The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by Неизвестный

  A Red Cross ambulance and a police car arrived They examined the injured When I was giving my report to the police Mr. Moon was reeling as he climbed the eastern horizon I borrowed a gun from the military police and got down on one knee on the city street I took aim at the target Bang!

  Mr. Moon plummeted headfirst

  And everyone cheered Bravo!

  Une Mémoire

  A misty spring moon hung in midheaven The woods and hills and rivers were pale and blue In the distance the ridge of a rocky mountain glimmered white

  A steady stream of moonlight poured down and flooded every place From far faraway ton koro pii pii the sound of a flute reached my ears It was so mournful and infused with nostalgia that I couldn’t even be certain whether I was hearing it It came across faintly When I strained my ears

  the sound of the flute was accompanied by such a resentful such a mournful voice singing a sort of song though I had no idea what it was saying

  Ton koro pii pii . . . pii . . .

  When I heard the sound of the flute once more the moonlight poured down and spilled over

  And then

  “No doubt it was on a night like this—”

  From somewhere a voice murmured these words

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  In astonishment I’d asked the question but the voice made no reply

  The moonlight merely kept streaming down

  And once again from seemingly nowhere the murmuring I’d heard earlier returned full of resignation sorrow and now becoming somewhat indignant

  “No doubt it was on a night like this—”

  “What do you mean?”

  I blurted out the question but the voice made no further reply

  I picked up a rock that I found at my feet but before I could hurl it at the voice something made me drop it with a disconsolate air

  It was a blue moonlit night The mountains and hills and woods were shrouded in mist as if in a dream

  Ton koro pii . . . pii

  KAWABATA YASUNARI

  In 1968, Kawabata Yasunari (1899–1972) became the first Japanese author to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature (his acceptance speech, “Japan, the Beautiful, and Myself,” may be found in chapter 5). The prize citation noted that “it is the genuinely Japanese miniature art of haiku poetry which is reflected in Kawabata’s prose style.” While his first story to gain wide recognition, “The Dancing Girl of Izu” (Izu no odoriko, 1926), certainly displays a poetry, charm, and nostalgia that still appeal to contemporary readers, an aspect of his writing that often is overlooked is the profound influence of European modernism. One facet of his surrealistic style can be found in his screenplay for the film Page of Madness (Kurutta ippeiji, 1926), directed by Kinugasa Teinosuke. In this silent film, which was recounted in theaters by a live narrator known as a benshi, the wife of a too-often absent sailor loses her mind and drowns their infant child; in remorse, he gets hired as a handyman at the asylum so he can be near her, even as an older daughter is planning her marriage.

  THE DANCING GIRL OF IZU (IZU NO ODORIKO)

  Translated by J. Martin Holman

  1

  About the time the road began to wind and I realized that I was finally near Amagi Pass, a curtain of rain swept up after me at a terrific speed from the foot of the mountain, painting the dense cedar forests white.

  I was twenty years old. I wore my school cap, hakama over my indigo-dyed kimono, and carried a student’s bag over my shoulder. It was the fourth day of my solitary journey down the Izu Peninsula. I had stayed at Shuzenji Hot Springs one night, then two nights at Yugashima. And now, wearing high clogs, I was climbing Amagi. Although I had been enchanted by the layers upon layers of mountains, the virgin forests, and the shades of autumn in the deep valleys, I was hurrying along this road, my chest pounding with a certain expectation. Before long, great drops of rain began to pelt me, and I bolted up the steep, twisted road. I was relieved to reach the teahouse on the north side of the pass at last but stopped short in the doorway. My expectation had been realized all too splendidly. The troupe of itinerant performers was inside, taking a rest.

  As soon as the dancing girl noticed me standing there, she pulled out the cushion she had been kneeling on, turned it over, and placed it near her.

  “Yes.” That’s all I said before I sat down. The words “thank you” stuck in my throat. I was out of breath from running up the road and from my astonishment.

  Sitting so close, facing the dancing girl, I fumbled to pull a cigarette from my kimono sleeve. The girl took the ashtray sitting in front of her female companion and placed it near me. Naturally, I did not speak.

  The dancing girl looked to be about seventeen years old. Her hair was arranged elaborately in an unusual old style unfamiliar to me. Although it made her striking oval face look quite small, it created a beautiful harmony. She gave the impression of the girls from illustrations in old romances who were depicted with an emphasis on their extravagant hair. The dancing girl was accompanied by a woman in her forties, two older girls, and a man of about twenty-five, who was wearing a jacket with the insignia of Nagaoka Hot Springs on it.

  I had seen this troupe twice previously. The first time I encountered them, near Yugawa Bridge, I was on my way to Yugashima Hot Springs while they were going to Shuzenji. There were three girls in the group. The dancing girl was carrying a drum. After we passed, I looked back at them again and again. I had finally experienced the romance of travel. Then, my second night at Yugashima, the entertainers had come to the inn to perform. Sitting halfway down the ladderlike stairs, I had gazed intently at the girl as she danced on the wooden floor of the entryway.

  “If they were at Shuzenji the other day and Yugashima tonight, then they would probably go to Yugano Springs on the south side of Amagi Pass tomorrow. Surely I could catch up with them along the fifteen miles of mountain road over Amagi.” Thus I had been daydreaming as I hastened along the road that day. Now we had ended up taking shelter from the rain at the same teahouse. My heart was pounding.

  In a moment the old woman who ran the teahouse led me to another room. It appeared it was not used regularly and had no sliding paper doors. When I peered down into the magnificent valley outside the window, I could scarcely see the bottom. It gave me goose bumps. My teeth chattered and I shivered. The old woman came back to serve tea. I told her I felt cold.

  “You’re all wet, aren’t you, sir?” She spoke with great deference. “Come in here for a while. Dry your clothes.” Reaching for my hand, she led me into her own parlor.

  There was a hearth in the middle of the floor of her room. When she opened the sliding door, the hot air flowed out. I stood at the threshold, hesitating. An old man sat cross-legged by the fire, his body pale and swollen like a drowning victim. He turned his languid eyes toward me. They were yellowed to the pupils as if putrefied. Around him lay piles of old letters and scraps of paper. They almost buried him. I stood stiff, staring at him, wondering how he could be alive, this mystery in the mountains.

  “I’m embarrassed to have you see him this way. Don’t worry. This is my old husband. He may be unsightly, but he can’t move. Please be patient with him.”

  After thus apologizing, the old woman explained that her husband had suffered from palsy for many years and now his whole body was almost paralyzed. The mountains of papers were actually correspondence from every possible source describing treatments for palsy and packets of medicine the old man had ordered from throughout the country. Whenever he heard of a treatment from travelers who came over the pass or saw an advertisement in the newspaper, he never failed to send for it. He kept the papers around him in heaps, staring at them, never disposing of a single one. Through the years he had accumulated mountains of aging scraps of paper.

  Without a word to the old woman, I bent over the hearth. An automobile navigating the pass rattled the house. I wondered why the old man did not move down to a lower elevation, with the autumn already this cold and snow soon
to cover the pass. Steam rose from my kimono. The fire was hot enough to scorch my face. The old woman went back out to the shop, commenting to one of the female entertainers.

  “So this is the little girl you had with you before. She’s turned out to be such a nice girl. That’s good for you. How pretty she’s become. Girls grow up so fast.”

  About an hour later, I heard the entertainers preparing to leave. I had not settled in to stay either, but I was so anxious that I did not have the courage to stand up. Although they were seasoned travelers, they would be walking at a woman’s pace, so I was certain I could catch up even if I left a mile or so behind them. Still, I grew impatient sitting by the hearth. Once the entertainers had left, my daydreams began a vivid, reckless dance. The old woman returned from seeing the entertainers off.

  “Where are they staying tonight?” I asked.

  “There’s no way to tell where people like that are going to stay, is there, young man? Wherever they can attract an audience, that’s where they stay. It doesn’t matter where it might be. I don’t think the likes of them would have a place already planned.”

  The scorn that lurked in the woman’s words so stirred me, I thought to myself: If that is true, then I’ll have the dancing girl stay in my room tonight.

  The rain abated and the mountain peak cleared. The old woman tried to detain me longer, telling me the sky would be completely cloudless if only I would wait ten more minutes. But I just could not remain sitting there.

  “Please take care of yourself,” I said to the old man. “It’s going to get colder.” I spoke from my heart as I stood up. His yellow eyes lolled in his head, and he gave a slight nod.

  “Sir! Sir!” The old woman followed me outside. “This is far too much money. I just can’t accept it.” She picked up my bag in both hands and refused to give it to me. She would not listen, no matter how much I tried to dissuade her. The old woman told me she would accompany me up the road a bit. She repeated the same words as she tottered along behind me for a hundred yards.

  “This is much too generous. I’m sorry we didn’t serve you better. I’ll make certain to remember your face. When you pass this way again, we’ll do something special for you. Be sure to stop by next time. I won’t forget you.”

  She seemed so overwhelmed, as if she were on the verge of tears, just because I had left a fifty-sen coin. But I was eager to catch up with the dancers, and the old woman’s doddering pace hindered me. At last we reached the tunnel at the pass.

  “Thank you very much,” I said. “You’d better go back now. Your husband is there all alone.” The old woman finally released my bag.

  Cold drops of water plopped inside the dark tunnel. Up ahead, the tiny portal to southern Izu grew brighter.

  2

  The mountain road, stitched on one side with whitewashed pickets, coursed down from the mouth of the tunnel like a jagged lightning bolt. The scene resembled a landscape in miniature. I could make out the itinerant entertainers down at the bottom. Before I had walked half a mile, I overtook them. It would be too obvious were I to slacken my pace too abruptly, so I nonchalantly passed the women. When the man, who was walking about twenty yards ahead of the others, noticed me, he paused.

  “You walk fast. . . . We’re lucky the weather cleared up,” he said.

  Relieved, I fell into step with the man. He asked me all kinds of questions. Seeing the two of us talking, the women scurried to join us.

  The man was carrying a large wicker trunk on his back. The woman in her forties was holding a puppy. The oldest girl was toting a cloth bundle. The middle girl also had a wicker trunk. Everyone carried something. The dancing girl had a drum and frame on her back. Little by little, the woman, who seemed to be in her forties, began to talk to me.

  “He’s an upper-school student,” the oldest girl whispered to the dancing girl. When I looked around she smiled. “That’s right, isn’t it? I know that much. Students are always coming down to the island.”

  They were from the harbor town of Habu on Ōshima, the largest island off the southern tip of the Izu Peninsula. They had been on the road since leaving the island in the spring, but it was turning cold and they had not yet made preparations for winter. They said they were planning to stay in Shimoda for just ten days, then cross over to the island from Ito Hot Springs. At the mention of Ōshima, I felt even more the poetry of the situation. Again I glanced at the dancing girl’s lovely hair. I asked questions about Ōshima.

  “A lot of students come to the island to swim, don’t they?” the dancing girl said to the girl with her.

  I turned back toward them. “In the summer, right?”

  The dancing girl was flustered. “In the winter, too,” I thought I heard her answer softly.

  “In the winter, too?” I asked.

  The dancing girl simply looked at her companion and giggled.

  “You can swim in the winter, too?” I asked again. The dancing girl blushed. She nodded, with a serious look.

  “This girl is such a silly one,” the older woman laughed.

  The road to Yugano ran about eight miles down through the valley of the Kawasu River. On this side of the pass, even the mountains and the color of the sky began to look more southern. As the man and I continued our conversation, we took a liking to each other. We passed tiny villages with names like Oginori and Nashimoto. About the time the thatched roofs of Yugano came into view at the foot of the mountain, I ventured to tell the man that I wanted to travel with them to Shimoda. He seemed delighted.

  When we arrived at a cheap lodging house in Yugano, the older woman nodded as if to say good-bye. But the man spoke for me: “This young gentleman has kindly offered to accompany us.”

  “Well, well. As the old saying goes, ‘On the road, a traveling companion; and in the world, kindness.’ Even boring people like us will help you pass the time. Come on in and take a rest.” She spoke without formality. The girls all glanced at me at the same time. They stopped talking, their faces seemingly indifferent. Then their gaze turned to embarrassment.

  I went upstairs with them and put down my bag. The woven floor mats and sliding panel doors were old and dirty. The dancing girl brought us some tea from downstairs. Kneeling in front of me, she blushed bright red. Her hands were trembling. The teacup almost tumbled off the saucer. She set it down on the mat to keep it from failing but spilled the whole cup of tea. I was amazed at her bashfulness.

  “My goodness. She’s started thinking about the opposite sex. How disgusting! Look at that!” The older woman furrowed her brow in dismay and threw a hand towel at the girl, who picked it up and wiped the mat, looking ill at ease.

  Caught off guard by the woman’s words, I reconsidered my feelings. The daydream that the old woman at the pass had sparked in me had been dashed.

  “The young student’s indigo kimono certainly is nice,” the woman remarked, her eyes fixed on me. “The pattern is the same as Tamiji’s. Isn’t it? Isn’t it the same?”

  After pressing the girls several times, she spoke to me. “We have another child at home still in school. I was thinking of him. He has the same kind of kimono as yours. These days indigo kimonos are so expensive, I just don’t know what to do.”

  “What kind of school?”

  “Elementary school, fifth grade.”

  “Oh, you have a fifth grader? . . .”

  “His school is not on Ōshima. It’s in Kuru. We’ve been on Ōshima for a long time, but Kofu is our original home.”

  After we rested for an hour, the man led me to another hot spring inn. Until then I had assumed I would be staying at the same lodging house with the entertainers. We walked about one hundred yards along a gravel road and down some stone steps, then crossed a bridge near a public bath beside a stream. The garden of the inn was on the other side of the bridge.

  I stepped into the bath and the man got in after me. He told me he was twenty-four. His wife had lost two children, one by miscarriage and one that was born prematurely. I assum
ed he was from Nagaoka, since his jacket bore a Nagaoka Hot Springs emblem. His intellectual manner of speaking and his facial expressions made me wonder if he had been following the entertainers and carrying their luggage simply out of curiosity or perhaps because he had fallen in love with one of them.

  I ate lunch as soon as I got out of the bath. I had left Yugashima at eight o’clock in the morning, but it was not yet three o’clock now.

  As the man made his way to the inn gate, he looked up at my window to say good-bye.

  “Buy yourself some persimmons or something. I’m sorry. This is such a rude way to give this to you, from the second floor.” I tossed down a packet of money. The man refused it and turned to go, but he couldn’t leave the money lying in the garden, so he returned and picked it up.

  “You shouldn’t do things like this,” he said, tossing the packet back up at me. It landed on the thatched roof. When I threw it down a second time, he took it with him.

  Rain started pouring around sunset. The mountains turned colorless and lost their depth. The small stream in front of the inn ran yellow as I watched it. The sound of rushing water grew louder. Thinking that the dancers would never come looking for customers in this torrent, I could not sit still, so I went to the bath two or three more times. My room was dismal. An electric light hung in a square hole cut in the wall between my room and the next, where it could illuminate both rooms.

  “Ton, ton, ton, ton.” In the distance beyond the clamor of the rain, the vague reverberations of a drum arose. I shoved open one of the shutters and hung out the window. The drum seemed to be getting closer. The rain and wind lashed my head. Closing my eyes and straining to hear, I tried to determine the path of the drum as it approached. A moment later I heard the sound of a shamisen. I heard a woman’s long scream. I heard boisterous laughter. I surmised that the entertainers had been called to the banquet room at the inn across from their own. I could distinguish two or three women’s voices and three or four men’s. I expected them to travel in my direction once the party broke up, but it seemed the party would pass the point of merry drinking and dissolve into riotous nonsense. Occasionally a woman’s high, piercing voice rent the night like a thunder-bolt. My nerves were on edge. I left the shutter open and just sat by the window. I felt some consolation every time I heard the drum.