An Artist of the Floating World Read Online Free PDF Page A

into them; she would not mind if they became bars just like hers, anything provided she no longer had to live in the midst of a graveyard. If you were to come out of Mrs Kawakami's as the darkness was setting in, you might feel compelled to pause a moment and gaze at that wasted expanse before you. You might still be able to make out through the gloom those heaps of broken brick and timber, and perhaps here and there, pieces of piping protruding from the ground like weeds. Then as you walked on past more heaps of rubble, numerous small puddles would gleam a moment as they caught in the lamplight. And if on reaching the foot of the hill which climbs up to my house, you pause at the Bridge of Hesitation and look back towards the remains of our old pleasure district, if the sun has not yet set completely, you may see the line of old telegraph poles--still without wires to connect them--disappearing into the gloom down the route you have just come, And you may be able to make out the dark clusters of birds perched uncomfortably on the tops of the poles, as though awaiting the wires along which they once lined the sky. One evening not so long ago, I was standing on that little wooden bridge and saw away in the distance two columns of smoke rising from the rubble. Perhaps it was government workers continuing some interminably slow programme; or perhaps children indulging in some delinquent game. But the sight of those columns against the sky put me in a melancholy mood. They were like pyres at some abandoned funeral. A graveyard, Mrs Kawakami says, and when one remembers all those people who once frequented the area, one cannot help seeing it that way.
    But I am digressing. I was trying to recall here details of Setsuko's stay with us last month. As I may have said, Setsuko spent much of the first day of her visit sitting out on the veranda, talking with her sister. At one point towards the latter part of the afternoon when my daughters were particularly deep in women's talk, I recall I left them to go in search of my grandson, who a few minutes earlier had gone running off into the house. It was as I was coming down the corridor that a heavy thump made the whole house shake. Alarmed, I hurried on into the dining room. At that time of day, our dining room is largely in shadow, and after the brightness of the veranda, it took my eyes a moment or two to ascertain that Ichiro was not in the room at all. Then came another thump, followed by several more, together with my grandson's voice shouting: "Yah! Yah!" The noise was coming from the adjoining piano room. I went to the doorway, listened for a moment, then quietly slid back the partition. In contrast to the dining room, the piano room catches the sun throughout the day. it fills with a sharp, clear light, and had it been any larger, would have been an ideal place in which to take our meals. At one time, I had used it to store paintings and materials, but nowadays, apart from the upright German piano, the room is practically bare. No doubt this lack of clutter had inspired my grandson in much the same way as the veranda had earlier; for I found him progressing across the floor with a curious stamping movement, which I took to be an impersonation of someone galloping on horseback across open land. Because his back was turned to the doorway, it was some moments before he realised he was being observed. "Oji!" he said, turning angrily. "Can't you see I"m busy?" "I"m sorry, Ichiro, I didn't realise." "I can't play with you just now!" "I"m very sorry. But it sounded so exciting from out here I wondered if I could come in and watch." For a moment, my grandson went on staring at me crossly. Then he said moodily: "All right. But you have to sit and be quiet. I"m busy." "Very well," I said, with a laugh. "Thank you very much, Ichiro." My grandson continued to glare at me as I crossed the room and seated myself by the window. When Ichiro had arrived with his mother the previous evening, I had