Something Like an Autobiography - Akira Kurosawa [23]
One day when I was in primary school my father took me and my sisters to the Toyama Army Academy. We sat in a bowl-shaped amphitheater that had grass-covered step benches. In the round clearing at the bottom a military band gave a concert.
As I look back on it now, it seems a very Meiji-era scene. The band members wore red trousers; the brass instruments glittered in the sunlight; the azaleas were in brilliant bloom around the garden; the ladies sported bright-colored parasols; and your feet couldn’t help tapping along with the melody the woodwinds played. Perhaps because I was just a child, I didn’t perceive the slightest specter of our dark militarism.
By the end of the Taishō era, in 1926, popular songs had become gloomy, full of glorification of despair. Some of them were “I Am But a Withered Pampas Grass in the Riverbed,” “Floating Downstream” and “When Evening Darkness Closes In.”
The sounds I used to listen to as a boy are completely different from those of today. First of all, there was no such thing as electric sound in those days. Even phonographs were not electric phonographs. Everything was natural sounds. Among these natural sounds were many that are lost forever. I will try to recall some of them.
The resounding “boom” of midday. This was the sound of the cannon at the Kudan Ushi-ga-fuchi army barracks, which fired a blank each day precisely at noon.
The fire-alarm bell. The sound of the fire-watchman’s wooden clappers. The sound of his voice and the drumbeats when he informed the neighborhood of the location of a fire.
The tōfu seller’s bugle. The whistle of the tobacco-pipe repairman. The sound of the lock on the hard-candy vendor’s chest of drawers. The tinkle of the wind-chime seller’s wares. The drumbeats of the man who repaired the thongs of wooden clogs. The bells of itinerant monks chanting sutras. The candy seller’s drum. The fire-truck bell. The big drum for the lion dance. The monkey trainer’s drum. The drum for temple services. The freshwater-clam vendor. The natto fermented-bean seller. The hot-red-pepper vendor. The goldfish vendor. The man who sold bamboo clothesline poles. The seedling vendor. The nighttime noodle vendor. The oden (dumplings-and-broth) vendor. The baked-sweet-potato vendor. The scissors grinder. The tinker. The morning-glory seller. The fishmonger. The sardine vendor. The boiled-bean seller. The insect vendor: “Magotaro bugs!” The humming of kite strings. The click of battledore and shuttlecock. Songs you sing while bouncing a ball. Children’s songs.
These lost sounds are all impossible to separate from my boyhood memories. And all are related to the seasons. They are cold, warm, hot or cool sounds. And they are allied with many different kinds of feelings. Happy sounds, lonely sounds, sad sounds and fearful sounds. I hate fires, so the sound of the fire alarm and the fire-watchman’s voice and drum shouting out the location of the fire were sounds that struck me with terror. “Bong, bong! Fire in Kanda district, Jinbōchō’.” At such noises I burrowed down under the covers and tried to make myself small.
During my “Konbeto-san” period I was awakened once in the middle of the night by my sister. “Akira, there is a fire. Hurry and get dressed.” Scurrying to pull on my kimono, I ran out to the entry, where I saw the house directly across from our gate in a mass of bright red flames. After that, I remember nothing.
When I became aware of my surroundings again, I found myself walking alone on Kagurazaka hill. I rushed home and found the fire had been put out, but the policeman guarding the emergency demarcation lines for the fire area wouldn’t let me through. When I pointed to the other side and said, “My house is over there,” he looked at me in surprise and let me pass.
As soon as I came into the house, my father’s wrath descended on me like thunder. Since I did not understand what had happened, we asked my sister. Apparently I had run away as soon