And Then. Soseki Natsume

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СКАЧАТЬ grinned and rubbed his round head with his right hand. He really did have large hands.

      “I hear Daddy treated you yesterday, Uncle.”

      “That’s right, I had quite a feast. Thanks to him, my stomach isn’t feeling well today.”

      “It’s nerves again.”

      “It’s not nerves, it’s real. It’s all his fault.” “That’s what Daddy said.’’

      “What did he say?”

      ‘“Go to Daisuke’s after school and get him to treat you to something.’”

      “Oh—in return for yesterday?”

      “That’s right—I treated him today, so it’s his turn tomorrow, he said.”

      “You came all the way just for that?” “Yes.”

      “You’re my brother’s son all right, good and shrewd. That’s why I’m giving you the hot chocolate. That’ll do, won’t it?” “Hot chocolate?”

      “You won’t drink it?”

      “Oh, I’ll drink it all right, but . . .”

      It turned out that what Seitarō wanted was to be taken to the Ekōin when the sumō tournament opened and to watch the matches from the best seats in the center section. Daisuke agreed readily.

      Then Seitarō, looking happy, suddenly came out with, “Even though you loaf around, Uncle, they say you’re really a great man.”

      Even Daisuke was a trifle taken aback by this. He lamely answered, “Well, you knew that all along.”

      “But I heard it for the first time last night from Father,” protested Seitarō.

      Evidently, from what Seitarō had to say, after Seigo had come home the night before, he and Umeko and their father had undertaken an evaluation of Daisuke. Because the account was that of a child, it was somewhat confused, but since Seitarō was quite intelligent, he remembered some of the precise words even if they were fragmentary. Daisuke’s father’s assessment apparently was that Daisuke had little promise. His brother had countered with yes, maybe that was so, but he still understood some things rather well. It would be best to leave him alone for a while. It would work out all right; there was no need to worry. He would probably do something one of these days. His sister-in-law had seconded this. She had been to a fortuneteller about a week ago, and his judgment was that Daisuke was a man who was sure to stand at the head of others. Therefore, he was bound to be all right.

      Daisuke had been listening with interest to all the details, from time to time prompting Seitarō with “yes, and then,” but when he came to the part about the fortuneteller, he was genuinely amused. Presently, he changed his clothes, and seeing Seitarō home, went over to Hiraoka’s.

      Hiraoka’s house was a good illustration of the tightening squeeze exerted on the middle class by a decade of inflation. It was an exceedingly crude, unsightly construction. And Daisuke was especially sensitive to its esthetic shortcomings.

      There were only about two yards between the gate and the entranceway and the same distance between the gate and the kitchen door. Next to this house, in every direction stood similarly cramped houses. They were the work of the smallest of financiers, who, taking advantage of Tokyo’s pitiful swelling, schemed to multiply their own meager funds two and three times by putting up these shabby structures, mementos to the struggle for survival.

      In today’s Tokyo, particularly in the outskirts, such houses were to be found everywhere. Moreover, like flies in summer, they continued to multiply every day at an extraordinary rate. Daisuke had once termed it the advance of defeat. He regarded these structures as the most accurate symbols of modern Japan.

      Some of them were covered with the bottoms of kerosene cans patched together, like square fish scales. Not one among their inhabitants was spared the sound of pillars cracking in the middle of the night. Their doors always had knotholes. Their sliding doors were sure to become warped. Those who stored their capital in their heads and tried to live off the monthly interest earned by their mental endeavors invariably burrowed in such places. Hiraoka was one of them.

      As Daisuke passed by the fence, the first thing to catch his eye was the roof. The murky black of the tiles had a singular effect on him and it seemed that the lusterless slabs of dirt could suck in endless quantities of water. In front of the entrance, bits of sawdust from the unpacking still lay scattered about. When he went into the living room, Hiraoka was seated at a desk, in the midst of writing a long letter. Michiyo was in the next room, softly clattering the handles as she opened and closed drawers. A large wicker trunk lay open beside her, and the sleeve of a pretty underkimono showed halfway. Sorry, but would he wait a minute, Hiraoka asked; Daisuke watched the trunk and the underkimono and the slender hand that occasionally dipped into the trunk. But Michiyo’s face was hidden from his view.

      Eventually, Hiraoka threw his brush at the table and sat up. He had evidently been grappling with something quite involved, for his ears were red, as well as his eyes, for that matter.

      “How are you? Thanks for everything the other day. I meant to come thank you but I haven’t gotten around to it.”

      Hiraoka’s words had more the air of a challenge than an apology. Although he was wearing neither an undershirt nor long drawers, he immediately crossed his legs. Since his collar was not properly drawn together, his chest hair showed a little.

      “You must not be quite settled yet?” Daisuke asked.

      “Settled? At this rate, I won’t be settled for the rest of my life.” With these words, he began to smoke hurriedly.

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