The Sound of Waves (13 page)

Ryuji, a year younger than Shinji, was listening to this talk as though he only half understood it. As for Shinji, he was not sensitive and easily wounded the way a city-bred boy is during the time of his first love, and to Shinji the old man’s raillery was actually soothing and comforting rather than upsetting. The gentle waves that rocked their boat also calmed his heart, and now that he had told the whole story he was at peace; this place of toil had become for him a place of matchless rest.

Ryuji, who passed Terukichi’s house on his way to the beach, volunteered to pick up Hatsue’s letter from under the lid of the water jar each morning.

“So from tomorrow you’ll be the new postmaster,” said Jukichi, making one of his rare jokes.

The daily letters became the principal subject of conversation during their lunch hours on the boat, and the three of them always shared the anguish and the anger
called forth by the contents of the letters. The second letter in particular aroused their indignation. In it Hatsue described at length how Yasuo had attacked her by the spring in the middle of the night and the threats he’d made. She’d kept her promise and not told about it, but Yasuo had avenged himself by spreading that false story about her and Shinji through the village. Then, when her father had forbidden her to see Shinji again, she had explained everything honestly and had also told him of Yasuo’s disgraceful behavior, but her father had not done a thing about Yasuo, had, in fact, even remained on as friendly terms as ever with Yasuo’s family, with the same visiting back and forth. But she herself detested the very sight of Yasuo’s face. She ended the letter by assuring Shinji that she would never, never let her guard down against Yasuo.

Ryuji became excited on Shinji’s behalf, and even Shinji’s eyes flashed with a rare expression of anger.

“It’s all because I’m poor,” Shinji said.

He was usually not one to let such querulous words pass his lips. And he felt tears of shame springing in his eyes, not because he was poor, but because he had been weak enough to give voice to such a complaint. But then he tightened his face with all his might, defying those unexpected tears, and managed to avoid the double shame of having the others see him cry.

This time Jukichi did not laugh.

Jukichi took great pleasure in tobacco and had the odd habit of alternating between a pipe one day and cigarettes the next. Today was the turn for cigarettes. On pipe days he was forever knocking his tiny, old-fashioned brass pipe against the side of the boat, a habit that had worn a small trough in a certain spot on the gunwale. It
was because he prized his ship so greatly that he had decided to forgo his pipe every other day and smoke New Life cigarettes instead, carving himself a coral holder for the purpose.

Jukichi turned his eyes away from the two youths and, the coral holder clamped between his teeth, gazed out over the misty expanse of the Gulf of Ise. Cape Moro, at the tip of Chita Peninsula, was faintly visible through the mist.

Jukichi Oyama’s face was like leather. The sun had burned it almost black down to the very bottom of its deep wrinkles, and it gleamed like polished leather. His eyes were sharp and full of life, but they had lost the clarity of youth and, in its place, seemed to have been glazed with the same tough dirt that coated his skin, making them able to withstand any light, no matter how brilliant.

Because of his age and his great experience as a fisherman he knew how to wait tranquilly. Now he said:

“I know exactly what you two are thinking. You’re planning to give Yasuo a beating. But you listen to me—that won’t do a bit of good. A fool’s a fool, so just leave him alone. Guess it’s hard for Shinji, but patience is the main thing. That’s what it takes to catch a fish. Everything’s going to be all right now for sure. Right’s sure to win, even if it doesn’t say anything. Uncle Teru’s no fool, and don’t you ever think he can’t tell a fresh fish from a rotten one. Just you leave Yasuo alone. Right’s sure to win in the end.”

Even though it was always a day late, village gossip reached the lighthouse together with the daily deliveries of mail and food. And the news that Terukichi had forbidden
Hatsue to see Shinji turned Chiyoko’s heart black with feelings of guilt. She comforted herself with the thought that Shinji did not know she was the source of this false gossip. But, even so, she simply could not look Shinji in the eye when he came one day to bring fish, completely cast down in spirits. And on the other hand her good-natured parents, not knowing the reason, were worried over Chiyoko’s moroseness.

Chiyoko’s spring vacation was drawing to a close and the day came when she was to return to her dormitory in Tokyo. She simply could not bring herself to confess what she had done, and yet she had the feeling that she could not return to Tokyo until she asked Shinji to forgive her. If she did not confess her guilt, there was no particular reason for Shinji to be angry with her, but still she wanted to beg his pardon.

So she got herself invited to spend the night before her departure for Tokyo at the house of the postmaster in the village, and before dawn the next morning she went out alone.

The beach was already busy with preparations for the day’s fishing, and people were going about their work in the starlight. The boats, pulled on the “abacus” frames and urged on by many shouting voices, inched reluctantly down toward the water’s edge. Nothing could be seen distinctly except the white of the towels and sweat cloths the men had tied around their heads.

Step by step, Chiyoko’s wooden clogs sank into the cold sand. And in its turn the sand slithered whisperingly off the arches of her feet.

Everyone was busy and no one looked at Chiyoko. She realized with a pang of shame that here all these people were, caught fast in the monotonous but powerful whirlpool
of earning a daily living, burning out the very depths of their bodies and souls, and that not one of them was the sort of person who could become engrossed in sentimental problems such as hers.

Nevertheless Chiyoko peered eagerly through the dawn’s darkness, looking for Shinji. All the men were dressed alike and it was difficult to distinguish their faces in the morning twilight.

One boat finally hit the waves and floated on the water as though it had been freed from cramped confinement. Instinctively Chiyoko moved toward it and then called out to a young man with a white towel tied around his head.

The youth had been about to jump aboard, but now he stopped and turned back. His smiling face revealed the whiteness of two clean rows of teeth, and Chiyoko knew for certain it was Shinji.

“I’m leaving today. I wanted to say good-by.”

“Oh, you’re leaving?…” Shinji fell silent, and then in an unnatural tone of voice, as though he were trying to decide what would be best to say, he added:

“Well … good-by.”

Shinji was in a hurry. Realizing this, Chiyoko felt even more hurried than he. No words would come, much less a confession. She closed her eyes, praying that Shinji would stay before her even one second more. In this moment she realized that her wanting to beg his pardon was actually nothing but a mask to conceal her long-felt desire to have him be kind to her.

What was it she was wanting to be forgiven for, this girl who was so convinced of her ugliness? On the spur of the moment, without thought, she let slip the question she had always kept pushed down in the very bottom of
her heart, a question she probably could never have asked anyone but this one boy:

“Shinji—am I so ugly?”

“What?” the boy asked, a puzzled look on his face.

“My face—is it so ugly?”

Chiyoko hoped the dawn’s darkness would protect her face, making her appear even the slightest bit beautiful. But the sea to the east—didn’t it seem to be already turning light?

Shinji’s answer was immediate. Being in a hurry, he escaped a situation in which too slow an answer would have cut into the girl’s heart.

“What makes you say that? You’re pretty,” he said, one hand on the stern and one foot already beginning the leap that would carry him into the boat. “You’re pretty.”

As everyone well knew, Shinji was incapable of flattery. Now, pressed for time, he had simply given a felicitous answer to her urgent question.

The boat began to move. He waved back to her cheerfully from the boat as it pulled away.

And it was a happy girl who was left standing at the water’s edge.

Later that morning her parents came down from the lighthouse to see her off, and even while she talked with them Chiyoko’s face was full of life. They were surprised to see how happy their daughter was to be returning to Tokyo.

The
Kamikaze-maru
pulled away from the jetty, and Chiyoko was finally alone on the warm deck. In the solitude her feeling of happiness, on which she had been pondering constantly all morning, became complete.

“He said I’m pretty! He said I’m pretty!” Chiyoko repeated yet again the refrain she had said over and over to herself how many hundreds of times since that moment.

“That’s really what he said. And that’s enough for me. I mustn’t expect more than that. That’s really what he said to me. I must be satisfied with that and not expect him to love me too. He—he has someone else to love.… What a wicked thing it was I did to him! What terrible unhappiness my jealousy has caused him! And yet he repaid my wickedness by saying I’m pretty. I must make it up to him … somehow I must do whatever I can to return his kindness.…”

Chiyoko’s reveries were broken by a strange sound of singing that drifted across the waves. When she looked she saw a fleet of boats, covered with red banners, sailing from the direction of the Irako Channel.

“What are those?” Chiyoko asked the captain’s young assistant, who was coiling a hawser on the deck.

“They’re pilgrim boats bound for the Ise Shrines. The fishermen from around Enshu and Yaizu on Suruga Bay bring their families with them on the bonito boats to Toba. All those red flags have the boats’ names on them. They have a great time drinking and singing and gambling all the way.”

The red banners became more and more distinct, and as the fast, ocean-going fishing-boats drew near the
Kamikaze-maru
, the singing voices borne on the wind were almost raucous.

Once more Chiyoko repeated to herself:

“He told me I’m pretty.”

I
N THIS WAY
the spring had neared its end. It was still too early for the clusters of crinum lilies that bloomed in the cliffs on the eastern side of the island, but the fields were colored here and there with various other flowers. The children were back in school again, and some of the women were already diving in the cold water for the seaweed called “soft lace.” As a consequence there were now more houses that were empty during the daytime, doors unlocked, windows open. Bees entered these empty houses freely, flew about in them lonesomely, and were often startled upon running headlong into a mirror.

Shinji, not clever at scheming, had been able to discover no way to meet Hatsue. Although their meetings before had been few and far between, still the happy anticipation of their next meeting had made the waiting
bearable. But now that he knew there could be no next meeting, his longing to see her became even stronger. And yet the promise he had given Jukichi not to loaf made it impossible for him to take even a day off from fishing. So there was nothing for him to do every night after he returned from fishing but to wait until the streets were empty and then prowl about the neighborhood of Hatsue’s house.

Sometimes an upstairs window would be thrown open and Hatsue would look out. Except on those lucky occasions when the moon was shining just right, her face was lost in the shadows. Even so, the boy’s sharp eyesight allowed him to see clearly even how her eyes were wet with tears. Out of fear of the neighbors Hatsue never spoke. And Shinji too, from behind the stone wall of the small vegetable garden at the back of her house, would simply stand looking up at the girl’s face, not saying a word. Without fail, the letter Ryuji would bring the next day would dwell at great length upon the pain of such an ephemeral meeting, and as Shinji read the words Hatsue’s image and voice would finally come into focus together, and in his mind the wordless girl he had seen the night before would come alive with speech and action.

Such meetings were painful for Shinji too, and there were times when he preferred to relieve his pent-up emotions by wandering to those parts of the island where people seldom came. Sometimes he went as far as the ancient burial mound of Prince Deki. The exact boundaries of the tumulus were not clear, but at the highest point there were seven ancient pine trees and, in the midst of them, a small
torii
and shrine.

•    •    •

The legend of Prince Deki was vague. Nothing was known even about the origins of his strange name. In a time-honored ceremony held during the lunar New Year, the strange box that reposed in the shrine was briefly opened each year and old couples of more than sixty years of age were allowed a fleeting glimpse of the object it contained, which looked like an ancient nobleman’s fan-shaped baton, but no one knew what relationship there was between this mysterious treasure and Prince Deki. Until about a generation past the children of the island had called their mothers
eya
, and this was said to have arisen from the fact that the prince had called his wife
heya
meaning “room,” and that his infant heir had mispronounced the word as
eya
when trying to imitate his father.