The hare trembles in
The grass as he watches dogs
Pass him unnoticed
My brothers—who were both older than I was—spent much of their time with Father at his business premises.
I envied them that they should venture into the world so freely, and I could not understand why—whenever I thought they were in a good mood and dared to ask what they did in Father’s office—they seemed deeply bored and shrugged off my questions.
“We do whatever Father tells us to do. What else?” Satoru, my younger brother, replied between sips of tea. I waited hopefully for more, and when nothing came, I turned my inquiring gaze on Ichiro.
“She doesn’t understand.” Ichiro sounded amused. “Why do you want to know, little sister? If Father’s business is boring for us, why would you find it interesting?”
I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue. Whatever they did, it had to be more interesting than my life, which was the same every day. Nobody took any interest in me, so I could do as I liked. But what was there to like? I had my biwa, which I had taught myself to play, but I had no idea if the music I made was good or—more likely—very bad, indeed.
I had found the lovely, tear-drop-shaped instrument discarded in a storage chest. It seemed to be as sad and unwanted as I was and claimed it for my own at once. After days of polishing with a piece of soft leather, the wooden body had begun to glow and I had dared to pluck the strings, wincing as a sound like a cat in pain emerged. I fiddled with the strings, tightening them one by one, and tried again. And again. Eventually, I found the noises I was making pleasurable and dared to ask my amah if I could play for her.
“Mi-san!” She sounded genuinely astonished and my hopes rose. “Who taught you to play like that? When I was a small girl and lived with my parents in our tiny village, every now and then a storyteller passed through and he would play the biwa at the same time as he told his tales. You are just as good as he was.”
I was very pleased.
“I found the biwa in a chest. I taught myself to play it,” I said proudly. Anzu gawped at me.
“Will you play some more, Mi-san?” she asked humbly. “It reminds me of my village and family.”
I did as she asked, and when I came to a halt—in spite of my brave words, I had little idea of the music that my biwa could make, so it did not take long—I was astounded to see that she was blinking back tears.
I put the knowledge that music—even played by such clumsy hands as mine—could summon deep emotions and thought about it carefully only when my amah went about her duties and I was alone.
Music, I decided, must be a good thing. And surely, one who could make music must have an advantage over those who could not. From that day onward, I practiced every day until I was reasonably satisfied with my performance. Yet, I took no pride in my ability. I had found it quite easy to learn to play the biwa—where was the challenge in something learned with so little effort? And I had only my amah’s word for it that my music was pleasing. Increasingly, I longed to hear somebody else play so I could compare myself to them.
It never happened. Mother did not care for music of any sort. She said it put her nerves on edge. Father entertained clients and fellow businessmen at home very often, and their entertainment was provided by geisha, lovely, elegant women who arrived in a whisper of silk kimono, their gaze fixed to their feet until they were spoken to, when they dared to raise an adoring glance at the man they were flattering.
I loved to see these women from the great outside world arriving. I kneeled as silently as I could and pressed my face to the silken shoji of the reception room, hoping that I would not be noticed. I never was, but I was so afraid of being discovered that I dared not linger for more than a moment.
In any event, none of the geisha ever played the biwa. Some of them danced and sang, but the accompaniment was always a samisen. I liked samisen music well enough, but to me it was not nearly as fine as the music my biwa called forth.
Other than my playing on my biwa, I spent my days as free as any wild thing. I had my pony. I only had to ask and a groom would saddle her for me and bring her to the house, and then I could ride for as long as I liked. Our estate was very large—although, as I had nothing to compare it with, this never seemed a privilege to me—and no matter how far I rode, I never came to the end of it. When I was hungry, I turned and went home. There were always good things to eat in the kitchen any time of day.
If the weather was pleasant, I liked to sit on a bench in the garden, simply listening to the birds sing around me.
Other than that? There was nothing. I was a girl, so there was no point in employing a tutor to teach me to read or write. Father’s apartment contained many books, and I loved to take them down and look at them, even though the kanji meant nothing to me. I thought their shapes beautiful and I just imagined what they said.
Even though I knew that Father would have no time for such fanciful things, I used to weave tales to myself about what the books actually contained so that the dreariest of accounting ledgers became things of great splendor and joy to my innocent mind.
Although I could not put it into words at the time, I was hungry. I was an empty vessel, waiting to be filled by knowledge. I had everything that money could provide. Yet, at the same time, I felt I had nothing. I longed for something to come into my life without knowing what that something might be. I was truly the proverbial frog in the well, someone who knows nothing of the sea and thinks his own confined space is the whole world.
Until the day Father took me to his place of business—and the real world opened for me.