Читать книгу Restless Wave - Ayako Tanaka Ishigaki - Страница 8

Early Memories

ELDER SISTER and I were dressed alike, in kimonos of the same pattern, with obi-sashes of the same color. In winter we wore thickly padded kimonos. I buried my neck in my collar like a turtle, and looked like a round ball. We had long black hair, brushed to a lustrous shine, hanging down our backs.

Elder Sister Nobu was a bright, attractive girl. Her black eyes danced with laughter and sparkled with wit. But I was slow in mind and action. Elder Sister teased me, saying, “You can move faster rolling than walking on your feet.” I looked upon her with admiration, but sometimes with resentment.

We played tag and skipped rope in the garden facing the living room. When we played tag, I found the pool beyond the garden a great handicap. It was shaped like a bottle-gourd for sake wine, narrow in the middle. At the narrow part lay an islet which served as a stepping stone across the pool. Elder Sister Nobu jumped over the islet to reach the other side. She was light, and as fast as a rabbit. But I was heavy. My feet were too short. I had to run all around the pool to tag her, and by that time she was over the hill on the other side. “How slow you are, Haru!” she called down to me. “Catch me if you can!” She squatted and beckoned, laughingly. I was defeated.

I was shy and wretched when invited to meet guests. My throat parched, and my face turned red. I could only hide behind Elder Sister and depend on her for my answers. No wonder nobody was attracted to me.

My grandmother pitied me. “You are gentle and obedient, Haru,” she said. “You will make an ideal bride when you grow up. I shall recommend you as bride to a large family, where you can live with your husband’s parents. They will be pleased with an obedient daughter like you.”

My grandmother’s praise made me happy. I dreamed of myself as a beautiful bride in long-sleeved bridal kimono and glossy hairdress studded with flowered jewels. Throughout my childhood and into my teens I was docile and obedient, holding my grandmother’s ideal as my ideal. She took pride in the unselfishness, submissiveness and endurance of a Japanese wife. The Code of Greater Duties of Women, drawn up in the seventeenth century, taught that woman’s highest obligation is obedience to man: to her father before marriage; to her husband when she marries; to her son if she becomes a widow. To my grandmother, complete submission was the highest virtue of woman.

I was born in Tokyo, in the last stage of the Meiji period. Japan was no longer the dreamland of Hiroshige’s beautiful prints. Smoky cities had sprung up all over the country. Wars had been fought with China and with Russia. Things were changing, breathlessly. Old and new clashed everywhere. Feudal Japan had jumped with a single bound into a new age. But my grandmother refused to see any change. She wished her grandchildren to live in the past customs of her own childhood.

It was not only my grandmother. Even those who considered themselves modern could not cast off inconsistent traditional conceptions. Girls were taught the value of exercise and then made to sit stiffly, legs under them, knees close together, eyes straight ahead, and faces blank. Educational ideas from Western countries were coming into the schools, but they were supposed not to conflict with semi-feudal customs. I lived my childhood in the old tradition.

I never saw my father so happy as the day his son was born. Elder Sister and I had been sent to Grandmother’s so as not to disturb Mother while she gave birth. When we returned home, Father rushed out to welcome us, saying, “It is a boy baby!” He embraced Elder Sister, and lifted her high over his head.

Elder Sister screamed with joy, “A baby brother!” She twisted her lips like a grownup. Knowing it would please Father, she said, “Honorable Father, you look very, very happy.”

Father burst into a laugh and tickled her under the chin. “My little daughter knows everything, doesn’t she?” He became excited like this very seldom.

I, the younger, stood silently, unnoticed by Father, wondering what a baby brother looked like. It was a hot summer day. The new baby, wearing a white silk gown, was sleeping in a high crib screened by mosquito net. A nurse lifted me up to see him. I thought he was like a monkey with a funny red face, but I did not say anything. I wanted my mother. It was not permitted. Everyone was busy and excited, and I felt lonesome and neglected. I knew it had not been like this when I, second daughter, was born.

When I returned to the living room, our gardener was there in his new coolie coat. It was dark blue with our house name on the collar in white letters. “Honorable master,” he said, “I deeply congratulate you on the birth of your first son.” Prostrating himself on the hard wooden floor of the corridor to the living room, he bowed his head many times. Aunts and uncles came to offer congratulations. “The foundation of the house is now sound and solid,” they repeated again and again. Younger Brother was treated like a treasure from the day of his birth.

When he was two years old, my mother died. It was Boys’ Day, on the fifth day of the fifth month, and Younger Brother’s streamer was flying high outside the house. I wanted to join him as he reached out toward the streamer from the arms of his maid, but I was held back by the feeling that something unusual was happening. I, four years old, knew nothing of death. Mysterious death had no connection with Mother, lying so quiet, covered with silken spread as if she were alive. But Elder Sister was crying uncontrollably, leaning against Grandmother’s knee. Grandmother too was sobbing. I stared at them, motionless, then looked again at Mother’s face as she lay so still, her eyes closed, her lovely white hands crossed on her chest. Why did she not open her eyes and call, “Haru”?

She was young and beautiful. Often she had held me on her lap and said, “I shall love you always.” When she was sick I had wanted to lie in her bed, but she had refused me sternly. Much later I knew she died of tuberculosis. Her skin was smooth, and always she had used a sweet-smelling lip pomade, daintily putting the tip of her little finger into a beautifully painted jar, and applying the pomade to the center of her lower lip.

On this day her lips, still tinted in the center, did not move. Her black hair, combed sleek, was spread over the pillow. My heart yearning for her tender love, I searched for some reminder of it. Incense was burning at the head of her bed. I did not like the smell. It kept from me my mother’s fine fragrance, and I cried.

On the day of the funeral we were all dressed in white silk kimonos and obi-sashes. We traveled in rickshas to the Buddhist Temple, in solemn procession headed by the coffin with its decorations of gold and silver lotus flowers. My young uncle held me on his knees. People in the street stepped aside to let us pass. I was greatly impressed with the importance of the occasion, and considered myself favored.

The Temple, gloomy-dark after the bright sunshine, had a stale, unpleasant odor. The images of Buddha glowed in faint candlelight. We sat on the floor and listened to the long prayer of the Buddhist priest. Grandmother, sitting beside me, closed her eyes and moved her lips, softly repeating the prayer. I waited impatiently for it to be over.

Our house, after the services, was sorrowful, everyone speechless, walking with heavy steps. The relatives left, and only Grandmother remained. Then suddenly I realized I had no mother, and I was lonely. Elder Sister was sick in bed with the measles, and I missed her counsel. When no one was near, I tiptoed to her room and peeped through the slightly opened paper sliding door. She smiled at me, her face blotchy against the flowered counterpane. Younger Brother, lying beside me at night, lifted his tiny head and said, “I wish that Mother would come back very soon.” This made me sadder still, and I cried myself to sleep.

The first day Elder Sister was able to sit up, Grandmother made some red rice. Red rice was eaten only on special occasions, such as a return from a long journey, a graduation, or a recovery from illness. Before we started to eat the rice, Grandmother said, “We must give the first bowl to your mother.” She dished some rice into Mother’s bowl and reverently placed it in front of the family shrine, in which there was a tablet for Mother.

Every morning Grandmother sat in front of the shrine and burned incense, praying with eyes closed. Whenever we received gifts of candies or cakes, she made us place them in front of the shrine before we ate them. An inedible gift was placed in the shrine for Mother to see. Very often the Buddhist priest came to the house to hold special services and prayers for Mother. He was dressed in a long purple gown, and his head was shaved close. As he prayed, he bowed repeatedly and rang a small wooden gong. At the end of the prayer he said eight or nine times something that sounded to me like, “Save me Amida Buddha, save me Amida Buddha.” Then Grandmother and we three children, who had sat quietly behind him, went in turn to the shrine and burned incense.

Several months after Mother’s death, Father had a talk with Grandmother. He said that he understood her devotion to his children, but that now he released her from the care of them. “My children are growing up in a new age,” he said. “I must educate them so that they can meet its challenge with knowledge. Many of the old customs are no longer useful.”

Grandmother said in a resigned voice, “So let it be.”

When we knew that she was leaving, we implored Father to let us go with her, but he said sternly, “This is your home. This is where you stay.”

After Grandmother departed, the family shrine was put away in a closet and not even dusted for many years to come. The priest never again appeared. Father forbade us to offer food or gifts, or to burn incense for Mother. He explained that once a person dies, he turns to earth and has no use for these things. He did not believe in spirits. He never went to Mother’s grave and never talked about her. We thought he had forgotten her and we must refrain from mentioning her in his presence. It was not until many years later that we discovered how much Father really loved and missed our mother.