by Ivan Morris
The woman said that she was sleepy. She also muttered that her feet ached, that her eyes smarted; but her main complaint was that she was sleepy.
“All right, then,” said Izawa, “sleep for a while.” He wrapped her in the bedding and lit a cigarette for himself. When he had smoked a number of cigarettes and was about to light another, the all-clear signal sounded in the distance and several policemen came running through the wheat field to announce that the alarm had been lifted. Their voices were hoarse, not like the voices of human beings at all.
“The raid is over,” they shouted. “Everyone living in the area of the Kamata Police Station is to assemble at the Yaguchi Elementary School. The school building is still standing.”
The people rose from the ridges in the field and walked down to the highway. But Izawa did not move. A policeman came up to him.
“What’s the matter with that woman? Is she hurt?”
“No,” said Izawa, “she’s tired and sleeping.”
“Do you know the Yaguchi Elementary School?”
“Yes. We’ll have a rest here for a while and then we’ll come along.”
“Brace up, man! You mustn’t let a little raid get you down.”
The policeman’s voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hill. Only two people were left in the grove. Two people? But wasn’t the woman in fact a mere lump of flesh? Now she lay there sound asleep. Everyone else was walking through the smoke of the fire-ravaged ruins. They had all lost their homes and they were all walking. Certainly none of them was thinking about sleep. The only ones who could sleep now were the dead and this woman. The dead would never wake again, but this woman would eventually wake up. Yet even when she awoke nothing would be added to this sleeping lump of flesh.
She was snoring faintly. It was the first time that he had heard her snore. It sounded like the grunting of a little pig. Yes, thought Izawa, everything about her is porcine. And abruptly a fragmentary memory from his childhood came back to him. A group of about a dozen urchins had been chasing a baby pig at the command of their gang leader. When they cornered the animal, the leader took out his jackknife and sliced a piece of flesh off its thigh. Izawa recalled that the pig’s face had showed no sign of pain and that it had not even squealed very loudly. It simply ran away, evidently unaware that some flesh had been sliced off its thigh.
Now Izawa’s mind conjured up a picture of himself and the woman as they would run away, stumbling among the clouds of dust, the crumbled buildings, the gaping holes. The American forces would have landed; the heavy artillery shells would be roaring on all sides, huge concrete buildings would be blown sky-high, enemy planes would be diving and spraying them with machinegun fire. Behind a pile of rubble a woman would be held down by a man; he would overpower her and, while indulging in the sexual act, would be tearing off the flesh from her buttocks and devouring it. The flesh on the woman’s buttocks would gradually diminish, but the woman would be so preoccupied with her carnal enjoyment that she would not even notice the depredations from behind.
As dawn approached, it began to grow cold. Izawa was wearing his winter overcoat and also had on a thick jacket, yet the cold was quite unbearable. The field below was still burning in places. Izawa wanted to go and warm himself, but he was unable to move because he was afraid of waking the woman. Somehow the thought of the woman waking up seemed intolerable.
He wanted to go away and leave her as she slept, but even that seemed too much trouble. When a person discards something, even a piece of waste paper, it means that he still possesses the necessary initiative and fastidiousness. But Izawa did not even have enough initiative or fastidiousness left to abandon this woman of his. He did not have the slightest affection for her now, not the slightest lingering attachment; yet neither did he have sufficient incentive to discard her. For he was devoid of any hopes for the future. Even if he were to get rid of the woman without delay, where would there be any hope for him? What was there to lean on in life? He did not even know where he would find a house to live in, a hole to sleep in. The Americans would land, and there would be all kinds of destruction in the heavens and on earth; and the gigantic love extended by the destructiveness of war would pass impartial judgment upon everything. There was no longer any need even to think.
Izawa decided that at daybreak he would wake the woman and that, without even a glance in the direction of the devastated area, they would set out for the most distant possible railway station in search of a roost. He wondered whether the trams and trains would be running. He wondered whether there would be a clear sky and whether the sun would pour down on his back and on the back of the pig that lay beside him. For it was a very cold morning.
Footnotes
1 Proverbial expression, roughly corresponding to “Up like a rocket and down like a stick.”
2 To “die like a dog” (inujini suru) means to die in vain.
SHOTGUN
BY Yasushi Inoué
TRANSLATED BY George Saitō
Yasushi Inoué was born in Hokkaido in 1907, the son of an army surgeon. From his early days in primary school until his graduation from the university he lived away from his parents. In 1932 he left Kyūshū Imperial University and entered Kyoto Imperial University. Upon graduation he was hired by the Mainichi newspaper and assigned to the Osaka office. In the following year he was drafted into the army. He served on the North China front for one year. In 1948 he was transferred to the Tokyo office of the Mainichi. It was in this year that he showed the manuscript of “Shotgun” (Ryoju) to Haruo Satō, who gave him enthusiastic encouragement. The story appeared in the October issue of Bungakkai (“Literary World”). In 1950 Inoué was awarded the Akutagawa Prize for “Bullfight.” In 1931 he resigned from the Mainichi and began writing full time.
His work is characterized by a poetic quality, and in fact he published many poems early in his career. Probably because of his experience as a newspaper reporter, he is careful in his study of material and historical facts. He is a most prolific writer. Almost all his heroes are solitary figures, like Uncle Jōsuké in “Shotgun.”
Inoué is a great admirer of Ōgai Mori and says that he had aimed at producing works similar to Ōgai’s. Recently he has taken to writing historical novels.
I RECENTLY contributed a poem called “Shotgun” to Fellow Hunters, a small magazine which is the organ of the Japan Hunters’ Club.
People may take me for a man with some interest in hunting. The fact is, however, that I was brought up by a mother who had an inborn hatred for killing, and I have never touched so much as an air rifle. It so happened that an old high-school classmate, the editor of Fellow Hunters, asked me to write a poem—noting that even at my age I was still writing poems after my fashion for obscure poetry magazines. He probably asked me in a mood of fancy and out of courtesy after a long lapse in our association. Ordinarily I would have declined such a proposal, since I had no interest in the magazine and his request was that I write about hunting. It happened, however, that I had thought of some day writing a poem about the hunting rifle and man’s solitude. This would be exactly the right outlet.
I sat down at my desk one night toward the end of November, when one starts to feel the night chill. Working till after midnight, I wrote a prose poem of sorts and the next morning sent it to the editor of Fellow Hunters.
As my poem is tenuously connected with the story, I should like to quote it here:
“A man with a big seaman’s pipe in his mouth went up the path slowly, weaving through the bushes on Mt. Amagi in early winter, walking a setter before him and treading the frost needles under his boots. What manner of man was this who armed himself with a double-barreled Churchill and a twenty-five bullet belt? What manner of man was this who took life with an instrument so glittering and white? For some reason I was attracted to this tall hunter who walked past, showing me his back. Since then I have recalled him fleetingly—at a railway station in a large city, in bustling places late at night. It is then that I
should like to walk like that hunter. Slowly and quietly and coldly. I do not imagine the hunter against the cold landscape of Amagi in early winter. Rather, he is in a lonely white river bed. And the polished glittering gun radiates an exquisite, bloody beauty—never perceived when the gun is aimed at a creature—weighing heavily on the solitary spirit and the body of a middle-aged man.”
* * *
It was only upon turning the pages of the magazine that I discovered the entirely too conspicuous contrast that my poem, for all its appropriate title, made with words like “hunting,” “sportsmanship,” and “healthy taste” which were scattered through the other articles. It was stupid of me to have realized this only after seeing my poem printed on a page that seemed isolated from the rest of the magazine. What I introduced into this poem was nonetheless the essential quality of a shotgun, as my poetic intuition had grasped it, or at least something I had aimed at and something for which I need not apologize. If it had been published in a different sort of magazine, there would have been no problem But this magazine, as the organ of the Japan Hunters’ Club, was presenting hunting as the healthiest and most benign of hobbies. My sentiments were, therefore, somewhat heretical. I was able to imagine the awkward position in which my friend had found himself upon receiving the manuscript of my poem. Most probably he had hesitated for quite some time over it.
When I thought of his generosity, my heart ached. I thought I might receive a letter or two of protest from members of the club, but my fears turned out to be groundless. I did not receive so much as a postcard. For good or bad, my poem was disregarded by hunters throughout the country. Indeed it may not have been read at all. About two months later, when I had forgotten about the incident, I received a sealed letter from one Misugi Jōsuké, a complete stranger to me.
I remember a remark made by a historian to the effect that the characters carved on one of the ancient stone monuments of T’ai Shan were like the white glitter of the sun after a cold autumn wind has passed. Even though those characters have long since disappeared, without so much as a rubbing left to tell us of their grace and power, it nevertheless seemed to me that Misugi’s handwriting on the large white envelope of Japanese paper must bear a remarkable resemblance to them. Certainly the handwriting, almost covering the face of the envelope, was magnificent. Yet something made me feel an emptiness coming from each of the characters, and it was this quality that reminded me of the historian’s remarks about the T’ai Shan inscription. The address seemed to have been written rapidly with a single filling of the ink-soaked brush. The flow of the brush, however, suggested a strangely cold blankness, an indifference, to be distinguished from what one might call practiced indifference. In other words, I felt in the freeness of the style the egocentricity of a modern mind, though I noticed none of the vulgarity to be perceived in an ordinary hand.
At any rate, the magnificence of the writing seemed somehow out of place when I found it in my plain wooden mailbox. Upon opening the envelope, I found a six-foot-long roll of Chinese paper covered with lines of five or six large characters, all in the same free style.
“My hobby is hunting,” the letter began. “Recently I happened to read your poem ‘Shotgun’ in Fellow Hunters. I am inarticulate and know nothing about poetry. To be honest with you, it was the very first time in my life that I had read a poem. I must confess too that this was the first time I ever heard your name. I must tell you, however, that I was immensely impressed.”
As I started reading the letter, I recalled my half-forgotten prose poem. I was upset for a moment, taking it for the long-awaited letter of protest, perhaps from a distinguished hunter. As I went on reading, however, I saw that the letter was entirely different from what I had feared.
Politely and with assurance, Misugi Jōsuké said: “Am I mistaken in imagining the character to be myself? I gather that you caught sight of my tall figure somewhere in a village below Mt. Amagi when I was hunting in the early part of November. I was very proud of my black and white setter, specially trained for pheasant hunting; of the Churchill gun, which was a gift from my teacher when I was in London; and even of my favorite pipe, which you describe. I am further honored to have my state of mind, which is far from enlightened, become a subject for poetry. I am ashamed of it, and cannot help admiring your unusually keen poet’s insight.”
I tried to visualize once again the hunter whom I had come across, on a lane through cedar woods, one morning about five months before. I had’ been staying at a small hot-spring inn at the foot of Mt. Amagi, in Izu. I could recall nothing clearly except the peculiarly lonely aspect of die hunter as he walked away with his back to me. I remembered only that he was a tall, middle-aged gentleman.
The fact is that I had not studied the man very carefully. With a hunting gun hung across his shoulders and a pipe in his mouth, he somehow had a contemplative air about him, rather unusual in hunters, and he looked extraordinarily clean in the cold air of that early winter morning. That was the only reason that I turned back and looked at him after we had passed. He turned into a path from the lane I was on, climbing up among the thickets. I watched him for a while as he went slowly up the steep path. He seemed worried about slipping, and for reasons I could not understand, he gave me the impression of being very lonely. So I described him in my poem. Although I could see that his dog was a good one, how could I, who knew practically nothing about hunting, tell what kind of gun he was carrying? When I started preparing for my poem I learned that the best guns were the Richard and the Churchill. I took the liberty of giving my character a good British gun. Quite by accident the gun owned by the actual Misugi was a Churchill. Misugi Jōsuké remained a stranger to me.
His letter continued: “You may think it strange of me to mention that I have three letters. I meant to burn them. On reading your poem, however, it occurred to me that I might ask you to read them. I am very sorry to bother you, but may I ask you, at your leisure, to look at the three letters I am sending under separate cover? I would like to have you understand what you called the ‘white river bed.’ Man is a foolish creature who wants above all to have someone else know about him. I myself had never harbored such a desire until I learned that you had shown a special interest in me. Then I felt that I wanted you to know all about me. You are perfectly welcome to destroy the three letters after you have read them. Incidentally, it seems to have been just after I received the letters that you caught sight of me in Izu. The fact is that I had been interested in hunting for several years. It had been a rather peaceful period in both my private life and my public life, a contrast to the lonely life I lead now. Already by the time you saw me the shotgun had become everything to me.”
Two days later I received an envelope on which was the sender’s name, Misugi Jōsuké, followed by the words, “at a hotel in Izu.” It contained three letters. They were all addressed to Misugi, and each was from a different woman. I shall not give my impressions. Instead, I shall quote the three letters. I must add that Misugi seemed to be a man of considerable social standing, and I therefore consulted various directories for his name. I was unable to find it. Most probably he was using a pseudonym. In presenting the letters here, I shall insert the name Misugi Jōsuké where the real name had apparently been blotted out. The names of other characters are all fictitious.
SHŌKO’S LETTER
Dear Uncle, my dear Uncle Jōsuké:
It is already three weeks since Mother died. We have had no sympathy calls since yesterday and the house has suddenly become quiet again. The sense that Mother is no longer alive has become acute and piercing. You must be awfully tired, Uncle. You did everything about the funeral, including sending announcements to the relatives and preparing food for the guests at the wake. Because of the nature of her death you visited the police station again and again on my behalf. Indeed, you left nothing undone. You departed for Tokyo on business immediately afterward. I sincerely hope that you have not tired yourself excessively.
According to your
schedule, you should by now be gazing at the beautiful woods in Izu, bright but somehow subdued, like a design on chinaware. I have taken up my pen so that I might have you read my letter during your stay in Izu. Much as I wish that I could write it so that, after reading it, you would feel like giving yourself up to the wind, a pipe in your hand, I cannot do it. I have already wasted many sheets and find it impossible to go ahead. I did not expect this when I started. I wanted to tell you quietly what I had in mind and to ask you to understand it. I thought about the proper order again and again as I rehearsed this letter. Now that I have started writing it, however, what I want to tell you overwhelms me all at once. No, that is not exactly so. The truth is that grief surges on me from all directions, like the white waves of Ashiya on a windy day. I shall go on writing, though.
Shall I venture to tell you, Uncle? I know about it—about Mother and you. I knew everything on the day previous to her death. I had read her diary.
How hard it would be to speak these words directly to you! No matter how hard I tried, it would be impossible for me to utter a single sentence. I can express myself only because I write. It is not that I am afraid. It is only that I am sad. Sadness ties my tongue. I am not sad over you, over Mother, or over myself. Everything, everything, the blue sky, the light of the October sun, the bark of the crape myrtle, the bamboo leaves waving in the wind, the water, the stones, the soil, yes, all that exists in nature, becomes sad the moment I open my mouth. After the day I read Mother’s diary I knew that nature around me could take on a sad color two and three times, even five and six times a day, much as the sun clouds over. A chance thought of you and Mother suddenly makes the world entirely different. Do you know that there is a sad color which one can clearly see, besides all the ordinary colors?
