An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro Read Free Book Online

particular." Retirement places more time on your hands. Indeed, it is one of the enjoyments of retirement that you are able to drift through the day at your own pace, easy in the knowledge that you have put hard work and achievement behind you. Nevertheless, I must be getting absent-minded indeed to be wandering aimlessly into--of all places--the reception room. For thoughout my years I have preserved the sense, instilled in me by my father, that the reception room of a house is a place to be revered, a place to be kept unsoiled by everyday trivialities, reserved for the receiving of important guests, or else the paying of respects at the Buddhist altar. Accordingly, the reception room of my house has always had a more solemn atmosphere than that to be found in most households; and although I never made a rule of it as my own father did, I discouraged my children while they were young from entering the room unless specifically bidden to do so. My respect for reception rooms may well appear exaggerated, but then you must realise that in the house I grew up in--in Tsuruoka Village, a half-day's train journey from here--I was forbidden even to enter the reception room until the age of twelve. That room being in many senses the centre of the house, curiosity compelled me to construct an image of its interior from the occasional glimpses I managed to catch of it. Later in my life I was often to surprise colleagues with my ability to realise a scene on canvas based only on the briefest of passing glances; it is possible I have my father to thank for this skill, and the inadvertent training he gave my artist's eye during those formative years. In any case, when I reached the age of twelve, the "business meetings" began, and then I found myself inside that room once every week. "Masuji and I will be discussing business tonight," my father would announce during supper. And that would serve both as my summons to present myself after the meal, and as a warning to the rest of the family to make no noise in the vicinity of the reception room that evening. My father would disappear into the room after supper, and call me some fifteen minutes later. The room I entered would be lit by a single tall candle standing in the centre of the floor. Within the circle of light it cast, my father would be sitting cross-legged on the tatami before his wooden "business box". He would gesture for me to sit opposite him in the light, and as I did so, the brightness of the candle would put the rest of the room into shadow. Only vaguely would I be able to discern past my father's shoulder the Buddhist altar by the far wall, or the few hangings adorning the alcoves. My father would then begin his talking. From out of his "business box" he would produce small, fat notebooks, some of which he would open so that he could point out to me columns of densely packed figures. All the while, his talking would continue in a measured, grave tone, to pause only occasionally when he would look up at me as though for confirmation. At these points, I would hurriedly utter: "Yes, indeed." Of course, it was quite impossible for me to follow what my father was saying. Employing jargon, recounting his way through lengthy calculations, he made no concessions to the fact that he was addressing a young boy. But it seemed equally impossible for me to ask him to stop and explain. For as I saw it, I had been allowed into the reception room only because I had been deemed old enough to understand such talk. My sense of shame was matched only by a terrible fear that at any moment I would be called upon to say more than "Yes, indeed" and my game would be up. And although month after month went by and I was never required to say anything more, I nevertheless lived in dread of the next "business meeting". Of course, it is clear to me now that my father never expected me for a moment to follow his talk, but I have never ascertained just why he put me through these ordeals. Perhaps he wished