by Naoya Shiga
Kensaku imagined this fleshy woman swimming about in the hot bath with the aid of two buckets. It couldn’t be a very dignified spectacle, he thought. But in the very indignity of the image there was something unbearably erotic.
Okayo then described with great animation the time a man from the gas company had come into the bathhouse to fix the light. She was in the bath. He had a large stepladder with him. Long after the light had been fixed he had remained on top of the ladder, refusing to move. She had had to stay in the water an interminable length of time.
Kensaku had never credited her with much grace or dignity. It was her air of lively abandon and her peculiar coquettishness that had initially attracted him. But such an exhibition of vulgarity as he had witnessed tonight was too disenchanting; and he was sure that the longer he knew her, the more conspicuously cheap she would become. How much more attractive she seemed, Kensaku thought, the first time he had met her.
The three friends left shortly thereafter, and immediately parted company.
The next morning Kensaku received a letter in answer to his own of the previous day. The writer was abject in his apology. He had once seen a photograph of Kensaku’s younger sister, that was all. He had had no intention of writing to her, but had been persuaded to do so by a nurse at “T” Hospital. (He mentioned the nurse’s name.) If the Matsuyama family should ever come to know of his misdeed, he would be in serious trouble. Would Kensaku please take pity on him, and accept his most heartfelt apology?
“T” Hospital was where Sakiko had stayed for a time last year. And Kensaku remembered the nurse. She wasn’t such a bad-looking woman. He wrote a letter to Nobuyuki, simply describing the events of the day before, and enclosed with it the letter from Sakiko’s admirer. He next wrote to the pathetic young man, assuring him that he would say nothing about the incident to his friend Matsuyama.
11
It was not long afterward that Kensaku on his own initiative visited a brothel. Late one morning, on a cloudy, chilly day, as though he were about to accomplish an act which he had coolly and carefully deliberated upon, he left his house and set out for Fukagawa.
About two years before he had once gone there from Kiba, and then on through Sunamura to the Nakagawa River. He therefore had some idea of the local geography. He got off the streetcar a little past Eitaibashi, and with a look of utter cheerlessness proceeded along the road past Hachiman Shrine. He was very conscious of how ugly the expression on his face must be. And toward everyone he passed on the road he felt a touch of enmity, sure that they all knew where he was going. His mouth dry from tension, he marched on.
He crossed several small bridges, then turned right, and there at last, across the muddy moat, were the houses. Anxiety in him mounted. It was not at all like going to see Tokiko in Nishimidori; there, his purpose had been so different. Yet, for all the unpleasant sensation he was suffering now, he did not feel like going back.
A rickshaw came toward him. It had merely a hood on top, and no curtain in front. The rider was therefore quite visible. It was his dark glasses that first caught Kensaku’s attention. Immediately he recognized Tajima, a fellow who had been a couple of years ahead of him at college. The shock of seeing someone he knew, especially someone so respectable, was such that Kensaku was unable to take his eyes off him until he had walked several more paces. Tajima seemed to be staring too, though because of his dark glasses Kensaku wasn’t sure.
The only other place Tajima could be coming from was the fish hatchery. Obviously, that was not where he had been. Kensaku might have been less sure, perhaps, if his acquaintance hadn’t been wearing those glasses. What a dreadful place to meet each other, Kensaku thought angrily. But, he quickly reminded himself, he had not quite reached his destination; he could after all go past the hatchery, then to Sunamura, and go home or even stop by at Nishimidori or somewhere. But to do that just because he had seen Tajima would be an abject thing to do. Besides, if he didn’t go today, he was sure to come back again very soon.
Two hours later he came out of the district in quite a different frame of mind. He felt remarkably at ease with himself, quite free of remorse.
The woman had been an ugly creature. With a pallid, flat face, she looked like a slatternly housewife from the slums. She was dull-witted, and very good-natured. He had no intention of ever seeing her again, but somehow he came away feeling he would like to do her a nice turn. Should he perhaps send her a money order? She did say that for every customer she received only five sen from the management.
It was after he had thus begun visiting brothels that he became newly aware of Oei. True, he had not been unaware of her sexuality before; indeed, he had often indulged in erotic fantasies about her. In these she had invariably been the temptress and he the upright virgin. He would always be lecturing at her in an appallingly priggish fashion. What a terrible sin it would be, he would say to her, what a mess they would make of their lives if they were to give in to temptation, etc., etc. Oei had in reality never given any cause for such fantasies; but Kensaku had indulged in them all the same.
Now, however, Oei had come to be a more immediate object of Kensaku’s desires. At night in bed, when erotic thoughts would run rampant in his mind and the printed words in the book he was holding would become a meaningless blur, it was always the figure of Oei sleeping downstairs that would dominate his lewd imaginings. He would try to chase the figure away, but to no avail; it was always there in his consciousness. He would then in desperation get out of bed, and in forlorn but excited anticipation go downstairs, walk past the bedroom toward the toilet. What he hoped for in his near-delirious state was that the door would suddenly slide open, and he would be gently led into the room. But this never happened. And in angry frustration he would return upstairs. Later there were times when he would stop hopelessly in the middle of the stairs on his way down, not knowing whether to proceed or go back to his room; and he would sit down in the darkness, confused and despairing.
His visits to brothels became more and more frequent. Yet he could never feel like a debauchee. If he could, he would have found more pleasure in his own debauchery. He searched constantly for a woman who would infatuate him, but without success. Occasionally something akin to passion would touch him, only to disappear quickly. It was as much their fault as his, he would then tell himself.
He did not see Tokiko or Okayo as frequently as he used to. But whenever in the company of Ogata or Miyamoto—which was often enough—he would visit them. He had reached an impasse with Tokiko. But if he had been given the choice of either getting closer to her or moving away, he would have found the latter alternative less difficult.
It was always so. It did not matter how attractive he might at first find a woman, his initial passion—if it could be called that—would soon leave him. Surely, he would ask himself, it could not be true that the women he had met were all superficial, that there were not some who might in time have deserved a deeper commitment from him? Why was it that every time he thought he might become involved with some woman he would draw back, certain that he was not emotionally prepared for such involvement? To push his relationship with a woman even then, when he knew full well that she would never mean very much to him, struck him as callous and unnatural. If he was to have an affair, he had to be pushed into it by an emotion beyond his control. Sometimes, when he thought such emotion was beyond him, he would begin to hate himself. But his self-hatred seemed to have little to do with what he did with his body. With every passing day, his self-indulgence became more intense.
As his life grew more anarchic, so did his mind, and his lewd fantasies about Oei became more and more uncontrolled. He wondered fearfully what would happen to them if his present condition were to persist. This woman, who had been his grandfather’s mistress, was almost twenty years older than he. He imagined their future together. What he saw—and he shrank before the prospect—was his own destruction. His obsession with her was like a prolonged nightmare. During the day, when h
e felt more relaxed, he would look at her and wonder at the thoughts he had had of her the night before. Surely he must have dreamed them? But when night came, the lewd thoughts would again assail him, with greater urgency than before.
One night he had a dream. In the dream he was asleep. Miyamoto came in, wearing an eerie smile. “Sakaguchi died,” he said. Kensaku, still asleep, thought, “So he won’t be coming back to Tokyo after all.” He knew that Sakaguchi had gone on a long journey without telling anyone. And he had sensed all along that Sakaguchi might never return, might meet with a certain kind of death. He remained silent. Miyamoto, still with that strange smile, added, “Apparently he tried harima. Yes, he finally did it.” Kensaku thought, “So I was right.”
He did not know what exactly harima was. All he knew was harima was an extremely dangerous method, and that Sakaguchi had learned about it previously in Osaka. He knew too that Sakaguchi had passed on the information to Miyamoto.
In his depravity Sakaguchi had constantly sought new ways of deriving sexual pleasure. How jaded he must have been, Kensaku thought with a shiver, to have gone so far as to try harima. His depravity must have become like some outside force, pushing him toward his own destruction. Knowing as he did the terrible risk, how could he have done it of his own free will?
“What does one do in harima?" Kensaku was about to ask, then checked himself. For he realized with sudden, overwhelming fear that if he knew, he would try it. True, he might come out of it alive; but the chances were he would not. Yet, so long as there was one chance in a hundred of his surviving it, even one chance in a thousand, he would be impelled by that evil force to try it. In ignorance lay his protection.
Miyamoto was smiling sardonically, in anticipation of the fatal question from Kensaku. But Kensaku never asked the question. Then he awoke from his dream within the dream. A nasty, eerie sensation remained inside him. He felt as though he had been visited by a ghost, a ghost in the guise of Miyamoto. He got up to go to the toilet. The window of the toilet was open. It was a still, moonlit night. Not a leaf moved. On the ground of the large garden (it was much larger than his own garden) the roof above cast a shadow like a dark mountain. Something in the shadow seemed to move. It was moving on the ridge of the roof. Then he remembered that upstairs he had heard a thud, as though something had jumped down onto the roof.
The dancing creature was the size of a child seven or eight years old. It had a large head, but the body was incongruously tiny. The devil was more comical than frightening. Not making the slightest sound it danced about grotesquely like a badly made puppet, unaware that its shadow was being watched. The absolute silence of the night was undisturbed; and all that moved was this dancing shadow. So long as this creature danced, Kensaku thought, those under the roof would continue to be tortured by the spirit of lewd desire. Yet it was a great relief to know that the shape of the spirit was so insignificant and cheap.
Then he really woke up.
12
In the space of only two or three months the kid had become a young goat with three-inch horns and a pretentious little beard.
“The goat’s beginning to stink,” Oei said at the dinner table one day, pulling a face. “How about giving him a bath?”
“That won’t do any good.”
“He not only stinks, he’s become so fierce Yoshi is too frightened to go into the pen. He’s always knocking the feed box over or bumping his head angrily against something.”
“Shall we give him away?”
“How about a pet shop? If we pay them something, they’ll take him.”
“But they’re sure to sell him to a medical laboratory,” Kensaku said. “It’ll be like sending him to the executioner.”
“That won’t do, then. Perhaps we should get him a wife.”
“No, it would be best if we could find somebody to take him. For one thing, I’m thinking of going away on a trip.”
Oei showed some surprise. “Where?”
“I haven’t decided, but I thought I’d like to go away for six months or even a year and live somewhere in the provinces.”
“But what has made you want to do such a thing all of a sudden?”
“Nothing in particular, really. But you know, I’ve got to do something about the way I’m living right now.”
“Am I coming with you?”
“No.”
Kensaku looked at Oei’s unhappy face, wishing he could offer some explanation. She said at last, “Have you told Nobuyuki?”
“Not yet.”
“But why do you want to go away? Is it that you can’t do enough work here?”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t explain. Let’s say I need to change my ways.”
“Well, if you have to go, you have to go. But you will come back afterward?”
“Of course. This is my home.”
“I should have thought a month would be enough if all you wanted was a change of air.”
“I’m taking some work with me that will take a long time to finish. I’m going to stay away until it’s finished.”
There was a brief silence. Then she said, “What are we to do about this house? There’s no need to go on renting a large house like this just for me.”
“Of course we’ll keep it. It’s only a year, after all.”
“Are you sure there isn’t a special reason?”
“But I’ve already told you.”
“You’re being terribly vague.” She smiled at him accusingly. Perhaps she imagined that Kensaku was taking some woman with him.
“I want to be absolutely alone, if you must know. I want to get away from my friends, from my family, from everybody.”
Kensaku had purposely referred to her indirectly as “family.” It pleased her, and she was somewhat mollified. She said pleasantly, “Won’t you be lonely?”
“I suppose I shall be. But I’ll get a lot of work done.”
“I certainly shall miss you. If I get too lonely I’ll just close the house down and come and join you.”
Kensaku gave a noncommittal smile. Then he began telling her about his plans: he thought he might pick a place along the Inland Sea, rent a small house perhaps, and manage on his own.
“It sounds terribly pleasant.” Oei gave Kensaku a thoughtful, kindly smile, as if to say, “What a carefree person you can be!” That evening he telephoned Nobuyuki to make sure he would be at home, then set out for the house in Hongō.
“I envy you,” Nobuyuki said. “Go to Onomichi. That’s a fine place.”
“Is it? I don’t mind where, so long as it’s nice. I suppose I can go there by ship?”
“Yes, you can. You hate trains, I remember. Yes, that should be pleasant. Why don’t you sail from Yokohama?”
The suggestion appealed to Kensaku immediately. He asked Nobuyuki to check the sailing schedule and book a berth for him. He then arranged to meet Nobuyuki again the following day, and left.
A few minutes before four on the following afternoon Kensaku stood at the corner of Mitsukoshi Department Store, waiting for Nobuyuki to come out of a nearby building that housed his fire insurance company. The year was nearing its end and it was a busy time of day; one streetcar after another coming from the north and the south along Muromachidōri would stop in front of Mitsukoshi, then as the conductor said his piece would move on again. Mingled with the rickshaws, automobiles, carts and bicycles were the pedestrians, hurriedly weaving through the traffic in all directions. There were even dogs. Men rushed past him, almost grazing the tip of his nose and leaving a cold draft in their wake. I shall soon leave all this, he thought with a mixture of pleasure and regret, and live in a quiet, distant place overlooking the sea.
He began to walk slowly toward the Bank of Japan. Just as he was passing the small post office he heard a clock strike four. Soon, countless human beings were pouring out of the Mitsui Building that formed three sides of an open square. Some paused to light a cigarette, some trotted after colleagues that were ahead of them. Very quickly the sq
uare was full of bustling figures. Other buildings too—the Bank of Japan, the Specie Bank—were spewing out people, who marched past Kensaku in little groups. He soon spied Nobuyuki coming toward him. He had a companion, an ordinary-looking, fat man in his fifties. Nobuyuki was doing all the talking. He held a rolled-up magazine in one hand, and he would occasionally slap his other hand with it to emphasize a point, and the fat man would nod in agreement. He quickened his pace as soon as he saw Kensaku.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“No.”
From behind Nobuyuki the fat man said, “I’ll say good-bye here.”
He touched the brim of his felt hat—he didn’t take it off—and bowed quickly.
“Aren’t you coming this way?” Nobuyuki said.
“No, it so happens I’m going the other way today.”
“All right, then. Remember, don’t worry about me—the amount is too small to make a fuss about. I’d be grateful if you would try not to let the whole thing become too unpleasant.”
“I understand,” said the fat man. He bowed once more and walked away in the direction of the outer moat.
When the two reached the main thoroughfare Nobuyuki said, “Let’s go over to the other side,” and nudged Kensaku all the way across the street, over the streetcar rails, with his overcoat-covered shoulder. “What do you want to eat?” he said once they had reached the other side.
“Anything you say.”
“Fowl?”
“All right.”
They reached the temporary bridge at Nihonbashi. There was an enclosure down below, where the foundations for the new bridge were being built. A gasoline-powered pump was hard at work getting out the water that had seeped inside. From the strangely warped galvanized roof two chimneys protruded, one narrow and one wide. The narrow one was more active, vibrating energetically as it emitted steam. The wide one was rusty, and at much longer intervals tiredly coughed out insignificant amounts of smoke.
