For Dignity, Justice, and Revolution: An Anthology of Japanese Proletarian Literature by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The University of Chicago Press
Published: 2016-01-06T16:00:00+00:00

8. The Day for Presenting Calligraphy to His Majesty Arrives

I never knew how Ma and Pa came up with the money to pay for my brother’s funeral expenses. So it goes without saying that I was in the dark about how they managed to buy the new hat, new hakama, and new clogs I needed for the presentation. I even had train fare in hand. What they must have gone through! To this day, I don’t know the story.

To top it all off, the evening before the event was to take place my father made an extravagant proposal.

“Omine, go get us a cup of saké” he commanded my mother.

My mother’s faced paled and she stood rooted to the spot.

“Didn’t you hear me tell you to buy saké!”

Ma took an empty vinegar bottle and slunk out the door.

Morning came.

I started off for the train station, escorted by Master Kawada and our school principal. (The school principal was a complete idiot, which is why I haven’t mentioned him before.)

Master Kawada and the principal kept trying to strike up a conversation with me. But it was as if I couldn’t hear them. I was glum as a draftee going off to war.

I spent most of the day in such a state and have no idea how I passed the time.

The presentation took place on the second floor of the district office. But I couldn’t tell you what the auditorium looked like or what kind of people were there.

All I could see in front of my eyes was the face of my dead brother. The faces of Ma and Pa as if straining to watch me make the presentation. The saké Pa offered to my brother’s tablet on the altar. The spanking new clogs I had just taken off and placed in the cabinet at the entrance to the building. And a big white sheet of paper bearing the dark, black characters, “The righteous and brave devote themselves to the nation.” My mind was racing.

At last I stood from my seat and moved forward.

I proceeded toward a large table.

On the table lay a wide sheet of paper, with a very large inkstone and a huge brush beside it.

I bowed repeatedly.

Then I grasped the pen and dipped it in the ink.

My hand shook as I lifted it to write. “The righteous . . .”

But my brush never reached the paper. How could it have? Was there any way I could have ignored the characters traced in faint pencil strokes that floated up at me off that white page? The righteous and brave devote themselves to the nation.

My brother’s face. The faces of Ma and Pa. The saké in the offering cup on the altar . . . my new shoes . . . hat . . . hakama. The characters I had practiced writing every day: The righteous and brave devote themselves to the nation. After all that, to come face to face with those traced words! Those barely visible pencil strokes! The whole thing amounted to one big dirty trick.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.