6




On the Births of Kumiko Okada
and Noboru W a t a y a

*


Raised as an only child, I find it difficult to imagine how grown siblings must feel when
they come in contact with each other in the course of leading the ir independent lives. In
Kumiko's case, whenever the topic of Noboru Wataya came up, she would get a strange
look on her face, as if she had put some odd-tasting thing in her mouth by accident, but
exactly what that look meant I had no way of knowing. In my own feelings toward her
elder brother there was not a trace of anything positive. Kumiko knew this and thought it
entirely reasonable. She herself was far from fond of the man. It was hard to imagine
them ever speaking to each other had the blood relationship not existed between them.
But in fact, they were brother and sister, which made things somewhat more complicated.
After I had my argument with her father and ended all contact with her family, Kumiko
had virtually no occasion to see Noboru Wataya. The argument had been a violent one. I
haven't had many arguments in the course of my life- I'm just not the type- but once I do
get going, I go all the way. And so my break with Kumiko's father had been complete.
Afterward, when I had gotten everything off my chest that I needed to get off, anger was
mysteriously absent. I felt only relief. I never had to see him again: it was as if a great
burden that I had been carrying for a long time had been lifted from my shoulders. None
of the rage or the hatred was left. I even felt a touch of sympathy for the difficulties he
had faced in his life, however stupid and repulsive the shape of that life might appear to
me. I told Kumiko that I would never see her parents again but she was free to visit them
without me anytime she wanted. Kumiko made no attempt to see them.
"Never mind," she said. "I wasn't all that crazy about visiting them anyway."
Noboru Wataya had been living with his parents at the time, but when the argument
started between his father and me, he had simply withdrawn without a word to anyone.
This hadn't taken me by surprise. I was a person of no interest to him. He did his best to
avoid personal contact with me unless it was absolutely necessary. And so, when I
stopped seeing Kumiko's parents, there was no longer any reason for me to see Noboru
Wataya. Kumiko herself had no reason to make a point of seeing him. He was busy, she
was busy, and they had never been that close to begin with.
Still, Kumiko would occasionally phone him at his campus office, and he would
occasionally phone her at her company office (though never at our home). She would
announce these contacts to me without going into detail about the substance of their
conversations. I never asked, and she never volunteered the information unless it was
necessary.
I didn't care to know what Kumiko and Noboru Wataya were talking about. Which is
not to say that I resented the fact that they were talking. I just didn't get it. What was
there for two such different human beings to say to each other? Or was it only through
the special filter of the blood relationship that this came about?




Though brother and sister, Noboru Wataya and Kumiko were separated in age by nine
years. Another factor behind the lack of any perceptible closeness between the two was
Kumiko's having lived for several years with her father's family.
Kumiko and Noboru had not been the only children in the Wataya house. Between
them there had been a sister, five years older than Kumiko. At the age of three, however,
Kumiko had been sent from Tokyo to distant Niigata, to be raised for a time by her
grandmother. Kumiko's parents later told her that this was done because she had been a
sickly child and they thought she would benefit from the clean air of the countryside, but
she never quite believed this. As far as she herself could remember, she had never been
physically weak. She had never suffered from any major illnesses, and no one in her
Niigata home seemed overly concerned about her health. "I'm sure it was just some kind
of excuse," Kumiko once told me.
Her doubts had been reinforced by something she heard from a relative. Apparently,
there had been a long-standing feud between Kumiko's mother and grandmother, and the
decision to bring Kumiko to Niigata was the product of a truce they had concluded. By
offering her up for a time, Kumiko's parents had quelled her grandmother's rage, and by
having a grandchild in her possession, the grandmother had obtained concrete
confirmation of her ties with her son (Kumiko's father). In other words, Kumiko had
been a kind of hostage.
"Besides," Kumiko said to me, "they already had two other children. Their third one
was no great loss to them. Not that they were planning to get rid of me: I think they just
figured it wouldn't be too hard on such a young child to be sent away. They probably
didn't give it much thought. It was just the easiest solution to the problem. Can you
believe it? I don't know why, but they had absolutely no idea what something like that
can do to a small child."
She was raised by her grandmother in Niigata from the age of three to six. Nor was
there anything sad or twisted about the life she led in the country. Her grandmother was
crazy about her, and Kum iko had more fun playing with her cousins, who were closer in
age to herself, than with her own brother and sister. She was finally brought back to
Tokyo the year she was to enter elementary school. Her parents had become nervous
about the lengthening separation from their daughter, and they insisted on bringing her
back before it was too late. In a sense, though, it was already too late. In the weeks
following the decision to send her back, her grandmother became increasingly
overwrought. She stopped eating and could hardly sleep. One minute she would be
hugging and squeezing little Kumiko with all her might, and the next she would be
slapping her arm with a ruler, hard enough to raise welts. One minute she would be
saying she didn't want to let her go, that she would rather die than lose her, and the next
she would tell her to go away, that she never wanted to see her again. In the foulest
language imaginable, she would tell Kumiko what a terrible woman her mother was. She
even tried to stab herself in the wrist with a pair of scissors. Kumiko could not understand
what was happening around her. The situation was simply too much for her to
comprehend.
What she did then was to shut herself off from the outer world. She closed her eyes.
She closed her ears. S he shut her mind down. She put an end to any form of thinking or
of hoping. The next several months were a blank. She had no memory of anything that

happened in that time. When she came out of it, she found herself in a new home. It was
the home where she should have been all along. Her parents were there, her brother and
her sister. But it was not her home. It was simply a new environment.
Kumiko became a difficult, taciturn child in these new surroundings. There was no
one she could trust, no one she could depend upon unconditionally. Even in her parents'
embrace, she never felt entirely at ease. She did not know their smell. It made her uneasy.
She even hated it at times. In the family, it was only toward her sister that she began, with
difficulty, to o pen up. Her parents despaired of ever breaking through to her; her brother
hardly knew she existed. But her sister understood the confusion and loneliness that lay
behind her stubborn moods. She stayed with Kumiko through it all, slept in the same
room with her, talked with her, read to her, walked with her to school, helped her with
her home work. If Kumiko spent hours huddled in the corner of her room in tears, the
sister would be there, holding her. She did everything she could to find a way into
Kumiko's heart. Had she not died from food poisoning the year after Kumiko returned
from Niigata, the situation would have been very different.
"If my sister had lived, things might have been better at home," Kumiko said. "She
was just a little girl, a sixth gr ader, but she was the heart of that household. Maybe if she
hadn't died, all of us would have been more normal than we are now. At least I wouldn't
be such a hopeless case. Do you see what I mean? I felt so guilty after that. Why hadn't I
died in my sister 's place? I was no good for anybody. I couldn't make anybody happy.
Why couldn't I have been the one? My parents and brother knew exactly how I felt, but
they said nothing to comfort me. Far from it. They'd talk about my dead sister every
chance they got: how pretty she was, how smart, how much everybody liked her, what a
thoughtful per son she was, how well she played the piano. And then they made me take
piano lessons! Somebody had to use the big grand piano after she died. I didn't have the
slightest interest in playing. I knew I could never play as well as she had played, and I
didn't need yet another way to demonstrate how inferior I was to her as a human being. I
couldn't take anyone's place, least of all hers, and I didn't want to try. But they wouldn't
listen to me. They just wouldn't listen. So to this day, I hate the sight of a piano. I hate
seeing anyone play."
I felt tremendous anger toward her family when Kumiko told me this. For what they
had done to her. For what they had failed to do for her. This was before we were married.
We had known each other only a little over two months. It was a quiet Sunday morning,
and we were in bed. She talked for a long time about her childhood, as if unraveling a
tangled thread, pausing to assess the validity of each event as she brought it forth. It was
the first time she told me so much about herself. I hardly knew anything about her family
or her childhood until that morning. I knew that she was quiet, that she liked to draw, that
she had long, beautiful hair, that she had two moles on her right shoulder blade. And that
sleeping with me was her first sexual experience.
She cried a little as she spoke. I could understand why she would need to cry. I held
her and stroked her hair. "If she had lived, I'm sure you would have loved her," said
Kumiko. "Everybody loved her. It was love at first sight."
"Maybe so," I said. "But you're the one I happen to be in love with. It's really very
simple, you know. It's just you and me. Your sister's got nothing to do with it."
For a while, Kumiko lay there, thinking. Seven- thirty Sunday morning: a time when
everything sounds soft and hollow. I listened to the pigeons shuffling across my

apartment roof, to someone calling a dog in the distance. Kumiko stared at a single spot
on the ceiling for the longest time.
"Tell me," she said at last, "do you like cats?"
"Crazy about 'em," I said. "Always had one when I was a kid. I played with it
constantly, even slept with it."
"Lucky you. I was dying to have a cat. But they wouldn' t let me. My mother hated
them. Not once in my life have I managed to get something I really wanted. Not once.
Can you believe it? You can't understand what it's like to live like that. When you get
used to that kind of life-of never having anything you want- then you stop knowing what
it is you want." I took her hand. "Maybe it's been like that for you till now. But you're
not a kid anymore. You have the right to choose your own life. You can start again. If
you want a cat, all you have to do is choose a life in which you can have a cat. It's
simple. It's your right... right?"
Her eyes stayed locked on mine. "Mmm," she said. "Right." A few months later,
Kumiko and I were talking about marriage.



If the childhood that Kumiko spent in that house was warped and diffi cult, Noboru
Wataya's boyhood there was strangely distorted in another sense. The parents were mad
for their only son, but they didn't merely shower him with affection; they demanded
certain things of him as well. The father was convinced that the only way to live a full
life in Japanese society was to earn the highest possible marks and to shove aside anyone
and everyone standing in your path to the top. He believed this with ab solute conviction.
It was shortly after I had married his daughter that I heard these very words from the
man himself. All men are not created equal, he said. That was just some righteous -
sounding nonsense they taught you in school. Japan might have the political structure of a
democratic nation, but it was at the same time a fiercely carnivorous society of class in
which the weak were devoured by the strong, and unless you became one of the elite,
there was no point in living in this country. You'd just be ground to dust in the
millstones. You had to fight your way up every rung of the ladder. This kind of ambition
was entirely healthy. If people lost that ambition, Japan would perish. In response to my
father- in- law's view, I offered no opinion. He was not looking for my opinion. He had
merely been spouting his belief, a conviction that would remain unchanged for all
eternity.
Kumiko's mother was the daughter of a high-rank ing official. She had been raised in
the finest Tokyo neighborhood, wanting for nothing, and she possessed neither the
opinions nor the character to oppose her hus band's opinions. As far as I could see, she
had no opinion at all about anything that was not set directly in front of her (and in fact,
she was extremely nearsighted). Whenever an occasion arose in which she needed an
opinion on something in the wider world, she borrowed her husband's. If this had been
all there was to her, she wouldn't have bothered anyone, but as is so often the case with
such women, she suffered from an incurable case of pretentiousness. Lacking any
internalized values of their own, such people can arrive at a standpoint only by adopting
other people's standards or views. The only principle that governs their minds is the
question "How do I look?" And so Mrs. Wataya became a narrow, high-strung woman

whose only concerns were her husband's place in the government and her son's academic
performance. Anything that failed to enter her narrow field of vision ceased to have
meaning for her.
And so the parents pounded their questionable philosophy and their warped view of
the world into the head of the young Noboru Wataya. They egged him on, providing him
with the best tutors their money could buy. When he took top honors, they rewarded their
son by buying him anything he wanted. His childhood was one of extreme material
luxury, but when he entered the most sensitive and vulnerable phase of life, he had no
time for girlfriends, no cha nce to go wild with other boys. He had to pour all his energies
into maintaining his position as number one. Whether Noboru Wataya was pleased to live
that way or not I do not know. Kumiko did not know. Noboru Wataya was not the sort of
person to reveal his feelings: not to her, not to his parents, not to anyone. He had no
choice anyway. It seems to me that certain patterns of thought are so simple and one -
sided that they become irresistible. In any case, Noboru Wataya graduated from his elite
private preparatory school, majored in economics at the University of Tokyo, and
graduated from this top institution with top grades.
His father expected him to enter the government or a major corporation upon
graduation from the university, but Noboru Wataya chose to remain in academe and
become a scholar. He was no fool. He knew what he was best suited for: not the real
world of group action but a world that called for the disciplined and systematic use of
knowledge, that prized the individual skills of the intellect. He did two years of graduate
study at Yale before returning to the graduate school at Tokyo. He followed his parents'
promptings shortly thereafter and agreed to an arranged marriage, but that lasted no more
than two years. After his divorce, he retur ned to his parents' home to live with them. By
the time I first met him, Noboru Wataya was a fully developed oddity, a thoroughly
disagreeable character.
About two years after I married Kumiko, Noboru Wataya published a big, thick book.
It was an economics study full of technical jargon, and I couldn't understand a thing he
was trying to say in it. Not one page made sense to me. I tried, but I couldn't make any
headway because I found the writing indecipherable. I couldn't even tell whether this was
because the contents were so difficult or the writing itself was bad. People in the field
thought it was great, though. One reviewer declared that it was "an entirely new kind of
economics written from an entirely new perspective," but that was as much as I could
understand of the review itself. Soon the mass media began to introduce him as a "hero
for a new age." Whole books appeared, interpreting his book. Two expressions he had
coined, "sexual economics" and "excretory economics," became the year's buzzwords.
Newspapers and magazines carried feature sections on him as one of the intellectuals of
the new age. I couldn't believe that anyone who wrote these articles understood what
Noboru Wataya was saying in his book. I had my doubts they had even opened it. But
such things were of no concern to them. Noboru Wataya was young and single and smart
enough to write a book that nobody could understand.
It made him famous. The magazines all came to him for critical pieces. He appeared
on television to comment on political and economic questions. Soon he was a regular
panel member on one of the political debate shows. Those who knew Noboru Wataya
(including Kumiko and me) had never imagined him to be suited to such glamorous
work. Everyone thought of him as the high-str ung academic type interested in nothing but

his field of specialization. Once he got a taste of the world of mass media, though, you
could almost see him licking his chops. He was good. He didn't mind having a camera
pointed at him. If anything, he even seemed more relaxed in front of the cameras than in
the real world. We watched his sudden transformation in amazement. The Noboru
Wataya we saw on television Wore expensive suits with perfectly matching ties, and
eyeglass frames of fine tortoiseshell. His hair had been done in the latest style. He had
obviously been worked on by a professional. I had never seen him exuding such luxury
before. And even if he had been outfitted by the network, he wore the style with perfect
ease, as if he had dressed that way all his life. Who was this man? I wondered, when I
first saw him. Where was the real Noboru Wataya?
In front of the cameras, he played the role of Man of Few Words. When asked for an
opinion, he would state it simply, clearly, and pre cisely. Whenever the debate heated up
and everyone else was shouting, he kept his cool. When challenged, he would hold back,
let his opponent have his say, and then demolish the person's argument with a single
phrase. He had mastered the art of delivering the fatal blow with a purr and a smile. On
the television screen, he looked far more intelligent and reliable than the real Noboru
Wataya. I'm not sure how he accomplished this. He certainly wasn't handsome. But he
was tall and slim and had an air of good breeding. In the medium of television, Noboru
Wataya had found the place where he belonged. The mass media welcomed him with
open arms, and he welcomed them with equal enthusiasm.
Meanwhile, I couldn't stand the sight of him- in print or on TV. He was a man of
talent and ability, to be sure. I recognized that much. He knew how to knock his opponent
down quickly and effectively with the fewest possible words. He had an animal instinct
for sensing the direction of the wind. But if you paid close attention to what he was
saying or what he had written, you knew that his words lacked consistency. They
reflected no single worldview based on profound conviction. His was a world that he had
fabricated by combining several one- dimensional systems of thought. He could rearrange
the comb ination in an instant, as needed. These were ingenious- even artistic- intellectual
permutations and combinations. But to me they amounted to nothing more than a game.
If there was any consistency to his opinions, it was the consistent lack of consistency, and
if he had a worldview, it was a view that pro claimed his lack of a worldview. But these
very absences were what constituted his intellectual assets. Consistency and an
established worldview were excess baggage in the intellectual mobile warfare that flared
up in the mass media's tiny time segments, and it was his great advantage to be free of
such things.
He had nothing to protect, which meant that he could concentrate all his attention on
pure acts of combat. He needed only to attack, to knock his enemy down. Noboru Wataya
was an intellectual chameleon, changing his color in accordance with his opponent's, ad-
libbing his logic for maximum effectiveness, mobilizing all the rhetoric at his command.
I had no idea how he had acquired these techniques, but he clearly had the knack of
appealing directly to the feelings of the mass audience. He knew how to use the kind of
logic that moved the great majority. Nor did it even have to be logic: it had only to appear
so, as long as it aroused the feelings of the masses.
Trotting out the technical jargon was another forte of his. No one knew what it meant,
of course, but he was able to present it in such a way that you knew it was your fault if
you didn't get it. And he was always citing statistics. They were engraved in his brain,

and they carried tremendous persuasive power, but if you stopped to think about it
afterward, you realized that no one had questioned his sources or their reliability.
These clever tactics of his used to drive me mad, but I was never able to explain to
anyone exactly what upset me so. I was never able to construct an argument to refute
him. It was like boxing with a ghost: your punches just swished through the air. There
was nothing solid for them to hit. I was shocked to see even sophisticated intellectuals
responding to him. It would leave me feeling strangely annoyed.
And so Noboru Wataya came to be seen as one of the most intelligent figures'of the
day. Nobody seemed to care about consistency anymore. All they looked for on the tube
were the bouts of intellectual gladiators; the redder the blood they drew, the better. It
didn't matter if the same person said one thing on Monday and the opposite on Thursday.



I first met Noboru Wataya when Kumiko and I decided to get married. I wanted to
talk to him before I saw her father. I figured that as a man closer to my own age, he might
be persuaded to smooth the way for me with his father.
"I don't think you should count on his help," Kumiko said to me, with apparent
difficulty. "I can't explain it, exactly, but he's just not the type."
"Well, I'll have to meet him sooner or later," I said.
"I guess," said Kumiko.
"It's worth a try," I said. "You never know."
"I guess," said Kumiko. "Maybe."
On the phone, Noboru Wataya displayed little enthusiasm for the prospect of meeting
me. If I insisted, he said, he could spare me half an hour. We decided to meet at a
coffeehouse near Ochanomizu Station. He was just a college instructor at the time, long
before he had written his book and long before his sartorial conversion. The pockets of
his sports coat bulged from having had fists thrust into them too long. His hair was at
least two weeks overdue for a trim. His mustard-color polo shirt clashed with his blue and
gray tweed jacket. He had the look of t he typical young assistant professor for whom
money was an alien object. His eyes had that sleepy expression of someone who has just
slipped out of the library after a day of research in the stacks, but there was a piercing,
cold gleam in them too, if you looked closely.
After introducing myself, I said that I was planning to marry Kumiko in the near
future. I tried to explain things as honestly as possible. I was working in a law firm, I
said, but I knew this was not the right job for me. I was still searching for myself. For
such a person to risk marriage might seem to be a reckless act, but I loved his sister, I
said, and I believed I could make her happy. The two of us could give each other strength
and comfort.
My words appeared lost on Noboru Wataya. He sat with his arms folded, listening in
silence. Even after I finished my little speech, he remained perfectly still. He seemed to
be thinking about something else.
I had felt awkward in his presence from the start and assumed this was because of the
situation. Anybody would feel awkward telling a total stranger, "I want to marry your
sister." But as I sat there across from him, an unpleasant feeling began to well up inside
me. It was like having some kind of sour -smelling, alien gunk growing in the pit of your

stomach. Not that there was anything in particular about what he said or did that rubbed
me the wrong way. It was his face: the face of Noboru Wataya itself. It gave me the
intuitive sense that it was covered over with a whole other layer of something. Something
wrong. It was not his real face. I couldn't shake off this feeling.
I wanted to get the hell out of there. I actually considered getting up and leaving, but I
had to see things through to the end. I stayed there, sip ping my lukewarm coffee and
waiting for him to say something.
When he spoke, it was as if he were deliberately setting the volume of his voice on
low to conserve energy. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I can neither understand nor
care about what you have been telling me. The things I care about are of an entirely
different order, things that I sus pect you can neither understand nor care about. To state
my conclusion as concisely as possible, if you wish to marry Kumiko and she wishes to
marry you, I have neither the right no r any reason to stand in your way. Therefore, I shall
not stand in your way. I wouldn't even think of doing so. But don't expect anything
further from me, either. And most im portant, don't expect me to waste any more time on
this matter than I already have."
He looked at his watch and stood up. His declaration had been concise and to the
point. It suffered from neither excess nor omission. I understood with perfect clarity both
what he wanted to say and what he thought of me.
And so we parted that day.
After Kumiko and I were married, a number of occasions arose in which it was
necessary for Noboru Wataya and me, as brothers- in- law, to exchange words- if not to
engage in actual conversation. As he had sug gested, there was no common ground
between us, and so however much we might speak words in each other's vicinity, this
could never develop into anything that could be called a conversation. It was as though
we were speaking to each other in different languages. If the Dalai Lama were on his
deathbed and the jazz musician Eric Dolphy were to try to explain to him the importance
of choosing one's engine oil in accordance with changes in the sound of the bass clarinet,
that exchange might have been a touch more worthwhile and effective than my
conversations with Noboru Wataya.
I rarely suffer lengthy emotional distress from contact with other people. A person
may anger or annoy me, but not for long. I can distinguish between myself and another as
beings of two different realms. It's a kind of talent (by whic h I do not mean to boast: it's
not an easy thing to do, so if you can do it, it is a kind of talent-a special power). When
someone gets on my nerves, the first thing I do is transfer the object of my unpleasant
feelings to another domain, one having no connection with me. Then I tell myself, Fine,
I'm feeling bad, but I've put the source of these feelings into another zone, away from
here, where I can examine it and deal with it later in my own good time. In other words, I
put a freeze on my emotions. Late r, when I thaw them out to perform the examination, I
do occasionally find my emotions still in a distressed state, but that is rare. The passage
of time will usually extract the venom from most things and render them harmless. Then,
sooner or later, I fo rget about them.
In the course of my life so far, I've been able to keep my world in a relatively stable
state by avoiding most useless troubles through activation of this emotional management
system. That I have succeeded in maintaining such an effective system all this time is a
matter of some pride to me.

When it came to Noboru Wataya, though, my system refused to function. I was
unable simply to shove Noboru Wataya into a domain having no connection with me.
And that fact itself annoyed the hell out of me. Kumiko's father was an arrogant,
unpleasant man, to be sure, but finally he was a small- minded character who had lived by
clinging to a simple set of narrow beliefs. I could forget about someone like that. But not
Noboru Wataya. He knew what kind of a man he was. And he had a pretty good idea of
what made me tick as well. If he had felt like it, he could have crushed me until there was
nothing left. The only reason he hadn't was that he didn't give a damn about me. I wasn't
worth the time and energy it would have taken to crush me. And that's what got me about
him. He was a despicable human being, an egoist with nothing inside him. But he was a
far more capable individual than I was.
After that first meeting of ours, I had a bad taste in my mouth that wouldn't go away.
I felt as if someone had force -fed me a clump of foul- smelling bugs. Spitting them out
did no good: I could still feel them in side my mouth. Day after day, Noboru Wataya was
all I could think about. I tried going to concerts and movies. I even went to a baseball
game with the guys from the office. I drank, and I read the books that I had been waiting
to read when I could find the time. But Noboru Wataya was always there, arms folded,
looking at me with those malignant eyes of his, threatening to suck me in like a
bottomless swamp. This set my nerves on edge and sent tremors through the ground on
which I stood.
The next time I saw her, Kumiko asked me my impressions of her brother. I wasn't
able to tell her honestly. I wanted to ask her about the mask he wore and about the
twisted "something" that lay behind it. I wanted to tell her everything I had thought about
this brother of hers. But I said nothing. I felt that these were things I would never be able
to convey to her, that if I couldn't express myself clearly I shouldn't express myself at
all-not now.
"He's ... different, that's for sure," I said. I wanted to add something to this, but I
couldn't find the words. Nor did she press me for more. She simply nodded in silence.
My feelings toward Noboru Wataya never changed after that. He continued to set my
nerves on edge in the same way. It was like a persistent low- grade fever. I never had a
television in the house, but by some uncanny coincidence, whenever I glanced at a TV
somewhere, he would be on it, making some pronouncement. If I flipped through the
pages of a magazine in a doctor's waiting room, there would be a picture of Noboru
Wataya, with an article he had written. I felt as if Noboru Wataya were lying in wait for
me just around every corner in the known world.
OK, let's face it. I hated the guy.