The Ghost Brush (20 page)

But Shino was not in my life now. I had not seen her since the day she took me to the bath. At fifteen, I was the rasping cricket.

And here was Sanba, leaning over me.

“What is it you are working on so furiously?” he said.

“At the moment, I am writing accounts,” I said.

My father was teaching me to read and write the way men did. Women learned a less complicated set of characters because they had such limited free time. It took years to acquire the educated script. I liked it; it was convenient for him that I did, because that way I could keep track of what we were owed. What we owed, more often.

It was fun learning the characters. We had games to speed us along. Two sailboats made the number five, and pine trees made the character for “jewel.” Each line of the numbers two, three, four, six, and seven was part of a drawing. A mouse sitting on a jewel for the God of Plenty, and flying bats. Nothing was wasted. I learned the character for “mirror maker” by tracing my father’s drawing of a chubby, cheerful fellow whose rounded head and shoulders and thighs made a triangle as he sat on the floor with his wire brush, rubbing the surface to make it reflect. Hokusai had told me how, when he was apprenticed to a mirror polisher, he could never look the ladies and lords in the face. So he peered into the mirrors and saw them over his shoulder, and they never knew he was staring at them.

“I am very sorry to disturb you then, Ooooei. O-oei? That is not a name,” said Sanba. “That is a call. Like a bird call.”

“It is what my father calls me,” I said. “It is easiest.”

“And when he calls, do you come?” said Sanba. I think he must have seen the evil humour lurking under my disguise as faithful servant-girl.

“If I did, he would not have to call me so often, would he?” I said.

He laughed.

“And then I would have another name, wouldn’t I?”

“I wonder what it would be.”

“Ago-Ago is another he uses.” I saw him examining my knobby chin. I thrust it forward.

“A sign of strength,” he pronounced. “You haven’t said if you remember me.”

“I remember,” I admitted.

“I am looking for someone to illustrate my books.”

“You know his work,” I said.

“Yes, but I want to see some.”

I was beginning to think this was a fishing expedition. But I pushed my account book behind me and we picked our way to a corner of the workshop. I knew exactly which pile I wanted to penetrate.

I pulled out Hokusai’s designs, laying them carefully one by one on the floor, then lifting each one and putting it away after he had seen it. Here was the boat harlot: he still hadn’t sold this one. She was curled up in the stern with her head wrapped in black and her arms tucked inside a blanket. You could feel the cold and wet. She looked like Shino—who would never behave that way—but then, all his women did. I showed him a couple of night views of Edo.

“These are nice,” I said grudgingly.

“Tell me what you like about them.”

“Oh, well, the designs and the colours,” I said. “But mostly I am happy for the lies they tell.”

“Lies!” Sanba laughed. “Surely not.”

“That’s what they’re for, isn’t it? For instance, when the painters make scenes of night they show it as if you could see everything. But really you can’t see everything in the night, because it’s dark. So that is a lie.”

“That’s not a lie,” said Sanba.

“What is it, then?”

“A technique.”

“Just as I said.”

“You’re very absolutist for one so young.”

I didn’t like to be argued with. I flipped through the pictures with my fingers. “You don’t think so? Look. In the picture of the netsuke workshop, he shows all women working. That is not true. Only men work there. But men are not so interesting to look at for the people who buy prints. So he makes women in those jobs.”

“I see.”

“Do you want to see the surimono?”

“Yes, please.”

These were poetry cards that Hokusai made on commission to commemorate a birth or a death, a festival or a new year. They were delicate—beach at low tide, groups of figures amongst the weeds and shells and rusty anchors of the shore, glimpses of distant Fuji. These were influenced by Western art, and by what the Dutch wanted.

Sanba looked at these—the faraway objects painted smaller than the ones in front; the curved horizons. “He has completely changed,” said Sanba. “That is brave for an artist who is not young anymore.”

“He changes all the time.”

“What is he working on now?”

Recently he had been making books of manga, which was another way of saying “everything in the world, and how to draw it.” He took the sketches that he made at parties and made a collection of these pieces of paper, and from that came a little book for beginners that showed them how to draw. The simple pictures were often ones he had used in teaching me. I liked to think that he imagined them for me, bowlegged, bad-tempered girl that I was.

The pictures were of crabbed little people struggling to lift a barrel or stir a pot, of fat people, old women, drunk men, blind pilgrims. He used no models. He had seen them once, or maybe we had seen them together, but I forgot and he never forgot. And this first book, How to Draw, was a good seller. That made everyone happy, especially the publisher.

“Right now he’s making a book dedicated to Japanese women. Each one will be in the grip of a powerful emotion, and each at a different stage of her life.”

“Maybe he’s too busy, then.”

“I don’t think so.” I said. “We take anything on. What is it you want?”

“I’m thinking of writing a new version of Chushingura, the Forty-seven Ronin. You know this famous story. I want to add scenes that are not known. There’s going to be another kabuki play of the story. Do you like kabuki?”

I smiled. It was something I rarely did. If you’re not pretty, why try? If your eyes are not almond and meek but round and high, with tight lids stretched over the bigness of your eyeballs. If your bulging lids cannot contain the rude health and impertinence of your spirit. If your legs when pressed together would allow a good-size cat to slip between the calves. If your hairline begins far back on your forehead, which swells with more brain than a woman deserves, and your chest is bony and a glimpse under your blue cotton kimono offers only jutting collarbone. I was suddenly acutely aware of these things and shut my smile.

“Yes, I believe I do, but I have never been to the theatre.”

Sanba continued to look at me searchingly. I thought he was going to say something more, but he didn’t. My father was pretending to be engrossed in his work. I reached for some designs he had played with years ago. “This is how Hokusai would show the Forty-seven Ronin. Shall I tell you?” Everybody knew this story, but not our twist on it.

“Please,” said Sanba.

“The daimyo Takumi no Kami had many loyal followers. But he also had an enemy, Kozuke, the Master of Etiquette. The reason for this secret hatred was that Kozuke had fallen in love with the daimyo’s wife. He wrote her a declaration, which she treated the way a virtuous woman would, showing it to her husband. That was why the daimyo Kami raised his short sword against the Master of Etiquette.”

“Really?” said Sanba. “That’s a very interesting change to the story.”

“After this, the overlord commanded that the daimyo Kami kill himself, and so he did. Therefore, his forty-seven loyal retainers had no jobs and had to become wave men. That means they rolled back and forth with the waves because they had nothing to hold them still. Are you paying attention?” I said.

“You’re teasing me!”

“Not teasing but testing. Are you listening?” It was fun to talk to him. I was good at amusing old men. I played this way with my father.

“This Lord Kami, who had drawn his sword and had to die, you will remember, was very much liked by his retainers. And it was not his fault that he had raised his sword because he was upset about his wife. So his retainers made a plan and waited for a very long time. Then they would carry it out and get revenge on the overlord.”

“Revenge! What is that?”

“You know. A special kind of noodle. It is eaten with broth.”

This was a pun—inspired, if I may say so. My father and I made puns all the time. Sanba liked it and we started to laugh.

“Look at this one. It is the print of the ronins’ attack on the overlord. It’s night, but we can see everything. It’s what I said before. A trick. That’s what painters do.”

“Trick people or lie or tell the truth?”

“Well, truth or lies.” He was twisting my words so cleverly I was getting confused. I giggled. The painting students and my sisters looked up. My father scowled. We moved out into the alley.

“And I will tell you another thing if you are very interested,” I said.

“I am.”

“There is something very personal in this for my father. But you have to promise never to repeat it.”

“I would never repeat gossip,” said Sanba.

“Now that is a lie.”

“My lies are just like the lies you see in your father’s paintings, merely pragmatic.” He was flirting with me. I had been slow to recognize it because it had never happened before. But that’s what it was.

“Ah,” I said. I was flustered. I decided to tell him the really important part. “This bad Lord Kozuke, who was in reality not Kozuke but Lord Kira, was the great-grandfather of the mother of my father.”

“The great-grandfather of your father’s mother?” He rolled his eyes and counted on his fingers. “How many generations back?”

“Four. Or five. So she says.” In fact my grandmother often insisted on the nobility of her background. But something had put her amongst the peasants. She never explained what.

“That is a distinguished thing. To trace your ancestry to someone in the story of the Forty-seven Ronin.”

“I suppose,” I said dubiously. “But he was the villain. The wrong ronin!”

He laughed again. “That’s quite an admission. Lucky I’m not a spy,” said Sanba.

“I knew you weren’t. They’re fatter and have better clothes. Often they have small beards.”

“Ah,” said Sanba, “it’s true.”

At this point Hokusai got to his feet. His brow was wrinkled. He came to the door, wiping his hands. “O-ooei!” He smiled vacantly at Sanba and jerked his head for me to get inside. “O-ooei, can you look to the students?”

“My father will talk to you now.”

“Good grief, my friend,” said Sanba. “She is—what?—twelve at most? I wonder how the students like to be tended by her.”

“She is fifteen. And they should like it. She’s rather good,” said my father with satisfaction.

They began to talk business.

“I am going to write a new vendetta storybook, for which I will need pictures,” said Sanba.

“Ah, one of your formula cheapies? Whose work will you copy this time?”

“Not yours; no one would want it.”

This was their way: to insult each other, and themselves, as often as possible. And they put their heads together. My father called my mother to get tea, and the two men stood happily side by side, at the door, pointing and comparing and nodding. I sat down and began working on the design for a set of combs.

17

Antics

WHEN I WAS NOT MUCH OLDER
my father left our home.

First he went to live with his friend Bakin, whose novels he illustrated.

“Woe betide Bakin,” my mother laughed. “Hokusai will bring chaos to his home with his dirty clothes and dishes.”

The more successful my father was, the less respect she showed him. “Confusion reigns when Hokusai moves into your mind,” she said.

He stayed with Bakin only a few months. Maybe they did drive each other mad. Or maybe he had finally taken Sadanobu’s warning to heart. There were signs of another crackdown. Soon we saw my father at the door with his woven backpack and pilgrim’s hat. He announced he was setting out “on travels.” It was a clear, chilly day in early spring, with green shoots and the promise of blossoms.

“I hope you have your rainwear packed in that,” my mother said angrily.

He did not, I could tell. There was no room in his pack, and he would reason that he could get a coat along the way when he needed it, maybe by trading a sketch or painting a lady’s fan.

“Why are you going away?” I asked.

“To see things I can paint,” he said.

“If you stand at Nihonbashi, all the things in the world will parade in front of your eyes,” said my mother.

“Not the fisherman on the bank of a quiet river at dawn,” said my father. “Not a rocky waterfall between pine trees. That I can see in Chiba, not in Edo.”

“These are not the subjects of painting,” said my mother with all the haughty air of she-who-knew-nothing. She believed, as most people did, that the only true subjects of painting were the sights of Edo, the fashions worn by the beauties, and the actors with their giant scowls.

“You are a critic now as well, are you?” said Hokusai.