What originally started me thinking about this in the first place was your decision to abandon the drowning novel. In all honesty, I should say “your decision to do me the favor of abandoning the project.” I won’t pretend I was sorry about that outcome. That’s because when you decided to give up trying to write about our father through the prism of his death, I felt as if I had fulfilled Mother’s final wish, since the possibility you might someday publish that book was something she was very concerned about for a long time. During the ten years since she passed away, I have to confess that I behaved rather duplicitously, although I did have my reasons. The truth is, I knew the materials you needed in order to complete your drowning novel had long since been destroyed, but I needed to hear from your own lips that you had decided to abandon the project based on what you found — or, more precisely, failed to find — in the trunk.
Anyhow, since the drowning novel has finally been flushed away once and for all (yes, I realize that may not be the most tasteful choice of words), I can finally escape from our mother’s long shadow and start to walk alone, on my own. Even as I was becoming aware of that exhilarating possibility, I realized I’d already started to march in step with Unaiko, so to speak.
As you know, I was deeply impressed and inspired by her recent performance, and when I announced that from now on I’d like to pour my energy and resources into helping with her creative projects, her response was very quick and totally positive. Unaiko did take some time to discuss the matter with Ricchan, but she got back to me almost immediately, saying they both agreed it was time for a change, and rather than continuing to work for Masao Anai (or some other man), they would rather team up with a woman like me. Then the three of us had a lovely group hug and laughed about feeling as if we had just graduated from — or perhaps to? — an all-girls school. What I’d like to say to you now is that until recently the unresolved issue of Mother’s red leather trunk was always taking up valuable space in my brain, but from here on out I’m going to be single-mindedly devoting myself to the perpetually evolving Tossing the Dead Dogs project. I’m going to live every day with the aim of supporting Unaiko and her creative work in any way I can. As it happens, this decision of mine coincides with an exciting new stage in Unaiko’s career, and I’m delighted to have the chance to commit my time and abilities, such as they are, to helping her realize her unique artistic vision.
So I guess this is my personal declaration of independence! I know with absolute certainty that I need to free myself from Mother’s influence, and from yours as well, before I can join Unaiko in this adventure. If you were to ask what else I’ve done in my life that felt as challenging as this, I would have to say it was making the movie about a local folk heroine, even though (as you know) Meisuke’s Mother Marches Off to War was never distributed because of contractual problems. But now that I think about it, on that project, too, I was always toiling in your shadow — and Mother’s, too. I mean, you wrote the screenplay, and of course you were the reason we were able to attract an international movie star like Sakura Ogi Magarshack.
For our current undertaking, though, I’m absolutely determined not to be dependent on you in any way. So Unaiko and I are thinking that (if you approve) we would like to enter into a formal contractual agreement with you, as the original author of the screenplay, before we do any more work on turning it into a stage play. Realistically, we wouldn’t be able to get our new enterprise off the ground without your cooperation, but once it gets rolling Unaiko and I should be able to bring her innovative ideas to fruition on our own, as an independent partnership.
Unaiko is considerably younger than I am, but she’s carrying some heavy emotional baggage — things in her past that are far more severe than anything I’ve experienced in my own comparatively sheltered life. I’m talking about seriously dark and damaging violations, the kind you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. As a teenager Unaiko had some truly harrowing experiences, and right now she’s plotting a crucial battle of her own that’s directly connected with a traumatic chapter in her life. I wouldn’t call it a vendetta or a quest for revenge; it’s more like an attempt to obtain a long-overdue measure of justice.
Our dear friend Ricchan, who is a supercapable manager and administrator in addition to being very creative in her own right, will be accompanying Unaiko and me on our journey. Since the time has come for me to emerge from the shadows, I’m excited to be joining forces with Unaiko as we go forth to fight our battles together: mine rather small, hers potentially epic.
I guess this next bit is what movie people call the backstory, but at any rate I think the idea for the giant favor I’m leading up to first began germinating when you mentioned that there will come a time, perhaps quite soon, when you’ll no longer be able to return to the forest, and you asked me to give some thought to how we ought to handle the business aspect of the equation. I started thinking now might be the perfect time to make some changes, so I went down to the town hall and had a chat with one of the clerks.
When we built the Forest House, Mother’s idea was that the land should be in my name, while the house would belong to you. Since Unaiko is planning to strike out on her own and establish her own theater group based on the “tossing the dead dogs” model, I’ve been thinking about what a boon it would be for her to have the use of the Forest House on a more permanent basis. I’m not proposing that you should deed the house over to me — I suspect I’ll eventually need to move somewhere less remote myself. Nor am I suggesting that the property be passed down to my son.
What I’m saying is that I would be very grateful if you would formally bequeath the Forest House to Unaiko. (Naturally I would do the same with my claim to the land it sits on.) In addition, I’d like to ask you to continue paying the property taxes and to subsidize the conversion of the downstairs into a proper rehearsal space — a project that, as you know, is already under way. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you please consider doing these things, perhaps as a way of compensating me for having looked after the Forest House all these years? Of course, if you should ever want to come to see any of Unaiko’s new productions, or if you ever feel like taking an active part in those projects (and, to be honest, we’re going to be counting on your assistance on the artistic side), or if you simply decide to pay us a visit, you will always be more than welcome to set up camp on the second floor for as long as you like.
As for the timing of this new chapter of Unaiko’s career, something has happened that makes her going solo necessary, and maybe even inevitable. After the success of her recent show — the dog-tossing play built around some of the concepts set forth in Kokoro—she started getting even more flak than usual from the right-wing factions around these parts. At this stage the criticism is still only verbal, but if it should escalate into actual interference she’ll have no choice but to fight back. Because the leader of the Caveman Group, Masao Anai, tries to be apolitical in both his private life and his art, Unaiko needs to make it clear to the public that she is leaving the group and going her own way. Since Unaiko will almost certainly need to borrow some start-up capital from the bank, the question of what she has in the way of assets or property — things that could serve as collateral for a loan — will be crucial. That’s why I’m asking you to give careful consideration to my request, at your very earliest convenience.