by David Peace
‘Continuously,’ said Akutagawa, ‘but it no longer brings me the sense of peace I used to feel. In the next life, if there is such a punishment, I wish to be reborn as sand.’
The waitresses knelt before their table now, exchanging pleasantries with them, placing two large lacquer trays before Mokichi and Akutagawa.
‘I know how much you enjoy unagi and takuan,’ said Akutagawa, ‘and so I had asked the restaurant if they could prepare your favourite dishes.’
‘Thank you. That was most kind of you, and very good of them,’ said Mokichi, marvelling again at the care and consideration Akutagawa always showed to his friends, no matter what trials he himself was enduring.
‘It is the very least I can do,’ said Akutagawa. ‘Your help, your kindness and your poetry, too, they all sustain me in these difficult times.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mokichi again, smiling now, ‘and I am sure this tasty-looking eel will help sustain us both, in all our work …’
‘Yes,’ said Akutagawa, nodding and smiling, too. ‘Let’s eat …’
But Akutagawa hardly ate at all, just picking at the various dishes, just toying with the food, then setting down his chopsticks –
‘I think it was Ikkyū who said he had spent thirty years in an obscure blur. But I’ve spent thirty years doing nothing worthwhile, and so, over and over, I say to myself, Kill yourself, kill yourself …’
‘You’re not alone in that,’ said Mokichi, but with a little laugh, trying to lighten the mood of his companion. ‘I very often feel much the same …’
‘Yes, but in your poetry, in your tanka, you create or you find such beauty in all that afflicts you, in all that you suffer … I never can, I always fail … You know, I recently read the prison diary of Kyūtarō Wada … I mean, even an anarchist can wrest beauty from suffering, in his descriptions of the hardships of prison life, when he writes: “It’s all so quiet, all I hear is a flea jumping …” or “The number of insects in the barley rice is rising, there is a cloud in the summertime …” But the best is surely, “This malady of piles, Jack Frost is piercing me.” I can truly feel how he must feel, can truly imagine the hardship of suffering from piles in prison, but I’m so impressed, so envious an anarchist can write such poetry …’
‘For his try, life for Kyū-san,’ said Mokichi in a sing-song voice, echoing a popular jingle of the day, ‘for his killing, ten years for Ama-san.’
‘How dark these times truly are,’ said Akutagawa. ‘But amidst all the horror he must endure, a man like Wada never lets the darkness overwhelm him. And in your own poetry, too, you light a lamp and walk on, Sensei.’
‘What other choice do we have,’ said Mokichi, gently.
‘I never can, I always fail,’ said Akutagawa again, and then, softly, he began to quote Mokichi’s own words, from his recent work:
‘When I shut myself away / I am resigned to / almost anything / and sit here with legs crossed / while the night is wearing on –’
Mokichi could hear drops of rain falling on the stones in the garden now as he sighed and said, ‘There does seem to be a sense of doom and death around us all these days. Like me, you seem to have been engulfed in bad luck, too. Yet we have to keep writing, what other choice do we have?’
‘Perhaps I should end this half of my life in your new hospital,’ said Akutagawa, quietly, staring out into the garden, staring out into the night and its rain, ‘and then spend the rest of my life out there …’
Mokichi closed his eyes; he could not count the number of times he had discovered patients who had hung themselves or cut their own throats, the number of times he had been obliged to notify their families, the numberless feelings of failure he had experienced, the feeling of failure he always felt. Mokichi opened his eyes again; he looked across the table at the man sat staring out into the night, his body gaunt and skin grey, his hair and nails both long and dirty, and solemnly, and sternly, Mokichi said, ‘First you need to rest, and so you have to sleep; then when you are rested, when you are stronger, then you can think about the future, only then should you search for the light again …’
‘You are right,’ said Akutagawa. ‘For when I look to the future, when I search for the light, I see only darkness, I feel only dread …’
After the dinner at Jishōken, at the gate of the restaurant, the door to the taxi, under borrowed umbrellas, Mokichi thanked Akutagawa, Akutagawa thanked Mokichi, and then Mokichi said, ‘You remember the first time we met, in my office in Nagasaki? Well, I was in a wretched mood because I had just sent my wife packing to Tokyo after a terrible quarrel. I hated Nagasaki, felt trapped and imprisoned there for ever. And we talked about Ishida, and you spoke about Poe, and of Sōseki-sensei and Kōjin, the only escape from this world being through faith, madness or death?’
‘It seems so long ago now,’ said Akutagawa. ‘A different time, a different world; a better time, a better world. But, of course, I remember …’
‘Well, of those three exits,’ continued Mokichi, ‘more than ever I have come to accept and to believe in faith as our only hope, our only possibility. But I do not mean faith in gods or a God, I mean faith in our work, faith in our writing; the power of words, of salvation through art …’
Under his borrowed umbrella, Akutagawa nodded.
‘And so please, Sensei,’ said Mokichi, ‘please have faith in your work, have faith in your words …’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa. ‘I feel better, thanks to you, Sensei.’
Mokichi raised his umbrella, looking up towards the hill on which Akutagawa lived, and said, ‘It’s good you are so close to your home tonight, and so I hope you will be able to sleep soon, and to sleep well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa again. ‘I do plan to write a little first, but then to take a draught and sleep, all thanks to you, Sensei.’
In the dark, narrow road, by the open door to the taxi, Mokichi smiled, patted Akutagawa on his shoulder and said, ‘As long as one can both write and sleep, then one can endure all fate throws our way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa again, one last and final time, and then, in the night and in the rain, as Mokichi got into the back of the cab, in the last and final silence, almost in a whisper now, ‘In the end, as Poe said, at the very end, Lord, help my soul … help all our souls …’
In the back of the taxi, as the cab made its way down the dark side road towards the bright lights of Dōzaka, Mokichi turned to look for Akutagawa, to wave goodbye to Akutagawa, but Akutagawa was not there; Akutagawa was already gone.
3. A Psalm, Again
O LORD GOD of my salvation, I have cried day and night before thee:
Let my prayer come before thee: incline thine ear unto my cry;
For my soul is full of troubles: and my life draweth nigh unto the grave.
I am counted with them that go down into the pit: I am as a man that hath no strength:
Free among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, whom thou rememberest no more: and they are cut off from thy hand.
Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps.
Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. Sê-läh.
Thou hast put away mine acquaintance far from me; thou hast made me an abomination unto them: I am shut up, and I cannot come forth.
Mine eye mourneth by reason of affliction: LORD, I have called daily upon thee, I have stretched out my hands unto thee.
Wilt thou shew wonders to the dead? Shall the dead arise and praise thee? Sê-läh.
Shall thy loving kindness be declared in the grave? Or thy faithfulness in destruction?
Shall thy wonders be known in the dark? And thy righteousness in the land of forgetfulness?
But unto thee have I cried, O LORD; and in the morning shall my prayers prevent thee.
Lord, why castest thou off my soul? Why hidest thou thy face from me?
I am afflicted and ready to die from my youth up: while I suffer thy
terrors I am distracted.
Thy fierce wrath goeth over me; thy terrors have cut me off.
They came round about me daily like water; they compassed me about together.
Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintances into darkness.
4. An Attic of Faith
Beneath the crucifix on the wall of the attic, Fumitake Muroga smiled at Ryūnosuke and asked, ‘How have you been recently?
Fumitake Muroga worked as a caretaker-cum-handyman for the American Bible Society on the Ginza, living alone in the attic room of the religious publishing house, devoting his time to reading and prayer. Many years ago now, he had worked for Ryūnosuke’s father Toshizō Niihara as a dairy deliveryman, and so Muroga had known Ryūnosuke since childhood.
‘A nervous wreck, as usual,’ said Ryūnosuke, with that familiar sad, resigned smile Muroga had come to expect. ‘When I wonder if I can take another summer like this, another month of this, I feel wretched beyond belief … My head feels so strange … Even the most futile matters cause me to sink into a state of utter despair … Day after day, night after night, I just seem to subsist on opium extracts, strychnine, laxatives and Veronal …’
Muroga offered Ryūnosuke an apple and said, ‘You have to accept that drugs and medicines won’t cure or help you. But if you accept Jesus Christ, if you believe in Him, then you can be helped, then you can be saved.’
‘If only He could,’ said Ryūnosuke, looking from the wooden crucifix on the wall down to the yellow apple in his hand. ‘If only I could.’
‘If thou canst believe,’ quoted Muroga from the Gospel According to Mark, ‘all things are possible to him that believeth …’
‘Help thou mine unbelief,’ sighed Ryūnosuke.
‘But it’s not difficult, it’s not hard. If you would just believe in God, believe in Jesus Christ and accept Him as the Son of God, and believe in His miracles, believe in His power …’
‘I can believe in the devil and his power,’ said Ryūnosuke.
‘Then why do you refuse to believe in God? If you believe in the darkness, then surely you have to believe in the light, too?’
‘There is such a thing as darkness without light.’
‘Momentarily, yes,’ said Muroga. ‘But light always follows darkness. Just as day always follows night. Miraculously.’
‘I don’t believe in miracles,’ said Ryūnosuke. ‘Miracles of the devil, these days maybe, but even then I’m not so sure …’
‘Why do you only ever speak of the devil?’
Ryūnosuke fell silent for a while, staring up again at the crucifix on the wall, and then said, ‘Actually, I’ve just gone through the Sermon on the Mount again, and though I’ve read it many times before, I was struck with many new meanings which had hitherto escaped me, and it has inspired me to begin working on a new text of my own, on the Life of Christ …’
Muroga stood up, walked over to his ancient bookcase, took down a copy of the Holy Bible, handed it to Ryūnosuke and said, ‘Please take it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ryūnosuke, ‘but I already have two copies.’
The old man smiled at Ryūnosuke and said, ‘You can never have too many copies of the Bible, you can never read the Bible enough. This is the Shin’yaku Seisho edition. It’s all in there, all very simple …’
‘Thank you,’ said Ryūnosuke again, this time accepting the Bible from Muroga, ‘and I promise you, I will read it again.’
‘Then please begin with the Gospel According to Mark.’
‘Why Mark,’ asked Ryūnosuke.
‘It is short, powerful, and contains all you need to believe.’
‘I will read it,’ said Ryūnosuke again.
Muroga reached over, holding Ryūnosuke’s hands and the Bible in them, and looking up into his eyes – his hands cold, his eyes empty, as one dead – he said, he pleaded and he begged, ‘But then please read it with your heart, Ryūnosuke, and then believe it in your soul …’
5. The Exit Wounds
In the house, in my study, I read the Bible, I read the Bible, over and over, again and again, I read the Bible, I read the Bible, then in my house, then in my study, I write, I write, over and over, again and again, I write and I write, in my house, in my study, until it stops, and when it stops, then I stop, I stop …
In the twilight, always the twilight, in the summer, always the summer, I come out of my house, my house in Tabata, and I start to walk, I start to walk, with a bag in my hand, always the bag in my hand, I walk and I walk, with a Bible in my bag, always the Bible in my bag, I walk and I walk …
In my dark kimono and old geta, with my bag and umbrella, I come to Ueno, into the park, the scent of the green leaves of the cherry trees intense, the evening air heavy and humid, close upon the city, close upon my skin, as I walk and I walk, through the clinging, clawing night and its shadows, my own shadow now, now and evermore the image of a Kappa, that one particular Kappa, the one I’ve been drawing all these years and years, writing about these past months and months; he is clinging to me, he is clawing at me, he refuses to go, just won’t let go, walking alongside me, always beside me, a soul in exile, begging to return, to return, return, return …
At last, at last, I come out of the park, out under the bright lights of Hirokōji, more melancholy than ever, more fraught than ever; I can’t bear it, I can’t stand it. I want to have fun, to have fun and forget. Forget the world, forget myself. I go across the tramlines; I go into a café. I order a whisky, a bottle of whisky: ‘Preferably Black & White …’
‘You don’t drink alcohol,’ says my companion.
‘I can’t drink alcohol at all,’ I laugh, ‘but recently I take the occasional glass of whisky. Preferably Black & White …’
‘But then why Black & White?’
‘I like the picture of the two terriers on the label,’ I tell him, sipping my drink and then, for his amusement, I shudder in mock horror at its strength and declare, ‘Why, I feel completely drunk already …’
It feels such a long time since we’ve shared a joke and the release which laughter brings. But now I look up at him, and now I see him, see the wound still weeping through his hair, the wound from the bullet bleeding onto the table, in drops, in drops it pools, it pools, and my jovial mood is gone, my comedic turn finished; I lean towards him and say, ‘I’ve made a mistake. I should change brands …’
‘But it’s your favourite …’
‘But the two dogs, it’s one dog,’ I whisper to him. ‘Its two colours, their two natures, they’re the two sides of our soul, our own duality …’
I’ve turned a sudden, dark corner, back again on the mental ward of the asylum with Uno, my fears for him, his family, and for me, for myself, my own family –
‘You know, when his mother finally found him in the restaurant, Uno was eating the roses from the vase on the table, saying over and over, I’m so hungry, I’m so hungry … But I would say, it’s actually fortunate for the life of an artist … Yes, in spite of all that’s happened to him, I think it’s excellent for Uno! Insanity and madness are no shame for an artist. One might even say Uno has attained a higher level, reached a higher plane …’
My companion seems not to agree with me, shaking his bleeding head, even somewhat irritated. ‘You might say that, but what on earth will become of Uno’s family if he cannot be cured quickly, or if he then cannot write, or if his madness leads even to his death; how then will they survive?’
‘But as artists, we cannot avoid such things,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders. ‘It is the age we are cursed to live in. As Uno himself told me, just the other day, we are possessed by the demon of the fin de siècle …’
‘Do you really believe that? In such things?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I say, ‘I do.’
‘Well, personally, I now regret all my romantic notions of the suffering artist dying young. Those who loved me, those I left behind, they were all much weaker than me, all relied upon me. I wish now I’ d l
ived longer …’
‘Enough Gogol! Enough Strindberg,’ I shout, leaping up from the table, startling not only my companion but the entire café, pointing with my umbrella at the door, exclaiming, ‘We want to have fun! And so fun we shall have. Quack! Quack! To Kameido, to Kameido!’
In the back of the taxi, I tell him: ‘You know, the eastern bank of the Sumida, that was my playground as a child: Honjo, Ryōgoku and Kameido. In those days, before the flood, the garyūbai in the garden at Kiyogaoen really did resemble reclining dragons, so long and sinuous were their branches. I was enchanted, yet petrified …’
‘We once saw the famous wisteria at the Tenjin Shrine,’ he says, ‘but whenever I hear mention of Kameido now, I can only think of the earthquake and its aftermath, the horrific murders of Keishichi Hirasawa and Uhachi Nakatsuji, Sakae Ōsugi and Noe Itō, and all the others. And from all I’ve heard, Kameido is still a most desperate place, more likely to crush our souls than fill them with cheer …’
‘Exactly,’ I say, as the taxi speeds across Kototoi Bridge, down through Koume, south towards Kameido. ‘But at night, when all is darkness, you cannot see the factories. And then to walk that ground, to inhale the stench of its drains, that is reality, is it not? For two “hommes des lettres” such as we, it should be life-affirming, returning us to our homes and our work, to our words and our art with a renewed sense of vigour and vitality!’
I know he is not convinced, but it’s too late; the taxi stops somewhere to the north of the shrine. I pay the fare and get out of the cab onto a street beside a canal. It’s true, the stench from the canal is considerable, few other people about, and certainly no hint of ‘fun’. But then I spy a group of youths up ahead, poke my companion in his skinny ribs and laugh and say, ‘They look like they know where they’re going, let’s follow them …’
And before he can moan and protest as he usually does, I grab him by his damp, thin arm and off we set, down the street, past rundown houses on a lower level than the road, past dirty boards advertising fortune-tellers and medicines, until we come to a crossing, turn left and then find ourselves at the edge of a warren of narrow alleyways of clapboard housing. The rows of lattice doors on both sides of every alley are all illuminated, one panel in each door made of transparent glass, solitary men walking up and down the passageways, stopping to peer through the panels into the houses.
