In retrospect, I can see that we were a strange couple from the start. It was about seven years ago that I first met the woman who is now my wife, though I don't remember the exact date. At the time, she was a hostess at a place called the Café Diamond, near the Kaminari Gate of the Asakusa Kannon Temple. She was only in her fifteenth year and had just started working when I met her. She was a beginner -- an apprentice, a budding hostess, so to speak, and not yet a full-fledged employee.
Why I, a man of twenty-eight, had my eye on a child like that, I don't understand, but at first I was probably attracted by her name. Everyone called her "Nao-chan." When I asked about it one day, I learned that her real name was Naomi, written with three Chinese characters. The name excited my curiosity. A splendid name, I thought; written in Roman letters, it could be a Western name. I began to pay special attention to her. Strangely enough, once I knew that she had such a sophisticated name, she began to take on an intelligent, Western look. I started to think what a shame it would be to let her go on as a hostess in a place like that.
In fact, Naomi resembled the motion-picture actress Mary Pickford: there was definitely something Western about her appearance. This isn't just my biased view; many others say so, even now that she's my wife. It must be true. And it's not only her face -- even her body has a distinctly Western look when she's naked. I didn't learn this until later, of course. At the time, I could only imagine the beauty of her limbs from the stylish way she wore her kimono.
I can't speak with any assurance about her disposition in the days when she was working in the café; only a parent or a sister can understand the feelings of a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl. If asked today, Naomi herself would probably say that she simply went about everything impassively. To an outsider, though, she seemed a quiet, gloomy child. Her face had an unhealthy look. It was as pale and dull as a thick pane of colorless, transparent glass -- having just begun work there, she hadn't yet started to wear the white make- up the other hostesses used, and she hadn't gotten to know her customers or her fellow workers. She tended to hide in a corner as she did her work silently and nervously. This may also be why she looked intelligent.
Now I must explain my own background. At the time, I was an engineer with a certain electrical firm, earning a monthly salary of one hundred and fifty yen. I was born in Utsunomiya, Tochigi Prefecture. After finishing middle school I came to Tokyo, where I enrolled in the higher technical school at Kuramae. I became an engineer shortly after graduation and every day except Sunday commuted from my rooming house in Shibaguchi to the office in Őimachi.
Living alone in a boardinghouse and earning one hundred and fifty yen a month, I had a rather easy life. Though I was the eldest son, I was under no obligation to send money to my parents or siblings. My family was engaged in farming on a large scale; as my father was dead, my elderly mother and a loyal aunt and uncle managed everything for me. I was completely free. This doesn't mean that I led a fast life though. I was an exemplary office worker: frugal, earnest, conventional to a fault, even colorless, I did my work every day without the slightest complaint or discontent. In the office "Kawai Jőji" was known as a "gentleman."
For recreation, I'd go in the evening to a movie, take a stroll on the Ginza, or, once in a great while, treat myself to an outing at the Imperial Theater. That's the most I ever did. Of course, being a young bachelor, I had nothing against the company of young women. Still a country bumpkin at heart, I was awkward with people and had no friends of the opposite sex, which no doubt is what made me a "gentleman". Yet I was a gentleman only on the surface. Each morning, as I rode the streetcar, and whenever I walked in town, I secretly used every opportunity to observe women closely. Once in a while, Naomi would appear before my eyes.
But I hadn't concluded that Naomi was the most beautiful woman in the world. In fact, there were many women more beautiful than she among the young ladies I passed on the streetcar, in the corridors of the Imperial Theater, and on the Ginza. Whether Naomi's appearance would improve was something only time would tell; she was only fifteen then, and I viewed her future with both anticipation and concern. My original plan, then, was simply to take charge of the child and look after her. On the one hand, I was motivated by sympathy for her. On the other, I wanted to introduce some variety into my humdrum, monotonous daily existence. I was weary from years of living in a boardinghouse; I longed for a little color and warmth in my life. Indeed, why not build a house, I thought, even a small one? I'd decorate the rooms, plant flowers, hang out a birdcage on the sunny veranda, and hire a maid to do the cooking and scrubbing. And if Naomi agreed to come, she'd take the place of both the maid and the bird. . . . This is roughly what I had in mind.
In that case, why didn't I find a bride from a respectable family and set up a proper household? The answer is that I simply lacked the courage to marry. This requires a detailed explanation. I was a commonsensical person who didn't like to act recklessly -- indeed, was incapable of doing so; and yet I held rather advanced, sophisticated opinions about marriage. People tend to get all stiff and ceremonious when someone mentions "marriage." First, there has to be a "bridgemaker," who tries in roundabout ways to learn what the two sides are thinking. Next, a miai is arranged - a formal meeting of the two parties. If neither side has any objections, an official intermediary is chosen, engagement gifts are exchanged, and the trousseau is carried to the groom's house. Then there is the bridal procession, the hone moon trip and the brides ceremonial visit to her parents -- a very tiresome set of formalities, which I thoroughly disliked. If I'm going to marry, I thought, I'd like to do it in a simpler freer manner.
At the time, there would have been any number of candidates had I wanted to marry. It's true that I was from the countryside, but I had a strong constitution, irreproachable conduct, and, if I may say so myself, at least average good looks, and the trust of my company. Anyone would have been glad to help me. The fact is, though, that I didn't want to be helped. Even if a woman is a great beauty, one or two miai are not enough for prospective partners to get to know each others temperament and character. The idea of choosing my companion for life on the basis of a casual impression -- "Well, I could live with that," or, "She's not bad-looking" -- is too foolish. I couldn't do it. The best approach would be to bring a girl like Naomi into my home and patiently watch her grow. Later, if I liked what I saw, I could take her for my wife. This would be quite enough; I wasn't interested in marrying a rich man's daughter or a fine, educated sort of woman.
Moreover, to make friends with a young girl and observe her development, day by day while we lived a cheerful playful life in our own house -- that, it seemed to me, would have a special appeal, quite different from that of setting up a proper household. In short, Naomi and I would play house, like children. It would be a relaxed, simple life, not the tiresome existence associated with "maintaining a household." This was my desire. The "household" in modern Japan requires that every cabinet, brazier, and cushion be in its proper place; the chores of husband, wife, and maid are fastidiously distinguished; hard-to-please neighbors and relatives must be humored. None of this is pleasant or beneficial to a young office worker, as it requires a good deal of money and makes complicated and rigid what should be simple. In this respect, then, I considered my plan an inspiration of sorts.
I first spoke of it to Naomi after I'd known her for about two months. During that time, I'd gone to the Café Diamond whenever I was free and contrived as many opportunities as possible to talk to her. Naomi was fond of the movies, and would go with me on holidays to a theater in the park. Afterwards we'd stop for a bite of Western food or some noodles. Even on these occasions, she hardly said a word; she usually had such a sullen look that I couldn't tell whether she was happy or bored. Yet she never said no when I invited her. "All right, sure," she'd reply docilely, and follow me anywhere.
I didn't know what sort of person she thought I was or why she came with me, but I supposed she was still a child who regarded men without suspicion, and that her feelings were uncomplicated and innocent. My assumption was that she came with me because I took her to the shows she liked and treated her to dinner. For my part, I was a baby-sitter, a gentle, kindly uncle; I never behaved in any other way, nor did I expect anything more from her than that sort of relationship. When I recall them now, those fleeting, dreamlike days seem like a fairy tale, and I can't help wishing that we could be again the guileless couple we once were.
"Can you see, Naomi?" When there was no place to sit, we'd stand at the rear of the movie theater.
"I can't see a thing," she'd reply, straining to stand on tiptoe, trying to see between the heads of the people in front.
"You won't be able to see that way. Get up on this rail and hold my shoulder." I'd give her a boost up and seat her on a high handrail. Legs dangling and one hand on my shoulder, she seemed to be satisfied as she gazed intently at the picture.
When I asked, "Are you having a good time?" she would only say "Yes." She never clapped her hands or bounced with joy; but I could tell how much she liked the movies from her face as she watched in silence, her intelligent eyes wide open like those of an alert dog listening to a distant sound.
"Naomi, are you hungry?"
Sometimes she'd say, "No, I don't want anything. " But more often, when she was hungry, she'd say "Yes," without the slightest reserve. Then, when I asked, she'd tell me whether she wanted to eat Western food or noodles.