A few days later, the niece was at school, learning how to use the word “surprising”. In her composition she wrote: “When my uncle’s girlfriend came out of their room in the morning and her hair was really messy, it was surprising.” Her parents were summoned to an official meeting with the teacher.
“What’s surprising is that she could compose such an eloquent sentence,” I said, unable to stop myself.
“You’re taking her side?” my friend said, amused. “Now that is surprising…”
Still it was clear from that he adored his niece. She also shared the cheerful, open nature of his girlfriend. After all, this woman in her stained T-shirt had put up on their bathroom wall a Benetton poster featuring rows of men’s genitals, and would study them from all angles, telling me with a laugh that every day she tried to decide which genitals were her boyfriend’s. There was something heroic about her. From my point of view, girlfriend and niece were equally surprising.
We left the clearing from where we could look out over the town, and I followed my friend as he strode through a tunnel of greenery that he’d nicknamed the “royal road”. We emerged at the back of the castle grounds. Nightfall was beginning, but I could see that about half of the castle remained untouched by the restoration.
The ground around the castle was wet from the fine rain that had been falling. One side of the tower was missing, and its roof had worn smooth over the centuries. Reconstruction of the south-facing facade was almost complete, but everything else still looked like a building site. Work had apparently been delayed not only because of the sheer scale of the castle and the inevitable financial difficulties, but also because of differing views regarding what shape the final reconstruction should take. According to my friend, it was decided, following a consultation with the public, that the restored castle should recreate the original building as faithfully as possible.
The castle was overseen by a groundskeeper, who lived in a bungalow on the edge of the wood.
“He’s a tall guy, thin, with a sharp look in his eyes. In his late fifties, probably. He’s got a Doberman, which looks miserable,” my friend said with a grimace. “Of course, it’d be a different story if the owner treated it properly. They’re really intelligent dogs, but the groundskeeper treats it like a mutt. He keeps it in this kennel next to the bungalow, and never takes it for walks or anything. He used to let it loose on the grounds after all the visitors left, but he can’t do that any more.”
“Did the dog ever go after anyone? I mean, considering that he’d been cooped up all day.”
“Strangely enough, that never happened. He did chase me once, though. Stubborn old coot, he didn’t give up easily. Kept cursing at me…”
“The Doberman did?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The groundskeeper, obviously. He had the dog with him. You should have seen the look on his face, it was like he owned this place. Like he had a divine right to be here or something. I mean, he really does sort of think that. They say he turned the president away once.”
The story my friend told went like this: Back when the reconstruction work was less than half finished, an older gentleman brought a group of people to the castle, and told the groundskeeper that he wanted to show them this wonderful cultural relic. The groundskeeper, failing to recognize this gentleman as the president, told him that the castle was off-limits, and that it couldn’t be visited without permission from the Town Hall. When someone in the entourage explained that the groundskeeper was speaking to the President of the French Republic, the groundskeeper stood firm. “Presidents, of all people, should set an example by getting the proper permission from the Town Hall,” he said, puffing out his chest. No one knew why he wasn’t sacked for this, though it has to be said that his reasoning was faultless.
The still-under-reconstruction castle—a place so hallowed, even the president had not been allowed to visit—was now sinking slowly into the setting sun. The trees that surrounded the castle stirred in the gentle wind, their branches disappearing into a hole in a ruined gable, their hues merging with the those of the interior of the building. Pools of colour were forming a scene that would not have looked out of place among the water lilies of that painter who’d lived in this area. The paving stones were damp, and there were the sounds of a stream. A cool breeze caressed my body, which was now free of the effects of the alcohol I’d drunk earlier.
Entirely predictably, gazing at the scene before me, I got the near-desperate urge to see inside the castle itself. If I missed this chance, I’d probably never be able to do it all again—to be in a town like this, in a landscape like this. I surveyed the wall, and it did not seem insurmountable. And I thought, further, that if the castle was under reconstruction, breaking in wouldn’t be difficult. When I revealed this idea to my friend, he lifted his hands with his palms open and, in a childlike voice, said “My uncle’s Japanese friend begged him to break into an old castle. It was surprising.” My friend smiled, then added, “Actually, I was expecting this to happen.”
Clambering over the stone wall was surprisingly easy. I quickly dropped down on the other side and, being careful to step lightly, made my way along the front of the castle to the area where the building materials were stored. I found a window that had been boarded up with a sheet of plywood. From a crack on the side of the window space, I could see a large, high-ceilinged hall that looked like the inner sanctum of a church. Light was leaking in from crevices here and there, so the space was not haunted-house-dark, but something about the crumbling walls made it very foreboding. I was waiting for my friend, my partner in crime, before taking the next step. Where was he?
He was struggling to scale the wall. It seemed I’d neglected to take one thing into account: my friend and I were about the same height, but he weighed one-and-a-half times as much, and the extra kilos were holding him back. Eventually, however, he managed to get some purchase, and dragged himself up. When he did get one leg over to straddle the wall, he broke out into a smile.
He dropped down with a thud to where I was standing. I was worried that someone could have heard that, but he doubted it, full of confidence again. Relieved, I prised open a door that was hanging loose on its hinges, and we slowly proceeded down a corridor towards the tower. It was dusty, but there was no mouldy smell—probably because air was blowing through. We thought there might be a model of the castle in a glass case, or a portrait of the archbishop, or something, but there was nothing worth spending time on. Eventually, we found the stairs to the tower and started to climb. About halfway up, a landing led to a small room, which we stepped into. In the far wall there was a niche and in it was a stool, similar to those used by staff at art galleries. My friend, his mischievous nature roused, attempted to get in and sit on it, only to find the niche too narrow. I gave it a try, and just about managed it by hunching down. Having achieved that much, I decided to go the whole hog, removing my glasses and posing like a saint for my friend’s amusement. Pulling a camera out of his rucksack, he stepped backwards in order to frame this icon, then clicked the shutter which fired off the flash. Blue-white light filled the room, and in the next instant we heard a man’s booming voice, so loud it seemed to cause the entire castle to shake. I found myself shrivelling up in the niche.
“What the hell are you doing!?” barked the groundskeeper. The flash must have lit up the stairwell too.
My friend was caught where he stood, camera in hand, totally surprised, frozen to the spot. But because I was wedged into the niche, I could not see the groundskeeper, nor could he see me.
“I saw you! I saw you climbing over the wall!” the groundskeeper said, his voice full of menace.
“I’m really very sorry,” my friend responded earnestly. “I just thought the town would look really beautiful from up here in the evening light.”
I didn’t know how he’d learned to be such a smooth talker. He gave nothing away, and acted as if he was alone as he walked up to the groundskeeper and made his way towards the exit.
I decided to stay put for a bit, but fear of the Doberman seized me and I started trembling. Then I worried that if I managed to escape from the castle, I’d never be able to find my way home. I thought of the rhubarb tart that would go uneaten. I worried I’d die alone in the darkness. I cursed my luck at being unable to withdraw any cash in the morning—I could have bribed the groundskeeper. I strained to hear footsteps. Should I just go and turn myself in? Would the groundskeeper let my friend go? This was a man who’d faced down the President of France. Would he turn my friend over to the police?
I could hear traces of conversation between my friend and the groundskeeper and convinced myself that they were on the other side of the outer wall. Somehow that was reassuring, so despite its being probably more risky than taking a picture with a flash, I lit a cigarette. I decided to wait in the tower for a while. Twenty, thirty minutes passed, and my friend still had not come to get me. It was getting darker and darker, and with no sign of life in the early summer countryside. I thought of those old Germans with their crunching consonants, and wondered if they got to see the blues and greens and purples of the branches that drooped on to the serene surface of the pond. No matter how familiar it was, the paintings of those water lilies contained the purest, most tranquil light ever created by a human being. If only I’d gone with the Germans, I’d be immersed in dazzling colours, instead of being stuck in some dusty, dark crevice. I needed to get out of the castle quickly.
I tiptoed along the corridor, feeling my way against the wall. Once outside, I avoided the gravel, following a path that had some grass on it. I found the spot where we’d climbed over the wall. I stopped, listening hard for anything, anyone. There was only quiet, so I climbed the wall and as soon as I landed on the other side, I started running at full speed down through the tunnel of greenery back the way we’d come. The incline of the slope caused my knees to wobble, and I worried about the dangers of running in the darkness. Then suddenly I saw a faint halo of orange light ahead of me. I slowed down, relieved, and walked towards it, discovering that it was a street light illuminating concrete steps with a handrail. I started to run down the steps, sensing freedom at last, but what was waiting for me at the bottom was an iron gate, a kind of portcullis.
The game was up. I was trapped. I looked up into the pitch-black sky, in despair. Then out of the darkness, I could hear something. A quiet voice. And then a faint light. Dimly I made out my friend carrying a torch. His girlfriend was with him. Half-weeping, I called out his name, and grabbed on to the iron bars, shaking them, like a prisoner imploring a jailer he cannot see. “Open it,” I cried, just like the Germans who had been trapped in the train compartment. “Please, open it.” It was as though I was trying to escape from every single unpleasant memory that humanity had ever experienced.
JAPANESE FICTION
FROM PUSHKIN PRESS
RECORD OF A NIGHT TOO BRIEF
Hiromi Kawakami
Translated by Lucy North
SPRING GARDEN
Tomoka Shibasaki
Translated by Polly Barton
SLOW BOAT
Hideo Furukawa
Translated by David Boyd
Ms ICE SANDWICH
Mieko Kawakami
Translated by Louise Heal Kawai
THE BEAR AND THE PAVING STONE
Toshiyuki Horie
Translated by Geraint Howells
THE END OF THE MOMENT WE HAD
Toshiki Okada
Translated by Samuel Malissa
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TOSHIYUKI HORIE (born 1964) is a scholar of French literature and a professor at Waseda University. He has won many literary prizes, including the Mishima Yukio Prize, Akutagawa Prize (for The Bear and the Paving Stone), the Kawabata Yasunari Prize, the Tanizaki Jun’ichiro Prize and the Yomiuri Prize for Literature (twice).
COPYRIGHT
Series Editors: David Karashima and Michael Emmerich
Translation Editor: Elmer Luke
Pushkin Press
71–75 Shelton Street
London, WC2H 9JQ
“The Bear and the Paving Stone” with the title “Kuma no shikiishi” first appeared in the Japanese literary magazine Gunzo in 2000.
“The Sandman Is Coming” with the title “Sunauri ga toru” first appeared in the Japanese literary magazine Shincho in 2000.
“In the Old Castle” with the title “Shiroato nite” first appeared in the Japanese literary magazine Shincho in 1999.
Copyright © Toshiyuki Horie 1999 and 2000
English translation rights arranged with Toshiyuki Horie through Japan Foreign-Rights Centre
English translation © Geraint Howells 2018
First published by Pushkin Press in 2018
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the British Centre for Literary Translation and the Nippon Foundation
ISBN 13: 978 1 78227 438 4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press
www.pushkinpress.com
The Bear and the Paving Stone Page 9
