by Kenzaburo Oe
“Well, it’s not as if everything that went on at those drinking parties and meetings was clearly delineated in my dream, much less in my memory,” I said, shaking my head. “Even today, I’m still puzzled by many of the things I overheard. For example, the lines from The Golden Bough I read aloud a while ago were definitely circled in colored pencil by the Kochi Sensei, but I can’t help wondering why he placed so much emphasis on ‘killing the living God’ as a way of bringing rebirth and prosperity to a country. Did he really think those precepts could be applied directly to postwar realpolitik? I honestly don’t know. I mean, incendiary marginalia aside, there’s no actual proof my father (or his teacher) was reading The Golden Bough pragmatically, with the idea that its ancient mythologies could be translated into action to help steer this country’s imperial system through the postwar morass of chaos and disintegration. I know the others saw you as a kind of loyal retainer whose main job was to warm the sake and keep everyone’s cups filled, but it’s clear you were paying close attention to everything that went on in those meetings. So what I’d like to ask you now, Daio, is whether the group had a definite plan, in the form of a military strategy, to rescue this country from its postwar predicament, and if so, whether my father was the primary author of the plan.”
“Yes, most definitely,” Daio replied without hesitation. “At that point the strategy sessions had become deadly serious, and given the extent of your eavesdropping I’m surprised you even need to ask about your father’s role. He was the one who came up with the idea of bombing the Imperial Palace, but the others took the idea and ran with it, and some of the young military guys started talking about blowing up the big meteoric rock at the Saya to create a landing strip for the plane they were planning to steal. When he heard that, Choko Sensei got very upset and started shouting things like ‘What’s this nonsense about bombing the big rock? Do you really think I’m going to let a bunch of outsiders come in and deface the Saya? That spot isn’t some flash-in-the-pan landmark from the Meiji Era or something. It’s been an important local site since olden times, and you can’t just waltz in and start blowing things up to build a temporary airstrip!’ You must have heard that tirade, right?”
“Yes, I did,” I said. “To be honest, when I heard my father shouting I literally began to tremble. A moment later one of the officers came out into the hall where I was standing, still shaking like a leaf, and he said, ‘Listen, kiddo, we’re going to be talking about some important things from now on, so you’d better run along to the main house.’ So I did.
“It was much later when my father returned, and while I was aware that he and my mother were talking in low voices, I was in my bedroom so I couldn’t make out what they were saying. In retrospect I realize they were probably discussing my father’s decision to run away in his little boat. As a mere child, I couldn’t very well ask what was going on, but it was obvious the next day that my mother was helping my father get ready for a trip. At one point my father asked me to extract the tube from an old bicycle tire and blow it full of air, but that was nothing unusual. All day, from morning to evening, my chest seemed to be constricted with a vague feeling of anxiety, but I didn’t know why. During that time the military guys were still quietly holed up in the outbuilding next door. The scene I remember so vividly—my father’s departure on the stormy river—happened very late at night, long after my usual bedtime. I’m not sure what time it was, but …”
“So you didn’t really understand what you overheard outside the meeting room!” Daio interjected. “I always used to wonder how much you knew. I even suspected you might be feigning ignorance, but now I realize that wasn’t the case. Rather, I think your memories have been quarantined or frozen somewhere deep in your unconscious because the things you heard (the army officers clashing with your father about the Saya and so on) were just too confusing for your childish mind to deal with.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to monopolize the conversation, but I want to explain my theory. First, under the guidance of his teacher in Kochi, your father read The Golden Bough, with special emphasis on the part about the tradition of killing the old king to protect the country from succumbing to decay and debilitation, and that gave him the idea of bombing the Imperial Palace. He was able to get the army officers on board with this rather extreme plan, at least at first, and they started to get excited about it (to say the least) during the two-day drinking party masquerading as a policy meeting. But I really don’t think that discussion would have made sense to you, not only because you were an innocent child, but also because your formal education was based on the nationalistic, emperor-worshipping model. Actually, the thing that made the lightbulb go on in my head was seeing Unaiko’s ‘dog-tossing’ dramatization of Kokoro. That really got me thinking. The Sensei character in Kokoro talks about the ‘spirit of the age’ or ‘the spirit of the Meiji Era,’ right? In any case, during the performance someone from the audience asked whether a person like Sensei, who had turned his back both on his own era and on society in general, could really be said to have been influenced by the spirit of his age to the point where he ended up taking his own life when the era came to an end. As you know, that sparked a major ruckus, with stuffed dogs flying through the air in all directions.
“Anyhow, that somehow made me think about you, Kogito. Your early education had a militaristic slant, so the ‘spirit of the age’ you grew up in demanded total allegiance to an emperor who was believed to be a god incarnate. (I don’t believe a valid comparison can be drawn between those sentiments and the so-called spirit of Meiji Soseki wrote about, but that’s another discussion for another day.)
“Fifteen years or so ago, you turned down the emperor’s highest cultural award because of your unwavering belief in the principles of postwar democracy, and as a result my young disciples at the training camp (who were still totally committed to emperor worship) decided you were their archenemy. I think that was probably the motivation behind the practical joke they played, sending you a giant live turtle and telling you I was dead, but they could have just done it for mischief, pure and simple. As for me, I think if you’re going to talk about Kogito Choko in terms of the spirit of an age, there are two distinct facets. The first half of the Showa Era you grew up in—in other words, until 1945—revolved around a godlike emperor, while the second half, after the war, was shaped by democratic principles. I think your personal trajectory reflects that as well.
“So we have a ten-year-old boy who was born in the first half of the era and who is, in effect, a poster child for that period in history. This boy happens to overhear his father—whom he holds in great esteem—talking about a scheme in which some navy men, trained in piloting military aircraft, would stage a suicide attack to kill the living god—that is, the emperor. Does it really seem likely that a boy whose schooling was rooted in emperor-worshipping nationalism would be able to process such a radical idea? No, I think what young Kogito heard was so shocking that his conscious mind simply suppressed it. And the only thing the eavesdropping kid retained, indelibly lodged in his unconscious, was the image of the young pilots at the Saya practicing their takeoffs and landings—a fantasy scene he had only heard described through a wall. And there you have it: the source of your Saya dream. Of course, the additional details and embellishments were provided by your famously fertile imagination, which would later bear fruit in the form of novels, but mark my words: your imaginings were firmly based on things that were discussed in the meeting you were surreptitiously listening in on!”
Daio paused for a moment in triumph and then went on: “And so I’ve come to the conclusion that for you, as the unofficial representative of the spirit of the prewar half of the Showa Era, it was simply impossible to wrap your head around what you heard your father saying. On the one hand, your father was an outsider who had married into the village and had embraced many of the local traditions, and I think those stories had a deeper hold on his psyche than the ultranationalist dogma he was spouting to th
e young officers. The land around the Saya was considered by local folks to be the heart of the forest, so there was no way your father was going to let a bunch of young whippersnappers come charging in and tramp all over the ancient site, digging up the roots of the pine trees with pickaxes and trowels to get at the valuable turpentine, then adding insult to injury by proposing to raze that hallowed ground for use as an airstrip. That was the father you knew and looked up to. But on the other hand, from what you’d overheard it also sounded as if your father was the instigator of a crazy plan to kill the living god!
“I honestly believe your father was probably opposed to such radical tactics, in his heart, but maybe he had just reached a point where he felt the need for a grand symbolic act. So when it became clear that Japan was going to lose the war, he and his cohorts probably discussed a scenario wherein, if the emperor abdicated his throne, they would commit premeditated ritual suicide—you know, junshi. The truth is, Kogito, by the time your father reached the stage of talking about dispatching a kamikaze bomber to target the center of Tokyo, where the palace is, I think he had already resolved to end his own life, one way or another. I didn’t have the courage to tell you this before, but I never thought Choko Sensei was the type of man who would live a long, uneventful life and die a peaceful death in his own bed. To be honest, I don’t believe his drowning was an accident at all.”
4
There we stood, Daio and I, leaning against the big meteoric rock. The sun was sinking in the west, and the new growth on the trees around the Saya was shrouded in a rosy-hued haze. As I gazed at the forest I was picturing a faraway scene in Frazer’s ancient Forest of Nemi, where there wouldn’t yet have been any sign of the multifarious foliage we associate with modern-day Italy—no bay laurels, no olives, no oleanders, no citrus trees—and only the beeches and oaks would be growing in abundance. I thought with pleasure of the charmingly archaic language Frazer used to describe those trees: the beechwoods and oakwoods, with their deciduous foliage. …
Daio, meanwhile, was pointing toward the bottom of the hill. “Hey, look, Ricchan’s waving at us,” he observed. “Akari’s standing up as well, putting his cast back on by himself. I’m glad we were able to have this long chat, Kogito; I’ve been wanting to tell you some of these things for the longest time. When I heard from your mother that you were going away to college in Tokyo, I thought, Well then, I’d better study really hard and make sure I become the kind of person who can carry on an intelligent conversation with Kogito when he comes back, so I started taking correspondence courses right away, after you left. The tuition wasn’t terribly expensive, but the students were also required to go up to Tokyo once a year for some classroom time, and your mother helped me with the fees. Of course, after the war ended I wanted to keep the training camp going as a tribute to your father’s memory—after all, I was his number one disciple. As a result I was never able to live a normal life, and your mother was kind enough to sympathize with my situation.”
Daio and I quickly traversed the grassy downhill slope below the Saya, which was now completely in the shade. When we reached the sandy shore of the river, Daio used his one sturdy arm to grab a large bag that Ricchan had just finished packing and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Akari, who had clearly benefited from his rehab exercises, picked up the Boston bag and started to walk toward the van, with Ricchan by his side to lend support if needed. I brought up the rear of our little procession, trudging along in silence and carrying nothing except the immeasurable weight of the things Daio had just told me.
Daio had no reason to share in my wordless reverie, and after a few moments he spoke. “Kogito, it occurred to me that more than half a century has passed since Choko Sensei died prematurely, at the age of fifty. Most of the people who knew your father are gone as well, including your mother—who was larger than life in her own right—but she died without ever having said anything regarding her husband, as far as I know. I mean, seriously, not a single word! Asa told me how disappointed you were when you finally got to open the red leather trunk, which should theoretically have contained the papers and correspondence your father left behind, and didn’t find anything you could use. But on the bright side, as an indirect result of your discovery of the three volumes of The Golden Bough, I got to talk to you about some serious matters that have been weighing on my mind for years.
“I know I usually start blathering every time I meet up with you, while you seem to mostly listen in silence, and I’m always left with the feeling that I don’t really know what’s going on in your head. Actually, that’s been the case ever since you were a high school sophomore, when you brought Goro Hanawa to visit us at the training camp. Even after the intense conversation you and I just had, I still have no idea what you’re thinking, or feeling. Even so, it looks to me as though we’re both remembering the events of the night your father drowned, over and over again … and of course you keep reliving it in your dreams as well.
“Oh, that reminds me. I know your mother told Asa that she thought your father had become frightened by what he’d gotten himself into, and that was why he tried to run away. (I gather you’ve listened to the recording she made?) Obviously, that isn’t how I see it, and I was there. I guess you’ve been processing everything in your own silent, inscrutable way, but I have finally come to the conclusion that no matter how much we speculate about your father’s motivations, no one will ever know for sure why he behaved as he did on that night. Maybe it’s one of those riddles that can never be solved.
“Well, here I am rambling on again, but I remembered just now that the officers were saying some rather rude things behind Choko Sensei’s back during those highly charged days before he died. And a word that cropped up more than once during those surreptitious conversations was mononoke (you know, in the sense of a supernatural spirit that possesses a living person). I wasn’t familiar with the word at the time, but when I encountered it later I remember thinking, Ah, so that’s what those officers were whispering about.
“Actually, on reflection, I used to hear that word in the officers’ private conversations even during the earlier time when they were getting along relatively well with your father. In the beginning, your father rarely participated in the officers’ discussions. But then he suddenly got very gung ho and vocal about everything, and he even went so far as to make the trek to the Kochi Sensei’s house to talk things over with him.
“I remember what one of the officers said: ‘As someone who was born and raised deep in this forest’—your father had deliberately given them that impression—’Old Man Choko gets all fired up about things to a degree that seems alarming to guys like us who were raised in cities and towns. It’s almost as if he’s been possessed by a spirit or a demon or a fox or something.’ The officer added that a person like your father could get totally carried away by his ideas and turn into a loose cannon. During that meeting your father and the officers had a difference of opinion about their plan, and they reached an impasse. By the next morning everybody knew he was planning to run away in his little rowboat, but while he was making the preparations for his departure none of the military guys made any effort to stop him. It wasn’t much past noon when they got into party mode and started drinking themselves silly, and they ordered me to fetch the red leather trunk. As I mentioned before, they somehow knew your father was planning to take it with him when he fled, and they obviously wanted to censor the contents and remove anything that might have incriminated them. Then around midnight you came over to the storehouse to retrieve the trunk.
“After your father left, I got a very clear sense that the military guys were all thinking that if your father rushed off in a panic and ended up drowning in the flooded river, it would be good riddance from their point of view, as long as he didn’t leave any evidence behind to implicate them. That’s why they didn’t try to stop him from going. They even made a point of warning me, as a very junior member of the group, not to do anything to dissuade Choko Sensei from his
rash plan, so I just had to watch him go. After I assured them he really had taken off in his rowboat, it seemed to set their minds at ease. They even went with me to look for Sensei’s remains once it got light, since no one really expected him to survive his trip down the flooded river in the flimsy little boat.
“I’ll never forget what one of the officers said to one of his young cohorts right about then. He was talking about your father’s plan to steal a kamikaze bomber from the Yoshidahama airfield (an idea everyone had pretended to be enthusiastic about when it first came up) and he said, ‘Of course, to us, the plan seemed like a big joke all along!’ And then they both gave kind of a weak, mean-spirited laugh—I guess you’d call it a snigger. I still can’t forgive those two officers, although I suppose both of them are probably long since dead and gone.
