Light and dark

[23]

“MAKOTO, THOSE are swell shoes. Really!”

“But nobody wears this color.”

“The color doesn’t matter; who else has shoes his own father has dyed for him? You should be grateful and take good care of them.”

“But the fellows all make fun of me — they call them shaggy dog fur.”

Uncle Fujii and the fur of a shaggy dog — connecting the words resulted in a new amusement. But this joke was accompanied by a certain poignancy.

“It’s not doggy fur; take your uncle’s word for that. They’re fine, they’re not shaggy dog, they’re outstanding—”

Tsuda faltered, groping for a word to pair with “outstanding.” Makoto wasn’t one to leave this hanging.

“Outstanding what?”

“Well, outstanding — footwear.”

If his wallet permitted it, Tsuda would like to have bought Makoto the leather lace-ups he wanted. He felt this would serve as partial repayment of his obligation to Uncle Fujii for his solicitude. He essayed a mental tally of the money in his billfold. But at this time he hadn’t the leeway to make an accommodation of this size. It would be different, he thought, if a money order should arrive from Kyoto, but to tighten the vice that held him before he knew for certain whether it would arrive at all would be a demonstration of generosity he couldn’t imagine anyone expected of him under the circumstances.

“Makoto. If you want leather shoes so badly, ask Auntie Nobu to buy them for you when you’re at our house. I’m low on cash right now, so I’m hoping you’ll give me a break on what I spend on you this time.”

Tsuda strolled along the broad street leading Makoto by the hand, as if to cajole him, and again, as if to console him. The street led directly to the end of the trolley line, and the ceaseless traffic of shoes and clogs as pedestrians tramped to and from the station had transformed it over the past four or five years into a burgeoning high street. On display in the show windows here and there was a gorgeous array of merchandise that could not be categorically ridiculed as edge-of-town items. Makoto dashed back and forth across the street, standing in front of a Korean candy store one minute and returning to this side the next to pause beneath the eaves of a goldfish shop. Each time he sprinted away there was a clinking of the marbles in his pocket.

“I won all these at school today.”

Thrusting one hand inside his pocket, he showed Tsuda a palm full of marbles. When the pale blue and purple spheres spilled as though cascading from his hand and scattered into the center of the road, he chased after them frantically. Looking over his shoulder, he petitioned Tsuda’s help with a shout.

In the end Tsuda was dragged into a toy store by this dizzying child of his uncle’s and required to buy him an air gun for one yen, fifty sen.

“You can shoot sparrows, but you mustn’t aim at people.”

“I couldn’t shoot a sparrow with a cheap air gun like this.”

“Only because you’re a lousy shot — if your aim is bad you won’t hit anything whatever gun you use.”

“Then will you shoot a sparrow for me? When we get home?” It seemed clear to Tsuda that he would be pressed to make good on any promise he recklessly offered, so he said something vague and changed the subject. Makoto reeled off a string of names unknown to him — Toda, Shibuya, Sakaguchi — and began critiquing his friends one after the other.

“That Okamoto is no fair. He gets them to buy him three pairs of shoes.”

The conversation returned to shoes. The Okamoto boy whom Makoto was criticizing was the son of a family with a deep connection to O-Nobu. Tsuda reflected in silence on a comparison of the two children.