Читать книгу Restless Wave - Ayako Tanaka Ishigaki - Страница 11

Second Mother

ONE COLD and dreary winter night I lay awake listening lonesomely to the blind masseur playing a melancholy tune on his flute. Suddenly fire bells rang out clear. I grasped Elder Sister’s hand in terror. We knew that if a fire had started in the crowded section it would spread quickly, destroying completely the inflammable wood and paper houses. We knew that we were safe from its cruel onslaught, but we lay awake most of that night, trembling at the thought of the havoc it was bringing.

After that fear-shadowed night we no longer wanted to sleep in our own bedroom, which was in the far wing of the house. Father slept upstairs, on the opposite side of the house. We asked if we might change to the dining room, since it was in the exact center of the house and we could hear walking and voices if we were there. At first Father would not consent, but our persistent and polite pleading won his permission to change temporarily. The maid declared that our sleeping in the dining room would interfere with the proper serving of breakfast. Finally it was decided that we would eat breakfast in the small room next to the kitchen; and Elder Sister, who usually disliked household tasks, gladly helped each evening with the moving of our bedding from our room to the dining room.

One night while we were sleeping there, I awoke suddenly. Thin light from the living room leaked into the darkness between the sliding screens, and I heard Father talking to someone in a whisper. Then a woman spoke: “I quite understand the way you feel, but it is very difficult for a man to take care of three children alone. They need a mother, ne.*”

My ears pricked up to catch carefully the rest of the conversation which was about us.

Father was silent and the woman continued: “I observed her with her sister’s little children, who are about the same ages as yours, and I found her both able and tender. I therefore thought she would make an ideal mother for your children.”

There was silence for a while; then Father’s voice came hesitatingly through the thin paper wall, “Of course I would like a good mother for my children, but—” He stopped.

Again the woman’s low voice: “I realize you wish time to make a decision, but I am sure that no more suitable person can be found. Though she is twenty-eight years old, there is nothing wrong with her. She is a sewing teacher in a high school. Her younger sister married before her, and she lost her chance. I can recommend her whole-heartedly as an ideal wife for you.”

My heart beat wildly, and I tried to hear more; but the voices became indistinct and soon I fell asleep. Next morning I wondered whether I had actually heard this conversation which was like conversation in a dream. Not knowing, I did not share it with Elder Sister. It would have been impertinent to ask Father, so my heart pondered it all alone.

A short time afterward, Father announced that soon we would have a mother again. Younger Brother, on hearing the news, ran through the house calling, “At last Mother is coming back!”

A large celebration was held to welcome new mother to our house. The sliding paper screens between the dining room and living room and drawing room were taken away, to make one large room of three. Elder Sister and I, dressed in our best kimonos, sat at rigid attention, staring at the strange faces of the many guests. Father and new Mother were close beside me. Since the bride was marrying a widower, she was dressed in sober kimono, trimmed with the white collar of the under-kimono; she wore neither flowers nor other ornaments in her hair. Her severe dress called attention to the diamond in her ring as she rested her white hand on her knee. I studied her glimpsingly, and my impression was favorable. I would have liked to gaze at her longer, but I could not do so without twisting.

Individual red-lacquered tables about a foot high, laden, as was customary, with all the courses at once, were placed before the guests. We children received exactly the same food as the others. This was a formal dinner, and consisted of delicacies of “mountain and sea” served in porcelain bowls and plates. While the warmed sake was being poured for the guests, I lifted my lacquered cup with both hands, pretending that I too had wine. In the excitement, the cup dropped from my hands, hit the corner of my table, and noisily rolled over to where Elder Sister was sitting. She began to giggle. She tried to control herself by placing her long wide sleeve over her lips, but still queer sounds continued. My cheeks burned. Had I ruined my performance before new Mother and all the guests? Indignant at Elder Sister for laughing at me, I hung my head. When I finally raised it, I was relieved to see that no one seemed to have noticed my mishap. I quivered lest Father mention it after the feast, but it was to Elder Sister he directed his reprimand: “It is unbecoming for my daughter to forget her dignity before guests.”

The next morning I was playing in the playroom with a multi-colored paper balloon. It jumped up and down on my palm with a pong-pong sound, and its colors made a beautiful design as it floated in the air. I was following it with my eyes when I heard my name called. Startled, I dropped the balloon and stood without saying a word. Someone bent down, picked up the balloon, and threw it to me. I caught it mechanically. She smiled encouragingly, and I, flattered by the attention, threw it back to her. Then I realized that this was not just another guest, but a member of the household—my new mother.

Second Mother soon submerged herself in the exacting duties of Father’s household. She submitted with strict obedience to carrying out Father’s wishes. This was accepted as a matter of course; but so submissively did she discharge her duties that even in the internal affairs of the house, which she was supposed to control, she did not emerge as a real person. With patient tenseness she applied herself almost grimly to warding off that deadly bugbear of a Japanese wife—failure in fulfilling her obligations. Though she later bore my father two children, she feared to show any sentiment toward them lest it be misconstrued as favoritism. She was not well after their births, and wet nurses were employed to look after them.

She was very kind to Elder Sister and me, but Younger Brother was her favorite. On his first day of school she attired him in a new outfit she had made, and accompanied him to the school. Upon his return home she had him photographed in the front entrance of the house. A special feast celebrated this important event.

After new Mother’s arrival, heat, electricity, a telephone, and a phonograph were installed in our house. Father always welcomed new conveniences from the Western World. Our house was one of the first to have gas-heating stoves. Father explained to his guests, after they had overcome their astonishment at “the water pipes,” that to suffer inconvenience in an industrial age was foolish and not in keeping with the growing spirit of progress. When our gas-light was replaced by electricity, we were thrilled at being able to produce light by a twist of a switch. The advent of the telephone enhanced our prestige in the neighborhood. It was a rare and expensive instrument, and rightly regarded as a treasure. It seldom rang, but when it did, poor Kimi bowed before it and always bumped her head. It was useless to tell her it wasn’t necessary to bow; she insisted that it was her duty to pay respect to the spirit of the unseen.

It was the phonograph that gave us the most pleasure. When it was delivered, everyone ceased work and gathered in the living room to scrutinize and hear this wonder. The box was small, with a large horn. Father wound it up slowly, stopping every few turns to look at our awed faces. He inserted the needle deliberately, and put on a record. We held our breaths and sat motionless until the record was finished.

Father was pleased at the reception given the new machine, and asked us to choose the kinds of records we wanted. Elder Sister was in favor of Western operas, while Mother, supported by the maids, preferred Japanese classic music. Younger Brother asked for military marches, and I wanted children’s songs. It was not long before the Western music predominated, for Elder Sister practically monopolized the phonograph. She practiced every day the soprano and coloratura voices. I laughed and clapped my hands when she held her throat and pulled the flesh in and out to make her voice tremble.

One evening Father announced that an English teacher would come to the house once a week so that Mother might take up the study of English. She timidly asserted that she was too old to learn anything new. Father assured her that he did not expect her to master the English language; he only wanted her to learn enough so as not to open an English book upside down. I watched Mother during her weekly lesson laboriously picking out large letters in a child’s picture book.

After school one rainy afternoon, when Mother was attending a domestic science class where Father had suggested she might learn Western cooking, I settled myself comfortably with a magazine. Thumbing it through, I was annoyed to find some sewed-up pages. This had happened many times since the day Mother had looked at a magazine which Nobu had borrowed from one of the girls at school. Mother had prevailed upon us to tell her what magazines we wanted, since she would be happy to buy them for us. She bought them, but always censored them before we saw them. This time I decided to find out what the sewed-up pages contained.

Carefully, so as to be able to replace it, I pulled out the cotton thread. Hurriedly and with a nervous feeling of guilt, I read the story. It was about a cruel stepmother, but I did not connect it with my new mother. I could not understand why she had sewed up the pages. My heart felt chagrined at having been dishonorable for so uninteresting a story.

Mother had brought with her a sewing machine finished in shiny-black lacquer. When I first heard its hum, I left my play and hurried to the room where Mother was working. In the diffused light she somehow looked different. Her face was aglow, her eyes glistened, as steadily she directed the material through the hopping needle. I stood entranced, watching her whole body respond to the rhythm. It was as if I watched the freed spirit of a goddess.

When she completed the sewing, she examined it critically, and became aware of my fascinated interest. She showed me then the miniature kimonos and other garments which she kept in a drawer and used as patterns. Mother seldom left the house. In her spare time she escaped to her sewing. She kept the precious machine cleanly dusted and shining. I too respected it, and warned Younger Brother not to touch it.

Sometime later I summoned up enough courage to ask, “My honorable Mother, may I have little pieces of cloth and learn to sew on the machine?” Soon, under her guidance, I was able to make kimonos for my dolls.

She had brought many kimonos with her and she kept making new ones, but she always wore the old ones. On airing day, when she spread them all out to air, I ran my hand gently over the smooth silk. They were dark in color, but they had beautiful linings of red, and trimmings of purple and green. I got my best kimono and laid it beside hers, thinking that if I were a grownup like my honorable mother and had such lovely kimonos, I would wear them every day.

* The Japanese ne is roughly equivalent to the French n’est ce pas.