Read Online A Personal Matter by Kenzaburō Ōe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenzaburō Ōe
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dented bumper and brought his weight to bear. The MG rocked gently, like aboat. Bird called Himiko’s name again, looking up at the curtained bedroom window. Inside the room, the curtains were lifted slightly where they met and a single eye looked down at Bird through the narrow peephole. Bird stopped rocking the MG and smiled: he could always behave freely and naturally in front of this girl.
“Hey! Bird—” Her voice impeded by the curtain and by the window glass, sounded like a feeble, silly sigh.
Bird knew he had discovered the ideal spot for beginning a bottle of Johnnie Walker in the middle of the day. Feeling as though he had entered just one more plus on the psychological balance sheet for the day, he walked back to the front of the house.
4
I HOPE you weren’t asleep,” Bird said as Himiko opened the door for him.
“Asleep? At this hour?” the girl teased. Himiko held up one hand against the midday sun but it didn’t help; the light at Bird’s back descended roughly on her neck and shoulders, bare where her violet terrycloth bathrobe fell away. Himiko’s grandfather was a Kyushu fisherman who had taken as a wife, abducted really, a Russian girl from Vladivostok. That explained the whiteness of Himiko’s skin; you could see the web of capillary vessels just beneath the surface. In the way she moved, too, was something to suggest the confusion of the immigrant who is never quite at ease in his new country.
Wincing in the rush of light, Himiko stepped back into the shadow of the open door with the ruffled haste of a mother hen. She was in that meager stage of womanhood between the vulnerable beauty of a young girl, which she had lost, and the mature woman’s fullness still to come. Himiko was probably the type of woman who would have to spend a particularly long time in this tenuous state.
Quickly, in order to protect his friend from the revealing light, Bird stepped inside and closed the door. For an instant the cramped space of the vestibule felt like the inside of a hooded cage. Bird blinked rapidly while he took off his shoes, trying to accustom his eyes to the dimness. Himiko hovered in the darkness behind him, watching.
“I hate to disturb people when they’re sleeping,” Bird offered.
“You’re so timid today, Bird. Anyway, I wasn’t asleep; if I nap during the day I can never get to sleep at night. I was thinking about the pluralistic universe.”
Pluralistic universe? Good enough, Bird thought, we can discuss it over whisky. Glancing around him like a hunting dog nosing for aspoor, Bird followed Himiko inside. In the living room it might have been evening, and the gloom was dark and stagnant like a bed of straw for sick livestock. Bird squinted down at the old but sturdy rattan chair he always sat in and carefully lowered himself into it after removing some magazines. Until Himiko had showered and dressed and put on some make-up, she wouldn’t turn on the lights, much less open the curtains. Company had to wait patiently in the dark. During his last visit here a year ago, Bird had stepped on a glass and had cut the base of his big toe. Recalling the pain and the panic, he shivered.
It was hard to decide where to put the bottle of whisky: an elaborate confusion of books and magazines, empty boxes and bottles, shells, knives, scissors, withered flowers collected in winter woods, insect specimens, and old and new letters covered not only the entire floor and the table, but even the low bookcase along the window, the record player, and the television set. Bird hesitated, then shuffled a small space on the floor with his feet and wedged the bottle of Johnnie Walker between his ankles. Watching from the door, Himiko said as though in greeting, “I still haven’t learned to be neat. Bird, was it like this the last time you were here?”
“Damn right it was; I cut my big toe!”
“Of course, the floor around the chair there was all bloody, wasn’t it,” Himiko reminisced. “It’s
“Hey! Bird—” Her voice impeded by the curtain and by the window glass, sounded like a feeble, silly sigh.
Bird knew he had discovered the ideal spot for beginning a bottle of Johnnie Walker in the middle of the day. Feeling as though he had entered just one more plus on the psychological balance sheet for the day, he walked back to the front of the house.
4
I HOPE you weren’t asleep,” Bird said as Himiko opened the door for him.
“Asleep? At this hour?” the girl teased. Himiko held up one hand against the midday sun but it didn’t help; the light at Bird’s back descended roughly on her neck and shoulders, bare where her violet terrycloth bathrobe fell away. Himiko’s grandfather was a Kyushu fisherman who had taken as a wife, abducted really, a Russian girl from Vladivostok. That explained the whiteness of Himiko’s skin; you could see the web of capillary vessels just beneath the surface. In the way she moved, too, was something to suggest the confusion of the immigrant who is never quite at ease in his new country.
Wincing in the rush of light, Himiko stepped back into the shadow of the open door with the ruffled haste of a mother hen. She was in that meager stage of womanhood between the vulnerable beauty of a young girl, which she had lost, and the mature woman’s fullness still to come. Himiko was probably the type of woman who would have to spend a particularly long time in this tenuous state.
Quickly, in order to protect his friend from the revealing light, Bird stepped inside and closed the door. For an instant the cramped space of the vestibule felt like the inside of a hooded cage. Bird blinked rapidly while he took off his shoes, trying to accustom his eyes to the dimness. Himiko hovered in the darkness behind him, watching.
“I hate to disturb people when they’re sleeping,” Bird offered.
“You’re so timid today, Bird. Anyway, I wasn’t asleep; if I nap during the day I can never get to sleep at night. I was thinking about the pluralistic universe.”
Pluralistic universe? Good enough, Bird thought, we can discuss it over whisky. Glancing around him like a hunting dog nosing for aspoor, Bird followed Himiko inside. In the living room it might have been evening, and the gloom was dark and stagnant like a bed of straw for sick livestock. Bird squinted down at the old but sturdy rattan chair he always sat in and carefully lowered himself into it after removing some magazines. Until Himiko had showered and dressed and put on some make-up, she wouldn’t turn on the lights, much less open the curtains. Company had to wait patiently in the dark. During his last visit here a year ago, Bird had stepped on a glass and had cut the base of his big toe. Recalling the pain and the panic, he shivered.
It was hard to decide where to put the bottle of whisky: an elaborate confusion of books and magazines, empty boxes and bottles, shells, knives, scissors, withered flowers collected in winter woods, insect specimens, and old and new letters covered not only the entire floor and the table, but even the low bookcase along the window, the record player, and the television set. Bird hesitated, then shuffled a small space on the floor with his feet and wedged the bottle of Johnnie Walker between his ankles. Watching from the door, Himiko said as though in greeting, “I still haven’t learned to be neat. Bird, was it like this the last time you were here?”
“Damn right it was; I cut my big toe!”
“Of course, the floor around the chair there was all bloody, wasn’t it,” Himiko reminisced. “It’s
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