Something Strange Across the River (3 page)

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 that 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.”

“Have you been here a long time?”

“About a year, maybe a little longer?”

“But you’re not new to the area, are you? Were you a geisha or something?”

I wasn’t sure if she couldn’t hear me over the sound of the bubbling water or if she had simply feigned a sudden auditory impairment, but she said nothing, just sat down in front of the mirror, still undressed. She pulled her hair up and began powdering her shoulders.

“Where’d you come from? You can’t just keep that secret.”

“I know… but it wasn’t Tokyo.”

“The suburbs?”

“No, much further…”

“China?”

“I was in Utsunomiya. All my kimonos are from thereabouts too. I’d rather not talk about it.” She stood up and pulled on a robe that had been hanging on a hook. The under-sash was lined with thin red stripes and finished with a large knot in the front, which was just large enough to give balance to her nearly oversized chignon with its silver threads. She appeared to me just as a courtesan from a previous age. She sat down beside me and fiddled with her robe until it was just right before opening a package of cigarettes.

“We’re already here, so the amount doesn’t matter. But do see to it that you show your appreciation, just to keep up appearances.” She passed me a lit cigarette.

I couldn’t claim total ignorance of the area’s reputation. “50 sen for the tea, isn’t it?”

“Naturally. I’d say that’s about standard,” she said with a smile. She moved her hand closer to mine.

“Well, let’s decide on a time. About an hour?”

“It just doesn’t seem right. I’m terribly sorry about all this—really I am.”

“Well, in exchange…” I said and took her hand. I pulled her close to me and whispered in her ear.

“I don’t know about that!” she glared at me, eyes blazing, and slapped my shoulder. “Dummy.”

Readers of Tamenaga Shunsui will be familiar with the author’s tendency to break from his narrative to apologize on behalf of himself or his characters. So when a young girl, hopelessly in love for the first time, forgets her shame and throws herself at the man she loves, the author interjects on her behalf and warns the reader not to think her a harlot or flippant. Indeed, he says, the simple girl, when deeply in love, can move with the allure and seduction of a geisha. Furthermore, the world-weary professional woman, well known in the ways of love, can, upon an encounter with a childhood friend, squirm and blush like a fresh faced virgin.

Anyone with sufficient experience in such matters can attest to the truth of his statements, and I would not be one to declare his observations deficient.

Taking a cue from Shunsui, I will elaborate further here, perhaps more than necessary. The reader may note my description of this woman, and the overly familiar way she behaved upon meeting me in the street. The reader might find this odd, even suspicious. But I would beg the reader keep in mind one thing: I have simply stated exactly what happened when we met, with absolutely no elaboration on my behalf. I have no unscrupulous intentions. There may even be a reader or two who smirks to themselves upon reading my account of what occurred just after the sudden downpour on that day. However, due to my desire to give proper and true consideration to the preceding events, I would not wish to build castles in the air for my enjoyment. But what happened that night, just as the sun went down, was so traditional, so conventional, that truthfully I can find nothing of interest to say about it.

In truth, the reason I began to write this very text you hold in your hands was to see if I could find the interest in the action.