Читать книгу Restless Wave - Ayako Tanaka Ishigaki - Страница 15

End of Childhood

IT WAS LATE in October and the air was chill. Elder Sister and I sat quietly on our cushions, watching Father. He was leaning over the hibachi with bent head, and writing on the hot cinders. Quickly he erased what he had written, and absent-mindedly began again. His shadow was cast blackly on the opposite wall, and under the ceiling light I saw the gray hairs on his head. We sat voiceless. Second Mother’s cushion was empty. It was one week after her death.

Father at last raised his head and said, half to himself, “This is our fate and we must accept it. Life and death are in the will of heaven. There is no use lamenting endlessly.” He rose and asked Elder Sister to serve tea. As we started to sip the tea he took off his eye-glasses, saying that the steam from the tea had blurred them. He wiped his eyes and his glasses with his handkerchief, and assumed a more cheerful expression.

Because of the nature of Second Mother’s illness, typhoid fever, we children had not been permitted to visit her at the hospital. She had had to be cremated when she died, and only her ashes had been brought home. I missed her and hated to think that she never would come back, and my thoughts turned to the poor little stepsisters who were about the ages we had been when our own mother died, and to Younger Brother who would most of all miss Second Mother’s tender care.

Elder Sister, always so lively and gay, now became quiet and subdued. She took over many responsibilities of the house. She served tea, prepared Father’s clothes, and attended to other details reserved for the mistress. One evening when we were sitting in mournful meditation, she went to the storeroom, found the family shrine, dusted it and set it up. She pushed toward the back our ancestors’ tablets, and put Mother’s and Second Mother’s side by side in the front row. She burned incense and murmured, “Namu Amida Buddha, save me Amida Buddha,” as we both bowed reverently before the spirits of our departed mothers. I thought Father would forbid it, but apparently he was too desolate to care. When I received a prize from school, I placed it in the front row of the shrine.

Soon after Second Mother’s death, all her belongings were removed by her mother. I ached with memories when the men began to carry out the sewing machine. I wanted to pull it from them; it was as though they were carrying out her coffin. I cried bitterly. Elder Sister too was deeply hurt. Had we not been real daughters to our stepmother? Our thoughts turned back to our own mother.

From the storeroom we retrieved our own mother’s mirror stand and a small red-lacquered chest of drawers. When Second Mother came to our house, we had been instructed by Father that it was our duty to her not to talk or even to think of our real mother. But now we used her furniture in our room, and our memories of childhood, sunk into darkness, took shape again in light. In the chest of drawers we found embroidery and silk work done by Mother. Once, in a low built-in chest in the drawing room, I found yellow photographs, all of us as very small children, and Mother, and our grandparents whom we had not seen for many years. Best of all the pictures I liked the the one of my mother alone. She was wearing black ceremonial kimono decorated with five crests, and with the white scarf-like edging of the under-kimono contrasting prettily at the neck. She looked very lovely, the touch of lip-rouge in the center of her lower lip bringing out the fragile beauty of her face. Once Elder Sister found an old diary of Father’s. “Look at this!” she exclaimed in great excitement. “Father has written a great deal about our mother. He must have been very fond of her.” I was happy at this revelation, but distressed that Elder Sister should go through Father’s desk and discover secrets.

After my stepmother’s death there was no formal welcome for me when I returned from school. Elder Sister was now attending Girls’ High School, some distance from home, and she did not come back until very late in the afternoon. I had many lonely hours. Second Mother, after greeting me warmly, had always prepared afternoon tea and cakes. Now the tea and cakes were the same, but partaking of them was no longer a ceremony. Attracted by laughter and conversation of the servants preparing the evening meal, I went out to the kitchen. But soon I was told, “Honorable daughter must not stay in the kitchen,” and was politely ushered out. I wandered restlessly from room to room.

After a period of this lonesome time, a middle-aged woman came to live at our house and take over the duties of housekeeper. Although she was not related to us, we called her Oba-san (Aunt). Father was teaching away from home much of the time, but Obasan’s kindness and attentiveness ended our loneliness. Sometimes she prepared tea for us while we were studying after supper. We liked this change from the clock-like routine of Second Mother. She selected very gay kimonos for us. On shopping tours she took us to a Western restaurant, where we ate awkwardly with knives and forks and large white napkins. One memorable day when Father was away she took us to a theater.

The performance started late in the afternoon, but we began to prepare for it in the early morning. We wore our best kimonos and arranged our hair in Japanese coiffure. We drove to the theater in jinrikisha, and felt really grown-up when we were welcomed by the booming professional greeting of the dignified doorman. The keeper of geta, in dark blue coolie coat, approached and took our geta and handed us in return a board on which was indicated in black ink the check numbers for the clogs. The lobbies and aisles of the theater were covered with deep straw tatami-mats. The entire theater was arranged in boxes, except for standing room in the rear. We sat on cushions on the tatami. Before curtain time I watched with interest the people coming in, followed by cushion carriers who placed the cushions in their assigned positions.

Soon a gong sounded as signal for silence, and wooden clappers were heard behind stage as the beautiful long curtain of purple and gold design slid slowly to one side. The musicians sat on elevated seats on the left side of the stage. They were dressed in uniforms of dark kimono with stiffly starched kamishimo which stood out at the shoulders and came triangularly to the waist.

The play, Forty-seven Ronin, was a classic in story as well as dramatic form. Its music was very popular, and since we had a record of it at home, I anticipated enjoying the play very much. But it was acted in classic language, and I was disappointed when I heard the deep voices of the men in women’s roles. There are no women performers in Japanese classic plays. The strangeness, the strain of trying to follow the unfamiliar words, made me very sleepy. The voices seemed to come from a distance in a foreign language. My eyelids came closer together, and the music on the stage was a lullaby in a dream. Suddenly it was intermission.

“How did you like the play?” Elder Sister asked. I could not admit that I had fallen asleep and had not understood it, so I answered evasively.

I was fully awake, however, when Oba-san ordered supper from the usher. Soon a waiter came, carrying on the palm of one hand held high over his head several piled-up lacquered boxes. In the other hand he carried a teapot and teacups. We were served in our places, and never did food have so romantic a glow.

This first trip to the theater was the last for many years, for not until we were fully grown-up did Father permit us to go again.

Because of all these things we soon felt very near to Oba-san. It was she who decided that we should go to visit our own mother’s parents. We were surprised when one Sunday a servant of our real aunt appeared and invited us to her house, saying that our real grandparents and all the grandchildren would be present. Father was not at home, and Elder Sister, who ordinarily made quick decisions, turned to me for advice. We could not decide whether it would be proper until Oba-san settled it for us. “Go to your grandmother, ne,” she said. “I am sure it will make her very happy to see you.”

Oba-san selected our best kimonos and suggested that Elder Sister powder her face, saying, “You must look your best since your grandmother has not seen you for many years.” We spent much time over our toilet, and Oba-san took particular pains with Younger Brother. The servant led the way, and as we walked along I still meditated on the propriety of the trip, since I thought that Father would not have permitted it if he had been at home. “Do you think it is right for us to go without Father’s consent?” I asked Elder Sister.

She answered quite definitely this time. “We go to see our stepgrandparents even though our stepmother has died, so why can’t we visit our real grandparents?” That reassured me, and I continued with lighter heart.