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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781783081400 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Anthem Press |
| Publication date: | 06/30/2014 |
| Series: | Anthem Cosmopolis Writings |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 252 |
| File size: | 958 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
David Karashima served as director of the first Tokyo International Literary Festival in 2013, and also promotes Japanese literature in his position as manager of international projects at Read Japan. He has previously published translations from writers including Hitomi Kanehara and Takeshi Kitano.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
On the Surgeon's Table
I knew nothing about stepping on wheat.
I grew up in a seaport town, very much at home with factory smoke, the smell of beer, and haze rising from cobblestone streets, but unaccustomed to the earthy smells of the ground beneath my feet. From time to time, the strong ocean winds would bring unexpected things to our shores — a piece of sailor's underwear, a last will and testament, or a flag from a foreign land. And at night, we'd hear the moans and groans of the monsters that roamed the deep.
In back alleys, sailors would get into fights, with the winners emerging quickly, no such thing as a draw. Mostly it would take only a single punch for the weaker man to fall to the ground unconscious, the victor strutting back to the bar with his chest puffed up. Us kids would seize the moment to prop up the fallen sailor and drag him to another bar, where we'd pour a glass of water over his head. On regaining his senses, the sailor would give us two or three blood-stained coins for our trouble.
I'd just started elementary school when I met Kutze for the first time. I remember it was a hot midsummer night, and I'd woken in the darkness feeling terrible. I rubbed my eyes and looked to the bed on my right, then glanced over to the bed on my left. Dad wasn't there, and neither was Grandpa. Getting up, I circled the room three times, my footsteps the only sound in the house. I peered into the storage room next to the bedroom–not a soul there. I went down the wooden stairs to the kitchen, its stone floor much older than any of our neighbors'. Nobody there. I went into the living room, hoping to find Grandpa in his usual spot on the old couch. Not there. The front door was still firmly shut, the rusty lock in place.
I ran back upstairs and jumped into bed, burying my head under the covers.
Am I alone? I clutched the sheets over my head. All alone, locked in the house, on this horrible night? Was I being punished? What if it wasn't only tonight? What if this is the way it was going to be from now on? Or was this the way it always has been? Maybe I never have noticed, but maybe I'd been left by myself every night, all alone in this stone house, in deathly silence, in total darkness. The thought made me shiver. This had to be a dream, I told myself. I lay down, clasping my arms tightly across my chest. I told myself that Dad and Grandpa were, in fact, sleeping on either side of me. I imagined how I'd get up in the morning and go downstairs and Dad would be making me an omelet like he did every day, and then Grandpa and I would go for a walk along the canal like we always did. By morning, this moment would be forgotten, Dad's and Grandpa's absence nothing but a bad dream.
It was at that moment that I heard it.
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
I strained my ears at once.
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
There it was. That same rhythm. Then again. And again. It seemed to be coming from outside the house – a sound like something soft being hit. I'd never heard anything like it before. But strangely enough, it wasn't scary. I poked my head out from under the sheets, only to find the room bathed in light — it was morning already!
For a moment, I watched as the golden sunlight poured in through the windows, reflecting off my white bed sheets, the watercolor on the wall and my toy yacht, too. Then I stepped onto the cold floor with my bare feet.
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
This time, the sound was coming from the window. I walked over to look out. I gasped at what I saw.
Normally, from the window, you could see the canal, sometimes with barges of cargo floating down to port. Those same barges might go past when Grandpa and I were on our morning walks, and sometimes the men on them would throw me candy, toys, balls, and other goodies. If I managed to catch them, the men would whistle and Grandpa would bang his stick on the ground in response.
But when I looked out the window this time, there was no canal. I couldn't believe it. Not only was the canal gone, the whole town was gone. There was nothing but a vast stretch of yellow ground all the way to the horizon. I stared, afraid to blink, and I thought maybe this is how people feel when they see the ocean for the first time.
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
When the sound came again, I glanced down to find someone standing right in front of our house, wearing an odd outfit. He had on a straw hat with a large brim and a shirt and baggy pants that matched the color of the land. Only his shoes were a different color, with the uppers as black as the soles. The shoes seemed far too big, but that didn't stop the stranger from kicking the dirt in front of our house.
I opened the window carefully, not making a sound, and leaned out to get a better look. The man's eyes were fixed on the ground as he kept kicking up a cloud of yellow dust with his big, clumpy shoes.
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
"Excuse me, but what are you doing?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
"Stepp'n on wheat," the stranger replied, without lifting his eyes in my direction. His voice was so gentle voice it could have belonged to a man or a woman.
"What's your name?"
"Kutze," the stranger said, continuing to kick the dirt.
"Kutze," I repeated. "Kutze. Is that your family name? Or is it your nickname?"
"Don't know," came the answer, accompanied by that same tap-tapping.
I watched, transfixed, as Kutze did his wheat stepp'n. The sweet summer air drifted across the golden land as the sun shone, down on Kutze and me, as I found myself tapping on the window sill in sync with the rhythm of Kutze's stepp'n.
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
The scene seemed so wonderful that I wanted to set foot on the golden land and step on the wheat myself, and right there I decided that when I got older, I wanted to go with Kutze and wheat-step our way to the horizon.
I'll be joining you, Kutze. Just as soon as I get myself a pair of big, black wheat-stepp'n shoes!
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
Ton —
"Wake up!"
Someone was shaking me.
"Grandpa's gone off for a walk by himself this morning," said Dad, pulling the covers from my head and looking down at me reproachfully, "because you wouldn't get out of bed. Now go and brush your teeth. I'm going out to buy some eggs."
I got out of bed, slowly washed my face, and stuck a toothbrush in my mouth — all the while thinking how the morning sun in the real world wasn't nearly as beautiful as it was in my dream. Then listening to the gurgle of the canal through the open door, I watched children running along the canal as a barge floated by. Finally I gargled, noticing a rusty aftertaste, then licked my lips, bitterness on my tongue.
That was when I thought I heard something above. It wasn't very distinct, but I was sure I wasn't imagining it. The sound seemed to be coming from the attic, above the bed. I dragged a chair over, and using it to climb on top of the closet, I removed a ceiling tile and poked my head into the attic. I was met, right in front of my eyes, by Kutze. He was diminutive, the size of a wine bottle, and he was making slow side-steps that went Ton, Ta-tan, Ton, just like in my dream.
For many years after that, whenever I was alone in the house, I would climb onto the closet to visit Kutze in the attic.
"Are you the only one living in that yellow land?" I asked him once.
"It's not a question of whether anyone else is around," he mumbled, without missing a wheat-stepp'n beat, "or whether anyone is around at all. It's a matter of distance."
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
This was a typical answer from him — mysterious. There were times when I heard his tapping steps outside — when I was waiting for Grandpa at the bar, or when I was walking home from school. Those steps would always be followed by Kutze's flat voice, almost a whisper. Each time I heard it, I would stop in my tracks. But Kutze's voice never betrayed his emotions. Even later, when he predicted the catastrophe that hit the town, the school caretaker's accident, and the final moments of The Mouse Man. He told me a lot of things in that dear voice that only I could hear. And all the while, his wheat-stepp'n didn't stop.
Ton, Ta-tan, Ton
It's been ten years since I first met Kutze. I lie now in the dark on the surgeon's table, and I listen to the rhythm of Kutze's stepping. Each beat brings a vivid memory. Ton ... I see my classroom in elementary and junior high school ... Ta-Tan ... the golden instruments lined up in the concert hall, the silver cane, the conductor's baton ... Ton ... the mice, the seven dogs, the strains of a cello ... Ta-Tan ... Wheat-stepp'n wasn't the only thing I knew nothing about then. There were plenty of other things I was ignorant of. Maybe I still am. Kutze, you think so?
Ton, Ta-Tan, Ton
The invisible Kutze gives no reply, but I hear his steps echo in the darkness as people dressed in white enter the operating room.
The King of the Band
Grandpa arrived on this island after a week-long journey by ship. It wasn't long before he made his presence felt.
I was still a baby, and one evening after he'd lain me down to sleep he went to ask our landlord about the terrible racket that coming from the docks at the same time every day.
"Oh that," the overweight owner snorted as he flipped through the guestbook. "It's the town's wind band. A battleship is supposed to be coming to port next month, so they're practicing for the welcoming ceremony. If it's bothering you, old man, why don't you join me in a hand of poker to keep your mind off it?"
By the time the owner looked up from the guestbook, Grandpa was gone. People remember Grandpa that day, walking briskly in the rain, clacking his silver cane on the pavement.
"What a sight he was!" the bartender told me later. "He marched past by the bar like a preacher on fire."
"More like a mountain cat," the police officer standing nearby piped up. "A black mountain cat that escaped from a cage. But being that my business is catching humans, I don't bother with mountain cats."
When he reached the docks, Grandpa proceeded directly to Warehouse #2, where the din was coming from. He raised his silver cane high, brought it down hard on the green metal door.
Inside, it must have sounded as if the warehouse were hit by lightning, which someone screamed out, which caused everyone to dive onto the floor.
"Come out of there!" Grandpa's voice boomed. "You guys are a disgrace! You are an embarrassment to music."
In the rain, with his cane banging on the metal door, Grandpa's booming voice echoed throughout the town. It could be heard in the bar, and it even reached and the school grounds, where Dad was busy correcting papers.
"Which factory is making all that noise?" said the principal, disgusted. "And at this late hour!"
"It's my father," said Dad with a tired voice.
"Is he an alcoholic?" the principal asked, suddenly interested.
"No," said Dad, shaking his head, "it's worse than that."
In the warehouse, the butcher — also known as the clarinetist — crawled along the damp floor and bravely pushed open the door. He was met with the sight of Grandpa, soaking wet in his big black coat, looking like something that had been dragged up from the depths of the ocean, seaweed and all.
Dispensing with niceties, Grandpa strode into the warehouse, striking the floor with his cane. "The first thing you deadbeats need to do is tune your instruments," Grandpa said sternly. "Then, work on your long tones. We have a lot of work to do."
With his booming voice and his accent from across the waters, Grandpa instructed the men to place their chairs in a circle around him. Everyone did what they were told as if it were the most natural thing to do, with no man having the wherewithal to speak up. A long tone, as the name suggests, is holding a single note on an instrument for a long time. And from that day on, the members of the brass band were no longer able to touch vinegar or pickled fish for fear of the toll it'd take on their cracked, swollen lips.
"With a single wave of a magic wand, real music found its way into town," recalled the caretaker of the school.
There was also a story in the local paper a year later, penned by a senior journalist, that began as follows:
Up until recently in this town, playing in a brass band has meant nothing more than picking up a trumpet, blowing casually into it, and allowing nonsense to come flooding out of the other end ...
Less than two years later, and by the time I'd learned to talk, the town's struggling crew of ten trumpeters had grown to forty-five — enough for a real brass band. A little later still, the band took tenth place in an island-wide music contest, prompting Town Hall to buy each member of the band a new instrument.
From that time on, every arriving ship was greeted at port by trumpet fanfare. One day stands out: when the band played, the ocean winds subsided and the clarity of the brass notes was carried out to sea, causing that same journalist to write:
Those of you who visited the port yesterday may have seen quite a sight when our town's very own brass band commandeered the unruly ocean winds and forced them to subside. Perhaps music has always been just that — having the power to calm unruly ocean gusts with a melodic, brassy breeze.
Though poetic, it was a frivolous comment. It was also a comment that was soon to be proven wrong.
Grandpa was the king of the band. He played the timpani — those four kettle drums, each with a distinct tone — and he was always positioned at the very back of the band, in the highest spot in the room. He was passionate about his music, and even during rehearsals he could be found in a black suit and tie, standing by his drums where he could observe the band members' every move. It was he who, when the moment was right, would breathe in softly and nod to the postmaster who would in turn tap his baton and then music would begin to flow. Even through my young eyes I could see the effect of the music. The air took on a different color, the damp warehouse atmosphere suddenly sparkling, like some sort of semitransparent metal. Those of us sitting on the floor would breathe in this air, little by little, as if it were a precious commodity. And when we did, it felt as if the brightness in the air became part of our bodies.
If the conductor stood where the music emerged, you could say that Grandpa stood where the sound came from. The backbone of a brass band is its percussion, Grandpa would say, and whenever anyone hit a bum note, Grandpa would purposely bang out the wrong note on the timpani, causing the offending band members to wince and look down in shame. The poor horn player spent hours with his eyes staring at his shoes. But it could happen to anyone in the band, and I even saw Grandpa do similar to the conductor.
"We are very grateful," said the postmaster as he wiped the sweat from his baton during a break. "We are getting the same level of training as a first-class orchestra overseas. He is a timpanist with years of experience in leading orchestras! Everyone respects your grandfather. And he can be a gentleman, even when he's at the bar drinking."
When it came to music, Grandpa sought perfection. He could detect the slightest miss in an ensemble, which he sought to correct. This attitude spread to others who, while they might have originally joined the band just to have something to do, soon started setting their sights on winning competitions. Winning competitions, however, was not what interested Grandpa. Music was his passion, and he poured his heart into it. The band's success was a byproduct of this. And so the band became a fixture in the top ranks of contests, and before long a logo bearing a trumpet and drum adorned the entrance to Town Hall.
It was fair to say that Grandpa was a gentleman when he was away from music. You could often find him crisply dressed sitting in a bar. He sat close to the mirror in the back where he could drink and relax without attracting attention. This changed every time I walked into the bar to get him. He'd wave and shout, "Cat, Cat!" Then he'd ask the bartender to line up a couple of glasses up. "Cat, will you play for me?" he'd say.
I'd pick up a cocktail muddler in each hand and hit big and small glasses with a precise 4/4 rhythm. Grandpa would close his eyes in pleasure and say, "Your rhythm brings the chaotic conversations of the bar into line."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Kutze, Stepp'n on Wheat"
by .
Copyright © 2002 Shinji Ishii.
Excerpted by permission of Wimbledon Publishing Company.
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