Denitsu Watanabe hated his family name. Ten percent of all of Japan had a name
like his. He was born in an island in the southernmost part of Japan. And
worse, he was born in Ariake, a small rustic village whose only claim to fame
were the stupid pottery and old village ruins. Even worse was that he was born
in February when it was cold. Yet when it snowed, it seldom snowed enough so
one would not be able to build a snowman or make snowballs or go skiing.
Every time he had a birthday celebration, it would always be indoors, with
nothing special except for the sweet sticky rice cakes which his mother made
once a year, on his birthday.
His mother was not particularly pretty. Not ugly either, but hers was a face
one would forget without trying. She never took his father's name. He was not
even sure Watanabe was her real name. He was never even sure whether his
mother was ever a wife. Her accent was different from the rest of the villagers
but nobody seemed to pay any attention to them. He never knew his father until
he was fifteen. Twice, when he was younger, he asked her about him. She would
only look at him as if lost in a thought then she would turn away and cry for
several days. All he was told was that he would be back. Someday.
She supported him and herself by helping the fishermen clean their catch early
in the morning. In the afternoons, she would go and help out in the primitive
garment district, dyeing the vaults of cloth that were later shipped out to the
main island. There were weeks when her hands would be colored either red or
blue.
Denitsu was not a happy child. He hated his life. He hated the village, he
hated the other kids. He hated them because they seemed happy and he did not
see any reason for them to be happy. He did not hate his mother though. But he
did not love her either. She was just...there. When he was twelve he volunteered
to help out. He went to the Kodenji temple and asked the monks for some kind of
work. At first, the monks did not want to take him. They were hesitant. They
saw a seething anger in his eyes. But then they realized, being Buddhists of
profound wisdom, they should not help those who did not need help. And so they
took him in. He worked there for three years, in the late afternoons after
school, cleaning the gravestones and family shrines with some that dated back
several hundred years. He pruned the old plum trees whose withered branches
looked like the gnarled arthritic fingers of the old women of the village. But
in late spring, those same plum trees would turn out blooming beautiful,
fragrant white flowers with red sprinkled on the petals near the base of the
stamen, much like the wild orchids he would see in Bansa years later.
One chore in particular affected him, leaving a permanent imprint in his mind's
eye. In the fall, after all the trees had become bare except for the pine and
the fir trees, he would pick up dried up leaves and other debris from the
funerary urns using specially blessed chop sticks. He would hold the bronze or
cast iron urns between his thighs and gingerly pick out the leaves from the
ashes. These were the ashes of men and women who lived long ago. Being a
loner, he had time to think and dwell on his thoughts. Who were they and what
did they accomplish during their lifetime? Were they rich and powerful then?
Whatever. No matter. They are just dead and all their dreams, aspirations, and
accomplishments have all been blown away with the wind. Now they are just dirt
inside a silly looking metal bowl with narrow necks, some littered with bird
droppings, and others with rows of red ants parading lazily across the surface
of light brown dust.
Some of the descendants would come and burn incense sticks, softly murmuring
their prayers, bowing deeply, and then would be gone after an hour or so,
leaving the ashes in their eternal solitude, the memory of their beloved as
transitory as the white blue pungent smoke that got dissipated with the
gentlest breeze.
Denitsu would feel a certain sadness each time he smelled the stillness of the
late autumn air. Years later, in every early November, he would feel that same
sadness wherever he was. It was not just the gloomy silence of a cemetery. It
was as if the whole world had gotten so very old, with the promised
rejuvenation of spring still so far away. Holding that vessel with the remains
of someone who once lived like him endowed a certain solemnity to his work. His
chore provided him with time to think and imagine and plan for his future. One
day when he is older, he would venture out into the real world. Perhaps he
would be a sailor. Maybe he will join the armed forces. All the soldiers seemed
so dashing in their uniforms. Can I be like them? He would stand ramrod
straight and walk forward in a swagger, pretending he was an officer, face
straight ahead, never turning to look left or right. That was the only time he
heard his mother giggling, when she caught him prancing about like a goose.
Fumiko, that was his mother's name, died when he was fifteen. The village old
men claimed that she died of tuberculosis but Denitsu knew better. She had
died of loneliness, of deep melancholia. Denitsu really believed that his
mother died by committing some kind of bloodless "jigai", a woman's version of
seppuku or hara-kiri.
His mother hardly ever looked at him in the eyes. Denitsu often wondered if he
was ever breastfed because he never felt any closeness to her. It seemed she
would look towards his chest whenever they spoke. And words exchanged between
the two were sparingly rare. But during these last few days Denitsu had caught
her several times sneaking side glances at him. The night before she died, he
was sure she came to his room when she thought he was asleep, just standing by
the doorway, looking at him for a long time.
He woke up at seven o'clock to get ready for school when he noticed that she
was still in her room and his usual breakfast of "misoshiro", rice, and salted
mackerel was not on the table. He knew something was wrong. He opened the door
when she did not respond to his knocking . He saw her in her prettiest kimono,
lying flat on the "tatami", neck and head propped on the "makura." She had
bound her knees firmly together, to ensure that even in death her modesty would
stay intact.
Death was kind to her. There was a serenity , a definite tranquility in her
face. The little dimple at the right corner of her mouth became pronounced. He
had never seen his mother this beautiful before. Must he cry? Only silly
shrilly girls cry. He just stood there for a long time, looking at her face.
a smudge of white paint
on a small canvas of white
dark and empty night
He saw a neatly folded piece of paper in her right hand.
Written in bold confident brush strokes -
Hisayoshi Sakai
Military Preparatory School
Asaka in Saitama.
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