by Nagai Kafu
As soon as you cross the bridge, you come to a little train stop made of wood, and behind it there is a thicket of trees spreading their branches. This is the departure point for the train bound for Arlington, where there are the large public cemetery, military drilling grounds, army barracks, and officers’ residences. Most of the people waiting for the train now are U.S. soldiers in khaki uniforms, but there are also Negro maids who are probably employed in the officers’ houses, as well as middle-aged white women who must be returning home from their shopping in Washington.
I never feel more depressed than when I see soldiers and sailors. They all have excellent physiques and youthfulness, but all their passions are constantly oppressed by military rules and regulations. The physical agony of this oppression is somehow reflected in their suntanned faces and bloodshot eyes, making them appear fearsome and at the same time pitiful. They wait for the train in threes and fours, some leaning against the railing of the bridge in order to sober up, others spitting out tobacco and walking on the bridge with loud footsteps, while still others gaze wistfully in the direction of Washington across the river, as if to ruminate over the women they visited in the afternoon.
I too leaned against the bridge railing and looked around. Just then the evening sun was about to go down, setting the whole sky afire. It was shooting its pointed rays of light directly toward Washington, making the colorful treetops throughout the park along the Potomac look like an opulent Turkish hanging. Above it, standing erectly, was the 555-foot Washington Monument, that amazing marble structure, which now looked like a column on fire. The round roof of the somewhat distant Capitol and the various white office buildings that towered here and there were equally dyed in deep red, and all the windows in the city’s tall hotel buildings glittered like colored electric lights.
A splendid, expansive panorama. I stood aimlessly in the autumn wind and reminded myself that this was the capital that ruled over the entire Western Hemisphere. As I looked beyond the river and far into the distance in the shadow of the setting sun, certain abstract thoughts arose in my mind like so many layers of summer clouds: humanity, humanism, nations, governments, ambitions, fame, history. And yet I did not have a single coherent idea that I would convey to others. I simply felt as if I were vaguely pursuing the shadow of something large, while at the same time my head was weighed down at the nape by some powerful majesty.
After a while I raised my head and looked around once again, but by then the soldiers who had been walking on the bridge and the groups of women waiting for a train seemed all to have gone. Another group of two or three people was already gathering, to wait for the next train.
I walked along the train tracks, and after a couple of blocks made my way aimlessly into the woods whose trees were spreading over both sides of the road. . . .
The woods consists mostly of oak and maple trees. The maples of this country are easily affected by the night dew, and the leaves tend to start falling even before they turn yellow. As a result, the winding path was everywhere covered with large fallen leaves, making it undiscernible. But the oak woods was at its peak foliage season. The light from the evening sun penetrated the trees’ thickness and shone upon every leaf. It was as though a golden rain were pouring down. But the autumn light in the dusk shifts rapidly; even as I watched, the bright treetops far away became covered by a shadow, while the dark ones nearby emerged in the light. In the bright areas, little birds that had already gone to bed began to chirp again, while in the newly darkened treetops, squirrels chattered loudly.
I kept walking aimlessly, but unconsciously straining my ears, when all of a sudden I heard a cry—not a bird or a squirrel, but unmistakably a woman sobbing.
No sooner had I stopped abruptly than I discerned two people amid the fallen leaves. One was a soldier clad in khaki, and the other, at his feet, a quite young Negro girl, perhaps half-white, with her hands clasped together on her chest as if in prayer.
A soldier and a girl—it was quite easy to guess what was going on.
“Please, please . . .” the girl’s voice echoed from the depth of her bosom, her clasped hands pressed against it.
“You are still talking such nonsense,” the soldier looked away in evident disgust, spitting out some tobacco, and he seemed about to leave.
“Don’t!” The woman clung to the soldier’s hand as she sank to the ground. “You really are asking me to break up our relationship, aren’t you?”
“What? . . . Me asking you? No, I am not asking you to break up. I don’t care if you break up with me or not. I am breaking up our relationship,” the soldier declared spitefully and also haughtily. He was a respectable American, but she was the daughter of former Negro slaves. He must have taken no small offense at the woman’s presumption that he was asking her “to break up.”
Unable to answer, the woman just sobbed over the man’s hand to which she clung. The soldier watched her for a while and then addressed her, as if remembering something, “Just think about it, eh, Martha. Don’t you remember? From the beginning, it wasn’t me who asked if we could become lovers. It was this spring, while I was stationed as a valet at Colonel M—’s house . . . that one evening when you came out to the backyard and I happened to run into you . . . I was drunk then . . . ha, ha, ha, ha. Well, never mind the details. But the next evening, didn’t you tell me you wanted to see me on such and such a day at such and such a place? How could I refuse? . . . But this time, no.” He broke off.
The woman sobbed even harder.
“It’s no use offering excuses, but the long and short of it is, everything has a beginning and an end. Just like the seasons.”
I could no longer bear to eavesdrop on this cruel and brutal live scene. Just then, the last deep blood-red shaft of sunlight struck my feet. I was also worried that they might see me, so I hastily left the scene without once looking back.
I was thinking, of course, not so much about love as about the long-festering problem of the relationship between the black and white races in this country. Why are Negroes so despised and hated by whites? Is it because they are ugly, or because they are black? Or is it simply that fifty years ago they were slaves? Is there no way for a race to avoid persecution unless it organizes itself as a political body? Is there a need for states or armed forces forever? . . .
I came out of the woods and walked back to the foot of the bridge. The evening sun had completely gone down and the bright red hue of the sky had faded, while across the river, in Washington, electric lights could be seen among the trees in the parks and in the windows of tall buildings. Once again, I leaned against the railing of the bridge and looked over the city, which was steadily growing darker.
On the bridge, as earlier, several soldiers were walking while they waited for their train. Amid the din of loud talk, laughter, and whistling, I chanced to look back and recognized the soldier whom I had just seen in the woods, tormenting the Negro girl. I had no idea when he had come back, but he was right by me and saying something to a friend wearing the same kind of uniform. My curiosity aroused, I listened to their conversation. The one who first asked a question was that soldier.
“How was it? Did you come across a pretty girl?”
“Oh, no,” responded the friend. “I had a terrible time today.” “What happened? Did you lose money at gambling?”
“That would have been better. Instead I went to the usual C Street and lost all my money.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha. You mean you have to spend your own money to have a woman? You aren’t very good at that, are you?” So saying, he spat out some tobacco. “What do you think? If you really are so desperate for women, I can procure a young one for you.”
“Hey, that sounds great.”
“There is a catch, however. If you don’t mind. . . .”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Nothing beats having a woman of your own without having to pay for it.”
“Of course, it’s a good deal,” he nodded. “But the catch is this: the girl i
s a nigger, not bad looking, though.”
“I don’t care. I am not about to worry over such details.”
“Good for you, Jack! I just wanted to tell you that this girl works at the house of Colonel M—, where I once did valet duty. She is still awfully young but crazy about men. As soon as you say some sweet words to her, she falls madly in love with you.”
“Is that right? But there could be trouble if she became too crazy about you.”
“Exactly. And I know it. The girl really loves men, loves to fool around with men. So after you’ve had your fill and gotten tired of her, just pass her on to somebody, it doesn’t matter who, so that he will take your place, and then you can simply run away. As long as you find her a substitute, she will soon become attached to him and won’t chase your ass forever. See, she is not the type to fall in love, but she’s just crazy about men. Don’t think you will find anything as convenient as that anywhere.”
Just then, at some distance a train appeared from under the trees with a loud sound.
“Here is the train. Let’s talk some more on the train.”
“All right!” was the sole answer.
The soldiers ran toward the train stop whistling a popular tune— “I’m [a] Yankee Doodle sweetheart, I’m [a] Yankee Doodle joy.”
The forests, woods, and water grew steadily darker. Red lights were being lit on the small craft and fishing boats moored under the bridge and under the trees on the riverbank. The lights of Washington began to shine brighter and brighter each moment, as did the stars in the sky. Alone, I crossed the bridge to walk home, but various ill-formed, undefined, yet very grave thoughts somehow seemed to keep occurring to me.
I never saw that Negro girl again while I lived in Washington.
(November 1906)
Bad Company
1
Not long ago, when the issue of discrimination against Japanese schoolchildren arose in California, there was much speculation in the press in New York and elsewhere in the country that Japan and the United States might go to war. Quite naturally, whenever those of us Japanese who were living in New York came together, the topic of conversation was very often developments on the Pacific Coast.
One evening, at a certain place, we were engaged in our usual discussion of such topics as the race question, the yellow peril idea, internationalism, Roosevelt’s personality, justice, and humanism, when all of a sudden someone seemed to remember something and asked a totally unrelated question: “Is it true that there are a lot of Japanese prostitutes over there?”
That topic spread in all directions like a shower cloud arising rapidly at the edge of a swelteringly hot sky, and drove away grander discourses on public affairs. Some even pulled up their chairs, as if to suggest that an even more serious subject had been introduced.
“I hear that over there they not only have Japanese prostitutes and samisen but also Japanese-style bath houses and even archery grounds.”
“There is hardly anything they don’t have: shiruko [sweet red- bean soup] shops, sushi restaurants, soba joints. Even in Japan, if you go to a remote region, you won’t be able to enjoy such convenience. On the other hand, most Japanese there are laborers from Kyûshû and the Chûgoku area; for those of us from Tokyo their food as well as their women are totally unappetizing.”
“Maybe that’s the case.”
“I’ve visited many parts of the Pacific Coast, from San Francisco to Portland, Seattle, Tacoma, and on to Vancouver in Canada, but the situation is more or less the same everywhere. Oh, yes . . . I did run into just one half decent looking woman who had apparently come from Tokyo . . . and was working as a barmaid in a whorehouse in Seattle.”
“Did you have any interesting experiences?”
“Oh, no. I only went there a few times to have a drink. You have to assume that a woman like that is already claimed by a scoundrel. Lower classes might not mind trying, but we have to be on our guard. Especially since I found out that her husband was a famous thug in the Seattle area who had graduated from college and spoke English. . . . I am told on that coast there are really disgusting characters who make a living by kidnapping or smuggling women . . . so-called pimps.”
The young man paused in his speech and took a puff from his pipe. Someone seized the moment and spoke up from a corner seat, saying, “I think I’ve seen the woman you just mentioned. . . . Do you know the name of her thug of a husband?”
Everybody looked at the questioner, surprised, for he was always known to be a serious man who never paid attention to talk of women and drinking.
“Mr. Shimazaki. That’s amazing. Who would have guessed that you were familiar with such things,” two or three startled voices could be heard simultaneously.
“Oh, no. I am as uninitiated as ever, but I do know about that woman because of certain special circumstances. Wasn’t she about twenty-six or -seven years old? With a slender face and tall in stature. . . . Yes? Then it’s certainly the woman I saw. This is indeed a coincidence, but the husband of that woman was once my brother’s . . . my dead brother’s close friend.”
The man addressed as Shimazaki began his story by request.
2
It was exactly three years ago, for the place where I disembarked when I came to the United States was Seattle.
We arrived at the pier on a fine day at the end of October, just as the sun was setting. But we were told that the immigration officials would not appear till the following morning, and so from the handrail on the deck I kept looking at the waters and mountains, the first sights of this foreign land, till late at night. The next day, I went ashore without a mishap but had no idea where I was. Together with a couple of others with whom I had become acquainted during the voyage, I wandered about, getting lost, but then we met a man, about fifty years of age, who said he was the desk clerk of a Japanese inn looking for guests. We followed him and got on a train for the Japanese quarter. We ended up at a dingy wooden inn at the corner.
It is no wonder that Japanese are misunderstood in that part of the country. The inn is located in an area that is at the extreme point of the city where the bustling streets lined with stores are gradually deserted, just as though people are falling upon bad times. The only buildings around there are shipping companies, communal stables, and such, and the streets, which are covered with horse dung, are monopolized by carts and laborers.
Sticking my head out the window of the inn to which we had been taken, I was able to see the backs of the city’s buildings far away and, closer, a tall, dark, and huge gas tank standing like Asakusa’s Panorama Building [in downtown Tokyo]. The street became suddenly narrower near that area, cramped with dirty, wood-frame little houses, through which a thin alley penetrated and then disappeared. Apparently, it ultimately led to the sea, for one could see, above the rooftops of people’s houses, steel roofs of the warehouses that stored ship cargo, as well as numerous masts. There must also be a railroad yard there: tremendous black smoke was gushing forth incessantly to the sound of locomotives’ bells, covering everything with soot, from roofs to streets; depending on the direction of the wind, there were times when you could not see very far. This alley, these squalid wood-frame houses, these made up the den for the Japanese and the Chinese, the Oriental colony, and also the place where unemployed Western laborers and poor, oppressed Negroes found shelter.
Just the sight of the coal fumes distressed me. Thinking that perhaps I should move to a hotel somewhere that was for Westerners, I actually went out to the street with my suitcase. But since I was a student, my travel money was limited; besides, even if I had enough money, a hotel for Westerners immediately conjures up the image of something like the Imperial in Tokyo, which makes one feel unwelcome unless one is wearing a silk hat. For no particular reason, then, I hesitated and told myself that I was not going to stay here long, that I was to leave for the East Coast within a week with a friend who was arriving from California. So although I had left the hotel, I returned to it sheepishly. But I co
uld not stand being cooped up in a room at the dingy hotel and so from the very day that I landed, and even before I had had enough rest from the voyage, I walked from morning till night all over the city; not only the city, but I also went to the huge lake to the north of the city and to the thick forests nearby. But wherever I went, children would jeer, crying out “sukebei” [lecher]. It was amazing that this word that had come to mean something special in the mouths of Japanese prostitutes had from them spread throughout the lower classes in the United States.
Indeed, how shall I describe the view from the inn’s window at night, looking down at the streets below? Before I left Japan, I had spent one night walking around in the pleasure quarter, saying to myself that I needed to observe Oriental social customs, as I would not be back for a long time. The night life I was witnessing now was similar, yet it made a far stronger impression on me. Perhaps this was because I was a newcomer to this country so that everything, good and bad, had a freshness.
