The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by J. Thomas Rimer

  At the end of that year I was once again sharing a room with two men, and was again and again obliged to hear stories of every kind. One man, still only about my age, was, according to his own description, a “high-class beggar.” The other, short of stature, was an old man who traveled around selling fortunes with the help of a fox. He told me he had gone down in the world but had formerly been a priest at the Fushimi Inari Shrine, and (as he proudly informed me) he had even been decorated.

  The last day of the year was approaching. I felt the heavy, painful duty of having to return home. Every morning I would decide I would go back that same day, but by the time it got to be night, I would dawdle, haplessly changing my mind and telling myself, “It’s already late. I’ll do it tomorrow, first thing.” At this rate, my procrastination would go on forever. In the end, the thirty-first of December would arrive, and I feared I wouldn’t actually leave for home until I’d heard the temple bells ring out the old year. No, it would be more exact to say that in my heart I had begun to accept this as a decision.

  I had paid the flophouse charges the night before and was now flat broke. I had made up my mind, having no alternative, to go to a friend’s house that day and borrow some money, but it was cold getting out of bed, even though I had only a thin quilt over me, and I lay there, unable to make a move; my head, hands and feet shrinking back, fearing the cold drafts.

  The other rooms, whose occupants had gone out early that morning, were absolutely still. There were signs the old woman of the house was about to start cleaning. My room was the only one where nobody had any business to do that morning, and nobody made a move to get up.

  I dozed off again. I surrendered myself to this agreeable feeling only to be wakened with a start by a sudden rumbling in my gut. I was hungry. I gave a sour smile, only for the rumble to grow louder.

  —Was I going to starve? Is this a case of “if hunger comes, can death be far away”?

  I was muttering such stupid things in my clouded head because I hadn’t yet fully shaken off my sleep.

  —Hunger, hanger, Hungarian, . . . Isn’t there a language called Hungarian? Wait a second. You’ve heard of a Hungarian Rhapsody, haven’t you? Maybe that’s a crazy song by somebody who’s hungry.

  Suddenly the “high-class beggar” next to me called to me, “What’s the matter with you? Your stomach’s rumbling. I can hear it over here. . . . Have you got something wrong with your stomach?”

  I woke with a start, clearly awake this time. I didn’t care much for the man’s habitual overbearing way of talking, so, not answering, I went on pretending I was asleep.

  He laughed. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” The “high-class beggar” then added in cheerful tones, “I’m starting a project to give relief to hungry children.” He was in a good humor because he had completed his “preparations for New Year” the day before.

  Whether or not it’s true is rather dubious, but he claimed to be the son of a famous politician who was still alive in the mid-1920s. He said that after his father died, he had to leave school without graduating, harassed by the father’s huge debts. He went completely wild, and after a stint as a juvenile delinquent, this was where he had sunk. The louses who in the past had been obligated to his father, even those who were now prospering, far from repaying their debt of gratitude by extending a hand to a suffering family, had instead raised a great commotion, trying to collect the meager amounts of money they had lent. His mother, who was in frail health, had died in the middle of this furor, and his only sister was now sick.

  “My wife is also sick and we’ve separated. . . . I’ve simply got to send both of them the money they need for treatment, and that’s why this high-class beggar is having such a hard time.”

  He laughed heartily, throwing out his chest, though his body was rather scrawny—I suppose it was a politician’s style of laughing—only to cough midway and bend over as if in pain. The sickness from which his wife and sister were suffering was (to use his expression) “money-eating pulmonary tuberculosis,” and he clearly also had problems with his chest. It caused his coughing but gave him fresh opportunities to put on airs.

  He owed his name “high-class beggar” to his practice of visiting and cadging large and small donations not only from members of his late father’s party, but from politicians of every shade, from well-known officials, industrialists, and even actors, or else from companies. He was proud that he had been so successful at selling himself that some benefactors were now sending him money regularly.

  He reminisced, “All it takes is to show my face over and over and make up some sort of crazy excuse to tap them for pocket money . . . My aim is to make them feel I’m a nuisance, and after I’ve done it a little, they can’t wait to send me away. The trick is to get them to feel that way.”

  Then he told me, “Violence or threats are out. Absolutely no good. . . . It’s a different kettle of fish and the police can be a bother. . . . When you’re working on your own, ‘soft words win hard hearts’ must be your motto.”

  It was a sensible attitude for a man who didn’t look as if he was endowed with either strength or courage.

  His method did not seem particularly original, but he carried it out with full confidence. But perhaps he was entitled to feel pleased with himself, considering that he himself went on eating every day and he was sending money (or so he said), regardless of how much it was, to pay the doctors’ bills for his wife and sister.

  He considered his appearance to be his capital and always set out properly, dressed in a black suit, a white shirt, and striped trousers. Despite his grand manner, he also had a markedly feminine side. He himself took care of his suits. He constantly laundered his underwear to ensure that he would always have clean clothes to wear. It was true of his body, too; he bathed often, though in cold weather he would strip and merely rub himself briskly. He apparently also scrubbed his clean shaven face with soap until his hollow cheeks acquired an unnatural reddish tinge and positively shone.

  When I finally poked my head out of the damp quilt, the “high-class beggar,” directing his face with its protruding cheekbones at the fortune-teller and myself by turns, said, “How about it? Today I’m going to treat both of you to a meal. Fortunately, I’m well stocked with campaign funds, so follow me and don’t worry about the bill.”

  Yesterday he had sent his wife and sister their monthly allowance plus a little extra for New Year. I suppose there was still enough left for him to treat us to dinner.

  The old man, who was lying in the bed by the shōji on the other side of the room, said, “That’s just fine. Thank you so much.” Then he called to me gleefully, “Considering he’s been so kind as to ask us, why don’t we accept his invitation and go together to dinner?”

  “Yes, please do. It doesn’t become you to let your stomach rumble that way. . . . But wait a minute before we start out.”

  No sooner did the “high-class beggar” get out of bed than, as usual, he went to the washroom to wipe his body.

  The fortune-teller shook his round, short head, visibly impressed. “That gentleman is still young, but he’s got a fine character.—It’s no easy matter regularly sending to sick people far away. . . . I’m impressed.” He added, lowering his voice, “The way he does things, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s put away quite a bit of money. . . .”

  Presently the “high-class beggar,” the subject of our gossip, came back into the room, forlornly bending and stretching his thin arms and legs like an elementary school child performing calisthenics. He changed into his best suit.

  He had stretched out the trousers under his bedding to give them a crease. He took them out and, stepping over my feet, took the bedding to the window to dry. He muttered to himself, “It’s cloudy. Looks like snow. That means the sunlight won’t disinfect it.” Then, turning to me, he said, “Aren’t you going out? . . . Get up, laziest man in the country.”

  So saying, he stripped the quilt from over me.

  “Well, w
hat do you know? He’s built like a sumo champion, and still doesn’t go out to work . . . How about my finding a job for you somewhere? . . . But maybe that won’t be necessary. I’m sure a prosperous munitions factory somewhere would be only too glad to hire you. . . .”

  I grinned at him.

  In one corner of the corridor outside the shōji, the old man, his hands joined in prayer before the fox in the cage, was saying something. Listening carefully, I heard the words, “Most gracious Fox, I’ll be going out for a while. . . . Please kindly be patient.” The fox’s glittering eyes could be seen in the dark. Its characteristic, unbearable stench filled the corridor.

  “Well, let’s get going. What would you like to eat? . . . Let’s see. It won’t do to be too extravagant. Our mouths might get accustomed to fancy food, and it would become a habit. Mr. Inari, I know you like saké, so shall we start off with a drink?”

  We followed behind the “high-class beggar,” who continued to chatter on in high spirits.

  The innkeeper was at the counter going over accounts. He stared suspiciously through his farsighted glasses at the rare sight of the three of us going out together.

  I still kept grinning. I had no choice but to put on some sort of deceptive expression. The sky hung low and gloomy, threatening snow. People were rushing around, just as one would expect at the end of the year. New Year’s decorations were already at the front of houses. I muttered to myself with indifference, “So spring has come, has it?” I was pretending to have forgotten my obligation to see to it that a great many people had a happy new year.

  We went drinking, from the such-and-such restaurant to the such-and-such bar, cheap joints where the girls spoke provincial dialects and called out the orders in high-pitched voices. The three of us got fairly drunk. The liquor I’d been drinking since morning, not of very good quality, had accumulated between the skin of my head and my brain. I couldn’t have felt worse. The old man who kept the fox had drunk himself sick and turned pale. He seemed to have lost control of his legs and hips and all but fell from his chair, but he still went on thrusting out his lips and guzzling in the saké. He never let go of the saké cup. Obviously flattering the “high-class beggar,” he said one thing or another about the food, all the while chewing with his badly fitting false teeth.

  “You’re no ordinary man, you’re great. . . . I can tell it from your dream, in the future you’ll be a leader of men. You’re what they call a virtuous man, endowed from birth with wisdom and talent. Money and treasures will accumulate of themselves. Yes, you have all the natural forces working for you. . . . No doubt about it. I guarantee it. I am a dream divinator from Kyoto, the Inari Shrine in Fushimi. . . . If I’m wrong, it won’t cost you anything. Not that I’ve received one sen.”

  He looked as if he was in pain, but he rattled on. He seemed to be interpreting the meaning of a dream of the “high-class beggar.”

  At this point the “high-class beggar” interrupted, seemingly pleased. “I’ve been thinking from a while back that something was funny. Listening to you, I keep remembering a manzai skit.” He was a little embarrassed by the excessive flattery.

  “Manzai? That’s a good one. . . . But I’m telling you plainly now that you’re going to have a great success . . . Excuse me, but haven’t you a father somewhere?”

  “Oh, is that what you have in mind? That’s not much to count on. . . . But tell this guy’s fortune, too. I’ll give you another bottle of saké as your fee.”

  The old man looked rather dissatisfied that his client did not seem to trust him very much, but the saké had come, so he said to me, “Yes . . . what did you dream about last night, toward morning?”

  “I had lots of dreams, all kinds.” I felt tired, and I answered in rather bad humor.

  “That’s why I’m asking about what kind of dream it was. . . . You always grind your teeth all night long, and you groan as if you’re afraid of something, whatever it is. . . . It’s very annoying for people nearby. . . . Couldn’t you be a little more considerate?”

  “That fox of yours is disgusting,” I replied. The smell of the fox was enough to make me want to vomit. In the middle of the night, when I happen to get up to go to the toilet, I sometimes all but bump into its cage. Then the fox glares at me, deeply suspicious and full of enmity, its eyes shining with a weird light like phosphorus. It sends cold chills through me.

  “I’m talking about your dreams. . . . Damn you! I won’t take any bad talk from you about His Lordship, the Fox.”

  The old man suddenly had become overbearing. Normally he hid behind the nearly imbecilic look on his face and his Kansai dialect, but when he pulled himself together in this way, something cruel and even inhuman lay at the bottom of his expression. This, to a greater or lesser extent, was typical of people who build their nests in flophouses.

  “Ha, ha. No quarreling now. Violence is out. As they say, rich men don’t quarrel.” The “high-class beggar,” back from the toilet, pushed his spindly body between us.

  “It wasn’t anything,” the old man stammered, removing the stiff expression from his face as if it had been a mask. “This guy—there’s always something cheeky about him.”

  “I see. All right, then. Let’s have one more drink and leave.”

  Last night I definitely had a dream that left an impression, and I tried now to dredge up the memory. The moment I woke up, or possibly even while I was still dreaming, I thought that the dream had been interesting, but I forgot it immediately. When I tried a little later to recall it, it wouldn’t come back, and my efforts only brought on nervous fatigue and irritation. Even so, I was finally able to grasp the end of the rope of memory.

  . . . I was on a battlefield somewhere. Suddenly, before my eyes, a big house got hit, possibly by cannon fire, and was destroyed by the explosion. Bricks and broken chunks of reinforced concrete came falling. After a while everything quieted down, and the pitiful wreckage of the ruined house was exposed. All that was left was an imposing grand piano, its wood darkly glowing, not in the least damaged, its peaceful appearance incongruous in the surrounding desolation. Then from somewhere a white butterfly came flitting and danced around the piano. A faint odor of gunpowder lingered in the air, but the butterfly was truly oblivious to it. I was sure the butterfly would at any moment alight on the keyboard, and then, under its little feet the keys would begin to move and play music. I was secretly waiting.

  That, more or less, was my childish dream. The battlefield was probably inspired by a newsreel, and the butterfly undoubtedly came from my impressions of the last scene of All Quiet on the Western Front. But I could not understand the significance of the piano.

  There’s another dream I always seem to have just as I am falling asleep. I sometimes also feel that it is a daydream, and that I am actually awake. This is how it goes. A motorcycle, or perhaps it’s a truck, is approaching me, hurtling recklessly at great speed from the distance. I am about to cross the street when I notice it, and I try to avoid the danger. Moreover, though I intend to avoid the vehicle, my staggering legs, out of an extremely confused sense of danger, are actually moving closer to it, as if drawn in its direction. I desperately try to control myself, saying, “You mustn’t, you mustn’t,” but my legs refuse to stop moving, and the thing, as if also moved by mutual magnetic attraction, has set its course in my direction, and comes rushing toward me with frenzied speed.

  “Well, let’s be going,” said the “first-class beggar.” He had grown impatient with the old fortune-teller who, though at first shy about accepting saké, had gradually become quite unabashed as the liquor took effect, and now seemed determined to go on drinking forever.

  “Sir, Mr. Statesman. . . . Surely there’s no harm. Please keep me company a bit longer.” The fox-handler, lifting both chapped hands, pushed the “first-class beggar” back.

  “It’s no good, swilling it down that way. . . . Anyway, we’re going back. You stay here by yourself.”

  The old man at these words hung
his head dejectedly. “I’ll go too. It’s no fun drinking alone.”

  He stood up and, after shaking an empty saké bottle near him, was first to leave.

  A light snow was falling. It danced in the wind and melted as soon as it struck the ground, but the old man, in high spirits, began to sing a song about an army advancing in the snow over the ice. As he crossed with shaking legs the new road over Teardrop Bridge he was now visible, now invisible, behind the heavy flow of cars and bicycles. I thought it was dangerous, but unlike my dream, it didn’t bother me all that much. I muttered, “I wish I could go to war.”

  Rather than waste meaningless time, I wanted to charge under shellfire, a rifle in my hand. I wanted to escape the stupid, unavailing quagmire into which I had fallen. And I wanted to die, for once and for all.

  “Of course you do. I wonder why you haven’t been drafted? It beats me. I’m not physically up to it myself. . . .”

  A snowflake flew into my eye. I jabbed my finger into my eye frantically, as if trying to extract the already melted snowflake.

  The last day of the year was wintry and clouded. By arrangement of the “high-class beggar” I was sitting stoically, arms around my knees, my mind vacant, in a room of the flophouse.

  New Year’s Eve had come at last. He said, “I’m in bad shape.” I wondered if his heavy drinking two nights earlier and his walk through deep snow had taken their toll. The “high-class beggar,” unusually for him, was unshaven, and he was in bed. He had a fever, and he kept coughing weakly.

  “How about sending for a doctor?” I asked by way of offering my advice.