Читать книгу Restless Wave - Ayako Tanaka Ishigaki - Страница 10

Home and Play

OUR HOUSE of two stories was built on a sloping hillside and hidden from view of the street by a stone and wooden fence. From outside the fence one could see only a wave of gray tile on the roof. We lived in a quiet residential section of uptown Tokyo, where other professors and government officials lived. All the houses there were enclosed behind borders of high fence, as if refusing the dust of the street.

Formerly our land had been a woods, and many large maple, bamboo, pine and Gingko trees still remained. I liked the fruit trees best of all. In autumn, with swish of falling leaves the persimmons turned orange-red. The branches were so heavy with the fruit that we thought they would snap. When the persimmons were gone, the chestnuts began to ripen. After a stormy night many of them fell to the ground. I would lie awake listening to the blowing sound of the wind, and in the morning hurry outdoors to gather the chestnuts. I wore high clogs in order to walk safely on the wet ground. In winter only the pine trees remained green, spreading their branches in austere dignity among the naked winter trees. Then the pool beyond the garden was covered to keep the water from freezing. Bamboo sticks were placed over it, and on them were stretched mats with a thick covering of dry pine needles. The pool, covered, was like a mound in the pine-tree forest. We peeped through a small opening and could see the goldfish lying motionless at the dark bottom of the water. At the breaking of winter frost, the plum blossoms bloomed with delicate fragrance along the branch above the dining room eaves. Uguisu-birds with green wings visited the tree, and, hidden by the blossoms, sang beautifully all day. The tall cherry-blossom tree beside the gate bloomed in the spring, its lacy-curtain-flowers hanging low. Soon its white petals danced in the air and fluttered to roof and ground, and we picked up the fallen petals and made them into wreaths.

With summer, purple eggplant and green cucumber ripened in our small vegetable garden. Once, before our handyman Jiya came to us, chrysanthemums and dahlias had bloomed in this plot. Father, who was very fond of chrysanthemums, asked Jiya to cultivate them. But Jiya was a stubborn old farmer who never hesitated to say what he thought, even to the master of the house. “You can’t eat flowers,” he said to Father. “It’s a waste of good land. Let me use just this little patch for vegetables.”

He was given his way, and he sowed the seeds and placed human manure over the ground as fertilizer. The farmers in Japan always use it for vegetables and rice. As the rear entrance of our house faced the vegetable garden, the servants protested vigorously at the bad odor. Jiya paid no attention to them. “We will have a good vegetable garden next summer,” he said.

But the odor became so objectionable that finally Father intervened, explaining that the manure was offensive and unsanitary. Jiya looked at him in bewilderment, but promised that thereafter he would use artificial fertilizer. He walked off mumbling to himself, “What a waste of good excrement! What a waste of good excrement!”

Having been a farmer, Jiya continued his habit of rising when the sun rose in the east. He then proceeded to waken the other servants by knocking at the wooden shutters. Ignoring their objections to being aroused so early, he removed the sliding shutters from the grooves. These shutter-panels were stacked during the day in a closet at the end of the long porch. Later in the morning Jiya removed the rest of the panels, beginning at the far end of the house, and working toward our rooms.

Each morning I was awakened by the gara-gara clatter of the panels. Floating in half-sleep, I listened to the sound. When Jiya reached our room, the removal of each shutter sent another shaft of light streaming through the paper sliding screens, until finally the night-heavy room was flooded with light. Each morning the sun made different shadows of hanging branches on the paper screens stretched on latticed frames.

“It is time to get up,” Jiya called, and added mischievously, “Your eyes will rot if you sleep late.”

I could smell the bean soup cooking in the kitchen while I washed my face. This welcome smell wakened me fully, and I hurried to the dining room before the others. “What is in the bean soup, Kimi?” I would ask. “Not spinach!” I did not like the greenish smell of spinach.

If she answered, “Wakame,” I was glad. Wakame is seaweed of soft blue-green color and has the rich smell of the sea.

In summer our breakfast consisted of this bean soup, steaming hot rice, salted cucumbers and eggplant from the garden. We children were given a raw egg each. It was broken into a small cup, seasoned with sugar, and beaten with a chop stick before we drank it with great relish. As master of the house, Father had an additional dish of cooked vegetables.

I had seen Jiya pour his bean soup over his rice, and I tried to imitate him. Father corrected me: “Little daughter, that is not the proper way to eat your food.”

After my breakfast I watched Jiya eat in the servants’ room. Three times he refilled his rice bowl, poured bean soup over it, and swallowed it quickly, without chewing. I told him how I had been corrected for doing it. “That is right, honorable little one,” he said. “It is bad for your stomach. I must eat this way because I have no teeth.”

Jiya told us many stories and brought us many traditions of the farm. While he remained with us, we never failed to observe the star festival on the seventh day of the seventh month. On this eve, Jiya cut two bamboo trees from our garden. One he called male and one female. He placed them on the front porch, where we decorated them with colorful tanzaku-strings, narrow strips of paper on which poems were written. A table covered with fruits and vegetables was placed as an offering to the stars between the two bamboos. Gazing up at the stars, we listened to Jiya recite the legend.

“Two stars who were in love with each other lived on either side of the River of Heaven,” he said. “They were permitted to meet only once a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month. If it rains that night they cannot meet. The rain is their tears. But if the sky is clear, the two loving stars shine brightly because they are happy, and they promise a good harvest. That is what makes me so happy tonight.” Jiya’s face shone.

Elder Sister Nobu was very beautiful to me under the bright stars. She recited:

On the River of Heaven

At the place of the ferry

The princess cried,

“Oh ferryman make haste across the stream,

My prince comes but once a year.”

Softly I repeated the words, pretending that she was the princess.

Younger Brother and I played beautifully together, even though I envied him as the center of the family. But he and Elder Sister were always quarreling. One day they started shrieking and screaming because she wouldn’t let him play with her doll. At first I paid no attention because it had happened so often; but after a while I was sorry for Younger Brother so unhappily crying. I gave him my favorite doll and told him he could keep it always, and I played with him the rest of the afternoon.

The next evening, on his return home, Father handed me a box tied with red ribbon. “It is a present for you, little daughter,” he smiled.

I was surprised. Never before had I alone received a gift. A rosy-cheeked, golden-haired doll clad in Western dress was sleeping in the box.

“Look! Her eyes are blue!” Elder Sister exclaimed in astonishment when I lifted the doll from the box.

“It is an American doll,” Father informed us.

This doll became my most treasured possession. I guarded it tenderly for many years.

For Elder Sister and me, the Doll Festival, on the third day of the third month, was an important occasion. Once, a week before the Festival, I cut my hand on glass when I was playing the role of wife with Younger Brother. I was confined to bed because of the deep cut, and Father said there would be no Festival for us that year. Elder Sister reproached me hotly: “How could you be so foolish as to cut your hand at this time!” My heart was shamed and gloomy.

Elder Sister pleaded with Father: “But the Ohinasama will be unhappy and cry in the storeroom if we do not take them out and decorate them.” The Ohinasama dolls are carefully stored away in individual boxes, and taken out only once a year for the Doll Festival. As second daughter I did not have a set of my own, but was permitted to share Elder Sister’s.

Father finally relented just one day before the celebration, and, with my right hand in a sling, I happily helped Elder Sister prepare the dolls. We set out the special tiered platform of five steps, and covered it with a scarlet rug. On the top step we reverently placed the Emperor and Empress. Just below we put the stately courtiers and ladies of the court. Beneath these came the five court musicians with their flutes and drums. The fourth step held the lowest rank of the court—the footmen. The last step was reserved for household accessories—beautifully lacquered furniture with gold design, dishes, and other articles. All the dolls were garbed in exact miniature reproduction of the ancient official court dress. Even the material was the same as that used in the official imperial costumes. I wanted to decorate some of my own everyday dolls and place them on the lowest step, but Elder Sister would not permit it. “We cannot have such plain dolls mix with royalty,” she said.

In the evening, little girl playmates were invited to join us. Beautifully colored bonbori lanterns glowed on the top of the doll platform, casting pink-cherry-blossom color on the faces of the dolls. We sat in front of the platform in hushed reverence and watched the expression of their faces change in the flickering light. The party repast of sweet wine and candy was served to us and to the dolls in the dolls’ dishes. We believed that they too partook of the feast.

Younger Brother, the only boy to participate in the festival, did not relish his secondary role on this occasion, and became sullen. Nobu upbraided him. “It is only because of the girls that you are able to have these goodies.”

“All right,” he said with spirit, “but wait till the boys’ festival, then I shall be lord.”

When Boys’ Day came, on the fifth day of the fifth month, each family set up outside the house a special pole on which was hung a colorful streamer shaped like a fish. Younger Brother, as the only boy in the family, had a streamer twenty feet long. This Nobori, or streamer, signifies “swimming against the current no matter how strong and swift.” It is supposed to inspire boys to be courageous and to overcome all obstacles.

We watched the beautiful, vari-colored streamers waving against the deep May sky. Younger Brother said with satisfaction, “You girls have no such beautiful streamers.” Inside the house was a display of dolls representing house-warriors and heroes of old legends. Younger Brother also had miniature swords and bows and arrows and a set of armor, and he pretended that he was a stout warrior. Many little boys were invited to join him in the festivities, but we girls were not so honored. Consoling ourselves, we sniffed, “In spite of his show of bravery, Little Brother cries very easily when he is upset.”

Nothing exciting ever happened on our quiet street. Not far away, however, was the business section. Here the street was narrow and crowded with small stores. Wedged in between the fish, meat, and vegetable shops were the crowded ugly shacks of the poor.

Here dull-scaled fish were displayed in large open dishes, lifelessly floating in stale water mixed with blood. We held our noses whenever we passed by. The public bathhouse with thick smoke puffing steadily from black chimneys was next to the vegetable store. Frequently we met people with red-shiny faces, coming out with their soap, swinging their wet bath towels cheerfully. The most popular shop was the one which sold sweet potatoes. Here customers were always waiting for the potatoes to be removed from the large round iron oven. When the heavy wooden cover was lifted, thick white steam carried with it the sweet scent of the potatoes, and customers rushed to buy them.

Children played marbles and jacks in the middle of the street. Young girls of ten or eleven carried a little sister or brother tied on their backs. The infants’ pinkish arms and legs flapped, and they pulled their sisters’ hair. Housewives with their sleeves tucked back chatted loudly with one another. Their voices were drowned out by the bell of the bean peddler, who was dressed in long tight cotton trousers and had a towel wound around his head. The sweetened boiled beans he carried in two wooden buckets suspended from either end of a bamboo stick. Between peals of the bell he cried, “Hot steaming beans! Hot steaming beans!”

The tofu, or bean curd, peddler always blew a horn to announce his appearance. He too carried his buckets on a bamboo pole, and tofu floated in the water in the buckets. I was told the story that the man who made tofu took a bath in the same tub every night, and for some time I was unable to eat tofu although I was very fond of it.

A clog repairer, a tinsmith, and an umbrella mender came along the street, each calling his trade in his own noisy fashion. The ragman, by contrast, had a droll and sleepy voice. The large basket on his back accepted everything as merchandise, even old papers and broken bottles.

For children, the really popular vendors were the Ame-uri. These traveled in couples and sold candies and lollipops formed into colored birds and animals. Now one of these chindonya couples came down the street. Bells and drums which they played sounded “Chin don, chin don.” The woman’s outer kimono skirt was tucked up, showing her red petticoat. The man wore white leggings underneath his kimono. Each one balanced a large, shallow wooden washtub filled with candy on his head. The brass rims of the tubs flashed in bright sunshine. Around the rims waved many-colored little flags. Beating drums which hung from their shoulders, the man and woman danced along in perfect step while we children followed excitedly close behind. We were awe-struck that they could balance the tubs on their heads without holding them.

When a crowd of children had gathered, the couple stopped, and the man began, “Welcome, children. Today we have brought a special treat for you. Only a penny each!” He rolled his drum, and the woman started to sing in high-pitched voice. Her make-up showed that at one time she had been a country entertainer. Her partner began to sing with her in his deep voice. High voice and low voice rolled between them like a ball. When their song was finished and a much larger crowd, including many adults, had gathered, the man again beat his drum and announced: “Welcome again! See what I have brought you. With each purchase of candy one of these lovely little flags will be given free.” He pulled out a red flag.

A little girl rushed from the crowd with short hurrying steps, and returned with a flag in her hand and a red lollipop-bird in her mouth. Many more children rushed forward like sparrows. Some tugged at their mothers’ skirts, pleading for pennies; others ran home to see if they could get a penny there. In a few minutes most of the children were busy licking candy and holding flags proudly. The unfortunate ones stood by, greedily chewing their fingers.

Elder Sister and I watched the performance with no thought of purchasing the candy, which we had been taught was unsanitary. In addition, it was bad manners to ask for money, or to buy candy on the street. But secretly I wondered what the candy tasted like.

I memorized the song which the woman sang, and back at home I dramatized it with Younger Brother. I placed a cushion on my head. Younger Brother beat the drum. I sang the song of the tragic experience of a girl who dared to fall in love. Just as we were in the midst of this intense scene, Father arrived home and stood horrified. Hastily I dropped the cushion and made a low bow.

Father said severely, “What is this? Does my little daughter imitate street performers and sing undignified songs?”

After that we were no longer permitted to see the chindonya. I stood at the front gate every afternoon, hoping that sometime they would pass our house, but all I could hear was the familiar sound in the distance, “Chin don, chin don.” They never came along our quiet street.