Seven Japanese Tales

by Junichiro Tanizaki

  Okada mumbled something in reply but forgot it immediately. He was staring at her hands too, at the beautiful hands he knew so well. . . Several years had passed since he began playing with those delicious morsels of flesh: squeezing them in his palms like clay, putting them inside his clothes like a pocket warmer, or in his mouth, under his arm, under his chin. But while he was steadily aging, her mysterious hands looked younger every year. When Aguri was only fourteen they seemed yellow and dry, with tiny wrinkles, but now at seventeen the skin was white and smooth, and yet even on the coldest day so sleek you'd think the oil would cloud the gold band of her ring. Childish little hands, as tender as a baby's and as voluptuous as a whore's — how fresh and youthful they were, always restlessly seeking pleasure!. . . But why had his health failed like this? Just to look at her hands made him think of all they had provoked him to, all that went on in those secret rooms where they met; and his head ached from the potent stimulus. . . As he kept his eyes fixed on them, he began to think of the rest of her body. Here in broad daylight on the crowded Ginza he saw her naked shoulders. . . her breasts. . . her belly. . . buttocks. . . legs. . . one by one all the parts of her body came floating up before his eyes with frightening clarity in queer, undulating shapes. And he felt crushed under the solid weight of her hundred and fifteen or twenty pounds. . . For a moment Okada thought he was going to faint — his head was reeling, he seemed on the verge of falling. . . Idiot! Suddenly he drove away his fantasies, steadied his tottering legs. . .

  “Well, are we going shopping?”

  “All right.”

  They began walking toward Shimbashi Station. . . Now they were off to Yokohama.

  Today Aguri must be happy, he thought, I'll be buying her a whole new outfit. You'll find the right things for yourself in the foreign shops of Yokohama, he had told her; in Arthur Bond's and Lane Crawford, and that Indian jeweler, and the Chinese dressmaker. . . You're the exotic type of beauty; Japanese kimonos cost more than they're worth, and they're not becoming to you. Notice the Western and the Chinese ladies: they know how to set off their faces and figures to advantage, and without spending too much money at it. You ought to do the same from now on. . . And so Aguri had been looking forward to today. As she walks along, breathing a little heavily in the early-summer heat, her white skin damp with sweat under the heavy flannel kimono that hampers her long, youthful limbs, she imagines herself shedding these “unbecoming” clothes, fixing jewels on her ears, hanging a necklace around her throat, slipping into a near-transparent blouse of rustling silk or cambric, swaying elegantly on tiptoes in fragile high-heeled shoes. . . She sees herself looking like the Western ladies who pass them on the street. Whenever one of them comes along Aguri studies her from head to toe, following her with her eyes and badgering him with questions about how he likes that hat, or that necklace, or whatever.

  But Okada shared her preoccupation. All the smart young foreign ladies made him think of an Aguri transfigured by Western clothes. . . I'd like to buy that for you, he thought; and this too. . . Yet why couldn't he be a little more cheerful? Later on they would play their enchanting game together. It was a clear day with a refreshing breeze, a fine May afternoon for any kind of outing. . . for dressing her up in airy new garments, grooming her like a beloved pet, and then taking her on the train in search of a delightful hiding place. Somewhere with a balcony overlooking the blue sea, or a room at a hot-spring resort where the young leaves of the forest glisten beyond glass doors, or else a gloomy, out-of-the-way hotel in the foreign quarter. And there the game would begin, the enchanting game that he was always dreaming of, that gave him his only reason for living. . . Then she would stretch herself out like a leopard. A leopard in necklace and earrings. A leopard brought up as a house pet, knowing exactly how to please its master, but one whose occasional flashes of ferocity made its master cringe. Frisking, scratching, striking, pouncing on him — finally ripping and tearing him to shreds, and trying to suck the marrow out of his bones. . . A deadly game! The mere thought of it had an ecstatic lure for him. He found himself trembling with excitement. Once again his head was swimming, he thought he was going to faint. . . He wondered if he might be dying, now at last, aged thirty-four, collapsing here in the street. . .

  “Oh, are you dead? How tiresome!” Aguri glances absent-mindedly at the corpse lying at her feet. The two-o'clock sun beats down on it, casting dark shadows in the hollows of its sunken cheeks. . . If he had to die he might have waited half a day longer, till we finished our shopping. . . Aguri clicks her tongue in annoyance. I don't want to get mixed up in this if I can help it, she thinks, but I suppose I can't just leave him here. And there are hundreds of yen in his pocket. That money was mine — he might at least have willed it to me before he died. The poor fool was so crazy about me he couldn't possibly resent it if I take the money and buy anything I please, or flirt with any man I please. He knew I was fickle — he even seemed to enjoy it, sometimes. . . As she makes excuses to herself Aguri extracts the money from his pocket. If he tries to haunt me I won't be afraid of him — he'll listen to me whether he's alive or dead. I'll have my way. . .

  “Look, Mr. Ghost! I bought this wonderful ring with your money. I bought this beautiful lace-trimmed skirt. And see!” (She pulls up her skirt to show her legs.) “See these legs you're so fond of, these gorgeous legs? I bought a pair of white silk stockings, and pink garters too — all with your money! Don't you think I have good taste? Don't you think I look angelic? Although you're dead I'm wearing the right clothes for me, just the way you wanted, and I'm having a marvelous time! I'm so happy, really happy! You must be happy too, for having given me all this. Your dreams have come true in me, now that I'm so beautiful, so full of life! Well, Mr. Ghost, my poor love-struck Mr. Ghost who can't rest in peace — how about a smile?”

  Then I'll hug that cold corpse as hard as I can, hug it till his bones crack, and he screams: “Stop! I can't bear any more!” If he doesn't give in, I'll find a way to seduce him. I'll love him till his withered skin is torn to shreds, till his last drop of blood is squeezed out, till his dry bones fall apart. Then even a ghost ought to feel satisfied. . .

  “What's the matter? Is something on your mind?”

  “Uh-h. . .” Okada began mumbling under his breath.

  They looked as if they were having a pleasant walk together — it ought to have been extremely pleasant — and yet he couldn't share her gaiety. One sad thought after another welled up, and he felt exhausted even before they began their game. It's only nerves, he had told himself; nothing serious, I'll get over it as soon as I go outside. That was how he had talked himself into coming, but he'd been wrong. It wasn't nerves alone: his arms and legs were so tired they were ready to drop off, and his joints creaked as he walked. Sometimes being tired was a mild, rather enjoyable sensation, but when it got this bad it might be a dangerous symptom. At this very moment, all unknown to him, wasn't his system being invaded by some grave disease? Wasn't he staggering along letting the disease take its own course till it overwhelmed him? Better to collapse right away than be so ghastly tired! He'd like to sink down into a soft bed. Maybe his health had demanded it long ago. Any doctor would be alarmed and say: “Why in heaven's name are you out walking in your condition? You belong in bed — it's no wonder you're dizzy!”

  The thought left Okada feeling more exhausted than ever; walking became an even greater effort. On the Ginza sidewalk — that dry, stony surface he so much enjoyed striding over when he was well — every step sent a shock of pain vibrating up from his heel to the top of his head. First of all, his feet were cramped by these tan boxcalf shoes that compressed them in a narrow mold. Western clothes were intended for healthy, robust men: to anyone in a weakened condition they were quite insupportable. Around the waist, over the shoulders, under the arms, around the neck — every part of the body was pressed and squeezed by clasps and buttons and rubber and leather, layer over layer, as if you were strapped to a cross. And of course you had to put o
n stockings before the shoes, stretching them carefully up on your legs by garters. Then you put on a shirt, and then trousers, cinching them in with a buckle at the back till they cut into your waist and hanging them from your shoulders with suspenders. Your neck was choked in a close-fitting collar, over which you fastened a noose-like necktie, and stuck a pin in it. If a man is well filled out, the tighter you squeeze him, the more vigorous and bursting with vitality he seems; but a man who is only skin and bones can't stand that. The thought that he was wearing such appalling garments made Okada gasp for breath, made his arms and legs even wearier. It was only because these Western clothes held him together that he was able to keep on walking at all — but to think of stiffening a limp, helpless body, shackling it hand and foot, and driving it ahead with shouts of “Keep going! Don't you dare collapse!” It was enough to make a man want to cry. . .

  Suddenly Okada imagined his self-control giving way, imagined himself breaking down and sobbing. . . This sprucely dressed middle-aged gentleman who was strolling along the Ginza until a moment ago, apparently out to enjoy the fine weather with the young lady at his side, a gentleman who looks as if he might be the young lady's uncle — all at once screws up his face into a dreadful shape and begins to bawl like a child! He stops there in the street and pesters her to carry him. “Please, Aguri! I can't go another step! Carry me piggyback!”

  “What's wrong with you?” says Aguri sharply, glaring at him like a stern auntie. “Stop acting like that! Everybody's looking at you!”. . . Probably she doesn't notice that he has gone mad: it's not unusual for her to see him in tears. This is the first time it's happened on the street, but when they're alone together he always cries like this. . . How silly of him! she must be thinking. There's nothing for him to cry about in public — if he wants to cry I'll let him cry his heart out later! “Shh! Be quiet! You're embarrassing me!”

  But Okada won't stop crying. At last he begins to kick and struggle, tearing off his necktie and collar and throwing them down. And then, dog-tired, panting for breath, he falls flat on the pavement. “I can't walk any more. . . I'm sick. . . ,” he mutters, half delirious. “Get me out of these clothes and put me in something soft! Make a bed for me here, I don't care if it is in the street!”

  Aguri is at her wit's end, so embarrassed her face is as red as fire. There is no escape — a huge crowd of people has swarmed around them under the blazing sun. A policeman turns up. . . He questions Aguri in front of everyone. (“Who do you suppose she is?” people begin whispering to one another. “Some rich man's daughter?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “An actress?”) “What's the matter there?” the policeman asks Okada, not unkindly. He regards him as a lunatic. “How about getting up now, instead of sleeping in a place like this?”

  “I won't! I won't! I'm sick, I tell you! How can I ever get up?” Still sobbing weakly, Okada shakes his head. . .

  He could see the spectacle vividly before his eyes. He felt as if he were actually sobbing. . .

  “Papa. . .” A faint voice is calling — a sweet little voice, not Aguri's. It is the voice of a chubby four-year-old girl in a printed muslin kimono, who beckons to him with her tiny hand. Behind her stands a woman whose hair is done up in a chignon; she looks like the child's mother. . . “Teruko! Teruko! Here I am!. . . Ah, Osaki!

  Are you there too?” And then he sees his own mother, who died several years ago. She is gesturing eagerly and trying hard to tell him something, but she is too far away, a veil of mist hangs between them. . . Yet he realizes that tears of loneliness and sorrow are streaming down her cheeks. . .

  I'm going to stop thinking sad thoughts like that, Okada told himself; thoughts about Mother, about Osaki and the child, about death. . . Why did they weigh so heavily on him? No doubt because of his poor health. Two or three years ago when he was well they wouldn't have seemed so overpowering, but now they combined with physical exhaustion to thicken and clog all his veins. And when he was sexually excited the clogging became more and more oppressive. . . As he walked along in the bright May sunshine he felt himself isolated from the world around him: his sight was dimmed, his hearing faded, his mind turned darkly, obstinately in upon itself.

  “If you have enough money left,” Aguri was saying, “how about buying me a wrist watch?” They had just come to Shimbashi Station; perhaps she thought of it when she saw the big clock.

  “They have good watches in Shanghai. I should have bought you one when I was there.”

  For a moment Okada's fancies flew off to China. . . At Soochow, aboard a beautiful pleasure boat, being poled along a serene canal toward the soaring Tiger Hill Pagoda. . . Inside the boat two young lovers sit blissfully side by side like turtledoves. . . He and Aguri transformed into a Chinese gentleman and a singsong girl. . .

  Was he in love with Aguri? If anyone asked, of course he would answer “Yes.” But at the thought of Aguri his mind became a pitch-dark room hung with black velvet curtains — a room like a conjurer's stage set — in the center of which stood the marble statue of a nude woman. Was that really Aguri? Surely the Aguri he loved was the living, breathing counterpart of that marble figure. This girl walking beside him now through the foreign shopping quarter of Yokohama — he could see the lines of her body through the loose flannel clothing that enveloped it, could picture to himself the statue of the “woman” under her kimono. He recalled each elegant trace of the chisel. Today he would adorn the statue with jewels and silks. He would strip off that shapeless, unbecoming kimono, reveal that naked “woman” for an instant, and then dress her in Western clothes: he would accentuate every curve and hollow, give her body a brilliant surface and lively flowing lines; he would fashion swelling contours, make her wrists, ankles, neck, all strikingly slender and graceful. Really, shopping to enhance the beauty of the woman you love ought to be like a dream come true.

  A dream. . . There was indeed something dreamlike about walking along this quiet, almost deserted street lined with massive Western-style buildings, looking into show windows here and there. It wasn't garish, like the Ginza; even in daytime a hush lay over it. Could anyone be alive in these silent buildings, with their thick gray walls where the window glass glittered like fish eyes, reflecting the blue sky? It seemed more like a museum gallery than a street. And the merchandise displayed behind the glass on both sides was bright and colorful, with the fascinating, mysterious luster of a garden at the bottom of the sea.

  A curio-shop sign in English caught his eye: ALL KINDS OF JAPANESE FINE ARTS: PAINTINGS, PORCELAINS, BRONZE STATUES. . . And one that must have been for a Chinese tailor: MAN CHANG DRESS MAKER FOR LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. . . And also: JAMES BERGMAN JEWELLERY. . . RINGS, EARRINGS, NECKLACES. . . E & B CO. FOREIGN DRY GOODS AND GROCERIES. . . LADY'S UNDERWEARS. . . DRAPERIES, TAPESTRIES, EMBROIDERIES. . . Somehow the very ring of these words in his ear had the heavy, solemn beauty of the sound of a piano. . . Only an hour by streetcar from Tokyo, yet you felt as if you had arrived at some far-off place. And you hesitated to go inside these shops when you saw how lifeless they looked, their doors firmly shut. In these show windows — perhaps because they were meant for foreigners — goods were set out on display in a cold, formal arrangement well behind the glass, quite unlike the ingratiating clutter of the windows along the Ginza. There seemed to be no clerks or shop-boys at work; all kinds of luxuries were on display, but these dimly lit rooms were as gloomy as a Buddhist shrine. . . Still, that made the goods within seem all the more curiously enticing.

  Okada and Aguri went up and down the street several times: past a shoeshop, a milliner's shop, a jeweler, a furrier, a textile merchant. . . If he handed over a little of his money, any of the things in these shops would cling fast to her white skin, coil around her lithe, graceful arms and legs, become a part of her. . . European women's clothes weren't “things to wear” — they were a second layer of skin. They weren't merely wrapped over and around the body but dyed into its very surface like a kind of tattooed d
ecoration. When he looked again, all the goods in the show windows seemed to be so many layers of Aguri's skin, flecked with color, with drops of blood. She ought to choose what she likes and make it part of herself. If you buy jade earrings, he wanted to tell her, think of yourself with beautiful green pendants growing from your earlobes. If you put on that squirrel coat, the one in the furrier's window, think of yourself as an animal with a velvety sleek coat of hair. If you buy the celadon-colored stockings hanging over there, the moment you pull them on, your legs will have a silken skin, warmed by your own coursing blood. If you slip into patent-leather shoes, the soft flesh of your heels will turn into glittering lacquer. My darling Aguri! All these were molded to the statue of woman which is you: blue, purple, crimson skins — all were formed to your body. It's you they are selling there, your outer skin is waiting to come to life. Why, when you have such superb things of your own, do you wrap yourself up in clothes like that baggy, shapeless kimono?

  “Yes, sir. For the young lady?. . . Just what does she have in mind?”

  A Japanese clerk had emerged out of the dark back room of the shop and was eying Aguri suspiciously. They had gone into a modest little dress shop because it seemed least forbidding: not a very attractive one, to be sure, but there were glass-covered cases along both sides of the narrow room, and the cases were full of dresses. Blouses and skirts — women's breasts and hips — dangled overhead. There were low glass cases in the middle of the room, too, displaying petticoats, chemises, hosiery, corsets, and all manner of little lacy things. Nothing but cool, slippery, soft fabrics, literally softer than a woman's skin: delicately crinkled silk crepe, glossy white silk, fine satin. When Aguri realized that she would soon be clothed in these fabrics, like a mannequin, she seemed ashamed at being eyed by the clerk and shrank back shyly, losing all her usual vivaciousness. But her eyes were sparkling as if to say: “I want this, and that, and that. . .”