by Kansuke Naka
If you walked in the town, you saw in every store for picture-books and children’s books that all the origami paper and “older-sister dolls”12 had been hidden away, replaced by dirty-looking pictures of bullets exploding now displayed everywhere. Whatever I heard or saw annoyed me. Once, when a number of boys gathered together somewhere were yet again cooking up outrageous war stories out of the rumors they’d heard here and there, I ventured an opinion opposite to theirs and said Japan would be defeated by China in the end. This unexpected, bold prediction left them eyeing each other for a while, but their laughable but admirable antagonism had heightened to such a point as to ignore the class-leader’s authority.
“Wow, that’s bad, that’s bad!” one of them blurted out exaggeratedly.
Another lightly brushed the tip of his nose with his fist. Yet another mimicked our teacher.
“Sorry about that, sir, but the Japanese have the Yamato Spirit.”
With much greater antipathy and confidence than I’d ever had before, I took on their attacks all by myself.
“We are sure to lose, sure to lose!” I insisted.
And sitting in the midst of these clamorous boys I wracked my brains and defeated their groundless arguments. Many of them hadn’t even perused the newspapers or looked at a map of the world. They hadn’t heard the stories from Shiki and Jūhachishiryaku.13 As a result, they were all argued down by me alone and with visible reluctance fell silent. But that didn’t mean their indignation was quelled, for the first thing they did in the next hour was to tell the teacher.
“Sir, Naka-san says Japan will lose.”
Mr. Ushida, with his usual knowing face, declared, “The Japanese have the Yamato Spirit,” and then, as always, heaped various dirty curses upon the Chinese. I was incensed as if those words were personally directed against myself.
“Sir, if you say the Japanese have the Yamato Spirit, the Chinese must also have the Chinese Spirit,” I said. “If we have Katō Kiyomasa and Hōjō Tokimune in Japan, they have Kan’u and Chōhi14 in China, don’t they? Besides, sir, you once told us the story of Kenshin sending salt to Shingen15 to teach us that being compassionate to the enemy is the Way of the Warrior. If that is the case, you can’t badmouth the Chinese like that, can you, sir?”
With that said, I had poured out all my accumulated frustrations. Mr. Ushida made a grimace.
“Naka-san has no Yamato Spirit,” he said after a brief while.
I felt my temper quickly swell the veins of my temples but, unable to take out the Yamato Spirit and show it to them, I could only redden and keep quiet.
The Japanese soldiers, being “incomparable in loyalty and bravery,” smashed my clever prediction to bits. That, however, hardly changed my distrust of our teacher and my contempt for my peers.
All this made me feel that it was silly to spend time with the other kids, and I gradually began to distance myself from them and just stand by and watch their absurd carryings-on derisively. One day, standing alone in the corridor, my elbows on the railing rubbed shiny by the hands of brats over the years, I was laughing as I watched them romping about under the wisteria trellis, when a teacher happened to pass behind me.
“What are you laughing about?” he suddenly said to me.
“The way those children play is funny,” I replied.
The teacher burst out laughing. “Naka-san, you are a child, too, aren’t you?”
“I may be a child, but I am not as silly as they,” I said seriously.
“That’s troublesome,” he said. Then he went into the teachers’ room where I saw him talking to other people. I guessed I was troublesome to the teachers.
3
Even though I regarded every one of the pupils of my class as a hopeless Santarō,16 holding them in utter contempt, I nonetheless had a heartfelt, precocious sympathy for Kanimoto-san, who could be described as captain of all such Santarōs. He was almost an idiot, though judging from his height he was probably sixteen or seventeen already. What I had heard was that he had remained in each grade for two or three years and, as he was gradually pushed upward he had ended up with us latecomers. Naturally he didn’t know his own age and because he had an infantile face common among morons, no one knew how old he was. His happily fat round face had a mole as big as a horse bean on one cheek, a kind of billboard for him that endeared him throughout the school.
If someone half-jokingly said, “Kanimoto-san, you have ink on your cheek,” he would respond with a slow giggle, saying indulgently, “It—is—no—i—nk. It—is—a—m—o—le.”
Carrying across his back an abacus that had not a single bead left on it and was disproportionately small for his body, he would saunter in whenever he liked and when bored would go home abruptly even if it was during a lesson. Human beings in general pity and love only those who are far inferior to themselves, and the sympathy so felt is despicably selfish. Attracting such sympathy, though, there was no one under heaven who enjoyed a world as free as Kanimoto-san’s. Still, because he was alive, there were days he felt good and days he felt bad. When he felt bad, he seldom showed up, but when he did show up, as he occasionally did, he wouldn’t even crack a smile, sitting at his desk, head bowed. Then, no one knows what thoughts prompted him, he would suddenly begin to weep loudly and wouldn’t stop until he had wept his heart out. And when he had exhausted in loud unrestrained weeping the sorrows that had welled up unknown to anyone and accumulated in his dark unhappy heart, he would put his abacus on his shoulder and go home as though nothing had happened. On such days, even if someone happened to speak to him, he wouldn’t even show his good-natured smile—one virtue in such a misfortune—but would invariably utter a guttural scream like a parrot and drive the person away.
If for some reason he was in an elegant frame of mind, though, he would offer, unasked, “I’ll be your horse.” He was tall, strong, and corpulent, so made a fine horse to ride. But he was also an untamable wild horse, because the moment he lost interest he would stand up straight even in the midst of a grappling combat between two commanders.17
I decided to grasp, in whatever way I could, the true nature of his unfathomable silence, the tears that overflowed from the bottom of that silence, and, ignoring everyone’s sneers, I tried hard to befriend him. Every time I saw him in a good mood, I said brief words of greeting such as “Good morning” and “Good-bye.” But he was to me what an emperor would be to his subject, and wouldn’t even respond with a smile. I did not mind this and persevered tirelessly, diligently, until one day he left the desk to which he had clung like a louse and shuffled over to me.
“Na—ka—sa—n—is—a—g—o—o—d—per—son,” he said, with his usual lisp. He then went away with a low, happy laugh.
I almost jumped for joy at that one remark. Whatever he said didn’t have an iota of falsity. By then I knew more than I wanted that people’s words contained lies, so I was deeply touched by that casual, arbitrary remark and was overjoyed as though I had finally gotten hold of the key to the door to that darkness, thinking I was sure to make friends with him and would be able to console this unfortunate person. So, deciding that I’ll finally make it today, I went to a desk next to his and spoke to him in various ways; but he merely smiled his pointless smile, leaving me frustrated. In a while he even stopped doing that, and bent his head low over his desk. Soon he dealt me his decisive card, assaulting me with his guttural scream. At that one parrot call, all the trouble I’d taken came to nothing. It was not that Kanimoto-san was forced to be alone because he, like me, didn’t have any desirable companions; it was that he simply, truly, did not need any.
4
My older brother—out of a curiosity and kindness heavily laden with the odor of self-aggrandizement that everyone at his age is bound to have at least once—took pains to twist me, a human being born to be shaped differently from him and destined to go in opposite ways as to the east and to the west, into his direction, against my will, through the power of a truly thoroughgoing, harsh edu
cation. And, because he liked fishing to the point, people said, of madness, it must have occurred to him that in order to save me, his poor younger brother, from falling further into evil ways every day, every month—to make me like him—he had, above all, to teach me fishing.
Every day when there was no school, he would forcibly take me out, reluctant though I was, and make me carry the fishing gear, even though I was following him only because it was painful to ruin his mood—and because I had no choice. Then I had to plod after him all the way to Honjo where there were a great many fishponds that, in my brother’s theory, were the ideal ones but, in my opinion, were exceptionally revolting. On our way I’d be the butt of his pettifogging criticisms—that my hat was crooked, that I held my head too low, that I was distracted far too long by the lanterns just put out for sale, that my arms weren’t swinging back and forth evenly—in short, from the tip of my head to the ends of my toes, so that all the mental strain, coupled with the great distance, would completely exhaust me by the time we finally reached a fishpond. But no sooner had I ducked in under its flag and felt a whiff of relief than I would be made to sit on the dampish edge of the moat and forced to realize I’d have to spend the whole day there once again, and I’d feel as fed up as if all my energy and bones had deserted me.
The pilings driven into the muddy, bad-smelling moat were loaded with growths of green moss. In a stagnant pool in one corner, with red rust floating on it, water scorpions18 caught water striders and giant water bugs19 bobbed up and down. Watching such things alone made me sick, but there also were the uninterrupted banging, clanging noises of someone beating sheets of iron at a factory nearby that gave me a splitting headache. My brother might say to me, You’ve gotten better at cutting earthworms, I like that, but this wouldn’t please me at all. Though I didn’t even know what to do with the single rod given me, I nonetheless made the pretense of alertly watching my float while thinking one unpleasant thought after another, such as, Why do I have to learn to like fishing? Meanwhile, my brother, who was supposed to suffer from myopia, suddenly seemed to acquire several sharp eyeballs the moment he arrived at a fishpond. He would set up five to seven rods and before I knew it would be watching out for my float, too.
“Look, the fish is taking your bait!”
If I pulled the fish out of the water, he would bark at me for one reason or another—that I was too clumsy scooping it up or that I was no good unhooking it. So, hoping that the fish would get away quickly, I would lazily pull the thing in. Then, a muddy yellow belly and parts would show, and I’d just watch, thinking, That’s a dirty carp. This would make my brother lose his temper and throw it at me. By then the fish would unhook itself and get away.
When the day’s ordeal was finally over and the time came to go home the raw-smelling creel became a new burden. And, again for my education, my brother would deliberately make a detour, taking the route I didn’t like—the road that had antique shops, warehouses, carts, and ditches, the road where power lines whined in the wind, the road lined with food stalls. I would trot after him, my feet deadly fatigued, all the while being scolded for this thing or that. And because we took a longer way, the sun would have set before we neared home. The unpleasantness and the complaints I had at such a time. . . . Once, as one star, then another, began to shine in the evening sky, I was so enchanted gazing at them—gaining strength from what my aunt had taught me, that stars are where gods and buddhas are—when my brother became angry that I had fallen way behind.
“Why are you being so damned slow?”
Startled, I said, “I was looking at our dear stars.”
Hardly understanding what I said, he barked, “Stupid, just say ‘stars’!”
Pitiful person! What was wrong with my calling the cold stones circling the sky “our dear stars” out of a child’s longings, just as I called this person, who by some chance had become my companion in Hell, my dear brother?
5
Once, again in the name of education, I was taken to a certain seashore. Not knowing that my unusually good response to the idea of going there was on account of my memories of a trip some time back that I had enjoyed, and of a friend—my brother’s—who had gone on ahead and was waiting for us, my brother was in very high spirits the night before we left, and took me to the fair of Lord Bishamon20 and bought me the magazine Little Citizen.21 The next morning, accompanied by an unusually kind brother and relieved that things might work out all right, I left home with only Little Citizen for me to carry.
It happened to fall on Tanabata Day,22 and the peasants’ houses everywhere had bear bamboo23 adorned with poem cards of five colors aloft, hare’s ears24 coolly blooming on their thatched roofs. Enchanted and distracted by them, I wondered aloud, Why don’t they do the same in towns?, and drew the first angry word from my brother. Buoyed by the green paddies, the sky, the sea, and white sails, I had many things I wanted to say and wanted to ask about, but because it was painful to be scolded, I just thought this or that, wondering if it wasn’t a mistake after all to have come along, when I drew another, fresh angry word for not saying anything. Why did he get upset for no reason? As it turned out, he was in a foul mood because I didn’t put to him the question, How does the train move?
TANABATA: BAMBOO WITH POEM CARDS
The place we arrived at was a thatched hut in a fishing village surrounded by gloomy brushwood fences that had seashells and things strewn about, where, other than our friend who eagerly welcomed us, lived a very dark old couple and their daughter with the same coloring. It was just lunch time, and the mother and daughter, who looked like black cats, brought two grubby raised trays for the three of us. But, told to hurry because the tableware was what the family used themselves and they couldn’t eat until we had finished our meal, I felt harassed and put down the chopsticks after finishing half my food.
The house being so small, it was decided that my brother and I would move to a cape about two miles away. Our friend, who offered to accompany us by way of taking a walk, and my brother said they’d catch up with me, so I was put in a rickety cart and went on ahead. The cart puller was a corpulent man who appeared to be simple and honest, and I didn’t dislike him at all. But as we passed round and round those gloomy brushwood fences, loneliness welled up in me and before long I couldn’t bear it any longer. I did my best to distract myself but only such things as the cedar hedge of our house and the way our dining room looked kept coming to my mind’s eye. Thinking, I won’t be going back there tonight or tomorrow night, my face turned weepy despite myself and tears dropped on my lap. Fishermen’s children noticed this.
“Hey, look at that! He’s crying! He’s crying!” they called out and laughed among themselves.
The cart man turned to look from time to time and said something soothing, but his words were different and I couldn’t understand him at all. As we went along, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of beautiful Benkei crabs25 coming out of the cracks of roadside fences and then, startled by the noise of the cart, dashing back into them, and I wanted the crabs. But before long we came out on the shore. The path meandered between a hillside and the water’s edge. I was agitated that at any moment the tide might come in to block our way, but the cart man was unperturbed, apparently thinking about something else as he trudged along. When we reached a point where the path cut through a hill I happened to turn back to look and caught a glimpse of my brother and our friend. Just when I’d managed to suppress a sob struggling to rise in my throat, my brother hurriedly caught up and took me down from the cart.
Here and there formations of boulders serrated like dorsal fins jutted out of the rocky shore into the sea, and the waves, their paths blocked, rose up round-shaped like the shaven head of a sea monster and quickly crashed, splashes flying. Every time our path turned, the shore became smaller and narrower as it closed in into a cove, and the low waves at certain intervals rolled in, kaboom, kaboom. Hearing the sound, a lump formed in my chest for some reason and, though I had ma
naged to stop sobbing, tears rolled out again. A wave crashed kaboom, its foam swished away, but even before I was relieved to think, That’s gone, the next wave crashed kaboom. When we’d finally passed that cove, the next cove came along with more kaboom. Even though I was getting hungry and my feet were growing tired, the cape seemed to remain just as far away and the sound of waves never ceased, no matter how far we went. When we caught up with a string of several mares clop-clopping along being led, our friend noticed the tears filling my eyes and pointed this out to my brother in a whisper.
“Leave him alone, leave him alone,” he said, walking briskly ahead.
Our friend kept turning back to see, until finally he stopped and kindly asked, Are you tired? Are you feeling ill?
“I am sad about the sound of waves,” I said honestly.
My brother glared at me.
“Go back by yourself,” he said and quickened his pace. Our friend, surprised as he was by my unexpected response, nonetheless, tried to calm my brother down.
