Single Frames

Mark Wollacott

Single Frames

Skoll Books

EBOOK EDITION

Copyright © 2018 by Mark Wollacott

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988 to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Published by Mark Wollacott.

Website:

Markwollacott.org

Book design by Mark Wollacott

Cover Photo by Tomomi Moriguchi

Contents

Night Drum

The Naked Island

Floating Weeds

Woman of Tokyo

Rashomon

The Face of Another

Will to Live

Early Spring

Record of a Living Being

Pale Flower

A Japanese Tragedy

Violence at Noon

The Glory of Life

Tricky Girl

Ugetsu

The Broken Drum

Moving

Afterword

Night Drum

Yoru no Tsuzumi

The message came down the valley from his mother. A child of the village delivered it to him. He did not know how long it had been going on.

Your wife is at Imai’s house, should go there.

So the husband put on his outside kimono and rope sandals, then rushed down the valley to the house of his childhood friend. When he arrived, all he heard was his wife playing the biwa; the way she would with Imai’s sister.

That night she cooked him egg noodles and river fish.

Another day, a second message came from his mother via a different child.

Your wife is in the woods with Imai, you should see her.

So again the husband rushed out of the house and this time went up the valley slope to the woods. There he found Imai bathing in a hot pool surrounded by moss-covered stones. Autumn leaves covered the surface of the water like a multi-hued carpet. A single bubble broke the surface and in the distance he heard a lone biwa.

He did not stay long with his friend and that night his wife cooked chicken and rice for him.

Once again, a letter arrived from the husband’s mother. Again it was delivered by a different child; each older than the previous.

Your wife has gone to the mountain shrine with Imai. You should see her.

Winter’s blanket now covered the land of the valley. Rivers were pregnant with snow-water and trees with their frozen blossoms. Halfway up the mountain he took a side path to an old Shinto shrine, long disused in favour of the Buddhist temple lower down the valley. There he heard two lovers’ sounds near the shrine and did not step closer. The sounds were accompanied by a biwa echoing through the trees.

When he got home, a letter waited for him from his mother.

You must do the right thing.

He waited until the evening. This time his wife cooked rice, grilled fish and miso soup. After he drained the last of the soup and ate a strip of wakame that had adhered itself to the side of the bowl, a drum sounded in the distance, just a single strike. He killed his wife with his hands.

The next morning a messenger arrived from his mother down in the valley.

Imai is in the woods again, waiting. You must do the right thing.

Once more, the husband rushed to the woods, but this time he took his swords, the katana and the wakizashi. Imai sat in the pool again, but this time the pool had been carpeted in a blanket of cherry blossom, fallen early after a storm. In the distance he heard a single drum strike. A bubble broke the surface. The husband ran Imai through with his sword.

Looking over the body of his best friend in the pool, the waters darkened but the petals remained unchanged. The husband cleaned his sword with Imai’s sake.

Society is satisfied, but my life has been destroyed.

Before sunset, a girl not yet sixteen put away the drum she played for the temple and took a note from an old woman in the village. Each day she practised the drum for her father, the priest. In order to not disturb the villagers, she learned the drum with patience and quietness. She did this by learning to tense her muscles at the last moment of the strike, so the wooden drumstick hit the skin with the minimal sound. Only those in the room with her would hear it if they concentrated. Every once in a while, her discipline would break and she would hit the drum with full force.

The girl went to the samurai’s house first. On finding it empty, she climbed the steps to the rock pool. There she found the bodies of two men; one in the pool and one beside it. Not knowing what to do, she opened the note from the husband’s mother.

This wife will suit you well, and unlike the other, will bear you children.

The Naked Island

Hadaka no Shima

Ladies and gentlemen, the man hung up

After a long pause, the wife put down the receiver and looked around her sitting room. Only now did her room take on the emptiness and quietness which had been present in the background for twenty-eight years. The room had not changed in those years.

In her mind, she divided her belongings into those that were hers, were his and those given to them together on their wedding night. Not for the first time, she imagined the children they never had.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, the wife put on her summer coat even though it was winter – the colour seemed appropriate. It matched the colour of the sky outside while her bare feet matched the snow below.

This winter, the snow felt heavier in the city than usual. As she left the house and turned left, for no other reason than turning right felt wrong, she noticed the clinging depth of the snow. Normally her city got a dusting with all the real snow being saved for the mountains that surrounded it on three sides, but this year heavy snow-clouds were pushed down south so the whole of Kansai felt like Hokkaido in winter.

If she had been placed in any city, it would have looked pretty much the same as this one. All the buildings looking the same, while at the same time showing small differences. Cables ran overhead and deep gutters ran either side of the road. Metal plates covered some of the gutters so cars could drive in and out of short drive ways or into garages. Some of the older houses had stone covers instead.

Every turning she took, left or right, seemed like a random decision on the spur of the moment, yet at the same time she realized her subconscious was driving her to a particular destination. Having worked as a delivery girl for many years, the city contained no real surprises for her anymore.

Some roads would end suddenly and others would flare out for a brief spell into dual carriage ways before turning back into narrow old streets. Even though it was quiet out and she saw not another soul, she kept to the white painted line that divided the road from the sidewalk. She waited at the crossings until the green man with the hat let her cross. On that night, she felt like keeping to the letter of the law; vague to some and as flexible as a Tokyo tower block to others, but tonight those laws felt crystal clear.

Her feet took her to a road that ran up the side of a small hill. On the one side was a concrete cliff with houses perched on the edge above it. Every ten metres the workmen had added a groove so water could be channelled down the hill side and into the gutter, but in reality when it rained, the water would run where it pleased down the hillside.

The other side of the road overlooked another concrete cliff. This time it led down to a small farm plot. Now she sat on the edge and dangled her feet over the fields below like she had done decades before with her school friends. They’d gone there each day after school in the hope of catching a glimpse of Sekikawa-kun changing. They called it fishing, but never got a bite and never would.

Sekikawa’s family still lived in the same apartment and as before, they left the curtains open to their living room. The lights gave the Sekikawa apartment a warm glow as the now aged and frail parents sat around the kotatsu with a pot of tea while watching TV.

A few moments later, Mrs. Sekikawa got up and answered the telephone. She spoke a little then nodded and bowed before putting the phone down and looking around the apartment.

Snow began to fall afresh around the wife as she watched Mr. Sekikawa draw himself up, wobbly on his feet, and walk over to a cupboard. After a moment he took down a bottle of vintage nihonshu, still in its wrapper and three porcelain shot-sized drinking cups. They took the small cups and filled each one with the sake and then drank two of them before refilling and downing them as well.

She sat, looking at her bluing feet, unsure what to do next. Her journey had come to an end.

Instead, she took out a photograph of her husband. She kept one passport size photo in each of her coats and jackets, and in each of her purses and handbags, so he was always close to her. This one was of him, aged seventeen, seven years before it happened. He’d been the second best batter in their