GAN

by Mori Ogai

He approached the cage and looked closer at the snake. The cage was hung up in the window of Otama ’s house, which was closest to the seamstress’s property. It seemed the snake had crawled down the eaves between the houses. The snake was draped like a rope across a tree, and its tail was still hidden in its branches. It was a very long snake. It had probably been living in the shrubbery of the Kaga mansion before feeling the change in the seasons, setting out on its wanderings, and coming across the caged birds. Okada was at a loss for what to do. He suddenly understood the girls’ apprehension.

  “Does anyone have a knife?” He asked. The leader quickly turned to one of the girls and said. “There’s a knife in the kitchen, run and fetch it.” The girl looked as though she may have been a servant as she wore a yukata like the other girls training there, but it was covered with purple muslin, and her sleeves were tied. The girl, flustered, asked if it was all right to use a fish knife to attack a snake, to which the woman replied that she would buy a new one. The matter settled, the girl rushed to the kitchen and returned with the knife.

  Okada took knife as though he ’d been waiting for it, kicked off his sandals and climbed the tree near the window. Gymnastics were a specialty of his. His left hand was already gripping the tree. He’d known that the knife, though new, was not particularly sharp, so he decided not to try and finish the job with one chop. He pinned the body of the snake against the branch and sawed against it, back and forth, two or three times. When the knife cut through the snake’s scales it felt like shattering glass. The snake had moved on to trying to swallow the dead bird whole, but it’s body, heavily wounded then, moved in massive, jerking waves. It did not spit out its prey or attempt to remove it’s head from the cage. Okada did not let up, and having moved the dull knife six times or so he felt it, at last, slip past the scales and slice the snake in two. The writhing, wave-like motion of the snake stopped, and the lower half of its body fell heavily to the grass-covered gutter. The upper half fell from its perch and, its head still jammed in the cage, hung limp. The cage tilted at a 45 degree angle under its sudden burden. The bird inside, with its seemingly endless reserves of energy, continued to flap and bat itself against the cage.

  Okada released his grip on the tree and jumped down. The group of girls had been watching breathlessly, but now two or three of them returned back to their work at the seamstress’s house. Okada turned to the woman there “We’ll have to take down the cage and get the snake out of there.” But the limp snake was dripping splotches of blood on the window, and neither the woman or her maid could gather the courage to go undo the string.

  A voice came from the crowd, “Want me to take it down?” All the girls looked over. It was the kid who worked at the liquor shop. While Okada was fighting with the snake, there were no pedestrians on that lonely Sunday in Muenzaka. But this boy was walking there alone, a record book and a large bottle of sake wrapped in rope hung from his hand as he stood and watched the fight. When the back half of the snake fell he discarded the book and bottle and, taking up a nearby stone, ran to beat the wounds of the snake. Above him the still-alive upper half writhed and twisted into loops. He stood and watched it.

  “Yes, if you would be so kind,” said the woman. The maid showed the young boy inside. He appeared in the window and, crawling up on the sill and stretching out his arms as far as he could, pulled the small twine loop from its nail. The maid did not take the cage from him, so, string pinched between his fingers, he carefully crawled down from his perch and came around through the door.

  The boy turned to the maid and said, as if boasting, “I’ve got the cage for now, you should hurry and clean up the blood, it’s going to stain the mats.” The woman turned to the maid also, “Better hurry.”

  Okada looked into the cage the boy held. The surviving bird sat still on its perch, shaking. The other bird was still half in the mouth of the snake. Despite being cut in half, the snake had spent the last moments of its life trying to swallow the bird.

  The boy turned to Okada and said, “Should I take the snake out?”

  “Sure, but when you do make sure to raise the head to the center of the cage, otherwise it will break more of the slats.” He smiled.

  The boy skillfully removed the snake and pulled at the tail-feathers of the fallen bird. “Guess they don’t get so excited when they’re dead.”

  The girls that had remained until that point finally decided there was nothing left to see, and they all left together.

  “I guess it’s about time I got going,” Okada said looking around.

  The woman appeared to be running something over in her mind, and upon hearing Okada ’s words she turned to him. Then, hesitant to say something on her mind, she turned her eyes away. Then she discovered a splotch of blood stained on his hand and said, “Oh no, your hands are all dirty!” She called for the maid to bring some water. Okada did not give many details of their meeting, but he did say this: “I was amazed she was able to spot such a small bit of blood there on my finger.”

  When Okada was washing his hands the boy, in the middle of removing the dead bird from the jaws of the snake, suddenly shouted, “Oh no!”

  The woman, standing at Okada ’s side with the freshly folded handkerchief rushed to the opened door and called, “What is it?”

  The boy held his hands over the door of the cage, “The bird almost got out!”

  Okada finished washing his hands and wiped them on the clean handkerchief the woman gave him. “Don’t move your hand,” he said to the kid. Then he asked for a strong thread or wire to keep the bird from escaping.

  The woman thought for a moment. “How about a hair tie?”

  “That will do fine.”

  The maid went and retrieved a hair tie from the drawer in the woman ’s room. Okada took it and tied it in loops around the broken area of the cage wall.

  “That’s about all I can do for now,” he said, and left through the front door.

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” the woman said, and followed behind him.

  “Nice job today, Kid. Will you be a pal and get rid of that snake for the lady?” Okada said to the boy.

  “Sure. There’s a deep ditch at the bottom the hill. I can throw it away there.” He paused. “Is there a rope or something I could use?”

  “Of course, I’ll get you one. Wait just a moment,” the woman said and began speaking with the maid.

  Taking the free space in the conversation, Okada said, “Goodbye then,” and walked down the hill without looking back.

  * * *

  Okada turned to me at the end of his story. “Hey, even though it was for the woman, I did a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

  “Sure. Killing a snake for a woman has all the ring of mythology to it also. I love that, but I doubt that’s the end of the story,” I said, and I meant it.

  “Don’t be stupid. It wasn’t all over, I wouldn’t have told you at all.” He didn’t mean it to draw my interest. He meant it to end the conversation, though he looked pensive and sad, as though he’d left something unsaid.

  I listened to his story and told him it was like a myth, but truthfully it brought something else to mind that I wasn ’t able to say. Could Okada, having spent all that time reading Kinpeibai, have met Kinren?

  There was no one among the students there that did not know the name of Suezo due to his famous lending practices. If you needed money, everyone knew where to go. But no one had any idea that the woman in Muenzaka was his mistress. Of course Okada didn ’t know either. I didn’t know anything about the woman myself, what kind of person she was. But I did know that the woman being kept in the house adjacent to the seamstress was the mistress of Suezo. So I was a day ahead of Okada then.

  Chapter Twenty

  It happened the day that Okada killed the snake. Otama, who had only seen Okada before, felt her emotions evolving, moving in powerful ways, having finally spoken with him. It is common for a woman to discover she would like something but not necessarily f
eel inclined to purchase it. Such things, watches and rings and all manner of lovely articles, are hung behind glassed windows, and the women pass by and glance at them. The store is not the destination itself, but rather an object one passes by tangentially while on some other unrelated errand, and, serendipitously in the same area, draws the eye of the passing woman. She sees it and, knowing she has no intention to purchase it, discovers a pang, sweet and tragic, subtle and quietly folded within her. It is an emotion that women are equipped to savor. On the other hand, when a woman has an object in mind which she longs to purchase, the desire knots within her and causes her to suffer. The little desired object, waiting for purchase, can destroy any semblance of her composure. Imagine one day she passes a shop and sees the desired object, sold for cheap, but her hands are too full to carry it home. Later, oblivious to the heat or cold or dark or sleet or snow, she’ll jump to her feet on an impulse and brave the elements to get to the store. Women who steal from shops are not necessarily cut from any different cloth. For some, the border between a desired object and an object they wish to purchase is too hazy to distinguish. Okada had been an object that Otama desired, but now, immediately and without warning, he had become an object she longed to purchase.

  Otama found that, after he had helped her save the bird, she wanted to find a way to draw closer to Okada. Her first idea was to buy him a token of her appreciation, and send it off with Ume to his residence. But then what would be appropriate? Perhaps some cakes from Fujimura? But no —that was uninspired, insipid! It was the kind of idea that would have occurred to any boring old someone. A cushion then, for his studies! She could sew it herself! It would be thoughtful, but she would end up looking like a sheltered girl, in love with a passing prince. He’d think less of her. Regardless of her racing thoughts, no suitable ideas came to her. The best thing would be to purchase something tasteful and send it along with Ume. She’d had a calling card printed up in Nakacho, but simply slipping it in with a gift didn’t seem like enough. At the very least she should write him a note. Oh, what to do? She’d been told that home economics was enough for her schooling, and without the study of calligraphy under her belt how could she hope to write a decent letter? Certainly she could ask the craftsman next door to write it for her. But no—that would never work. While she had no intention of filling pages with secrets intended only for the two of them, she would rather no one knew of the correspondence to begin with. Oh God! What to do?

  Like someone pacing up and down the same street, Otama ran the same thoughts back and forth through her mind, distracted occasionally at her bureau’s mirror, or by an errand in the kitchen. Her thoughts meandered momentarily, only to quickly return to their temporarily abandoned subject. And then Suezo arrived. Pouring sake for him she found her thoughts returning to the question of what to say when Suezo barked, “What are you brooding over?”

  “Oh,” she said, quickly flashing an empty smile. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.” Her heart pounded, but her recent experience had honed her skills admirably, and her demeanor betrayed no hint of her inner vexation—not even to Suezo’s sharp eyes. After he left she had a dream that she’d purchased a box of sweets and sent them off with Ume. After the girl had left she realized she’d neglected to include either calling card or letter, and in a sudden fit, she awoke.

  The morning came. Whether Okada did not take a walk that day, or he had chosen a different route, Otama could not be sure. But she was unable to see the face she longed for that day. The following day, however, Okada walked by the mansion as usual. He glanced to the window as he passed, but the house was too dark inside for him to see her face. On the following day, near the time that Okada normally took his walks, Otama took broom in hand and swept the stoop, spent a while cleaning the latticed doorway (which was really not dirty to begin with), and continuously rearranged the shoes in the doorway, lining them up on the right, then on the left. Ume came running from the kitchen shouting, “Oh, don’t bother yourself! I’ll do the cleaning.”

  “It’s fine, you just watch the braiser. I’m cleaning because I don’t really have anything else to do,” answered Otama.

  Just then Okada walked by and removed his hat in greeting. Otama flushed bright red and clung to her broom, unable to produce any useful words. She did manage to stand up straight, but before she could say anything he passed by and continued on his way. Alone then, Otama threw the broom aside, kicked off her shoes and ran into the house.

  Seated before the brazier, and tending to the coals, she fell into thought. What a fool she was! On such a cool day she should have just opened the window and sat there rather than affect this cleaning pantomime. She’d waited for him for days but couldn’t think of anything to say. Her patron, despite the occasional discord between them, clearly felt no boundaries with what he said to her, or how he said it. But what of Okada? Why wouldn’t he talk to her? After all he’d done for her, shouldn’t he expect her to have a few words of gratitude for him? And if they weren’t able to talk today, had all future opportunity vanished as well? She’d thought of sending Ume to him with gifts but was unable to. She’d thought of what to say when they met but was unable to produce any words at the time. What other options were left to her? Why, why hadn’t she just spoken with him? Sure enough, she thought, she had planned to say something, but face to face with him the words felt all wrong. Certainly she couldn’t speak as though they knew each other. “Oh, Okada-san!” No—certainly not. Not that she felt a simple, “Hello there,” would suffice either. She paused—with thoughts like this in her head, no wonder she felt flustered when he showed up. Even with time to slowly think it over her search for the perfect greeting appeared fruitless. “Oh God,” she thought. “I must be an idiot. I could never have called out to him. At the very least though, at the very least I could have chased after him. If I’d run out to the street he would have at least stopped. If only he had stopped I could have said, ‘Thank you for all your trouble the other day,’ or some other simple thing like that.”

  While tumbling over these thoughts, she tended to the coals, and soon the lid of the pot began to dance over the rim. She moved it to the side to let out the steam.

  Soon she had organized her thoughts into two main courses: she could either speak to him directly, or she could send the girl on her behalf. Soon, with the approach of evening, the air grew cool, and she went to close the window shades. They had always done cleaning once in the morning, but due to the earlier events Ume had begun to clean once in the morning and once in the evening as well. It was hard for Otama to find something to do. She considered going to the baths later than usual in an attempt to run into Okada in the street, but the baths were too close to the mansion to realistically facilitate a meeting. Not only that, but the longer she waited to send Ume, the more awkward it became.

  Finally Otama decided, against her wishes, to simply give up. She would simply say nothing and do nothing. Perhaps his actions warranted her formal gratitude, but she would consider herself privately in his debt. He would understand her feelings, he would just know how she felt. She decided that perhaps this quiet and unspoken agreement between them was preferable to a poorly executed letter or thank you.

  However, this debt she held to him quickly became a foothold, a lens to focus her emotions, and it did little but strengthen her desire to grow closer to Okada. Still, she did not know how to make it happen, and so, as the days passed, Otama was wrung with quiet, private anxieties.

  * * *

  Otama was a powerful woman, and in the short time since she ’d come to be possessed by Suezo she was scorned by the light, and envied by the dark—it was a special form of pain that she had learned to savor, and through her experience of it she had even come to feel as though she’d conquered part of the world. But her heart was a good one, and she did not have many relationships to maintain, a fact which found expression in her terrible hesitance to visit Okada at his boarding house.

  Soon she was opening the window
to the warm autumn sunlight, and there were days when she would see Okada, and they would nod to one another. It felt as though their kind words, and the handkerchief she had given him, were not able to bring them closer, or bridge the gap between them, as nothing had occurred since that day, and their relationship remained the same as it had been before their encounter. It caused her terrible irritation.

  When Suezo visited, and they brought the brazier inside, they would sit on either side of it and talk of various things, but Otama often looked at him, imagining it was Okada sitting across from her. The first time she caught herself doing this she was ashamed, but soon she was able to effortlessly maintain conversation with Suezo while thinking of nothing but Okada. Finally, when Suezo exercised his freedom over her, she thought of Okada the whole time. She had dreams of being with Okada. They were together without any troublesome processes in the way. She would sigh and say “Ah, finally,” and then realize she was not with Okada at all, but Suezo. She would quickly awaken from her dreams then and, all nerves and unable to sleep, would quietly cry until morning.

  November came soon enough. The warmth persisted, however, and her open window drew no attention to itself. She tried, each day, to see Okada, though often was unable to. There were days of cold drizzle that went on for days, and when she was unable to see his face for days she fell into a depression. But it was simply her honest feeling, so she tried very hard not to bother Ume with it, and she certainly never exhibited any moody feelings before Suezo. But she would often find herself sitting by the brassier, quietly gazing into space, and Ume would walk by and say, “Ma'am, is something the matter?”

  However soon afterwards she was able to see his face for many days in a row, and, in a sudden and rare upswing of ebullience, she woke early one day and, all good spirits, rushed out to see her father at his house by the lake.