My sister had taken refuge with three of her children in a back-alley shed. Covered in brown paper, the place was almost colder inside than out. We warmed our hands over a hibachi as we talked. My sister’s stocky husband had always instinctively despised me for being far skinnier than most people. He also publicly criticized my work as immoral.I always coolly dismissed his views, and never once had an honest conversation with him. As I spoke about him with my sister, however, I gradually began to realize that, like me, he had fallen into his own particular hell. She tried to tell me something about how he had once actually seen a ghost in a railway sleeper car, but I lit a cigarette and worked to keep the conversation focused on money.
“There’s not much I can do in my situation,” she said.“I think I’ll just sell everything.”
“You’ll probably have to,” I said.“You should be able to get something for the typewriter.”
“And there are a few pictures, you know.”
“Which reminds me: are you going to sell the portrait of N (her husband)? But maybe not. It’s not exactly…”
I looked at the unframed crayon portrait on the wall of the shed and realized this was no time for flippancy. The man had thrown himself under a train, which had apparently turned his face into a mass of flesh, with only the moustache intact. As if this in itself weren’t unnerving enough, his portrait had been rendered flawlessly except for the moustache area, which seemed oddly indistinct.I wondered if the direction of the light could be causing this, and looked at the picture from different angles.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing… It’s just that the area around the mouth…”
My sister glanced back.“Yes, strange, isn’t it, the way just the moustache looks so pale?” She said this without seeming to notice the connection I was making.
What I had seen was no optical illusion. And if that was the case—
I decided to leave before my sister would have to start making me lunch.
“You don’t have to run off so soon,” she said.
“I’ll be back tomorrow maybe.I’ve got to go to Aoyama today.”
“You mean… that place? Are you all right?”
“Still taking tons of medicine, of course. The sleeping pills alone are bad enough: Veronal, Neuronal, Trional, Numal…”19
Thirty minutes later I walked into a building and took the elevator to the third floor.I tried pushing open the glass door of a restaurant, but it wouldn’t budge.A lacquered plaque hung there: “Closed Today.” With mounting annoyance, I looked at a pile of fruit—apples, bananas—on a table on the other side of the door, then decided to go out to the street again. On my way out, I brushed shoulders with one of two businessmen engaged in a lively conversation as they entered the building. “… really tantalizing…” one of them happened to be saying at the moment of contact.
I stood outside waiting for a taxi, but not many came that way. The only cabs that did come by were, without exception, yellow. (For some reason, the yellow taxis I took were always having accidents.) Before too long, I found a lucky green one and decided to take it to the mental hospital near the cemetery in Aoyama.
“Really tantalizing… Tantalus… Inferno…”
I myself had been Tantalus when looking through the glass door at the fruit.I stared at the driver’s back, cursing the two occasions when Dante’s Inferno had appeared before my eyes.I began to feel that anything and everything was a lie. Politics, business, art, science: all seemed just a mottled layer of enamel covering over this life in all its horror.I felt more and more as if I were suffocating.I opened the taxi window as wide as possible, but the constriction around my heart would not give way.
At last the green cab reached the main intersection at Jingu¯ mae. We should have been able to turn down a side street leading to the mental hospital, but today, for some reason, I couldn’t find it.I had the taxi go back and forth along the streetcar line, but finally gave up and got out.
I did finally manage to find the right street, but after dodging its muddy patches for a while, I lost my way and ended up at the Aoyama Funeral Hall.I had never even passed the front gate of this building in the ten long years since the memorial service there for Natsume Sō seki Sensei.I had not been happy back then, either, but at least I had been at peace. Peering in at the graveled courtyard and recalling the delicate bashō plants at the Sōseki Retreat,20 I could not help feeling that a stage of my life had come to an end. But I also felt the presence of the force that had drawn me to this burial place ten years later.
After emerging from the mental hospital gate, I took a cab back to the hotel. When I stepped out at the entrance, however, a man in a raincoat was arguing with a bellboy. With a bellboy? No, this was no bellboy but a cab dispatcher in a green uniform. Going into the hotel now came to seem like an ominous prospect.I turned on my heel and went back down the street I had just come up.
The sun was beginning to set as I reached the Ginza. The shops lining both sides of the street and the dizzying flow of people only made me more depressed.I was especially bothered by the way people were casually strolling along as if they had never known the existence of sin.I walked on northward, through a mix of the day’s fading brightness and the light of electric lamps. What soon caught my eye was a bookstore piled high with magazines and such.I walked in and let my eyes wander upward over several shelves of books.I picked out a volume of Greek myths to browse through. The yellow-covered book was apparently meant for children. The line I chanced to read, however, practically knocked me over:
“Even the greatest of gods, Zeus himself, was no match for those gods of vengeance, the Furies.”
I left the bookstore and plunged into the crowd. As I walked along I felt the relentless gaze of the Furies on my rounded back (when had that started to happen?).
3. Night
I found a copy of Strindberg’s Legends21 on the second floor of Maruzen Books, and skimmed through it a few pages at a time. It described an experience that was not much different from my own. Not only that: it had a yellow cover.I put Legends back on the shelf and pulled down another thick volume almost at random, but it too had something for me: one of its illustrations showed rows of gears with human eyes and noses. (The book was a German editor’s compilation of pictures by mental patients.) In the midst of my depression I felt a spirit of defiance rising and I started opening book after book with the desperation of a compulsive gambler. Every single one of them, however, concealed some kind of needle to stab me, whether in the text or an illustration. Every single one? I picked up Madame Bovary, which I had read any number of times, only to sense that I myself was the bourgeois Monsieur Bovary.
Evening was drawing near, and I seemed to be the only customer in Maruzen’s second-floor Western book department.I wandered among the bookcases under the electric lights, coming to a halt before a case labeled “Religion.” There I looked through a volume with a green cover. The Table of Contents listed one chapter as “The Four Fearsome Enemies—Doubt, Fear, Arrogance, Sensual Desire.” When I saw this, I felt still more defiant: these so-called “enemies” were, at least to my mind, simply different names for sensitivity and intellect.I found it increasingly intolerable, however, that the traditional spirit should make me as unhappy as the modern spirit was now doing. The book in my hand brought to mind a pen name I had used long before: Juryō Yoshi—The Young Man of Shou Ling. This was from the Chinese story by Han Fei of the youth who left rural Shou Ling to study the elegant walking style of people in the city of Handan but who ended up crawling home because he had forgotten how to walk in the Shou Ling manner before mastering the Handan style.22 Anyone who saw me now would find me a perfect “Young Man of Shou Ling.” To think that I had used this pen name long before I ever fell into my present hell! I turned my back on this big bookcase and, in an attempt to sweep away my daydreams, I strode into the poster display room directly opposite. This was no better, however. The first thing I saw in there was a poster of a St. Geo
rge figure running his sword through a winged dragon—the caption written with the same “dragon” character I use in my name. To make matters worse, the grimacing face half-revealed beneath the knight’s helmet looked like an enemy of mine. This reminded me in turn of another Chinese story by Han Fei on the art of slaughtering dragons.23 Rather than going on through the exhibition room, I went out down the broad stairway.
Night had fallen in Nihonbashi, and as I walked down the dark street I thought about the expression “slaughtering dragons.” This was the inscription on an inkstone24 I owned. The stone was given to me by a young businessman who had since failed at his every venture until going bankrupt at the end of last year.I looked up at the sky and began to think how small the earth is—and, consequently, how small I am—among the light of numberless stars. But the sky, which had been so clear all day, had clouded over at some point. All of a sudden, I felt something was determined to get me, and I decided to seek refuge in the café across the streetcar tracks.
“Refuge” was exactly what this place was. The café’s rose-colored walls gave me a feeling close to peace, and sitting at the innermost table I finally succeeded in attaining a sense of ease. Fortunately there were few other customers.I sipped a cup of cocoa and, as usual, lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in faint blue streams against the pink walls. The gentle harmony of the colors was another source of pleasure for me. Soon, however, I noticed a portrait of Napoleon on the wall to my left, and I began to feel uneasy again. While still a student, Napoleon had written on the last page of his geography book: “St. Helena. Small island.” This may have been what we call a coincidence, but the thought must certainly have aroused terror in him in his last days.
Staring at Napoleon, I thought about my own works. The first thing that came to mind was an aphorism in my Words of a Dwarf: “Life is more hellish than hell itself.”25 Next I thought about the fate of the painter Yoshihide, the hero of my story “Hell Screen.” Then— But to escape these memories, I began to survey the interior of the café. Not five minutes had gone by since I sought refuge here, but in that short time the café had undergone a dramatic change in appearance. What made me most uncomfortable was the total lack of harmony between the fake mahogany furniture and the pink walls. Afraid that I would once again sink into an agony invisible to others, I threw a silver coin on the table and started out of the café.
“That will be twenty sen, Sir.”
The coin I had tossed out was copper, not silver.
Feeling humiliated, I walked alone along the sidewalk, when thoughts sprang to mind of my home in a pinewood far away. This was not the home of my adoptive parents in a Tokyo suburb but the country house I was renting for my family, where I was the central figure.I had been living in a house like that a good ten years earlier as well. But then I had been rash enough to return to living with my parents, which instantly changed me into a slave, a tyrant, a powerless egotist….
It was ten o’clock by the time I got back to the hotel. After all the walking I had done, I no longer had the strength to make it to my room and instead sat down before the lobby fireplace, where thick logs were burning.I started to think about a long piece I was planning. It would string together in chronological order some thirty short stories with commoner heroes of every period from Suiko to Meiji. Watching the fire’s sparks leap up, I thought suddenly of a bronze figure outside the imperial palace. It wore a samurai’s armor and helmet and sat high astride a horse, the very embodiment of loyalty.26 Yet the man’s enemies were—
“Lies! All lies!”
Again I slipped from the distant past to the immediate present. Just then, fortunately, there happened along an older school friend, now a sculptor. He was wearing his usual velvet jacket and a stiff, short goatee that curved to a point.I stood and grasped his outstretched hand. (This Western-style handshaking was his custom, not mine. He had lived much of his life in places like Paris and Berlin.) His skin had a strangely reptilian clamminess to it.
“Are you staying here?” he asked.
“Well, yes…”
“To work?”
“I have been getting some work done.”
He looked me right in the eye. There was something nearly detective-like in his expression.I took the offensive: “How about coming to my room for a chat?” (This kind of switch from my usual weakness to a sudden aggressiveness was one of my worst traits.)
He smiled and asked, “Where’s your room?”
Walking shoulder-to-shoulder like close friends, we made our way among the quietly conversing foreigners to my room. There he sat with his back to the mirror and started talking about all sorts of things—which is to say, mostly women. True, I was in hell for my sins, but that very fact made such talk about human vices all the more depressing to me. Suddenly I was the puritan heaping abuse on these women.
“Just look at those lips of S-ko’s,” I said. “They’ve been kissed by so many men that—”
I clamped my mouth shut and studied the reflection of his back in the mirror. He had some kind of yellow medicinal patch pasted under one ear.
“Kissed by so many men…?”
“I’d say so.”
He smiled and nodded. I felt as if he were keeping a vigilant eye on me in order to learn my secrets. Still, our conversation remained focused on women. Instead of hating him for this, I could not help but feel ashamed and increasingly depressed because of my own weak-willed nature.
Once he was gone, I sprawled on the bed reading A Dark Night’s Passing.27 Everything about the protagonist’s spiritual struggle was painfully familiar to me. Compared with him, I felt like such an idiot that it brought tears to my eyes—which, in turn, lent me a degree of peace. That did not last long. Again my right eye began to see translucent gears, and again, as the gears went on spinning, they gradually increased in number. Dreading the onset of a headache, I laid the book by my pillow and took eight-tenths of a gram of Veronal, determined to knock myself out.
In my dream, however, I was looking at a swimming pool. There, a number of boys and girls were swimming and dipping below the surface. I turned my back on the pool and started walking toward the pinewood across the way. Just then someone called me from behind: “Papa!” I looked around to see my wife standing by the pool, and in that moment I felt an intense regret.
“Papa, what about your towel?”
“I don’t need a towel. Take care of the kids.”
I started walking again, but the place had changed into a railway platform. The station must have been somewhere in the country: the platform had a long hedge. A college student named H and an old woman were standing there. As soon as they spotted me, they started walking in my direction, both talking to me at the same time.
“It was a huge fire!”
“I just barely got out.”
I seemed to recognize the old woman, and I felt pleasantly excited to be talking with her. At that point a train glided up to the platform, raising clouds of smoke. I got on alone and walked down the aisle between rows of sleeper berths, over each of which hung a white curtain. In one berth lay a nearly-mummified naked woman facing toward me. It was my Fury again, my goddess of vengeance—the crazy girl.28
I woke and jumped out of bed. Electric lights made the room as bright as ever, but somewhere I could hear the sound of wings and the scratching of rats. I opened my door and hurried down the corridor to the fireplace. I sat down in front of it and watched the fading flames. A bellboy dressed in white approached with fresh firewood.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“I believe it’s 3:30, Sir.”
Over in a corner of the lobby sat a woman—probably an American—reading a book. Even at this distance, I could see that her dress was green. Feeling a kind of salvation, I determined that I would sit and wait for the night to end, just as a sick old man waits quietly for death after long years of intense suffering.
4. More?
I finally finished writing the story in this hotel room and p
lanned to send it to a certain magazine. Of course I would not be paid enough for it to cover the bill for a week’s stay here, but I felt the satisfaction of having brought a piece of work to completion, and now I would go out to a Ginza bookstore to find a tonic for my weary soul.
Paper scraps lay scattered on the asphalt in the winter sun. Perhaps because of the angle of the light, each scrap looked exactly like a rose petal. I felt that some kind of good will was being directed toward me as I entered the bookstore. The place was neater and cleaner than usual, though I was somewhat bothered by the way a young girl in glasses was talking with one of the employees. Bringing to mind the paper rose petals on the street, however, I decided to buy Conversations with Anatole France and The Collected Letters of Prosper Mérimée.29
With the two books under my arm, I entered a café and decided to wait for my coffee at the innermost table. Sitting opposite me were a couple who appeared to be mother and son. Though younger than I, the son looked almost exactly like me. The two were chatting like lovers, their faces pressed close together. Watching them, I realized that the son, at least, was conscious how much erotic pleasure he was giving his mother. This was a classic case of a kind of attractive force that I knew well. It was a classic case, too, of a kind of will that turns this world of ours into a hell. And yet—
The arrival of my coffee saved me from descending again into the anguish I feared, and started me reading Mérimée. The writer filled his letters with the same kind of pithy aphorisms that lent spark to his novels. Soon these aphorisms helped to steel my nerves. (Being easily influenced by such things was another of my weaknesses.) Draining my cup, I left the café feeling I could handle anything that might come my way.
I walked along looking into display windows. One framer’s shop had a portrait of Beethoven hanging there, a typical image of the genius with hair sticking out in all directions. I couldn’t help but feel amused by it.
Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories Page 27