I got off the streetcar where the wide road running from Shirahige Bridge to Kameido reached a large intersection. There were open lots filled with ragged patches of grass. They sat among the low rows of houses that lined the streets. The streets went on and on and all looked so similar th
at you could never tell them apart. No matter where I went, the streets exuded a loneliness, a quiet sadness.

  If Junbei ran from his family and hid out in one of the alleys of this town, he’d be near the Tamanoi grounds. That might make the story easier to end. I played with the idea as I went on about a block and turned into a narrow alleyway. Vehicles or people carrying boxes had a hard time passing each other, it was so narrow, and every few feet it turned and winded through the buildings. On either side there were relatively nice little gates before relatively nice little rented houses and, occasionally, in the long stretches, I could catch glimpses of men and women in suits on their way home from work. The dogs had license numbers printed on their collars, and seemed well kept and clean. A moment later I came out of the alley just to the side of the Tobu line Tamanoi Station parking lot.

  On either side of the tracks stood large trees, manicured lawns, and what I could only assume were summer homes. There had been no places like this on my way here from Azuma Bridge. None of them looked as though they had been attended to in a while, and the ivy creeping across them and over the bamboo groves pulled the scene down with an extraordinary weight. The hedges lining the ditches were filled with moonflower blossoms, which lent such an extraordinary air of refinement that I was stopped in my tracks to gaze at them.

  I recalled suddenly that the area around the Shirahige Shrine had once been known as Terajima Village. I could suddenly picture one of those estates as belonging to Kikugoro, the great Kabuki actor. The sight of the gardens, left long unattended, brought the elegant pursuit of artistry of that age back to the fore of my mind.

  The train tracks were lined on one side by an expanse of open plots, stuck here and there with signs indicating they were for sale. They extended out to the river embankment where they met with an old steel bridge. It had been part of the Keisei Electric Railway until just last year. At the top of the crumbling stone steps sat the old Tamanoi train stop, now overgrown with weeds. When viewed from a distance it towered over the town like an ancient castle, lost to time.

  I pushed aside the high grass and climbed up the hillside of the embankment. There were no objects to obstruct my view of the street I’d just come up. The rambling old towns, empty lots, and developing areas could all be seen. On the other side of the river, corrugated iron roofs spread out in all directions, broken here and there by the towering chimneys of the baths, all of it cast in the glow of the setting summer sun. At one end of the sky the colors of sunset grew weaker and colder as they drifted away. The moon shone bright, as if night had already come. Between the iron roofs, in the gaps that showed the streets, neon signs crackled to life, and the echoes of radios clicking on here and there rose up from the town.

  I sat on a stone until darkness fell, but soon all the lights came on in the windows under the embankment, lending me a clear view into the untidy workings of the second floor rooms. My footprints were still just visible between the grasses, and I followed them back down the embankment wall. The square surrounding Tamanoi, for at least a block, was filled with people bustling between the ever-expanding rows of shops. Glowing lanterns stood out over the streets and business. They were scrawled with messages of “Thru Street,” “Safety First,” “Keisei Bus Shortcut,” “Girls Girls Girls,” and “Nigiwaihon Street.”

  I took a stroll around to breathe in the surroundings before stopping at a little shop that stood behind a post box. I bought some tobacco, paid for it with a five-yen bill, and was waiting for change when it happened. A man in a white half-jacket ran barreling down the street and ducked into an oden shop, hollering “It’s gonna pour!” as he pushed back the curtain. A second later the aproned women and people passing in the streets fell into an uproar rushing into shops and under cover. I had only a moment to wonder what the fuss was about before a sudden wind blew heavily down the street, carrying signs and fabrics with it. There was a sudden, great cacophony of things crashing to the ground. All the papers and garbage of the town were swept up in the sudden gust and rushed down the street like a monster. Shortly after came a sharp flash of lightning, a strobe in the distance, then the soft, rolling thunder came, and finally the heavy, large drops of rain. It had been so clear all day, only to change in an instant.

  A habit has come to me over the years. I never leave the house without an umbrella. No matter how clear the sky may have looked when I stepped from my house, it was the rainy season and so, in keeping with my custom, I was carrying both an umbrella and a handkerchief that day. I was not surprised by the sudden downpour. I simply opened my umbrella and looked out at the sky and town from under its lip. I was making my way down the street, among the crashing globes of rain, when suddenly, from behind me, “Good sir! Won’t you let me under there?” A woman, her neck powdered pure white, thrust her head under my umbrella. The scent of oil made clear that her high, Japanese-styled chignon had been freshly dressed. It was decorated with thin cords of silver. I recalled passing a hairdresser’s shop, its glass doors had stood open.

  The wind howled and brought sheets of rain down the street. There was something pitifully tragic about the thin silver cord coming loose from her neatly tied bun, so I held out my umbrella to her and said, “Go on—I’m in a suit so it doesn’t matter if I get wet.”

  In truth, I was embarrassed to be seen sharing an umbrella with her there, in the light of the shops for all to see.

  “Oh? Thank you! It’s just over there,” she said taking the handle of the umbrella. She rolled up the bottom of her robe and sleeves from the pooling puddles of rain.

  Chapter Three

  Lightning flashed in the sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder. In response the woman shouted an affected, “Oh, my!” and reached back to grab my hand (I’d made a point of walking a step or two behind her). “We need to hurry, dear,” she said pulling at me, as if we’d known each other for years.

  “It’s fine, you walk ahead—I’m right behind you.”

  We turned down a winding alleyway, and with every turn she looked back to make sure I was still behind her. Eventually we crossed a little bridge and found ourselves before a strip of low buildings with signs and awnings. We splashed to a stop before one of the little houses.

  “Oh, dear—look at you!” she shouted. “You’re soaked through!” She quickly folded the umbrella away and saw to wiping the beaded water off of my shoulders before attending to herself.

  “This your house?”

  “I’ll get you dry, come on inside.”

  “It’s a suit, like I said; I’ll be fine.”

  “Even though I’m offering to help? How am I supposed to show my gratitude?”

  “Show your gratitude? What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Well… you’ll see. Anyway, come on inside.”

  The lightning had moved off, but the rain was pouring harder than it had before. It pounded the street and raised a hissing mist over the roofs and signs. I hurried inside without further protest.

  There was a partition in the middle of the room, covered with rough Osaka latticework and a rolling blind of ribbon. A little bell hung affixed to its strings. I took a seat on a bench that sat below the partition and, as I saw to remove my shoes, the woman finished wiping her feet with a spare cloth, unrolled her sleeves, and twisted the knob on a nearby electric lamp.

  “There’s no one here,” she said. “Come on up.”

  “You alone here?”

  “Yes. There was another person here until last night. They moved out.”

  “Your husband, I presume?”

  “No. My master lives somewhere else. By chance do you know the theater in Tamanoi? He has a house just behind it. He usually stops by around midnight to check the books.”

  “Guess you can do whatever you want then,” I said, taking the seat she offered me by the stove heater. She knelt at the table and began to prepare tea. I watched her.

  I supposed she was around twenty-five. Her face was a pretty little thing. The skin on her
straight nose and rounded face was slightly rough from the application of cosmetics, but her neatly dressed hair had the shine of youth. Her large black eyes were clear, and her lips and gums were pink with blood, young and healthy.

  “Is it well or city water around here?” I asked absentmindedly before I drank my tea. Had she answered well water I would to pretend to take a sip and leave the cup undrunk. I was far more scared of a typhus infection then any sort of venereal disease. Old men such as myself, ruined spiritually far before we could lose out to our bodies, had little to fear from slow, chronic diseases

  “Did you want to wash up? We have city water right over there,” she said motioning off with postured amiability.

  “Thanks, I might use it later.”

  “At least take off that jacket. It’s soaked through.”

  “Sure is pouring out there.”

  “I’m more bothered by the flashing than by the thunder. At this rate I can’t get near the baths. Dear, you’re alright for a little while? I’d like to wash up and redo my makeup.”

  She twisted her lips up and patted at her hairline with strips of paper she pulled from a pocket and went to stand before the sink, which protruded from the wall on the other side of the partition. Between the slats in the partition I could see her pull off the top of her robe and wash her face. Her shoulders were much whiter than her face, and from the look of her breasts she had clearly never had a child.

  “Aren’t we casual? You’d think we were husband and wife here. And what a little home you’ve set up. You’ve got a bureau, tea shelves…”

  She motioned with a languid finger. “You can open that if you’d like. There should be some potatoes or something in there.”

  “You keep it clean—I’m impressed. What’s in the heater?”

  “I clean every morning. It may be bit of a dump, but I like to think I keep it nice.”