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

to impress upon me from that early age his expectation that I would eventually take over the family business. Or perhaps he felt that as future head of the family, it was only right I should be consulted on all decisions whose repercussions were likely to extend into my adulthood; that way, so my father may have figured it, I would have less cause for complaint were Ito inherit an unsound business. Then when I was fifteen, I remember being called into the reception room for a different kind of meeting. As ever, the room was lit by the tall candle, my father sat at the centre of its light. But that evening, instead of his business box, he had before him a heavy earthenware ashpot. This puzzled me, for this ashpot--the largest in the house--was normally produced only for guests. "You"ve brought all of them?" he asked. "I"ve done as you instructed." I laid beside my father the pile of paintings and sketches I had been holding in my arms. They made an untidy pile, sheets of varying sizes and quality, most of which had warped or wrinkled with the paint. I sat in silence while my father looked through my work. He would regard each painting for a moment, then lay it to one side. When he was almost half-way through my collection, he said without looking up: "Masuji, are you sure all your work is here? Aren't there one or two paintings you haven't brought me?" I did not answer immediately. He looked up and asked: "Well?" "It's possible there may be one or two I have not brought." "Indeed. And no doubt, Masuji, the missing paintings are the very ones you"re most proud of. Isn't that so?" He had turned his eyes down to the paintings again, so I did not answer. For several more moments, I watched him going through the pile. Once, he held one painting close to the candle flame, saying: "This is the path leading down from Nishiyama hill, is it not? Certainly you"ve caught the likeness very well. That's just how it looks coming down the hill. Very skilful." "Thank you." "You know, Masuji"--my father's eyes were still fixed on the painting--"I"ve heard a curious thing from your mother. She seems to be under the impression you wish to take up painting as a profession." He did not phrase this as a question, so I did not at first reply. But then he looked up and repeated: "Your mother, Masuji, seems to be under the impression that you wish to take up painting as a profession. Naturally, she is mistaken in supposing this." "Naturally," I said, quietly. "You mean, there has been some misunderstanding on her part." "No doubt." "I see." For a few more minutes, my father continued to study the paintings, and I sat there watching him in silence. Then he said without looking up: "In fact, I think that was your mother going by outside. Did you hear her?" "I"m afraid I didn't hear anyone." "I think it was your mother. Ask her to step in here since she's passing." I rose to my feet and went to the doorway. The corridor was dark and empty, as I had known it would be. Behind me, I heard my father's voice say: "While you"re fetching her, Masuji, gather together the rest of your paintings and bring them to me." Perhaps it was simply my imagination, but when I returned to the room a few minutes later, accompanied by my mother, I received the impression the earthenware ashpot had been moved slightly nearer the candle. I also thought there was a smell of burning in the air, but when I glanced into the ashpot, there were no signs of its having been used. My father acknowledged me distractedly when I placed the last examples of my work beside the original pile. He appeared still to be preoccupied with my paintings, and for some time, he ignored both my mother and me, seated before him in silence. Then finally, he gave a sigh, looked up and said to me: "I don't expect, Masuji, you have much time for wandering priests, do you?" "Wandering priests? I suppose not." "They have a lot to say about this world. I don't pay much attention to them most of the time. But it's