Seven Japanese Tales

by Junichiro Tanizaki

  One day I mustered up my courage and wore the crested coat out on the school grounds. I happened to meet Nakamura, and we began walking along together.

  “By the way,” I remarked, “I hear they haven't caught the thief yet.”

  “That's right,” Nakamura answered, looking away.

  “Why not? Couldn't they trap him at the bathhouse?”

  “He didn't show up there again, but you still hear about lots of things being stolen in other places. They say the proctors called Higuchi in the other day and gave him the devil for letting their plan leak out.”

  “Higuchi?” I felt the color drain from my face.

  “Yes. . . .” He sighed painfully, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “You've got to forgive me! I've kept it from you till now, but I think you ought to know the truth. You won't like this, but you're the one the proctors suspect. I hate to talk about it — I've never suspected you for a minute. I believe in you. And because I believe in you, I just had to tell you. I hope you won't hold it against me.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I'm grateful to you.” I was almost in tears myself, but at the same time I thought: “It's come at last!” As much as I dreaded it, I'd been expecting this day to arrive.

  “Let's drop the subject,” said Nakamura, to comfort me. “I feel better now that I've told you.”

  “But we can't put it out of our minds just because we hate to talk about it. I appreciate your kindness, but I'm not the only one who's been humiliated — I've brought shame on you too, as my friend. The mere fact that I'm under suspicion makes me unworthy of friendship. Any way you look at it, my reputation is ruined. Isn't that so? I imagine you'll turn your back on me too.”

  “I swear I never will — and I don't think you've brought any shame on me.” Nakamura seemed alarmed by my reproachful tone. “Neither does Higuchi. They say he did his best to defend you in front of the proctors. He told them he'd doubt himself before he doubted you.”

  “But they still suspect me, don't they? There's no use trying to spare my feelings. Tell me everything you know. I'd rather have it that way.”

  Then Nakamura hesitantly explained: “Well, it seems the proctors get all kinds of tips. Ever since Higuchi talked too much that night there haven't been any more thefts at the bathhouse, and that's why they suspect you.”

  “But I wasn't the only one who heard him!” — I didn't say this, but the thought occurred to me immediately. It made me feel even more lonely and wretched.

  “But how did they know Higuchi told us? There were only the four of us that night, so if nobody else knew it, and if you and Higuchi trust me —”

  “You'll have to draw your own conclusions,” Nakamura said, with an imploring look. “You know who it is. He's misjudged you, but I don't want to criticize him.”

  A sudden chill came over me. I felt as if Hirata's eyes were glaring into mine.

  “Did you talk to him about me?”

  “Yes. . . But I hope you realize that it isn't easy, since I'm his friend as well as yours. In fact, Higuchi and I had a long argument with him last night, and he says he's leaving the dormitory. So I have to lose one friend on account of another.”

  I took Nakamura's hand and gripped it hard. “I'm grateful for friends like you and Higuchi,” I said, tears streaming from my eyes. Nakamura cried too. For the first time in my life I felt that I was really experiencing the warmth of human compassion. This was what I had been searching for while I was tormented by my sense of helpless isolation. No matter how vicious a thief I might be, I could never steal anything from Nakamura.

  After a while I said: “To tell you the truth, I'm not worth the trouble I'm causing you. I can't stand by in silence and see you two lose such a good friend because of someone like me. Even though he doesn't trust me I still respect him. He's a far better man than I am. I recognize his value as well as anyone. So why don't I move out instead, if it's come to that? Please — let me go, and you three can keep on living together. Even if I'm alone I'll feel better about it.”

  “But there's no reason for you to leave,” said Nakamura, his voice charged with emotion. “I recognize his good points too, but you're the one that's being persecuted. I won't side with him when it's so unfair. If you leave, we ought to leave too. You know how stubborn he is — once he's made up his mind to go he's not apt to change it. Why not let him do as he pleases? We might as well wait for him to come to his senses and apologize. That shouldn't take very long anyway.”

  “But he'll never come back to apologize. He'll go on hating me forever.”

  Nakamura seemed to assume that I felt resentful toward Hirata. “Oh, I don't think so,” he said quickly. “He'll stick to his word — that's both his strength and his weakness — but once he knows he's wrong he'll come and apologize, and make a clean breast of it. That's one of the likable things about him.”

  “It would be fine if he did. . . ,” I said thoughtfully. “He may come back to you, but I don't believe he'll ever make friends with me again. . . But you're right, he's really likable. I only wish he liked me too.”

  Nakamura put his hand on my shoulder as if to protect his poor friend, as we plodded listlessly along on the grass. It was evening and a light mist hung over the school grounds: we seemed to be on an island surrounded by endless gray seas. Now and then a few students walking the other way would glance at me and go on. They already know, I thought; they're ostracizing me. I felt an overwhelming loneliness.

  That night Hirata seemed to have changed his mind; he showed no intention of moving. But he refused to speak to us — even to Higuchi and Nakamura. Yet for me to leave at this stage was impossible, I decided. Not only would I be disregarding the kindness of my friends, I would be making myself seem all the more guilty. I ought to wait a little longer.

  “Don't worry,” my two friends were forever telling me. “As soon as they catch him the whole business will clear up.” But even after another week had gone by, the criminal was still at large and the thefts were as frequent as ever. At last even Nakamura and Higuchi lost some money and a few books.

  “Well, you two finally got it, didn't you? But I have a feeling the rest of us won't be touched.” I remember Hirata's taunting look as he made this sarcastic remark.

  After supper Nakamura and Higuchi usually went to the library, and Hirata and I were left to confront each other. I found this so uncomfortable that I began spending my evenings away from the dormitory too, either going to the library or taking long walks. One night around nine-thirty I came back from a walk and looked into our study. Oddly enough, Hirata wasn't there, nor did the others seem to be back yet. I went to look in our bedroom, but it was empty too. Then I went back to the study and over to Hirata's desk. Quietly I opened his drawer and ferreted out the registered letter that had come to him from his home a few days ago. Inside the letter were three ten-yen money orders, one of which I leisurely removed and put in my pocket. I pushed the drawer shut again and sauntered out into the hall. Then I went down to the yard, cut across the tennis court, and headed for the dark weedy hollow where I always buried the things I stole. But at that moment someone yelled: “Thief!” and flew at me from behind, knocking me down with a blow to my head. It was Hirata.

  “Come on, let's have it! Let's see what you stuck in your pocket!”

  “All right, all right, you don't have to shout like that,” I answered calmly, smiling at him. “I admit I stole your money order. If you ask for it I'll give it back to you, and if you tell me to come with you I'll go anywhere you say. So we understand each other, don't we? What more do you want?”

  Hirata seemed to hesitate, but soon began furiously raining blows on my face. Somehow the pain was not wholly unpleasant. I felt suddenly relieved of the staggering burden I had been carrying.

  “There's no use beating me up like this, when I fell right into your trap for you. I made that mistake because you were so sure of yourself — I thought: 'Why the devil can't I steal from him?' But now you've found me out, so
that's all there is to it. Later on we'll laugh about it together.”

  I tried to shake Hirata's hand good-naturedly, but he grabbed me by the collar and dragged me off toward our room. That was the only time Hirata seemed contemptible in my eyes.

  “Hey, you fellows, I've caught the thief! You can't say I was taken in by him!” Hirata swaggered into our room and shoved me down in front of Nakamura and Higuchi, who were back from the library. Hearing the commotion, the other boys in the dormitory came swarming around our doorway.

  “Hirata's right!” I told my two friends, picking myself up from the floor. “I'm the thief.” I tried to speak in my normal tone, as casually as ever, but I realized that my face had gone pale.

  “I suppose you hate me,” I said to them. “Or else you're ashamed of me. . . You're both honest, but you're certainly gullible. Haven't I been telling you the truth over and over again? I even said: 'I'm not the person you think I am. Hirata's the man to trust. He'll never be taken in.' But you didn't understand. I told you: 'Even if you become friendly with Hirata again, he'll never make friends with me!' I went as far as to say: 'I know better than anyone what a fine fellow Hirata is!' Isn't that so? I've never lied to you, have I? You may ask why I didn't come out and tell you the whole truth. You probably think I was deceiving you after all. But try looking at it from my position. I'm sorry, but stealing is one thing I can't control. Still, I didn't like to deceive you, so I told you the truth in a roundabout way. I couldn't be any more honest than that — it's your fault for not taking my hints. Maybe you think I'm just being perverse, but I've never been more serious. You'll probably ask why I don't quit stealing, if I'm so anxious to be honest. But that's not a fair question. You see, I was born a thief. I tried to be as sincere as I could with you under the circumstances. There was nothing else I could do. Even then my conscience bothered me — didn't I ask you to let me move out, instead of Hirata? I wasn't trying to fool you, I really wanted to do it for your sake. It's true that I stole from you, but it's also true that I'm your friend. I appeal to your friendship: I want you to understand that even a thief has feelings.”

  Nakamura and Higuchi stood there in silence, blinking with astonishment.

  “Well, I can see you think I've got a lot of nerve. You just don't understand me. I guess it can't be helped, since you're of a different species.” I smiled to conceal my bitterness, and added: “But since I'm your friend I'll warn you that this isn't the last time a thing like this will happen. So be on your guard! You two made friends with a thief because of your gullibility. You're likely to run into trouble when you go out in the world. Maybe you get better grades in school, but Hirata is a better man. You can't fool Hirata!”

  When I singled him out for praise, Hirata made a wry face and looked away. At that moment he seemed strangely ill at ease.

  Many years have passed since then. I became a professional thief and have been often behind bars; yet I cannot forget those memories — especially my memories of Hirata. Whenever I am about to commit a crime I see his face before me. I see him swaggering about as haughtily as ever, sneering at me: “Just as I suspected!” Yes, he was a man of character with great promise. But the world is mysterious. My prediction that the naïve Higuchi would “run into trouble” was wrong: partly through his father's influence, he has had a brilliant career — traveling abroad, earning a doctoral degree, and today holding a high position in the Ministry of Railways. Meanwhile nobody knows what has become of Hirata. It's no wonder we think life is unpredictable.

  I assure my reader that this account is true. I have not written a single dishonest word here. And, as I hoped Nakamura and Higuchi would, I hope you will believe that delicate moral scruples can exist in the heart of a thief like me.

  But perhaps you won't believe me either. Unless of course (if I may be pardoned for suggesting it) you happen to belong to my own species.

  Aguri

  “Getting a bit thinner, aren't you? Is anything wrong? You're not looking well these days. . .”

  That was what his friend T. had said in passing when they happened to meet him along the Ginza a little while ago. It reminded Okada that he had spent last night with Aguri too, and he felt more fatigued than ever. Of course T. could scarcely have been teasing him about that — his relations with Aguri were too well known, there was nothing unusual about being seen strolling on the Ginza in downtown Tokyo with her. But to Okada, with his taut-stretched nerves and his vanity, T.'s remark was disturbing. Everyone he met said he was “getting thinner” — he had worried about it himself for over a year. In the last six months you could almost see the change from one day to the next, as his fine rich flesh slowly melted away. He'd got into the habit of furtively examining his body in the mirror whenever he took a bath, to see how emaciated it was becoming, but by now he was afraid to look. In the past (until a year or two ago, at least) people said he had a feminine sort of figure. He had rather prided himself on it. “The way I'm built makes you think of a woman, doesn't it?” he used to say archly to his friends at the bathhouse. “Don't get any funny ideas!” But now. . .

  It was from the waist down that his body had seemed most feminine. He remembered often standing before a mirror entranced by his own reflection, running his hand lovingly over his plump white buttocks, as well rounded as a young girl's. His thighs and calves were almost too bulging, but it had delighted him to see how fat they looked — the legs of a chophouse waitress — alongside Aguri's slim ones. She was only fourteen then, and her legs were as slender and straight as those of any Western girl: stretched out beside his in the bath, they looked more beautiful than ever, which pleased him as much as it did Aguri. She was a tomboy, and used to push him over on his back and sit on him, or walk over him, or trample on his thighs as if she were flattening a lump of dough. . . But now what miserable skinny legs he had! His knees and ankles had been nicely dimpled, but for some time now the bones had stuck out pathetically, you could see them moving under the skin. The exposed blood vessels looked like earthworms. His buttocks were flattening out too: when he sat on something hard it felt as if a pair of boards had been clapped together. Yet it was only lately that his ribs began to show: one by one they had come into sharp relief, from the bottom up, till now you could see the whole skeleton of his chest so distinctly that it made a somewhat grim anatomy lesson. He was such a heavy eater that his little round belly had seemed safe enough, but even that was gradually shriveling — at this rate, you'd soon be able to make out his inner organs! Next to his legs, he had prided himself on his smooth “feminine” arms; at the slightest excuse he rolled up his sleeves to show them off. Women admired and envied them, and he used to joke with his girl friends about it. Now, even to the fondest eye, they didn't look at all feminine — or masculine either for that matter. They weren't so much human arms as two sticks of wood. Two pencils hanging down beside his body. All the little hollows between one bone and the next were deepening, the flesh dwindling away. How much longer can I go on losing weight like this? he asked himself. It's amazing that I can still get around at all, when I'm so horribly emaciated! He felt grateful to be alive, but also a little terrified. . .

  These thoughts were so unnerving that Okada had a sudden attack of giddiness. There was a heavy, numbing sensation in the back of his head; he felt as if his knees were shaking and his legs buckling under him, as if he were being knocked over backward. No doubt the state of his nerves had something to do with it, but he knew very well that it came from long overindulgence, sexual and otherwise — as did his diabetes, which caused some of his symptoms. There was no use feeling sorry now, but he did regret having to pay for it so soon, and pay, moreover, by the deterioration of his good looks, his proudest possession. I'm still in my thirties, he thought. I don't see why my health has to fail so badly. . . He wanted to cry and stamp his feet in rage.

  “Wait a minute — look at that ring! An aquamarine, isn't it? I wonder how it would look on me.”

  Aguri had stopped short an
d tugged at his sleeve; she was peering into a Ginza show window. As she spoke she waved the back of her hand under Okada's nose, flexing and extending her fingers. Her long slender fingers — so soft they seemed made only for pleasure — gleamed in the bright May afternoon sunlight with an especially seductive charm. Once in Nanking he had looked at a singsong girl's fingers resting gracefully on the table like the petals of some exquisite hothouse flower, and thought there could be no more delicate beauty than a Chinese woman's hands. But Aguri's hands were only a little larger, only a little more like those of an ordinary human being. If the singsong girl's hands were hothouse flowers, hers were fresh young wildflowers: the fact that they were not so artificial only made them more appealing. How pretty a bouquet of flowers with petals like these would be. . .

  “What do you think? Would it look nice?” She poised her fingertips on the railing in front of the window, pressed them back in the half-moon curve of a dancer's gesture, and stared at them as if she had lost all interest in the ring.