Modern Japanese Literature

by Donald Keene

  That did not mean, however, that he was satisfied with his present lot. He was already over thirty-five. Had he followed one of the more usual vocations, at this time of life he would have been at the height of his powers and his capacity to work, but as things stood with him now, his sole function was to play the clown on the stage. He had never had a single straight part. He served merely to give the audience a good laugh, or to liven them to the proper pitch for some other actor. It was obvious even to Fukai that this was no better than being the comic assistant in some juggler’s act. Obvious, but there was nothing he could do about it. At the prime of life, he was still continuing in the same old way.

  Fukai had a son nearly eight years old. Last year the boy had made his debut on the stage, and like his father—or rather, with much more confidence than his father—could look forward to a future as a Shimpa actor. Fukai had no intention of letting his son play comic parts. No, he was determined to see to it that, unlike himself, the boy was given the chance to play serious roles.

  At the moment Fukai still lay indolently in bed, thinking about the part he had been assigned the day before. Yesterday at the Kabuki Theatre there had been a reading of the script of the forthcoming production The Foster Child, and he had been assigned the part of “the tiger.” This was not the name of a character: it was the beast itself, and that was his whole part.

  Play a tiger! He was disgusted at the thought, but it had struck him as so amusing that he could not bring himself to complain. He had played a cat once. He had also pranced around in front of the curtain in the role of a dog. People had dubbed him “the animal actor.” What, then, was so strange in his being cast as a tiger? On the contrary, it would have been really hard to understand if the part had not devolved upon him.

  Still it saddened him a little to think that there was nothing unusual about his playing a tiger. Long years of experience had accustomed him to this disappointment: he knew it was the way he earned his living, and he was, after all, a comedian. And yet it seemed as if the “humanity” in him were being affronted. He even felt a moment of anger.

  At the reading of the script the day before, all eyes had automatically turned his way when the author paused and said, with a glance that took in the whole company, “I thought I’d change the old plot here a bit, and bring out Tamae’s extravagance by having him keep a tiger on his front porch. The tiger’s a savage brute from Malaya, and at the end of the scene he goes wild and turns on Tamae. How does that strike you?”

  “Sounds all right to me,” the head of the company had answered. “That gives us a chance to fit in a part for Fukai here. I take it he won’t turn it down?”

  Once more everyone had looked his way, and this time Fukai could sense in their expressions a kind of mocking contempt. Nevertheless, when Kawahara, the leading actor of female roles, remarked, “It’s a sure hit! That act will be devoured by Fukai’s tiger!”, he too had joined in the laughter. He had even felt a glow of pride.

  “Well, anyhow,” he thought, still lying in bed, “I’ve got to play the part of the tiger, and play it well. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. . . . Just so long as you do a part well, whether it’s a beast or a bird, you’re a good actor. Besides, when all’s said and done, I’m the only actor in the whole of Japan that can play a tiger. I’ll do a tiger for them that’ll make the audience stand up and shout. And I’ll give the other actors a good kicking around. If I’m to go on making my living, that’s the only thing I can do.”

  He jumped out of bed, called to his wife downstairs, and got dressed. This accomplished, he went down with a cheerful countenance. His late morning meal was waiting for him on a tray covered with a yellow cloth. After a cursory brushing of his teeth, he applied himself eagerly to the food.

  His son Wataru was lying on the veranda, idly leafing through the pages of an old issue of Theatre Arts Illustrated, no doubt an issue—one of the very rare ones—with a tiny photograph of Fukai on the first page, printed out of pity for him. He felt—it was nothing new—an embarrassment before his son. What kind of image of him as an actor was reflected in his son’s eyes? And to what extent did this conflict with the boy’s impression of him as a father?—These were some of the vague thoughts that ran through his head as he mechanically ate his meal.

  Wataru called to him, “Father! Haven’t you a rehearsal today?”

  “No—at least I don’t have to go to the theatre.”

  As he said this, his chagrin at being cast as a tiger, without a single word of dialogue to memorize, returned to him in full force. This time there was no necessity even for working out his cues with the other actors. All he had to do was decide in his own mind the most tiger-like manner in which to jump around the stage.

  But come to think of it, just how did a tiger spring upon its victim? He had seen paintings of tigers, of course, and knew how tigers were represented in old-fashioned plays. But he had only the haziest notion what real tigers were like. When it actually came to playing the part of one, even Fukai, “animal actor” that he was, was ignorant of their special qualities. One thing was sure—they belonged to the cat family. He probably could not go too far wrong if he thought of them as huge, powerful cats. Still, if he failed to do any better than behave like a cat in one of those cat fights of the old plays, some malicious critic might say that Fukai had literally come on a tiger and exited a cat, which would be very irritating indeed.

  “Do you have to go see anybody about anything?” Wataru, unaware of his father’s troubled thoughts, persisted with his interrogation, his voice taking on that wheedling tone that children affect when they want to get something out of their parents.

  “Let’s see. No, I suppose not. But what are you asking me for, anyway?”

  “I thought if you hadn’t anything to do, maybe you’d take me to Ueno today. It’s such a nice day. Please take me.”

  “Why do you want to go to Ueno? There’s nothing to interest you. A kid your age wouldn’t get anything out of the art museum. . . .”

  “But I want to go to the zoo! I haven’t been there once since last year!”

  “The zoo?” Fukai repeated the word mechanically. Various ideas fluttered through his mind. Ought he to regard his child’s words as a kind of divine revelation and be duly thankful? Or should he take them as an irony of fate, to which the proper response was a bitter smile? It was hard to know how to react. But even assuming that the gods were manifesting their contempt for him through the child, his long professional experience told him that his first concern should be to make good use of this opportunity for finding out how a tiger really behaves.

  “They’ve got a hippopotamus at the zoo now, Father! Come on, take me, please.”

  He turned to his wife and said, as if in self-explanation, “Shall Wataru and I go to see the hippopotamus and the tiger?”

  “Why don’t you, if you haven’t anything else to attend to? You never can tell—it might prove more of a distraction than going somewhere else,” agreed his wife, showing by the special emphasis she placed on the words “somewhere else” that her mind was on quite a different subject than the tiger.

  He was by no means impervious to the irony of her remark, but knew how to parry the thrust by taking it lightly. “I see. I suppose that would give you less to worry about than if I went to see a ‘cat’ somewhere!” His laugh was intentionally loud.

  “Let’s get started, Father, shall we?”

  “All right! All right!”

  Unashamedly he had leapt at this Heaven-sent opportunity, but somewhere deep inside him there still lurked an uneasiness which made him feel embarrassed before the child. However, he told himself, it was, after all, his job; cheered by this thought, he light-heartedly abandoned all compunctions. He had become once more the true son of Tokyo, who consoles himself by laughing at his own expense.

  Less than half an hour later, he and Wataru boarded a streetcar headed for Ueno. Like most actors, he hoped when on a streetcar or in some other public place, to
enjoy by turns the pleasure of elaborate efforts to remain unrecognized, and the agreeable sensation of being noticed and pointed out, despite his precautions. Decked out in a kimono of a pattern garish enough to attract anyone’s attention, and with Wataru dressed in one of those kimonos with extra-long sleeves that are the mark of a child actor, Fukai sat down in a corner of the car, his elbows close to his sides, as if to appear as inconspicuous as possible. True, he did not especially wish to have any of his acquaintances catch sight of him on the way to the zoo; still, it would be amusing to meet someone unexpectedly and tell him with a straight face about his strange errand, making the whole business into a good joke.

  At Suda-chō a man got on who filled the bill to perfection: the drama critic from the J newspaper, with whom Fukai had a casual acquaintance. Fukai recognized him instantly from under the felt hat pulled low over his brow, and sat with bated breath, waiting for it to dawn on the other man who he was. The critic presently discovered him and came over. With a conspiratorial, friendly air, he tapped Fukai silently on the shoulder.

  Fukai looked up eagerly. “Is that you, sir? What an unexpected place to run into you!”

  “I seem to be sharing the same car with a strange fellow! That’s what makes riding these spark-wagons such an adventure.”

  “Where are you heading for? Are you on the way to her house or on your way back?”

  “Which answer should I choose, I wonder? You might say I was on my way there, and then again you might sav I was on my way back.”

  “That’s because you’ve reached the point where you don’t remember anymore where your real home is, I suppose.”

  “I’m not so much of a man about town as all that! But what about you? Where are you off to?”

  “Me? Oh, a really fashionable place!—Look for yourself! I’m with my little millstone.” He pointed with his chin at the child, whom the critic had not noticed up to this point.

  “Is that you, Wataru? So you’re keeping your father company today, are you? Or is your father keeping you company?”

  “That’s it, that’s what makes me so stylish today—I’m being dragged off to Ueno by the kid!”

  “What? To the exhibition at the art museum? Sounds pretty impressive!”

  “Oh no, we wouldn’t go to such an unrefined place. It’s the zoo for us,” he said, adding hastily, “to see the hippopotamus.”

  “The zoo?” The drama critic raised his eyebrows. Then his face lighted into a broad smile, and he slapped his knee. “I get it! But I’ll bet it’s not the hippopotamus you’re going to see! You’re off to see the tiger. I’ve heard all about the plot of the new play. They say the big boss himself thought up that idea. He’s a smart man.”

  “Is that right? It’s news to me. Here I’ve been furious at the leading man all along, thinking it was one of his tricks. I see I had better take the part more seriously. I’ve got to keep on the good side of the boss, you know.”

  “Now you’ve confessed it! But if you want to see a tiger, you needn’t go to all the trouble of making a trip to the zoo.”

  “You mean a couple of quarts will make anybody a tiger?”2

  “How about it? What do you say we have a look at one of those tigers?”

  “No, can’t do it. After all, I can’t just ditch this fellow here,” said Fukai, glancing once more at the child.

  “You’re getting old, aren’t you?” the critic said casually, looking fixedly at Wataru.

  At these words, like cold water dashed in his face, Fukai became serious again. He felt moreover profoundly ashamed that he had carried on this tiresome prattle without the least regard for his son’s feelings. But his whole training had been much too frivolous for him to let the conversation drop, even at this juncture.

  “I may be getting along in years, but they still treat me like a child as far as my parts are concerned. A tiger is more than even I can put up with.”

  “The other parts are just as bad. Who knows? The tiger may in the long run bring you more credit. It could easily turn out to be the hit of the show.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself, and that’s why I have every intention of doing my best.”

  “Of course you will! We’re all looking forward to your tiger.”

  “You overwhelm me!” Fukai smiled ironically, but secretly derived considerable solace from the critic’s words.

  The streetcar by this time had arrived at Ueno, and prodded impatiently by his son, Fukai hurriedly got off, taking an unceremonious leave of the critic.

  The trees in Ueno Park had turned their bright autumn colors, and streams of people were moving along the broad gravel walks, with here and there a parasol floating in their midst. For Fukai, who was used to being indoors all the time, to be out under the blue sky at once raised his spirits. They made straight for the zoo.

  Once inside the wicket, Wataru started to skip off happily. Fukai restrained him. “I’ll be looking at the tiger, and after you’ve seen everything, come back and meet me there.”

  Wataru was in too much of a hurry to ask why his father was so interested in the tiger. Rejoicing in this release from parental authority, he bounded off gaily, and was soon lost in the crowd of children before the monkeys’ cage.

  Fukai for his part was also glad to be free of the child. Relying on his vague memories of the layout of the zoo from a previous visit years ago, he slowly walked in search of the cages where they kept the dangerous animals. He found the tiger almost immediately.

  He had a queer feeling as he stopped in front of the cage. Inside the steel bars crouched the tiger that he sought, its forelegs stretched out indolently. When Fukai first noticed its dirty coat and lackluster eyes, glimmering like two leaden suns, he felt a certain disappointment—it was too unlike the fierce power of the beast he had hitherto imagined. But as he intently observed the tiger, a feeling of sympathy gradually came over him. He felt pity for the tiger, but that was not all—a strange affection welled up. Shut up in a dank cage on this brilliant autumn day, robbed of all its savage powers, forced to crouch there dully, not so much as twitching under the curious stares of people: Fukai felt the wild beast’s circumstances much resembled his own. But just wherein the resemblance lay was not clear, even to himself.

  Deeply moved by these emotions, which remained nevertheless vague and unformulated, he stood in rapt contemplation before the cage, forgetting that he was to play the part of this tiger, forgetting to note the tiger’s posture or the position of the legs.

  The tiger and Fukai were both absolutely motionless. For a long time the man and the beast stared at each other. In the end, Fukai felt as if he were experiencing the same feelings as the tiger, as if he were thinking the tiger’s thoughts.

  Suddenly the tiger contorted its face strangely. At the same instant, it opened its jaws ringed with bright silver whiskers, and gave vent to an enormous yawn. The inside of its gaping mouth was a brilliant scarlet, rather like a peony, or rather, a rose in full bloom. This action took less than a minute, after which the tiger lapsed back into its silent apathy.

  Startled out of his trance, Fukai summoned back to mind the nearly forgotten purpose on which he had come. The tiger, after demonstrating only that single yawn, remained immovable as a tree in some primeval forest, but Fukai was content. It seemed to him that, having penetrated this far into the tiger’s feelings, he would be able to improvise the pouncing and roaring and all the rest.

  “Yes, I’ll really do the tiger! I can understand a tiger’s feelings a whole lot better than those of a philandering man about town,” he cried to himself.

  Presently his son rejoined him, and taking the boy’s hand, Fukai walked out the gate of the zoo, with a lighter step than when he had come.

  The following day he happened to glance at the gossip column called “A Night at the Theatre” in the J newspaper. There, in unadorned terms, appeared the following paragraph:

  Fukai Yasuke, well known as a popular actor of animal roles, has recently seve
red the last of his few tenuous connections with the human species. He devours his lunch in seclusion, emitting weird meows and grunts. He is still intent enough on getting his salary to stand up on his hind legs and beg for it, but now that he finally seems to have won a part in the forthcoming production at the Kabuki Theatre, he is so pleased with his role as a tiger that he spends his days going back and forth to the zoo to study.

  This was the drama critic he had met the day before, giving free rein to his pen. A feeling of resentment rose up in Fukai when he read the article. However, that quickly vanished, and an embarrassed smile took its place, to be followed in turn by an expression of contentment. “After all, that’s what my popularity depends on.”

  Viewed in that light, it seemed more important than ever that he should make a success with the role of the tiger. Now, whether smoking a cigarette or eating his lunch or lying in bed, his thoughts were completely absorbed with the actions of tigers.

  Opening day arrived at last. The play developed through its various scenes, and soon it was time for the third act, in which he was to appear as the tiger. There was no trace of a smile on his features as he put on the tiger costume. He stretched out on the balcony of Tamae’s villa, just as the wooden clappers announced the beginning of the act

  The curtains parted. No one else was on stage. The tiger raised itself slightly, as if it had finally awakened from its long midday slumber, and uttered a few low growls. At that moment five or six voices called out, “Fukai! Fukai!”, from up in the top gallery. Fukai felt considerable gratification.

  The principal actor and Kawahara, the female impersonator, came on stage. But the shouts of recognition from the gallery when they made their entrances were certainly no more enthusiastic than those that had greeted him. “Look at that!” he thought, feeling more and more pleased with himself.

  The play advanced. As he listened to the dialogue, he was waiting only for the instant when he would spring into action. The play reached its climax. The moment for him to act was here at last.