Coldmoon when next he pays a visit. I don’t suppose he’s heard about it yet. Or do you think he has?”
“Probably not, since he spends his entire time polishing little glass beads at the university.”
“I wonder if Mr. Coldmoon really intends to marry that girl. Poor man!”
“Why? With all her money she’ll be of real help to him on some rainy day in the future. So why should you think he’s doing badly?”
“Auntie, you are so vulgar, always talking about money, money, money. Surely love is more important than money. Without love no real relation between husband and wife is possible.”
“Indeed? Then tell me, Yukie, what sort of man do you intend to marry?”
“How should I know? I’ve no one in mind.”
Though she had hardly understood a word of what was being said, my master’s eldest daughter had listened attentively while her mother and Cousin Yukie launched out upon their earnest discussion of the question of marriage. But suddenly, out of the blue, the little girl opened her mouth. “I,” she announced, “would also like to get married.” Though Yukie is herself so brimming with youthful ardor that she could well be expected to sympathize with Tonko’s feelings, she was in fact struck dumb by such reckless lust. Mrs. Sneaze, however, took it all in her stride and, smiling at her daughter, simply asked, “To whom?”
“Well, shall I tell you? I want to marry Yasukuni Shrine. But I don’t like crossing Suido- Bridge, so I’m wondering what to do.”
Both Mrs. Sneaze and Yukie were distinctly taken aback by this unexpected declaration of an ambition to marry the shrine dedicated to the departed spirits of those who’d fallen in war for the sake of the father-land. Words failed them, and all they could do was shake with laughter.
They were still laughing when the second daughter said to her eldest sister. “So you’d like to marry Yasukuni Shrine? Well, so would I. I’d love it. Let’s both do just that. Come on. No? All right then, if you won’t join me, I’ll take a rickshaw and go get married by myself ”
“Babu go, too,” piped up the smallest of my master’s daughters.
Indeed, such a triple marrying-off would suit him very well.
At that moment there came the sound of a rickshaw stopping in front of the house, followed by the lively voice of a rickshawman announcing the arrival of my master. It would seem he has got back safely from the police station. Leaving the rickshawman to hand over a large parcel to the maid, my master came into the living room with an air of perfect composure. Greeting his niece with a friendly, “Ah, so there you are,” he flung down beside the family’s famous oblong brazier some bottle shaped object he’d brought back. An object of that shape is not necessarily a bottle, and it certainly doesn’t look much like a vase. Being so odd a specimen of earthenware, for the time being I’ll content myself with calling it a bottle shaped object.
“What a peculiar bottle! Did you bring it back from the police station?” asks Yukie, as she stands it up on its base.
Glancing at his niece, my master proudly comments, “Isn’t it a beautiful shape?”
“A beautiful shape? That thing? I don’t think it beautiful at all. What ever made you bring home such an awful oil jar?”
“How could this treasure possibly be an oil jar! What a vulgar comment! You’re hopeless.”
“What is it then?”
“A vase.”
“For a vase, its mouth is too small and its body far too wide.”
“That’s exactly why it’s so remarkable. You have absolutely no artistic taste. Almost as bad as your aunt.” Holding the oil jar up toward the paper-window, he stands and gazes at it.
“So, I have no artistic sense. I see. I certainly wouldn’t come home from a police station bearing an oil jar as a present. Auntie, what do you think?”
Her aunt is far too engrossed to be bothered. She has opened the parcel and is now frantically checking the goods.
“Gracious me! Burglars seem to be making progress. All these things have been washed and ironed. Just look, dear,” she says.
“Who said I was given an oil jar at the police station? The fact is that I got so bored with waiting that I went out for a walk and, while I was walking, I saw this splendid vessel in a shop and picked it up for a song.
You, of course, wouldn’t see it, but it’s a rare object.”
“It’s too rare. And tell me, where was it that you walked about?”
“Where? Around Nihon-zutsumi, of course. I also visited Yoshiwara.
It’s quite a lively place, that. Have you ever seen the iron gate? I bet you haven’t.”
“Nothing would ever induce me to go and look at it. I have no cause to traipse around a brothel area like Yoshiwara. How could you, a teacher, go to such a place? I am deeply shocked. What d’you say, Auntie? Auntie!”
“Yes, dear. I rather think there’s something missing. Is this the lot?”
“The only item missing is the yams. They instructed me to be there by nine o’clock and then they kept me waiting until eleven. It’s outrageous. The Japanese police are plainly no good at all.”
“The Japanese police may be no good, but trotting about in Yoshiwara is very decidedly worse. If you’re found out, you’ll get the sack. Won’t he, Auntie?”
“Yes, probably. My dear,” she went on turning to her husband, “the lining of my obi is gone. I knew there was something missing.”
“What’s so serious about an obi lining? Just forget it. Think about me.
For three long hours they kept me waiting. A whole half-day of my precious time completely wasted.” My master has now changed into Japanese clothes and, leaning against the brazier, sits and gawps entrancedly at his ghastly oil jar. His wife, recovering rapidly from her loss, replaces the returned articles in a cupboard and comes back to her seat.
“Auntie,” says the persistent Yukie, “he says this oil jar is a rare object.
Don’t you think it dirty?”
“You bought that thing in Yoshiwara? Really!”
“What do you mean by ‘Really!’? As if you understand anything!”
“But surely, a jar like that! You could find one anywhere without cavorting off to Yoshiwara.”
“That’s just where you’re wrong. This isn’t an object you could find any where.”
“Uncle does take after that stone Jizō, doesn’t he?”
“None of your cheek, now. The trouble with college girls today is their far too saucy tongues. You’d do better to spend time reading the Proper Conduct of a Woman.”
“Uncle, it’s a fact, isn’t it, that you don’t like insurance policies? But tell me, which do you dislike more, college girls or insurance policies?”
“I do not dislike insurance policies. Insurance is a necessary thing.
Anyone who gives even half a thought to the future is bound to take out a policy. But college girls are good-for-nothings.”
“I don’t care if I am a good-for-nothing. But you can talk! You aren’t even insured!”
“As of next month, I shall be.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t. It’s silly to get insured. It would be much better to spend the premium money on something else. Don’t you agree, Auntie?”