Kenzaburo Oe - Death by Water

“Seriously, though, I think Chikashi has a valid point. I know that when her brother, Goro, jumped off a building and she had to go to the police station to identify his badly damaged body, she was able to look at it without flinching or turning away. But later, when you went to the wake at Goro’s house down in Yugawara and his widow wanted you to view the body, Chikashi said she thought it would be better if you didn’t, even though by then Goro’s face had been restored to its usual handsome state. She understands better than anyone that you tend to be squeamish about such things.

“On top of that, Chikashi said, ‘In my husband’s current mood I don’t think the kind of visit you’re suggesting is even in the realm of possibility. Ever since he stopped working on the drowning novel he’s been floundering around, and he totally lost control and called his mentally disabled son an idiot — not once, but twice. I know he was annoyed and upset about something on both occasions, but there is simply no excuse for that kind of behavior. No one is angrier at him than Maki, and I’ve been afraid that the tension between those two might come to a head at some point. That’s partly why I recommended that my husband and son go down to Shikoku together, on the assumption that Papa was serious about wanting to take the initiative in patching things up. Not so much for Akari, but for that man, I think reaching some kind of détente with his estranged son should be the first priority right now.’ Anyhow, that’s what Chikashi said. I have to admit I cringed when she referred to you as ‘that man’ again — it just sounds so cold — but on the positive side, she did call you ‘Papa’ once or twice as well.

“Kogii, one thing that fills me with hope is knowing Unaiko and Ricchan will be at the Forest House with you and Akari most of the time. As you know, I truly believe Unaiko is a genius. I’m not saying she’s a towering intellectual or anything, but even if you take her out of the theatrical milieu where she shines so brightly, she’s still a genius. Her special gift is the way she tries to think everything through on her own, in a completely original way, and I’m sure she’ll bring the same approach to bear on the situation between you and Akari. No matter what happens, I’m confident she’ll be a good influence on you. Because she has such a strong sense of certainty about her own beliefs I think she’ll be a reliable touchstone, much as a straightedge helps a carpenter keep things properly lined up.”

3

Ever since the occurrence at the Saya, the bond between Akari and Unaiko seemed to have grown noticeably stronger — and, of course, Ricchan was also a member of their cozy little in-group. The activities that Akari had previously been pursuing in either the dining room or the great room, depending on the theater group’s schedule, were now taking place in the downstairs room Unaiko and Ricchan shared: poring over the classical music program guides in the weekly FM radio magazine and elsewhere, listening to music on the radio, playing CDs, and so on. In that room, which also doubled as the young women’s sleeping quarters, Akari could be absolutely certain his father would never come bumbling in; that was part of an unspoken agreement among the residents of the house. Clearly, Akari was making good on his implicitly declared intention to never again share a single note of music with me.

Some of Akari’s medications were on the verge of running out and he happened to be nearby, listening, when I was talking to Maki on the phone one day about the logistics of refilling those prescriptions. The next morning when Maki called back, Akari piped up to say that if someone from the Forest House was going to Tokyo to get his medicine, he would like to ask them to bring down some of his CDs when they returned. As it turned out, shortly after Akari made the request it became necessary for Unaiko and Ricchan to head to Tokyo on business of their own, so no one had to make a special trip to fetch his prescriptions and CDs.

The news about what Unaiko had done in Matsuyama and at the theater in the round had been spreading by way of the national grapevine. Evidently some prominent theater people had taken notice and were offering her the opportunity to apply her talents to the much larger stages of Tokyo. There were some producers and directors (their names were familiar even to me) who were always on the lookout for innovative and ambitious dramatic work, and they had contacted Unaiko to invite her to meet with them. Asa, of course, was already in Tokyo to help Chikashi through her surgery and recuperation, and it went without saying that Unaiko and Ricchan wanted to share this development with her. I knew that Ricchan — the person most familiar with the sad state of my current relationship with Akari — was also hoping to ask Chikashi, in person, for some information regarding Akari’s daily routines. I was resigned to the fact that any such line of inquiry would inevitably make me look bad and would culminate in more criticism of my behavior from my outspoken wife.

4

Dear Kogii,

At the moment, Unaiko is being lionized by her new cronies in the theater world, and she has been spending every day (and night!) running around Tokyo doing all sorts of exciting and constructive things: seeing plays, visiting rehearsals, going to parties, and so on. She’ll be staying here for a while longer but Ricchan will be back at the Forest House very soon, and she should be able to bring you up to speed on all the details of Chikashi’s condition.

The way things are going, it looks as if Unaiko’s trademark dramatic style may end up being incorporated into a major production at a big theater in Tokyo. Ricchan is actively involved, of course, and she has been doing a lot of work behind the scenes to help advance Unaiko’s career. For me, having a chance to chat at length with Ricchan during this time has been very fruitful, and she also found time to talk to Maki and Chikashi about managing Akari’s health situation. It’s a great relief to me to know someone so conscientious is looking after you and Akari while you’re down on Shikoku.

On the days when Maki took over for me at the hospital and I went back to your house in Seijo to get some rest, Unaiko and Ricchan would always be there waiting up for me, no matter how late the hour, and the three of us would help ourselves to the contents of your liquor cabinet and talk until the wee hours. I suspect the discussions we had about a certain Kogito Choko may have broken some new ground, and I’ll reconstruct one of the conversations here, just for fun.

Unaiko started things off, holding forth about you and your work in general terms. (I’ll skip over that part, since it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.) After a while Ricchan joined in and then — uncharacteristically for her — she took the lead. In keeping with the basic precepts of the dog-tossing method, there was a tape recorder rolling the entire time, even on an informal occasion like this, so I’m able to give a verbatim account of what was said.

“The truth is,” Ricchan began, “ten years ago I hardly knew anything about Mr. Choko’s work. During the time when I was still bouncing around Tokyo doing various sound-related jobs, I booked a one-off assignment for a performance by an up-and-coming theater group. That night I happened to meet one of the group’s volunteer actresses, who was still working an outside job of her own, and I was captivated by her charisma. Needless to say, I’m talking about Unaiko. Before long we were both invited to join the troupe, and working with the Caveman Group became our full-time jobs. Of course, Masao Anai was the group’s leader. At some point he fixed on the idea of turning Kogito Choko’s novels into stage plays, and that became the guiding principle behind his work. So I ended up being in contact with Mr. Choko’s books on a regular basis, but they never really drew me in, personally. Unaiko felt the same way. By the time we were born, of course, Mr. Choko’s best years as a writer were already behind him. I figure kids like us would probably start exploring Japanese literature on our own (that is, outside of school) when we were eighteen or nineteen, maybe later, and even then we would mostly stick with writers of our own generation, so it would never have occurred to us to read Mr. Choko’s work — at least not voluntarily.