Grotesque (5 page)

Surely my grandfather found it inconvenient to have a granddaughter suddenly deposited on his doorstep. But there can be little doubt that he was grateful for the allowance my father provided. At the time, my grandfather was living off his pension. From time to time he’d make a little extra cash by doing odd jobs around the neighborhood; he was a sort of resident handyman. But I suspect he hardly had enough to live on.

What was my grandfather’s occupation? Well, that’s hard to say. When we were children, my mother told us that when Grandfather was young he’d been good at catching watermelon thieves, so he decided to join the police force and be a detective. That’s why I was certain he’d be strict, and I was afraid of him at first. But in fact, the opposite was true. My grandfather had not been a detective. What had he been? Well, that’s what I’ll explain next. It might take some time, so please bear with me.

“It’s not easy for us to go visit your grandfather, because he’s a police detective,” my mother would say. “He’s very busy. Besides, he’s always got a lot of people around him who have done bad things. But that doesn’t mean your grandfather is bad. No indeed. It often happens that bad people are drawn to good people. Well, for example, people who’ve broken the law will come by your grandfather’s place to apologize and to talk about how they plan to mend their ways. But there’s always someone who’s just bad to the bone. That person might hold a grudge against your grandfather for arresting him, so when he comes to visit he comes for revenge. It would be dangerous for children to be around if that happened.”

Listening to these stories as if Mother were describing something in a distant land, I’d get excited, imagining a scene from a television crime drama. My grandfathers a police detective! I’d brag about it whenever one of my friends stopped by. But Yuriko never looked very impressed and would always ask Mother why grandfather was a detective. I guess she didn’t think having a detective for a grandfather was particularly thrilling; I have no idea what went on in her head. But my mother’s answer was always the same. “Your grandfather was very good at catching watermelon thieves. His father owned giant fields in Ibaraki Prefecture—that’s where the thieves lurked.”

I passed the entrance exam to Q High School for Young Women just 2 6

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before my parents and Yuriko set off for Switzerland, so I loaded up a little truck with my futon, desk, school supplies, and clothes and moved from North Shinagawa to my grandfathers apartment in the government housing project. P Ward is in the scruffier part of downtown Tokyo, in the so-called Low City. It’s mostly flat there, with hardly any tall buildings.

A number of large rivers run through the ward, slicing it into smaller sections. The large levees along the rivers obstruct one’s line of vision. The surrounding buildings are not very high but, because of the levees, they look oppressive. It is in fact a very peculiar area. Just beyond the levees, an immense volume of water flows by at a normally languid pace. Whenever I’d climb the banks of the levees to gaze down into the brownish water of the river below, I’d imagine all the different life-forms swirling around beneath the surface.

On the day I moved in, my grandfather bought two cream puffs from the local shop. They weren’t the kind you’d get at a bakery, but the kind with the hard puff pastry shell and the custard filling that I hate. I didn’t want to hurt Grandfathers feelings, so I finished it, pretending to savor each bite. As I ate I studied Grandfather’s face, trying to figure out what about him resembled my mother. Although they shared the same slight build, their faces looked nothing alike.

“Mother doesn’t look like you, Grandfather. Who does she take after?”

“Oh, she takes after no one, that mother of yours. Some relative long dead must have been the one to pass his looks along to her.”

Grandfather pulled the cardboard cake box apart, as he answered, and folded it flat according to the directions on the outside of the carton.

He tucked it, along with the paper wrapping and string, atop the shelf in the kitchen.

“I don’t look like anyone either,” I said.

“Well, we’ve got that kind of characteristic in our family.”

Grandfather was a man of habit. He rose punctually at five every morning and began tending to the bonsai trees that cluttered the veranda and the narrow space of the entry hall. Cultivating bonsai trees was his hobby. He’d spend over two hours each morning tending to them. Next he’d clean the room, and after that he’d have his breakfast.

As soon as he woke he’d start prattling in the Ibaraki dialect of his hometown. Even while I was washing my face or brushing my teeth, he’d be chattering away.

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“Oh, now this is a nice trunk. Look here! The strength! The age! Any number of pines like this line the Tokaido Highway, no doubting that.

How fortunate I am to have such lovely bonsai. Or maybe I’ve my own talent to thank. I’m sure that’s it. Must be my talent. A genius has to be fanatic with a little bit of humor. Yes, that’s me.”

I’d glance in his direction, thinking he was talking to me, but he’d be staring at his bonsai and conversing with himself. And every morning he’d say just about the same thing.

“People who aren’t really fanatics can try all they want, but they’ll never have the talent and their bonsai won’t look anything like those that have been raised by an old fool like me! What’ll be different? Well, let me see …”

I finally stopped turning around when I heard him begin to talk. I had realized he wasn’t talking to me. He’d pose a question and then answer it himself. I was thrilled to have passed the entrance exam and to be on my way to a new life. I couldn’t care less about bonsai trees! I’d flip through the pages of the high school guide and give myself over to intoxicating images of how my life would be in my beloved Q High School for Young Women.

I left Grandfather where he was and went to the kitchen to fix a slice of toast—which I then slathered generously with butter, jam, and honey.

My father wasn’t here to scold me for using too much jam. I felt completely liberated! My father was such a miser he was always warning us about what and how much we ate. We could have up to two lumps of sugar in our tea, but that was all. And we could only have a thin smear of jam on our bread. If we wanted honey, all we could have was honey. And his ideas about table manners were equally rigid. No talking at the table.

Elbows in and back straight. No laughing with food in your mouth. No matter what I did he’d find grounds for complaint. But even if I sat slouched and bleary-eyed over the table eating my breakfast, Grandfather took no notice. He stood on the veranda talking to his plants.

“It takes inspiration, you know. That’s essential. Inspiration. ‘To be infused with spirit.’ Go ahead, look it up in the dictionary, why don’t you.

You’ll see it’s not just a question of possessing elegance. Elegance will animate your work, no doubt about that. But you can’t just pick it up.

You have to have talent too. Those who succeed have talent. And so I say, I’ve got the talent. I’ve been inspired.”

My grandfather scribbled the Chinese ideographs for inspiration in 2 8

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the air in front of his face. And then he drew the characters for fanatic. I drank my tea and watched wordlessly. After a long time my grandfather noticed me sitting at the kitchen table.

“Is there any left for your grandpa?”

“There is, but it’s cold now.” I pointed to the toast. Grandfather set on the cold dry toast with great delight and gnawed at it with his false teeth, sending crumbs flying. As soon as I saw this, I knew the stories my mother told about his being a detective were lies. I don’t know quite how to explain it, but even to my sixteen-year-old eyes it was clear what kind of person Grandfather was. He was the kind who thought only of himself.

There’s no way he ever could have chased down another man and charged him with a crime.

Grandfather’s dentures were ill-fitting, and it seemed difficult for him to chew, so he dunked his toast into his tea until it was soft and soggy.

Some of the bread melted away into the tea, but my grandfather gulped it down anyway.

I summoned up my courage and asked, “Grandfather, do you think Yuriko is inspired?”

Grandfather looked out over the veranda at the large black pine and answered in no uncertain terms.

“Not whatsoever. Yuriko-chan is just too pretty a girl for that. She might be a garden plant. A pretty flower. But she’s no bonsai.”

“So, a flower, no matter how pretty, is not inspired?”

“That’s right. Inspiration is the bonsai’s trump card. But it’s a person who makes it that way, you know. Look over there, at the black pine. Now that’s inspiration. See there? An old tree gives us a lesson in life. Strange, isn’t it? The tree may look withered, but it’s living just the same. A tree can withstand the passage of time. Humans are the only ones who are at their most beautiful when they’re young. But a tree, no matter how many years go by, you train it and train it, and though the tree itself would naturally resist, gradually it bends to your will. And when it does?

Why then it’s as if life has sprung forth anew, isn’t it? Inspiration resides at that point when you begin to feel the miraculous. That’s the word for it in English, right? Miracle?”

“I suppose so.”

“What about in German?”

“I don’t know.”

Here we go again, I thought to myself, and I only pretended to look 2 9

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back at the veranda where he was standing. I could hardly understand a thing my grandfather talked about, and listening to him grew tiresome.

All my grandfather really cared about was the dried-up old pine tree that he’d plopped down smack in the middle of the veranda. The roots were gnarled and hideous and the branches were crisscrossed with wires.

With the needles bunching up like helmets, the tree was in the way of everything. It had the shape of one of those old twisted pines that you see in any run-of-the-mill samurai movie. Yet it was inspired, and the gorgeous Yuriko wasn’t! What could have been more perfect? I adored my grandfather for saying what he’d said. And I prayed I’d be able to go on living with him like this forever.

My grandfather, being who he was, also gained by having me around.

I was soon to discover why. There were days when he’d run around in a panic putting all the bonsai in the closet. On the third Sunday of every month at eleven o’clock in the morning, a neighborhood man came to call on my grandfather. It was like clockwork. Grandfather had marked the third Sunday of the month on his calendar with a bright red circle so he would not forget. On those Sundays, as soon as he’d finished conversing with his bonsai, he would start rearranging things in his closet and moving his junk here and there. Regardless of whether it was cloudy or threatening rain at any minute, he’d have me drag my futon out and hang it on the drying pole on the veranda—so as to make more room in the closet. And then he’d start scrambling to carry the bonsai into the space he’d made. There were hordes of the things crowded onto the tiny veranda. What he couldn’t squeeze into the closet, he’d carry over to the apartments of the friends who also lived in our government-funded apartment complex. For a time I was mystified by Grandfathers behavior.

Why would he want to hide the things that clearly brought him so much pride?

The visitor Grandfather received on the third Sunday of every month was an old man with a gentle face. His thinning white hair was combed neatly back, and his gray shirt and brown jacket blended tastefully. Only his eyeglass frames—heavy and black—were overly conspicuous. Even though he always apologized perfunctorily for calling on Grandfather empty-handed, he never once brought over the customary visitor’s gift.

When the old man arrived, my grandfather would sit up straight and receive him with the most dignified posture. For some reason, he never wanted me to be around. When anyone else came to call, he would 3 0

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always insist on having me by his side and would go on at great length about me, clearly proud to have a granddaughter who was half European and a student at the elite Q High School for Young Women to boot. My grandfather had lots of acquaintances. There was the insurance saleswoman, the security guard, the apartment superintendent, and all the other old men who liked bonsai. They were always stopping by to visit.

But it was just this old gentleman that he didn’t want me to be around. I couldn’t help but find this peculiar.

On the days this visitor was expected, Grandfather was nervous. He’d ask me if I had homework to do. I’d set the tea out and then pretend to return to my room, but I’d eavesdrop from the other side of the sliding door partition. Cutting short the pleasantries, the old man would start prying.

“How’re things these days?”

“I’m managing. Please don’t worry on my account. I’m terribly sorry you had to come all the way out to this dirty old apartment. Really, my granddaughter’s come to stay with me, and we’re having a good time watching our pennies and keeping things simple. Sure, we have our disagreements—she’s a high school student and I’m a tottering old fool; what would you expect? But we’re getting along fine.”

“Your grandchild, you say? Well, you don’t look much alike, do you? I wanted to ask you about her but then I thought—well, what if she’s your young mistress? I’d be pretty embarrassed if that were the case, and I didn’t want to be caught prying….”

The old man’s tone was brisk and insinuating. He and my grandfather laughed together. “Eee-hee-hee-hee!”

So that’s it, then? I get my laughter from my grandfather? Grandfather’s speaking voice was high-pitched, but his laugh was surprisingly low, even a bit lewd. My grandfather quickly lowered his voice.

“No, no, she’s my daughter’s child. Her father’s a foreigner, you see.”

“Ah, an American?”

“No. European. My granddaughter’s fluent in German and French and all sorts of other languages, but she decided she wanted her education to be in Japanese. She said she was Japanese, and she intended to study in Japanese and reach her adulthood in Japan. So she insisted on staying behind when her family left. My son-in-law is with the Swiss Foreign Ministry. That’s right, he’s second only to the ambassador. Such a fine son-in-law he is, what a pity he can’t speak a word of Japanese. Still, 3 1