and new. Again and again we do this. Because of these sheddings, there is no sequence. You are a child and then a dried, wrinkled old woman, then a child again, then worn to ancientness, and then once again renewed. Your life can move two ways at once, as you grow old and grow young, folding back on itself and running alongside in the opposite direction. The snake may look as if it is not moving, but it is. All parts of it are equal. All parts of it are present. Life seems flat, ordinary. But a few moments of your childhood, or a few days, will be imprinted and stay with you in every detail, every year, reappearing in that new skin or lasting in that old skin, forever.
Sometimes the world or time itself goes quiet in honor of some change of state. This was the case now; it was the beginning of the end of my childhood. Dawn waited as we walked. I looked back. My father did not.
10.
To the Sea
F OR TWO HOURS after we said good-bye to Shino, my father and I walked in silence toward the eastern edge of Edo. Then we came to the jailhouse at Nihonbashi, surrounded by its moat and thick wall. The wall was topped with metal spikes that pointed inward. It was as if some entertainment was to take place there; families and friends of prisoners were lined up by the gate, and vendors sold rice balls and tea.
“Such a popular place. Look at everyone trying to get in,” said Hokusai.
Over the walls we heard bravado shouts, like the ones you heard outside the Kabuki theater from actor-warriors. This was correct behavior. No one cried in pain, although there were muffled thumps. No one screamed in fear when led away. Everyone knew that.
We stood in the line and asked to see Utamaro. I was feeling fear, that forbidden thing. My father was not so brave either, but he was angry, which gave him strength. He was right, and Shino, Sanba, and the others were wrong: no one was looking for Hokusai here; the bakufu weren’t interested in him. Not yet. They had the famous one. We were able to talk to him, on the other side of the high window in the holding cell. We brought the money that the others had collected.
“Are you there?” said my father. “How are you?”
“How do you think?” came the outraged voice. “The cell is cold and airless, and it stinks. This place is full of criminals.”
“Well, it’s a jail,” said Hokusai.
“I never imagined. They charge you money for everything, even for a little space to sit, even to move away from the piles of shit.”
“We gave money to the outcast in your name.”
He grunted.
“You will get out.”
Then Utamaro said, “The only things that escape from prison, besides farts, are tears.”
We laughed and nodded, unseen by Utamaro, on the other side of the wall. This too was appropriate behavior under the circumstances: to make a joke.
Utamaro went on, “There’s nothing of beauty here.”
“Ah,” said my father, “I am sorry.” I suspect he felt pity then, that other emotion we were not allowed because it took away from the pride of the one who was pitied. I stifled mine. But it was strange to hear Utamaro talking that way, his voice fluting up from the cesspool on the other side of the wall.
“Don’t be sorry. In a strange way it is restful. There is nothing I care about.”
“People say you’ll be released before long. You’re being made an example of, that is what they say.’’
“Of course, it’s what I expected. I am the best.”
“Yes,” my father agreed. “You are the best.”
“They will punish me so the rest of the artists can see. Probably I will have to live on as an example of one who has been dealt with.”
My father and I walked on. He held me by the hand. “We’re getting out of here. We’re going to the sea,” he said.
We came to the Punishment Grounds on the edge of town. The smell of death hung over them. The tattered bodies on stakes were not recognizable as human anymore. One had been pulled down by the dogs that gathered here;
Sometimes the world or time itself goes quiet in honor of some change of state. This was the case now; it was the beginning of the end of my childhood. Dawn waited as we walked. I looked back. My father did not.
10.
To the Sea
F OR TWO HOURS after we said good-bye to Shino, my father and I walked in silence toward the eastern edge of Edo. Then we came to the jailhouse at Nihonbashi, surrounded by its moat and thick wall. The wall was topped with metal spikes that pointed inward. It was as if some entertainment was to take place there; families and friends of prisoners were lined up by the gate, and vendors sold rice balls and tea.
“Such a popular place. Look at everyone trying to get in,” said Hokusai.
Over the walls we heard bravado shouts, like the ones you heard outside the Kabuki theater from actor-warriors. This was correct behavior. No one cried in pain, although there were muffled thumps. No one screamed in fear when led away. Everyone knew that.
We stood in the line and asked to see Utamaro. I was feeling fear, that forbidden thing. My father was not so brave either, but he was angry, which gave him strength. He was right, and Shino, Sanba, and the others were wrong: no one was looking for Hokusai here; the bakufu weren’t interested in him. Not yet. They had the famous one. We were able to talk to him, on the other side of the high window in the holding cell. We brought the money that the others had collected.
“Are you there?” said my father. “How are you?”
“How do you think?” came the outraged voice. “The cell is cold and airless, and it stinks. This place is full of criminals.”
“Well, it’s a jail,” said Hokusai.
“I never imagined. They charge you money for everything, even for a little space to sit, even to move away from the piles of shit.”
“We gave money to the outcast in your name.”
He grunted.
“You will get out.”
Then Utamaro said, “The only things that escape from prison, besides farts, are tears.”
We laughed and nodded, unseen by Utamaro, on the other side of the wall. This too was appropriate behavior under the circumstances: to make a joke.
Utamaro went on, “There’s nothing of beauty here.”
“Ah,” said my father, “I am sorry.” I suspect he felt pity then, that other emotion we were not allowed because it took away from the pride of the one who was pitied. I stifled mine. But it was strange to hear Utamaro talking that way, his voice fluting up from the cesspool on the other side of the wall.
“Don’t be sorry. In a strange way it is restful. There is nothing I care about.”
“People say you’ll be released before long. You’re being made an example of, that is what they say.’’
“Of course, it’s what I expected. I am the best.”
“Yes,” my father agreed. “You are the best.”
“They will punish me so the rest of the artists can see. Probably I will have to live on as an example of one who has been dealt with.”
My father and I walked on. He held me by the hand. “We’re getting out of here. We’re going to the sea,” he said.
We came to the Punishment Grounds on the edge of town. The smell of death hung over them. The tattered bodies on stakes were not recognizable as human anymore. One had been pulled down by the dogs that gathered here;
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