PLALYING A GOOD BOY

PART 1

　　Except for the deaths of the family members, I think everybody has a handful of events that linger all through their lives. This is one of them.
　　It happened about 55 years ago. I was a 9-year-old boy. One day after school, a friend of mine, Susumu, told me, “There is a ghost house near here. Shall we go there?” The words, a ghost house, attracted me. I followed him. There were several other boys with us, all going to the house. I expected to see some bizarre decayed dark old house. After about 10 minutes’ walk, the gang arrived at the house. To my disappointment, it did not look like a ghost house, but just an ordinary one. Someone said, “Let’s throw stones at the house,” and started to throw a stone. Following him, about ten boys grabbed stones on the road and threw them at the lattice sliding doors. First I was just standing behind them, but soon I was agitated and picked up a small stone and threw it at the door. My stone hit the wooden frame of the lattice door and bounced back. I did not enjoy this, but other boys around me continued throwing stones at the house. For a while I stood there watching them throwing stones. Were they amused? I again bent down and picked up a stone. Suddenly a boy cried, “Someone is coming! Run!” All the boys stopped throwing stones and ran as fast as they could. I ran after them.
　　The next day at my elementary school, the morning assembly was held. All the pupils from the first to the sixth graders gathered together in front of the platform in the playground. Then, Mr. Koyasu, who I now suppose was in charge of the department of pupil discipline, climbed on the platform and said to all the boys and girls. There were more than 1500 pupils since there were five classes in each grade and one class consisted of about 50 pupils.
　　Mr. Koyasu said, “I regret to say this to you, but yesterday a gentleman visited our school and complained that his house which was under construction had been damaged by some boys.” Instantaneously I thought, “That’s why the boy cried, ‘Run. Someone is coming!’ That ‘someone’ was the owner of the house.” Mr. Koyasu continued, “I was very sorry to hear that. He said the boys most probably belonged to our school. So if any, among you, are the boys who damaged his house, be honest and raise your hands.” Thinking it applied to me, I looked around. Several boys including Susumu were raising their hands. Susumu, who was standing just three or four pupils ahead of me in the left side line of my line, turned back and looked at me as if accusing me. I slowly raised my hand, too.
Suddenly Mr. Koyasu’s tone of voice changed. He said in an angry loud voice, “Those who are now raising their hands, walk to the front!” The boys including me walked to the front of their lines. The morning assembly then ended. All the pupils marched into the school building to take the first period lesson, leaving us ‘mischievous’ boys in the empty and wide playground. Mr. Koyasu asked each of us our names and homeroom classes one by one.
　　Then the boys were taken to the principal’s room. Each of us stood along the wall of the room. Mr. Koyasu told us about the damages of the house. He said that several paper sliding doors inside the house had been damaged; that some window panes had also been broken; and that the rooms had been messed up. I was surprised to hear that. On the previous day, none of us had gone into the house. We just threw stones at the front doors. They were lattice doors and it was difficult to throw a stone at grid framed glass. The wooden frames were thick and the height of each frame was about 8 centimeters and the width about 5 centimeters. Most of the stones, I remember, missed to hit the glass but hit the frames and bounced back. So, I thought, probably on the day before the previous day some other boys had gone into the house and messed it up.
　　After the end of each period, teachers ‘visited’ the principle’s room to scrutinize us. Some of them scolded the boys they knew and some were talking with each other about us. Among the boys, I was conspicuously the topic of their conversation, because my brother, who was at that time a sixth grader and the president of the student council. I heard, “Look at that tiny boy, the third from the left. He is the brother of the president of the student council.” I was ashamed of myself. I kept looking down at the floor.
　　All of us had to keep standing from morning till after school. I don’t remember whether we ate lunch or not. Around three or four o’clock each of us wrote down one by one all of the things we had done to the house. My turn came. I looked at the paper. I read what the previous boy had written: “I broke two window panes” with his signature. I picked up a pencil and looked at the blank part of the paper where I was supposed to write my ‘bad’ deed. Momentarily I hesitated to write, because I did throw a stone but it bounced back and did not damage the house in any form. I felt the eyes of three or four quiet teachers surrounding me. I don’t know why, but I wrote, “I broke two window panes” and my name. Why did I write such a lie? Probably I was under pressure to play a role of a good boy. To act exactly as the teachers expected me to do was a good thing and to resist them was not good, I thought. Obviously they did not expect me to write anything like “I didn’t break any window at all” after all the scolding we had obediently listened to with our drooped heads. Therefore, I thought, it was better to write “Two window panes” than “One window pane.” Now after 55 years, I think I should have said loudly and clearly that I didn’t break any window or damage anything at all, but as I was a timid, obedient, innocent, and faithful boy, and as I did not know at all the consequence that would follow in my whole life, I thought it would be better to write “Two” than “One” or “None.” It would please the teachers. It would be my duty to admit to some grand guilty act. Pleasing them was important then; I was hypnotized. I played a role of a good boy even in such a situation.

PART 2

　　After a while, Mr. Koyasu asked us if there had been any other boy who participated in the actions. A moment later one of the boys said with hesitation,
　　“I think Yasojji was with us.”
　　“Yasoji? You mean Domae Yasoji?” Mr. Kobayashi asked him.
　　“Yes, Domae Yasoji,” he answered.
　　Domae Yasoji was a lazy and mischievous boy. He was often scolded by the teachers for coming late for school, not cleaning the classroom, and forgetting to do his homework. Just a week before, he had broken a school window while chasing after a weaker a boy. Almost every teacher and pupil had labeled him as a trouble maker.
　　Mr. Koyasu turned to the rest of the boys and asked, “Aren’t there any other boy who saw Yasoji? Minoru says he saw Yasoji. I want to be sure about this. Was Yasoji with you, boys? Did anyone of you see him in the action?”
　　As if struck by lightning, I raised my hand and said, “Yes, I saw him. He was with us.” I did not exactly know what I was doing. Again I tried to act like a “good” boy for Mr. Koyasu. Actually I did not know whether Yasoji was with us or not. In fact, I didn’t think I had seen him among the gang. But it was an irresistible order from my brain to raise my hand and produce an affirmative answer for the dignified teacher. I thought, “If I say, ‘Yes, I saw him,’ it will fulfill his expectations and please him.” Probably deep in my mind, I wanted to appear to Mr. Koyasu as a “good” boy. I was only nine years old, unable to truly realize what Mr. Koyasu really expected of us or of Yasoji. Now I know that he just wanted to know the truth. After I told him that I had seen Yasoji, I felt a little proud of myself, above the other quiet boys. What a twisted selfishness! I thought I had done something good for the teacher, not understanding the consequences at all.
　　Mr. Koyasu immediately summoned Yasoji. Several minutes later, Yasoji came and stood in front of Mr. Koyasu.
　　Mr. Koyasu said, “Yasoji, didn’t you go to the house with the boys here yesterday?”
　　“No, I didn’t. I didn’t go there.”
Mr. Koyasu’s voice suddenly became loud, “Don’t tell a lie! Why don’t you tell the truth?” His voice vibrated all the windows.
　　“I didn’t do it. I didn’t, I swear.” Yasoji looked as if he would cry at any moment. He desperately pleaded against the furious teacher.
　　“But there are TWO boys here who actually saw you.”
　　“But I didn’t. I didn’t!” he began to wail.
Mr. Kobayashi then turned to the boy, who said he had seen Yasoji. Mr. Koyasu said to him, “Did you really see Yasoji?”
　　The boy said, “Yes.”
　　Mr. Koyasu then turned to me and asked, “How about you?”
　　I said, “I saw him.”
　　It was too late to tell the truth. The whole atmosphere denied overturning what I said before. I couldn’t help but keep pretending to be a good boy. I regretted it. I felt sorry for Yasoji, but on the other hand, I thought Yasoji might have been with us. Probably, I thought, he did not raise his hand at the morning assembly to escape from being scolded. Everybody knew he was a troublesome boy, and so it was wise for me to keep silent. Nobody would detect that I was a liar.
　　Mr. Koyasu scolded Yasoji very hard. He tried hard to let Yasoji confess what he did, but Yasoji never admitted it. He just wailed and wailed, appealed for his innocence, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” Torrent of tears ran down his cheeks messing up his face. His words were now incomprehensible. I was worried and felt remorseful. I said to myself, “If Yasoji had not been with us as he says, then I’m a bad boy.” For the first time I realized the grand consequence of my words to “please” Mr. Koyasu. But it was too late. I could not take back what I had said. I hated myself. I was embarrassed. Every time Yasoji cried, “I didn’t do it,” his voice cut my heart out.
　　About fifteen minutes later, Mr. Koyasu gave up and let Yasoji go back to his classroom.

PART 3

　　At around four or five o’clock we moved to a large tatami-floored room. Soon our parents, who had been summoned, joined us. Each parent sat beside his or her son. My mother approached me silently and sat beside me. She bowed her head to my homeroom teacher, Mr. Ohashi.
When all the parents gathered, first the school principle gave a brief greeting, and next Mr. Koyasu talked to the parents about the incident: the damages and our admission of our bad conduct for about 15 minutes. I think he referred to the compensation of the damages, but I don’t quite remember.
　　After Mr. Koyasu’s talk, each parent went to their homeroom teachers. My mother accompanying me went to Mr. Ohashi.
He said, “I think your son is easy to be influenced by his friends.”
He must have said some other things, but this is the only thing that I still remember. Now, I think Mr. Ohashi knew me very well. Looking back on my 65-year life, I have always been easily influenced by others. After the meeting was finished and before leaving the room, my mother apologized to Mr. Ohashi again and again bowing her head low as if it might touch the floor.
　　When my mother and I reached home, my father did not scold me as much as I had expected, but my brother, the president of the student council, was very angry with me.
　　“You have shamed me,” he said. “Shame on you. Everybody in my class talked about you. I was humiliated.”
　　I kept silent. I felt sorry for my brother more than my parents. But, why didn’t I tell the truth even at those moments? I was at home surrounded by my beloved father, mother, and brother. I knew theoretically that they stood by my side, but I could not gather myself to tell the truth that I had not broken any windows. Fait accompli is fait accompli. It couldn’t be overturned. It was too late. I was disappointed with myself. I was a sissy.
　　Three years later, we graduated from the elementary school. Yasoji went to a different junior high school from mine.
Years passed. When I was 15 years old, my brother died of kidney disease.
　　Then some more years passed. When I was 21, my mother died of leukemia.
　　More years passed. My father died when I was 48 years old.
All of them did not know the truth. There should have been a lot of chances to express my innocence to them, but I missed the chance. Once a simple fact is established, it becomes an invincible fortress. Just a slight performance to be a good boy turns out to be a fact out of which you can’t escape all through your life.
　　What has long annoyed me, however, is not so much that I didn’t plead my innocence as that I told a lie that I had seen Yasoji on the site. Now I do not regret that I “admitted to have broken two windows” because I actually I threw a stone at the house, which happened to bounce back. It might have broken the window. What I regret and what has long tortured me is what I said about Yasoji. Whether Yasoji was with us or not is not the problem. The problem is that I accused him irresponsibly. If he had damaged the house, he wouldn’t have blamed me, though I still have the sense of guilt for telling a groundless lie. On the other hand, if he hadn’t, things would be quite different. He would have kept grudge against me all of these years. Most probably he couldn’t have stood being labeled as a liar, an irresponsible boy, and a coward by the teachers and students.
　　One Sunday afternoon when I was 50 years old, I was taking a walk along a street near the Yamazaki River in Mizuho Ward, Nagoya. (I had moved to Nagoya after I got married.) On that day I was taking a different route from my usual one. While I was walking, a newly built house caught my eyes. Passing the house, I happened to see the name plate at the front gate. It was written in Japanese ink and read: “Yasoji Domae.” Yasoji Domae! I was surprised. Controlling myself, I passed the house, walked for 10 or 15 meters away from it, and returned to confirm the name on the plate. “Yasoji Domae.” No mistake.

PART 4

　　Now, Yasoji Domae is a rare name. As for Yasoji, it consists of only numerical characters: eight-ten-two, which is very rare for a Japanese name. The Chinese character “eight” is pronounced “ya” in Japanese. In the same way, “ten” is read “so,” and “two” is “ji.” Therefore, ya-so-ji is written “eight-ten-two” in kanji characters. Why did he have such a unique name? He was born in the Eighth month (August), on the date of Ten-Two (Twelve). Everyone in my elementary school classmate knew about it. As a child, I thought, “What an easy way of naming!” but now I think it is a nice name because people will memorize it easily.
　　Next, as for the family name, Domae, it is also very rare. Looking back at my 43 years as teaching professional, I have never met a student named Domae though I have taught thousands of students. Therefore, the chance of meeting a person named Yasoji Domae is one out of 10,000 people or possibly more than that. When I saw “Yasoji Domae” inscribed in the name plate, I had no doubt that my childhood classmate, Yasoji lived in the house.
　　While I was walking back home from his house, everything that had happened 40 years ago rushed back into my mind: the ghost house, throwing a stone, Mr. Koyasu’s voice, the principal’s room, my mother and brother, and most of all, Yasoji’s loud wailing voice appealing his innocence. I said to myself, “So, Yasoji moved to live in Nagoya, and he lives within a 20 minutes’ walk from my house of all places to live in.”
　　Since that day on, while taking a walk, I sometimes changed my usual route and passed his house pretending to pay no attention to it. While passing it, I was ambivalent: I was half afraid that I would see Yasoji at any moment in front of his house, but at the same time I was half expecting to do so. What should I do if I met him? Should I ask him the truth? Should I say to him, “Do you remember the incident when we were scolded by Mr. Koyasu, about 40 years ago?” “Were you with the gang?” “Weren’t you with us?” “I am sorry I told Mr. Koyasu a lie.” “I am sorry to have played a good boy.” “I hope you will understand my psychological state at that time.” “I know I am demanding too much from you.” “I am sorry to have put you through such an embarrassing torture.” “I myself have been blaming myself for my irresponsibility for the past 40 years.” “You may not forgive me, I understand. But please forgive me.” “I am sorry. I am sorry.” Such a mixture of questions and remorse weighed heavily upon me.
　　Because the sight of his house revived the unpleasant memories and guilty feelings, I gradually avoided walking toward his house. I thought, “It is foolish to bother myself to go near his house. It will ruin the healthy effect of taking a walk. Yasoji may have completely forgotten about the incident. After all, 40 years is a long time. It is nonsense to take the trouble to dig out the wound that had been long buried deep in your mind, and put salt on it. Why can’t you leave it as it is?” Thus, I persuaded myself and one or two months later, I stopped walking past his house. Out of sight, out of mind, and I began to take a walk without being tormented by the bad memory. Besides, in the September of that year, I was enrolled at a graduate school to get an MA in English education. I became very busy teaching English at high school during the day and studying at the graduate school at night. I did not have any time to spare for a leisurely walk. I taught on weekdays and studied on weekends.
　　Two years passed and I got an MA degree. I resumed walking. One Sunday afternoon at around five, driven by the mixture of self-condemnation and determined but crooked desire to see Yasoji, I took a route to Yasoji’s house. I don’t know why, but my heart began to beat as I walked nearer and nearer to his house. I came just in front of his house. I focused my eyes on the name plate. I expected to see “Yasoji Domae,” but written on it was a different name, “Yuji Ito,” a very common name. I doubted my eyes. “That’s my mistake,” I thought. I walked for 10 or 15 meters away from it, and pretending as if I had forgotten something, I turned around and came to the house again. I glanced at the plate. It read, “Yuji Ito.” No mistake.

PART 5

　　Half disappointed and half relieved, I walked back home. I thought, “Yasoji must have moved to some other place, maybe to his hometown, Ogaki City. Perhaps, his father had died, and he had to return there to inherit his property.” I guessed so because when my father died, my elder brother’s family had come back to Ogaki to live. “But, that was a new house, wasn’t it?” I asked myself. “Why did he build a house in Nagoya if he were to inherit his father’s property?” I tried to figure out a logical reason for his move, but things were so entangled that I stopped thinking about it.
　　Days passed. Weeks and then months passed. Gradually I again began to bury the bad memory deep in my mind. I seldom recalled it.
Eight years passed. I turned 60 years old. One day early in July, a post card came to me announcing a reunion for my elementary school to be held during the Buddhist Bon Festival holidays. Since I moved to Nagoya, I had rarely attended the reunion, but this was a special occasion. It was a reunion to celebrate kanreki. All my classmates had become kanreki or 60 years old. In Japan, to live to be 60 is a celebratory occasion because the 60th year marks the end of the traditional sexagenary cycle. I had attended the kanreki reunions of my high school and university.
　　“Yasoji may come to the reunion,” I said to myself, and the next moment I felt as if I heard his shrill voice pleading his innocence with tears running down his cheeks. “What has become of him?” I wondered. “Can I recognize him after 50 years of absence? Even if I recognize him, will he recognize me? Does he still remember the incident? When we meet with each other, dare I raise the topic about the incident? Or will he do so? Suppose he brings up the subject accusing me, how should I respond to him?” I thought I had better not go to the reunion, but I knew that most of my old friends would attend it. I wanted to meet them again. If Yasoji should accuse me, what should I do? Then, I hit upon an idea: “If he blames me, I can always say, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I thought I had seen you at that time. If you say so, I mistook you for another boy.” Or I can pretend that I did not remember the incident at all. Or I could be honest and sincerely beg his pardon. Finally I decided to attend the meeting. I did not decide how to respond to his accusation. It would depend on the situation, I thought.
　　On August 16, I went to a hotel in Ogaki where the reunion was to be held. At the entrance of the party room, each classmate was given a name tag to put on their chests so that everyone could identify one another. About 100 people gathered, some from Kansai region and others from Tokyo. One of them, Ansuke (nicknamed after his name, Ando Yosuke), flew from Paris. Looking at them, I was confused. I did not recognize many of them although I saw their name tags. Most of the women’s tags had two names: names before and after their marriage. I missed our homeroom teacher, Mr. Ohashi, who I heard had died some years before. After kanpai “Cheers!” we ate, drank, talked, laughed, shook hands, exchanged name cards, hugged, and sang. All the while, I was looking for Yasoji. I did not see him. Maybe his countenance had changed, I thought. I looked at each of the name tags half desperately and half hoping not to find his name. I could not find it. Maybe he was absent. To confirm this, I went to Tecchan (nicknamed after his name Tetsu Ishiyama), who was in charge of the reunion. I asked him about Yasoji.
　　He said, “Oh, Yasoji. You mean Yasoji Domae? Didn’t you know he had died?”
　　“What! He died. Really?” I was taken aback.
　　“When?”
　　“Well, about ten years ago.”
　　“Ten years ago?”
　　“Yes. So I heard.”
　　The image of the new house with the name plate “Yasoji Domae” flashed in my mind. I asked.
　　“Where did he die? In Ogaki?”
　　“I don’t know, why?”
　　“I’m just curious.”
　　So Yasoji had died. I missed the chance forever to confirm whether or not he had been at the site with us.
　　I am 66 years old now, but once in a while, I still hear his wailing voice, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　THE END