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“That was the only time I've ever caught one.”
My father began as he brought a piece of broiled yamame to his mouth which we'd received from our neighbor earlier. A long time ago, my father was called "Nobuo (信夫)". It seemed that his real name, "Shigeru (茂)", had an unlucky number of strokes. Grandfather Denjiro (傅次郎) reserved a special affection for his youngest son, Nobuo. Because he would buy Nobuo whatever he wanted, his sisters would often raise a fuss. When the rice paddies became glazed in ice during the winter, the children would slide on it with their wooden geta (下駄), but only Nobuo would jauntily skate with a real pair of ice skates. Denjiro was an earnest working man. He would work until late every night, and as a result, he became the successful director of the local enterprise. However, the debilitating nature of the work caused him to collapse while he was in his mid-fifties when Nobuo was still in fifth grade. The doctor's diagnosis was a case of high blood pressure. As his father's condition only worsened, Nobuo, while still a child, understood that Denjiro was not long for the world. One day, at his sickbed, Denjiro murmured, "I'd like to eat yamame." Nobuo, who was skilled at fishing, took a rod in hand and flew to the Houki River (箒川). However, yamame wasn't something you caught so easily. That day, minnows and dace kept biting one after another, and after each unsuccessful attempt, Nobuo would keep releasing his line in fervent prayer. It was a miracle. Around sunset, Nobuo finally caught a yamame. It was nearly 8 inches in length. Nobuo was filled with surprise and happiness. He placed the wondrous fish into a wicker basket and gazed indefinitely at the glistening purple beauty. “But you know, I was still a kid after all.” As though suppressing mixed feelings of nostalgia and regret, my father continued his story. But Nobuo wasn't satisfied with just looking at the fish; he took it back out of the basket and submerged it in the shoals. The yamame struggled to free itself. Nobuo enjoyed the sensation of the fish thrashing between his hands time after time. Suddenly, as soon he felt the yamame wriggling, it escaped his grasp. When he realized his mistake, it was already too late. The salmon slipped through the shoals and disappeared into the Houki River's current. When he regained his composure, the sky was already dark. Nobuo dumped all the miscellaneous fish back into the river, and holding the empty wicker basket, trudged back home. He didn't tell his mother or sisters about what happened. Soon after, Denjiro breathed his last. "I couldn't feed it to my father after all." He sighed. As he looked at the specimen of yamame before him, the stoic gaze of his eyes became hazy. （written by Jiro Tsukahara and translated by "Kiwi" from Lang-8） |