Yet despite such momentary bitterness, she could not shake off a sense of isolation between herself and the crowd, and a feeling that all her labor had been meaningless. Smartly dressed strollers were betaking themselves to their chosen destinations, wherever their fancy led them, in the hot sunlight. The crowd was utterly devoid of mutual ties.
Kazu at length came to the entrance of the fruit parlor where she was to meet Yamazaki, and admired the window display of foliage plants with shining leaves and rare tropical fruits. She became aware of a middle-aged woman in a white suit and white hat staring at her. Kazu in turn took a good look at the woman’s face. She remembered the thin-penciled eyebrows. It was Mrs. Tamaki.
Mrs. Tamaki apologized for the long lapse in her correspondence, then immediately added, “I’ll never forget all the trouble I caused you at the time.”
The words sounded to Kazu like an expression of deep-seated resentment. The two women stood before a bin of Sunkist oranges, and the bereaved Mrs. Tamaki, chatting all the while, was carefully removing one by one the magenta wrappers printed with thin English lettering and examining the skins of the fruit she was to buy.
“Did you go away for the summer?” she asked.
“No,” Kazu answered, rather indignant.
“I only got back from Karuizawa the day before yesterday. Tokyo is still so hot.”
“Yes, I don’t think the summer’ll ever end.”
Only then did Mrs. Tamaki become aware of the meaning of the irritation in Kazu’s tone. “But I returned to Tokyo, for the election, of course. Naturally I voted for Mr. Noguchi. It was a shame. I couldn’t have been sorrier if it happened to myself.”
“I’m most grateful for your saying so.” Kazu thanked Mrs. Tamaki for her obvious lie.
Mrs. Tamaki, after much deliberation, selected three oranges. “Even oranges have become expensive these days. And just think, in America they practically give them away!” Mrs. Tamaki, as part of her brave display of inverse snobbery, deliberately ordered the salesgirl to wrap just three oranges. Kazu glanced inside the deserted parlor, wondering what was keeping Yamazaki, but the only activity was the electric fans turning on a number of empty tables.
“My husband liked oranges,” Mrs. Tamaki went on. “Sometimes I offer them at the family altar. That’s why I bought them today . . . You know, it suddenly occurred to me that my husband, without realizing it, of course, played the part of cupid for you and Mr. Noguchi.”
“In that case, I suppose I’ll have to offer him some oranges myself.”
“I didn’t mean it in that way.”
Kazu did not herself understand why she was behaving so rudely. On a sudden impulse she motioned to the salesgirl with the sandalwood fan she had been using, and ordered her to make up a gift box of two dozen oranges. Mrs. Tamaki turned a little pale, and glared with twitching eyes at Kazu’s face, dabbing all the while with a folded lace handkerchief at the perspiration on her cheeks.
The salesgirl arranged the two dozen oranges in a large box, and decorated it with pretty wrapping paper and a pink ribbon. During this time not a word was exchanged between the two women. Kazu, gently waving her fan, sniffed the heavy fragrance of the fruit, which overwhelmed the delicate scent of her sandalwood fan, and savored the full bracing pleasure of this silence. Kazu utterly detested the woman before her. Her hatred was immoderate, and the pleasure of this silence afforded her the best cure she had for depression in a long time.
Mrs. Tamaki looked like a secret agent brought to bay. Kazu understood precisely the calculations which were going through her mind, and this gave her additional pleasure. Mrs. Tamaki was thinking that if it was Kazu’s intention when the wrapping was completed to offer the gift to someone else, she would be humiliated by her own groundless fears, but if, on the other hand, Kazu intended to offer the oranges to the memory of Ambassador Tamaki, Mrs. Tamaki would be even more humiliated. She was too agitated to look directly as the salesgirl busily executed an exceptionally fancy bow with the ribbon.
Finally the widow’s eyes met Kazu’s squarely. “Upstart!” Mrs. Tamaki’s eyes were saying. “Liar!” Kazu’s eyes said. She was sure that once Mrs. Tamaki got home she would nibble voluptuously on the three imported oranges . . .
“Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon. Oh, I’ll have the oranges delivered. I don’t want to burden you with them now. Please offer them to the departed one.” Kazu pointed with her fan at the box of oranges, wrapped at last.
“Really! What does this mean? How perfectly horrid! Really!”
Mrs. Tamaki, still muttering incoherently, fled into the street filled with glaring afternoon sunlight, her small paper parcel under her arm. The sharply pointed heels of her white shoes lingered in Kazu’s eyes as she watched the retreating figure, and rendered her satisfaction all the more delicious. She thought that Mrs. Tamaki looked like a white fox escaping.
Yamazaki entered the shop just after Mrs. Tamaki left. He still retained his air of harassment from the campaign.
“You’re late, aren’t you?” Kazu said in accents of heartfelt joy as they walked toward the back of the parlor.
They settled themselves in chairs and ordered cold drinks. The shopgirl came to ask where the oranges should be delivered. Kazu, not wishing to mention Tamaki’s name before Yamazaki, asked the girl to bring the telephone directory. She ran her finger down the page until she came to Mrs. Tamaki’s address.
“I thought that such extravagant presents were strictly forbidden now,” commented Yamazaki.
“Please don’t say that. I need a change from too much shouting of ‘Please give me your support!’ all the time.”
Yamazaki was unable to grasp her meaning. He covered the uncertain look on his face with the hot towel brought by the waitress.
Kazu asked casually, “What’s ever happened to the Setsugoan?”
“It’s quite a story.”
“It has to be broken up into lots, I suppose.”
“Yes, I don’t see any other way. There’s a difference of forty or fifty million yen involved . . . I’ve talked with a lot of real estate agents, and they all come to the same conclusion. If you sell the property as it is, the most you can hope for is one hundred million, and you won’t find a buyer at a moment’s notice. A garden that size and an imposing building . . .”
“Does the price include the furnishings?”
“Of course. But if you offer the property in lots of four hundred or eight hundred square yards, you’ll have no trouble raising 140 or 150 millions. It’s a good location.”
“Then it’s your conclusion, I take it, that I should divide?”
“It’s a pity, but there’s no choice.”
“I’m too stunned to call it a pity or anything else.”
“Yes, I know, the garden and the buildings are in the National Treasure class. But still,” Yamazaki stole a glance at Kazu’s face, “I don’t suppose you could reopen it.”
“No, that’s out of the question. I’ve taken out three mortgages on the property to the tune of eighty-five million yen, and there’s a mortgage of seven million yen on the movables . . . It’s not a sum of money you can pay back overnight, even if the restaurant does pretty well. It’s only been four months and a little more since I shut the place, but it doesn’t take people long to forget these days. There’s one other thing I haven’t told you, but while I was away three million yen of the restaurant’s money were embezzled. That’s what you call rubbing salt into a wound, isn’t it? . . . In any case, reopening the restaurant is impossible. I’ve solemnly promised my husband to sell the Setsugoan, and after asking your help with the negotiations, I really can’t back out now.”
Yamazaki had no way to refute this admirable statement of the situation. “What can I do for you today?” he asked, after draining the chilled grape juice in one gulp.
“Nothing special. I wanted to ask you about dividing the Setsugoan, and I thought I might invite you to go with me to the movies for a little distracti
on.”
“Did you leave Mr. Noguchi alone in the house?”
“No. Today he went to attend a high school class reunion or something of the sort. He was afraid that if he didn’t show up people would say it was because he was ashamed to have lost the election. I got permission to go out by telling him that an old friend was giving a recital. I took the precaution of sending a present to the dressing room, just to make sure.”
“Those oranges a little while ago?” Yamazaki had not heard their destination.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You think of everything, don’t you, Mrs. Noguchi?”
They exchanged glances and laughed. Then they returned to a more businesslike matterSS—Noguchi’s determination last month, after much pondering, to wind up his affairs. He had decided to sell his house and all the furnishings, pay his debts, then move to a small rented house already selected in a remote part of the suburbs. Noguchi’s tangible personal property was by no means negligible, and together with the house and land was likely to fetch fifteen or sixteen million yen. The auction of the property would be held on the deserted premises of the Setsugoan. Noguchi’s collection of paintings, antiques, and rare European books had already been carted off to the Setsugoan.
“The auction’s the day after tomorrow, isn’t it?” Yamazaki asked.
“Yes. I only hope it doesn’t rain.”
“What difference does it make?”
“But they’ll have to use the garden, won’t they? You should know, Mr. Yamazaki.”
They sent for an evening paper and tried to pick a movie worth seeing. It would have to be something light and amusing since their purpose was to be diverted. The trouble was that Kazu disliked comedies.
Kazu leaned her head over the newspaper spread before them, all but brushing her cheek against Yamazaki’s. He watched with oppressive feelings her ringed fingers, white and delicate, travel down the columns of print. “What am I to her?” he asked himself. Only when she was with a man she did not love could Kazu behave like a natural lover, an easy-going mistress; she was simple, capricious, and even showed a touch of rusticity. But in the presence of a man she loved, Kazu’s “naturalness” disappeared. Yamazaki was unquestionably seeing a Kazu completely unknown to Noguchi. But Yamazaki had no reason to feel especially grateful for this privilege.
Their efforts to select a suitable film ended by thoroughly wearying them. Kazu said, “I don’t feel like going to the movies any more.”
“You don’t have to force yourself. There’s no point in looking too hard for amusement at this stage. You’re busy now and there are things to distract you, but by-and-by an emptiness you can’t do a thing about will come over you. An emptiness you won’t even want to lift a finger against.” Thus spoke the expert on elections.
The auction of Noguchi’s property took place at the Setsugoan two days later, beginning in the morning. Noguchi had put up every last possession for sale.
The large household objects were set out on a carpet spread over the lawn. The sunlight was remarkably intense that day, a day that suggested summer had returned. A pair of beds on the lawn caught the attention of prospective buyers. These were the twin beds in which Mr. and Mrs. Noguchi had slept until the previous night. They created a strangely pathetic, raw impression, despite the damask bedspreads now covering them. The twin beds were placed apart from the other furniture in the center of the lawn. The pale green damask shone with an unpleasantly strong luster in the glaring early autumn sunlight. The beds, however, seemed curiously in their element in the middle of the garden with its unmowed grass so high it smelled like hay, the blue sky visible at breaks in the rows of tall pines, chestnuts, and nettle trees.
One irreverent customer remarked, “That’s certainly convenient. They ought to leave the beds there all the time.”
As twilight approached the shadows of the branches fell on the beds, and the voices of the evening cicadas enveloped them.
17
A Grave in the Evening Clouds
Nothing so frightened Kazu as Yamazaki’s prediction that an emptiness would soon steal over her against which she would not want to move a finger. When would it come? Ten days hence? Tomorrow? Or perhaps it had come already, and she merely hadn’t noticed it?
The thought produced in Kazu an indescribable weariness. She had no confidence that she could endure the predicted emptiness. She had, it is true, experienced emptiness a number of times in her life, but she had a premonition that this time it would be on an incomparably vaster scale than before. She tried in various ways to picture the features of this monster, but her imagination did not extend to something she had never seen. No matter how dreadful a face it might have, she would be glad at least if it had one, for the monster might be faceless.
Her experience during the election had opened Kazu’s eyes to her own nature. The self she had previously believed in only vaguely had been dissected, and many precise characteristics—how strong this part was, how weak that one was, how much patience she could show under certain circumstances, how much she leaned in a certain direction—were now clear, and she knew now that she could never again bear any form of emptiness. Full, if tragic, circumstances were preferable to a void. Kazu far preferred the north wind tearing her body to a vacuum.
During these fretful deliberations, however, gilt letters kept flashing constantly in her head, saying, “Reopen the Setsugoan.” The project was hopeless, indeed impossible, and there was no way to alter this situation. Kazu was well aware of the fact. Yet this knowledge did not prevent her eyes from being drawn incessantly to the little sun shining like silver in a corner of the overcast sky. The impossibility was the source of its radiance. It glittered. It hung beautifully in the heavens. However often she averted her eyes, they would return to this brilliance, again because of its impossibility. And once her glance had traveled there, everywhere else seemed only darkness.
For days Kazu balanced in her mind the coming emptiness against the impossible reopening. She was famed for the rapidity of her decisions, but she could not make up her mind between these two exceedingly vague and formless alternatives. In such a predicament, what good would it do even to consult a reliable astrologer?
She tried to review as carefully as she could the several months of the election. The Conservative Party, she realized, had not won because of its political principles. Nor had it won because of its logic, its lofty sentiments, or the superiority of its candidate. Noguchi was indisputably a splendid man, his logic was impeccable, and he possessed noble sentiments. The Conservative Party had won entirely thanks to its money.
This was certainly a crude lesson, and it was not to be taught such a lesson that Kazu had poured her energies into the election. A belief in the omnipotence of money was not especially novel to Kazu. But when she had used her money she had at least thrown in her heart and her prayers, while her opponents’ money advanced like a robot, trampling all before it. The conclusion Kazu reached was not so much regret that her money had been insufficient as regret that her heart and Noguchi’s logic had been expended to no avail. It was regret that the human tears, smiles, friendly laughter, warmth of flesh—everything Kazu believed in during this campaign to which she had devoted her heart and soul—had proved futile.
This came to her almost as a physical shock, and made her lose faith in her tears and the magic of her smiles. It was a common-sense assumption of the old-fashioned society in which Kazu grew up that a woman’s attractions were a powerful weapon which could conquer money and authority, but such a belief now seemed to Kazu, in the light of her experiences during the election, no more than a distant myth. This was Kazu’s blunt evaluation of the election: “femininity” had been beaten by “money.” It was the opposite of the clear victory of flesh when a woman abandons her indigent lover to give herself to a rich man she does not love.
Noguchi’s defeat was reflected in Kazu’s eyes as a natural corollary to this principle: the “man” Noguchi was beaten by
“money.”
Kazu felt hatred and indignation for this power which had so ruthlessly demonstrated the ineffectuality of logic, sentiments, physical attractions, and the rest, but she soon perceived also that this mental blind alley was inseparably linked to the impossibility of reopening the Setsugoan. Until the last days of the election she had kept alive within her a belief in the power of miracles to change the impossible into the possible. Now that was dead. Her confidence in a miracle at the end of the election campaign could certainly be said to have been a confidence in politics itself, but politics had not responded to this confidence, and Kazu in turn had completely lost her mystic confidence in politics.
But if such reasons were enough to make Kazu despair of politics, it meant that, like Noguchi, she thought that logic, sentiments, and personal charms constituted the whole of politics. Only these factors, after all, had been exposed as ineffectual. And, it occurred to her, if politics had given her the courage to look for a miracle when the situation around her seemed virtually hopeless, politics—regardless of the outcome—deserved all the less to be despaired over.
The result of thinking in these terms was that the meaning of politics was suddenly transfigured for Kazu.
Her efforts had proved utterly fruitless, but if she flung aside what was doomed to be futile, and relied entirely on her confidence in miracles, perhaps the impossible would become possible, and politics would again come to her aid. Perhaps the glimmering confidence in miracles which her ideals had lit and the efforts to achieve miracles which realism had summoned forth were, in the realm of politics, the same.