by Kenzaburo Oe
Asa had been employed for many years as a nurse at the local hospital, and she was still very well known around Okawara. As we rode along, she returned the friendly greetings of a number of our fellow passengers while simultaneously explaining our route to Unaiko.
“If we get off where I asked the driver to stop, we’ll be near the place where Meisuke II was stoned to death,” she said. “It’s at the entrance to a sort of ravine.” After ten minutes or so, the bus stopped and we got off. While we were walking, Asa resumed her dissertation.
“If you head east from Okawara and then veer inland, cutting through the valley to the north toward the forest, that’s where Meisuke’s mother and Meisuke II split up with their compatriots after the uprising and started home by way of the woods,” she told Unaiko. “The topography of the route is basically unchanged, even now. There’s a part of the recitative where it describes how Meisuke’s mother put Meisuke II on a horse and led it by the reins, and if you were to follow the road to the top of the forested hill, you would come upon a giant fir tree that’s believed to be the eternal dwelling place of Meisuke’s spirit. (I’m talking about the original Meisuke, not the reborn one; for some reason, the legend doesn’t mention where the second Meisuke’s spirit ended up.) Meisuke’s mother was planning to take Meisuke II up there to give thanks to the spirit of the original Meisuke for helping them win the battle. But the pair had been followed, and they were ambushed and captured by their pursuers. (There’s another version of the story in which the hooligans were already lying in wait, but the heartbreaking outcome is the same in both scenarios.)
“First, the samurai thugs stuffed Meisuke II into a hole in the ground and cruelly stoned him to death. Then, on a grassy area nearby, Meisuke’s mother was repeatedly raped by several of the attackers. The horse got loose and went running back toward the village, where it came upon the other insurgents, who were on their way home to the valley. They turned around and followed the horse up to the scene of the crimes, where they found Meisuke’s mother lying on the grass alone and badly injured. And then they somehow found an old wooden storm shutter and turned it into a makeshift stretcher for their injured leader. The story never seems to mention what became of Meisuke II’s dead body; maybe that part of the tragedy was just too unbearable for people to talk about. I mean, he was just a child.”
After walking in silence for quite a while, we crossed an old earthen bridge over a mountain stream and found ourselves in front of a small, weather-beaten Shinto shrine. Tall, spiky grass had grown all around the wooden shrine, so to make things easier for Unaiko, who was wearing a skirt, Asa hacked out a path with a rusty scythe she’d found tucked away in the shadows beneath the short staircase leading to the altar.
With a scythe-wielding Asa leading the way, we approached our historically fraught destination. Behind the shrine was an empty patch of land where the sunlight shone brightly through a grove of trees that appeared to have been recently pruned, and lying on the ground in the center of the vacant field were some loosely bound bundles of bamboo sticks, cut to a uniform length.
“The bamboo is covering the pit in the ground, but since there’s really nothing to see—it’s just an old hole—we’ll leave them undisturbed,” Asa said. “When they’re loosely bound together like this, the long sticks of bamboo are hard to handle, so this arrangement is meant to discourage visitors from trying to remove them. After a few forestry workers fell into the cavity, it was declared a safety hazard and at one point someone filled it with dirt, but apparently the number of accidents around the forest actually increased afterward. People said it was because Meisuke II was displeased and had put a curse on the area, so the hole was dug out again. Around that time someone came to Mother asking for a donation to help finance the project, and she told me about the connection between our family and this shrine. Every few years Mother would make the trip over here to reseed the bamboo grove, and I’ve continued the tradition although (unlike her) I delegate the actual labor to professionals.”
“The shrine is obviously very old, but do you suppose it was built sometime after Meisuke’s mother and Meisuke II underwent their ordeals, or was it here all along?” Unaiko asked as she gazed around the area.
“I don’t think it was here in those days,” I replied. “No matter how rowdy those young samurai might have been, surely they would have gotten cold feet about doing their mischief right behind a sacred shrine. I’ve heard this area used to be frequented by wild pigs—perhaps it still is—and most likely the hole was originally dug by hunters to use as an animal trap. The shrine might have been constructed as a way of placating the ghost of Meisuke II, who was cruelly stoned to death in that very pit, or maybe it was just built for general purposes of purification, after the atrocious things that happened here.”
Unaiko was crouched down, trying to peek into the hole through the gaps in the bundled bamboo, and when she lifted her head she gave a wordless gasp of surprise. When Asa and I turned to look, we saw two middle-aged women—one with a rather mannish forehead, the other with a perfectly round face, like a pale moon—standing by the shrine and staring fixedly in our direction. The women were evidently acquaintances of Asa’s, but after exchanging rudimentary greetings with her they made a beeline for Unaiko, who had hastily scrambled to her feet.
“You’re Ms. Unaiko, aren’t you?” inquired the moonfaced woman. “A few months ago we were in the audience for your so-called educational play, the one based on Kokoro. As it happens, we’re both educators, too; we teach Japanese language at two different junior high schools in the area. Running into you here is really an amazing coincidence, because we were just saying that we wished there was some way to get you to listen to our concerns. There’s been talk that you’re planning to stage your own version of the saga of Meisuke’s mother at the same venue, with you yourself in the lead role. We think it’s a splendid idea, since that story is an important part of our local folklore. However, what’s worrying us is that your play will be seen by a large number of students, and we’ve heard it will include a rape scene. We were wondering how on earth you could possibly think such mature content would be appropriate for a school-age audience!”
“Wait, let me get this straight. You’re objecting to the idea that I—” Unaiko began, speaking slowly and deliberately, but the woman interrupted her.
“Actually, first of all, I should mention that we feel the word ‘rape’ itself is entirely too graphic, so I’m going to substitute ‘sexual assault’ from now on. As I said before, we’ve heard that you’re going to play the part of Meisuke’s mother in front of an audience that includes a lot of youngsters, which means you would be portraying the victim in the sexual assault scene. And we just wanted to ask you directly how you’re proposing to handle it.”
“So you’re saying an honest and forthright depiction of such an occurrence would be a bad thing?” Unaiko asked in a perfectly neutral tone.
“Well, admittedly, the legend does suggest that Meisuke’s mother was sexually assaulted, but putting aside the question of whether it actually happened, we aren’t saying we want you to sweep that aspect of the story under the rug by any means. But couldn’t you take a slightly less direct approach? Instead of acting out the scene, maybe you could have a narrator explain to your young audience that Meisuke’s mother experienced a great deal of tragedy and suffering, including a physical assault.”
“Let me get this straight,” Unaiko said again in the same uninflected tone. “First, you want to substitute the term ‘sexual assault’ because you feel ‘rape’ is too strong, or too graphic, or whatever. The thing is, ‘rape’ is the precise term for the experience we’re talking about, and its equivalent is used all over the world. (Well, here in Japan we use the English loanword—pronounced ‘reipu’—as if it were some sort of genteel euphemism, but ironically enough that word is simply a Japanized version of the exact same term. I guess it seems less harsh to us because it’s relatively new and unencumbered by shameful h
istorical associations.) So how does calling the crime ‘sexual assault’ change the reality, or the emotional impact on the victim? I mean, maybe using a euphemism would make the rapist feel better about the horrifying thing he did, but softening the terminology isn’t going to help the victim forget the violently invasive act and the subsequent pain and sorrow. There’s really no way to disguise the truth. A man who uses his strength to force a woman into any kind of nonconsensual sex is a rapist, plain and simple, and committing rape is a criminal act. So for openers, I’d like to get you and everyone else to face up to the stark realities of the term ‘rape.’
“Now, I’m not suggesting that the male students who will see our play are all potential rapists by any means. However, if their female counterparts—the girls who are now in school—are never taught about the harsher aspects of life, they’ll be far more vulnerable to the danger of being raped someday. You suggested that there must be a more delicate way to present the serial rape of Meisuke’s mother. But the thing is, that indirect approach wouldn’t merely diminish the impact of her tragedy and suffering. It would also blunt one of the points we want to make, which is that (figuratively speaking) Meisuke’s mother is still being raped today, and every day. We want to present the unvarnished truth to our young audience, to let them know that rape in any form should be a very real and immediate concern for them.”
“But why do you feel compelled to do that kind of brutal truth-telling in public, and at a school event?” asked the round-faced woman.
“Simply because for the past 140 years, ever since Meisuke’s mother was attacked, there has been no societal evolution to speak of in this country, and the situation for women hasn’t improved in any significant way. As I said, the truth is that Meisuke’s mother wasn’t raped only on one afternoon a century ago; she’s still being symbolically raped now, every single day, and that brutal reality is what we’re trying to address with this upcoming play.”
“Well, okay. But why on earth do you want to put on a play that’s so obsessed with the topic of rape? (By the way, I see your point about resorting to euphemisms, and I’ll try not to do it anymore.) And why stage it here of all places?” demanded the woman with the masculine-looking forehead, returning the discussion to its original focus. “Seriously, why do you have to go out of your way to put on such a controversial play out here in the boonies? People are saying this play of yours has some kind of hidden agenda.”
At this point Asa stepped forward and joined the conversation. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, ladies,” she said tartly, “so I’m going to ask you outright: Did you really hear that, in those exact words? I mean, ‘hidden agenda’? Please! And even if everything you’re saying isn’t just wild conjecture spawned by some vague rumor you heard around town, you still have a lot of nerve coming here and trying to deprive Unaiko of her right to freedom of expression by asking her to censor the content of her play. When my late husband was the principal of the junior high school in Honmachi, I remember that you used to attend the free lectures my brother here would often give when he came home for a visit, and afterward you and your cohorts would always make a big fuss about the subject matter, which was apparently too left wing for your tastes.”
“This isn’t about freedom of speech, or freedom of expression, or anything like that,” the first woman shot back. “I may be a teacher but I also happen to be a mother, and I have a genuine concern about the effect it might have on the students (including our own children) if they were forced to witness a rape scene taking place onstage during a public performance. Today being Sunday and all, my friend and I were out and about gathering some edible wild plants, and we happened upon your group purely by chance. We’re sorry if we startled you by popping up out of the blue like this.”
“Oh, no, don’t mention it,” Asa said in a friendlier tone. “This place is supposedly on a route traveled by wild boars, so we wouldn’t have been startled by something as minor as being accosted by you. However,” she added slyly, “I can’t help wondering which edible wild plants you expected to find around here this time of year. I mean, nothing’s in season right now.”
Without a word, the two interlopers sheepishly withdrew into the shadows beside the shrine and vanished from sight. Asa made no move to follow them. Instead, she turned to Unaiko and me and said, “Those two probably spotted us getting out of the car when we left it at the parking lot down by the river. That much, at least, could have been happenstance. They probably had a hunch we’d be bringing Unaiko to see this site, so I’m guessing they followed us and then put on a lame charade of ‘popping up’ by accident. Well, Unaiko dear, shall we mosey on toward the site of the tavern where Meisuke’s party stopped while she was being borne home after her unspeakable ordeal, and she made her famous retort after the ill-mannered proprietor asked her a lewd question? The little factory where the sake was made isn’t operating anymore, but we can at least see what’s left of the building and the big house where the owner used to live.
“And on the bright side, at least we’re all ambulatory, so none of us will need to be carried there on a stretcher!”
Chapter 14
Everything That Happens Is Fodder for Drama
1
Our little group plodded along in companionable silence, occasionally stopping to marvel at the extraordinary fact that we were following in the footsteps of a long-ago procession of female warriors. After taking a shortcut through a row of antique houses, we headed downhill toward the newer rows of shops and dwellings that had sprung up around the riverside road. Although the old path I remembered from my childhood appeared at first glance to have been completely destroyed, I noticed as we walked that a few nostalgic segments of the ancient roadway had been incorporated into the new national highway. Just before the spot where the Kame River merged with another river, a pair of bridges had been consolidated into a two-level cloverleaf crossing. At its base a car park stood next to a recently built supermarket where the area’s abundant farm produce was for sale.
“When Honmachi was converted into a provincial city that included this entire basin, one side became a pocket of suburbia, while the other side continued to lose its population as young people fled to more urban areas. This spot right here is the junction of the two,” Asa explained to Unaiko. “In our own little mountain valley, when young people want to move someplace a bit less rustic, they often head out here. Why don’t we grab some coffee from the convenience store while we’re waiting for Tamakichi to come and get us with the car? Or, if everyone’s game, we could continue on foot. It would take the better part of an hour, but …”
“Since the route would take us along Meisuke’s mother’s personal ‘trail of tears,’ I’d really like to try hiking it,” Unaiko said.
There was a steady stream of long-haul trucks on the highway, so Unaiko and I had to traipse along in single file, with Asa bringing up the rear.
“The road has been widened and some of the more meandering segments have been straightened out, but there’s no question about it—this pedestrian walkway follows the same path Meisuke’s mother was carried along on a wooden stretcher made from an old rain shutter,” I observed. “The trees on the opposite shore of the river are mostly a mixture of cedars and cypresses, while on this side the forests are all broad-leafed deciduous trees. Do you see the dense woods on that cliff? They probably haven’t changed much since the day when Meisuke’s mother was gazing up at them from her stretcher.”
“You seem to be saying that this road has been here forever, but I get the feeling it wasn’t a naturally occurring path. Rather, I think people chose this route and traveled it repeatedly, and it gradually evolved into a road,” Unaiko said, swiveling her head to take in the various vistas: the old-growth vegetation lining the road, the river to one side, the wooded banks beyond.
“My late brother-in-law Goro Hanawa was always a very modern type of guy, but in high school I remember he often used to say, ‘Our ancestors
were really awesome!’ It was practically his catchphrase,” I reminisced.
Unaiko listened politely to my anecdote, nodding thoughtfully, but there was obviously something else on her mind.
“You know those two teachers who accosted us at the shrine?” she asked when I had finished rambling. “They took me completely by surprise so I wasn’t really thinking straight, and I’m only realizing now that I should have said something else before they skulked away. I wish I had told them that rape—both the act and the concept—was the motivating factor behind my decision to create the play we’re currently collaborating on. Of course, those teachers didn’t ask me about this specifically, but for me the theme of rape inevitably leads to the fundamental question of abortion. The pivotal force behind my play is the idea that women are raped and then coerced into getting abortions. The truth is, I myself was raped and then forced to get an abortion when I was seventeen.”
I was listening in stunned silence, but Unaiko eliminated the need for any response on my part by launching into an impassioned monologue.
“I’ve already talked about the time I threw up at Yasukuni Shrine,” she said, “but a few minutes later my aunt started bombarding me with questions, and I confessed that I thought I was probably pregnant. Right away she demanded to know who the man was. I was in kind of a daze, and I didn’t understand what she was getting at. She repeated ‘Who’s the man? What’s his name?’ again, only in a louder, more annoyed voice. I realized then that she was asking me to name the father, so I blurted out, ‘It’s my uncle.’
“My aunt’s response was to mutter, ‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ and only then did it really hit me for the first time: I’m pregnant by my own uncle. My aunt and I had been walking toward the station while we were having this conversation, and at this point we were standing on the platform of the Yokosuka Line. The Shonan-bound train was about to depart, so we jumped aboard and my aunt went on grilling me relentlessly about my situation all the way to Fujisawa. She insisted on sitting smack in the middle of the train car, surrounded by empty seats, because she said it would be disastrous to have our conversation overheard by some stranger who might be lurking in the shadows at either end of the car, around the doors. Bit by bit, she extracted the details of my relationship with my uncle (who was also, of course, her husband).