Emma Sweeney studied English at
St Catharine's College, Cambridge University and Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia. Her teaching
and writing career has taken her to Ireland, South East Asia, Japan and India but she is now based in London.
As well as her position as Writer-in-Residence at New York University's London site, she also runs creative writing
programs at Cambridge University, the Open University and Foundation for International Education. Emma has won various
prizes for her first novel, including an Arts Council Writer's Award, a Royal Literary Fund Bursary, and writer's residencies
in Cambridge, Dublin and Barcelona.
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My teacher kneels opposite me. The blue
and white sleeves of Yoshimoto-sensei’s dressing gown hang in tented folds as he cleans each finger one by one.
He then twists his hand-towel, tying it in a decorative knot. It resembles the obi tied around the waist of our
waitress. She crouches as she carries crockery into our room: small ceramic dishes, lacquered trays, large wooden
bowls. I’ve read of traditional Japanese inns where guests are served meals in their bedrooms. But I’ve never
before stayed in one of these ryokan.
Yoshimoto-sensei gazes through the open screens that divide our rooms. I’m glad I
folded my futon before leaving this morning for the inaugural lecture of my teacher’s tour. The cupboard door
stands ajar, revealing the dark suit I’d bought especially for this trip. I would no longer need it.
The stew begins to simmer in the bowl above the blue-petalled flames. I pour
Yoshimoto-sensei’s saké, while the waitress turns down the heat on the tabletop stove. My teacher’s hand
trembles as he holds his clay cup a touch beneath the rim of the saké jug. The warm liquid ripples over an
image painted on the inside of the cup. I suddenly realise that all the crockery and furniture is decorated with
replicas of Yoshimoto-sensei’s illustrations. I hadn’t expected him still to attract such attention. I knew he
was once Kyoto’s most celebrated artist but I thought of him as a forgotten legend who fell victim to the
Japanese obsession with Western art.
The image inside the saké cup resembles his most famous work. Kyoto National Gallery
had first displayed this painting ten years ago to celebrate my teacher’s appointment as a Living National Treasure.
The illustration showed Prince Genji teaching a young woman to play the koto. They sat facing each other, separated
only by the stringed instrument. I’ve seen many illustrations of this scene, but Yoshimoto-sensei’s differed from
the rest. A sense of eroticism shot through the veneer of restraint: the closeness of their bodies, the diaphanous
curtains, the impression of deep pinks and violets conveyed with only black ink. Although this painting is recognised
as one of the finest illustrations of The Tale of Genji, the gallery has now placed it in storage.
As Yoshimoto-sensei pours my saké, his hand brushes against mine. The warmth of his
skin seeps into me with the scent of worn leather. I want to show him that I understand the hurtfulness of what
happened today at the university, the humiliation of having to cancel the rest of his lecture tour. My body tilts
towards him as I lean over the table. Yet I do not touch him. Instead, I ladle spoonfuls of stew from the nabé pot,
taking care to serve him plenty of quails eggs and hunks of fish along with sweet potato, strings of white mushrooms
and ribbons of seaweed. My hand slowly pours the mixture so that fish-stock doesn’t drip down the edge of the dish.
We silently hold our bowls beneath our chins, scooping the nabé with miniature ladles.
Now and then, we glance at each other over the steamy rims. The waitress had filled our lacquered trays with smoked
slithers of wild boar, seared tuna, pickled shavings of ginger, a cube of sweet tofu. I imagine photographing the
tray, creating delicate shots of Japanese food. I glance through the open screens towards my bedroom. My camera sits
on top of my suitcase. Yoshimoto-sensei would watch with disdain if I focused my Nikon on the food. The thought of
his disapproval unsettles me. Besides, it does seem crass to interrupt our meal. We raise and lower our chopsticks
in synchrony, him with his right hand and me with my left. I hear the quiet crunch of the pickled ginger breaking
between his teeth; I see the movement in his throat as he swallows the fish.
As he eats, his yukata loosens. I’d wound my own waistband firmly beneath my breasts,
fiddling with the fabric so that it dips at my neck yet lies secure across my bust. He catches me noticing the fine,
grey hairs of his chest. His left hand methodically tightens his dressing gown without disrupting the rhythm of his
right hand, lifting and dipping his chopsticks.
He no longer looks at me. Instead, he gazes through the window at the distant mountains
freckled with blossom. I stare at Yoshimoto-sensei’s eyes, which do not see me. The brightness of his chestnut irises
contrast with the yellowing film of his eyeballs. Even in the silence of the empty lecture theatre he had held his
spine with the straightness of the tai-chi practitioners who exercise early each morning in Arashiyama Park. But now
his shoulders sag. I wonder if he recollects past times with his favourite ex-student, or whether he turns over the
events of today.
When we arrived at Doshisha Univerisity this morning, crowds had already gathered.
The car engine hushed as we pulled up at the kerbside. More and more people approached from nearby restaurants and
shops. I’d felt excited to arrive in a car with a master artist. As the door of the taxi automatically opened,
Yoshimoto-sensei did not look up at the crowds. Nobody had cheered or bowed as he stepped from the car. I’d followed,
clutching my skirt and trying to remember how ladies should manoeuvre their legs. As we approached, he gazed above
the heads of the crowd. The barricade of people did not part to let us through.
| "As Yoshimoto-sensei pours my saké, his hand brushes against mine.
The warmth of his skin seeps into me with the scent of worn leather. I want to show him that I understand the
hurtfulness of what happened today at the university, the humiliation of having to cancel the rest of his lecture
tour. My body tilts towards him as I lean over the table. Yet I do not touch him. " |
I noticed Yoshimoto-sensei’s hand slapping down the unbuckled cover of his satchel.
His fingers twitched at the leather flap.
A vaguely familiar man had stepped forward, holding a painting to his chest. I’d
recognised his small round glasses, the delicate set of his features and the bowl cut of his hair but could not
place him. He stood a few inches shorter than Yoshimoto-sensei; his shoulders looked less broad. The younger man
had stood so close that my teacher could have felt the man’s breath on his face.
I realise now why I’d recognized this man: he was Yoshimoto-sensei’s favourite ex-student.
Yoshimoto-sensei had knelt on the pavement, prostrating himself at the feet of the
man he’d trained. I heard myself gasp. As Yoshimoto-sensei lifted himself, he’d held up his name-stamp and paintbrush,
begging his ex-student to take them.
The younger man had paused, raising his eyebrows to the crowd. He had lifted his painting
above his head and repeated the word petenshi. As the crowd joined in with his chant, I’d remembered that petenshi is
the Japanese for fraud.
The painting did look very similar to the work Yoshimoto-sensei had exhibited at Kyoto
National Gallery but in this piece, a modern-day Japanese teenager sat opposite the elderly man. This painting lacked
the subtlety of my teacher’s work, the deftness of his play with light. In this man’s work the young girl looked like
an impostor in Genji’s courtly world.
The younger artist had looked down on Yoshimoto-sensei for a moment. Then he’d spat on
my teacher’s cowed head. A globule of saliva had trickled down Yoshimoto-sensei’s face. I’d flinched as the moist
spray slid across my palm.
A sigh trickles from Yoshimoto-sensei’s mouth before he can swallow it, seeping
into the brittle silence of this ryokan room. Pressure to speak collides in the space between us. He wills me
to formulate a phrase, anything to hold off the recognition that we have nothing to say. His saké-laced breath
clings to the nape of my neck, hot and sticky. In the past, I had always slackened the tension; part of my role
as student, I’d thought.
I want to ask if his ex-student’s claim is true. Had Yoshimto-sensei really copied
his work, and then passed it off as his own? Would Yoshimoto-sensei care that I preferred his subtlety to his
ex-student’s brash style?
Yoshimoto-sensei’s eyes falteringly focus on mine. The creased skin beneath them
slacken as he slowly nods towards me. His silver hair has thinned a little at the crown. As he lifts his head,
I think I see the edges of his lips tremor with a watery smile. I mirror his half-gestures, hesitant to reveal
myself with fully formed movements in case I’ve misread him.
‘Lucy-san,’ whispers Yoshimoto-sensei. He has never before spoken to me with such
familiarity, nor smiled on me with such warmth. I look at him questioningly, reluctant to reciprocate in case his
friendliness veils derision. He points at my art case, propped against the cupboard door in my side of the room.
My case contains my latest illustration. It shows a woman and her husband eating
together while he convalesces. A screened lamp dimly lights the figures. I had painted the dark room with an ink
sodden brush, the rippled shadows of the couple with leftover tints. In the dappled effect of the lamplight, I
had conveyed the couple’s longing for each other after time apart, their tenderness and their regrets.
Yoshimoto-sensei had approved of my choice of scene. He had inspected some of my preliminary sketches and
guided me through exercises to help me represent shadow and light. But he had not yet seen the final painting,
which I had completed alone in my flat.
I hesitate before rolling back onto my pins-and-needles prickled feet. I’d still
not trained my body to sit in seiza. My teacher kneels at the table, watching me ruefully. Stray words of comfort
drift through my mind, some English and some Japanese: don’t worry, daijobu, zannen deshita, everything’s going to
be fine. Yet none of the phrases quite work.
I fumble as I unzip my art case, remembering my first lesson with Yoshimoto-sensei:
I had thrust my arms forward, holding out my illustration before I could change my mind. He had looked at me, unblinking,
as he slowly tore the paper along a perfect line.
I will calmness to stretch through my trembling hands. I had worked so hard on this
painting; it marks my only success in Japan.
The painting rests in my hands. I stand on the patch of floor where I’d laid my futon
last night. The room blurs as my eyes
| "I sense that touch or sound might provoke an outburst. Each breath
clutches and swells inside me as I back away, edging towards my side of the room. I stand in front of a mirror.
My face does not quite look like mine. Mascara bleeds along the creases that fan from the edges of my eyes and
my hair is thick with wet heat.
" |
focus on the picture: the patches of light, the dappled shadows, the sense of
stillness. I loiter at the threshold between our rooms, my painting held above the runner: half in his room and half
in my own. The shuffling of my feet on the matting forms the only sound as I approach Yoshimoto-sensei’s side of the
table. I kneel in front of him and bow, inhaling the tatami’s scent of warm hay. Yoshimoto-sensei stares at the
painting for a long time. I try to read his face for hints: does the squint of his eyes show approval or displeasure,
does the tilt of his head mean that my picture moves him or leaves him cold? He trails his finger around my lines of
ink, and then gently replaces the paper in my hands. For a moment we both hold the painting. As he lets go, his hands
stray to the buckle of his leather case. His fingers twitch at the creases and folds around the strap. He looks from
me to his bag. His mouth opens and then shuts.
In between sips of saké, Yoshimoto-sensei continues to fumble at the buckle of his
leather bag. He keeps his head turned away. For the first time, he looks old to me: the skin on his hands is wrinkled
like crêpe.
Each scratch of nail on leather makes me cringe. As I replace my picture into my case,
Yoshimoto-sensei looks up from his bag, startled. I hold his gaze. Spokes of dark brown flare from the black of his
pupils. A burst blood vessel disrupts the white of his eye. I refuse to turn away.
Yoshimoto-sensei crouches over his bag, looking at something I cannot see. Suddenly,
he moves to face me. He holds his long box covered in vermilion silk and intricately woven with golden thread. This
same box sits in front of me each day in the studio, reminding me of his artist’s status, of what I can never be.
Yoshimoto-sensei eases open the lid. His ink-stone and paintbrush lie cushioned inside.
He then holds out his prized possessions: the official proof that he has inherited his artist’s name from an illustrious
line of masters. Jade veins pattern the ink-stone and the ivory handle of the paintbrush tapers to a sharp point. He
looks at me as if he has done what he set out to do. But I cannot be sure of his meaning.
‘ Atarashi o-namae ga iru,’ he says. His words brush the air so that I have to lean
towards him to hear. Although I search for a translation of his phrase, I cannot work out his meaning. I wonder if
you need a new name is a euphemism for you must change.
I convey my bewilderment with a hunch of my shoulders and a gesture of my hands.
‘ Ima kara, Lucy Burrows no namae wa Yoshimoto Lucy desu.’ He pauses to check I’ve
followed: ‘ Wakaru?’
‘ Wakarimasu,’ I reply, careful to use the formal verb ending. But I don’t understand.
Why has he renamed me Yoshimoto and who would call me this? My teacher bows deeply, prostrating himself on the floor.
I’ve seen him bow so low only once before: beseeching his ex-student for forgiveness outside the lecture hall.
‘ Onegaishimasu,’ he mumbles. In the studio, he rarely even says kudasai when he requests
something of me. I’ve never heard him use onegaishimasu, which my scholarship handbook translates as I beg of you.
Only I use this kind of phrase.
Looking up at me pleadingly, he removes the brush and ink-stone from the box and holds them out.
‘ Onegaishimasu,’ he whispers again.
Is he really giving me his treasured brush and ink-stone? I pick them up and feel the
ivory and jade, cool against my skin.
The straw of the tatami matting presses into my knees in herring-boned strands. I turn
over my teacher’s name-stamp and run my fingertips across the characters for ‘Yoshimoto’. Red pigment stains my skin.
I do not know Yoshimoto-sensei’s real surname. Like all masters, he adopted the name of his School of Art once the
ink-stamp was bestowed on him. Which old artist had asked my teacher to keep his ink-stone, I wonder. Who had given
away his name in one movement of the hand?
I drop the name-stamp onto the tatami floor and shake my head, suddenly understanding. I
cannot inherit his artist’s name. I will not rekindle his status.
Yoshimoto-sensei gasps; his shoulders shiver beneath the thin blue cotton of his shirt.
He breathes heavily, the tiny muscles flickering beneath the skin of his face. Recovering himself, he stares me in the
eye and slowly repeats, ‘ Onegaishimasu.’
I sense that touch or sound might provoke an outburst. Each breath clutches and
swells inside me as I back away, edging towards my side of the room. I stand in front of a mirror. My face does
not quite look like mine. Mascara bleeds along the creases that fan from the edges of my eyes and my hair is
thick with wet heat.
The cotton of Yoshimoto-sensei’s socks scratch against the tatami. I hold my breath.
The noise amplifies. He closes the screen behind him as he steps into my room. I’m caged. As Yoshimoto-sensei approaches,
his face slides beside mine in the mirror. He holds up the ink-stone and paintbrush. ‘ Onegaishimasu,’ he repeats, crisply
enunciating each sound.
* * *
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