Something Like an Autobiography - Akira Kurosawa [44]
The Togashi estate did not occupy a very big piece of land, but the house was an exceptionally large one and surrounded by a moat. Carved wooden sumo wrestlers supported the ridgepole, supposedly the work of the legendary early modern architect-sculptor Hidari Jingoro. Of course, any wood sculpture that looks like anything at all is attributed to Hidari Jingoro, so I can’t tell if these wrestlers were really his work or not. There is also supposed to be a short sword in the Togashi household that is the work of the master swordmaker of the thirteenth century, Okazaki Masamune, but I have not yet seen it. In any event, you could judge the social standing of the household by looking at the construction of the house. For me it was much more a case of sensing the social standing of the household by observing my aunt’s behavior.
My Aunt Togashi had a truly awe-inspiring presence, a majesty powerful enough to wither those around her. But she was affectionate toward me, and I in turn had a special liking for her. When she came to visit my father in Tokyo, he behaved with extreme courtesy. And we would often have eel for dinner. This dish was terribly expensive at the time, so we hardly ever ate it. But my aunt always left half of her portion neatly untouched. Then, calling “Akira,” she gave it to me.
Whenever she went visiting, I accompanied her. She was at that time already very advanced in age, and she wore her white hair cut short around a face that still showed teeth blackened in the traditional way for married women of the feudal era. She looked something like one of the magical little old men of the Noh drama. When we went out, she wore a kimono overcoat and put her hands inside her sleeves as she walked. I don’t mean she had her arms folded together inside her sleeves in some lazy or sneaky fashion, but rather that she grasped the ends of the sleeves with her hands from the inside, and she pulled the sleeves out straight to the side as she walked. So she looked something like a chicken or a heron spreading its wings to take off in flight. Passers-by would always stare at her in surprise. I felt a little embarrassed as I accompanied her, but it was a special kind of feeling.
My aunt never talked while we walked along. But when we arrived at the house where she was going visiting, she would turn to me and hand me a fifty-sen piece wrapped in paper and say, “Saraba,” a northern dialect word for “goodbye.” At that time fifty sen was a huge amount of money for a child. But it wasn’t for the money that I enjoyed escorting my aunt. It was because that word “saraba” had a charm that sent shivers down my spine. In my aunt’s way of saying it there was a great store of implicit warmth and kindness.
Aunt Togashi should have lived, judging by her general physical condition, to be about a hundred and ten years old. But a stupid doctor had a theory about extending her life span even longer by making her eat strange things like pine wood and tree roots. Because of this she died without even reaching the age of ninety.
When she was on her deathbed, I went a little in advance of my father to be his representative in case she died before he got there. My aunt lay quietly as I sat near her pillow, and then she said to me, “Akira? Pain. Your father?” I explained that my father had been slightly detained and had sent me ahead, but that he was on his way. I left the room. But she called me back again and again to say, “Akira, has he come yet?” Finally my father arrived from Tokyo, and I was already on my way back. A few days later my aunt died.
For my part, I cannot forgive that doctor who made her eat those strange things. I’d like to stuff his mouth with pine needles.
The Sapling
ORDINARILY, children are supposed to spend their childhood like saplings sheltered in a greenhouse. Even if