"Kimura?" Ihara gasped.
"None other," the other emphasized strongly. "Now look here. Let's say that Kimura harbors a strong grudge against the landlord and wants to kill him. Like all criminals, however, he's afraid of getting caught. What, then, is his first logical move? To seek a scapegoat, of course, some poor innocent fool who will bear all the suspicion. Now, under these circumstances, would it not have been convenient for him to choose you—a credulous and weak-minded man—for that very role? Once he was decided, the rest was easy. After getting your admission that you had once suffered from somnambulism in your childhood, he carefully and skilfully wove his plot. First, he aroused your apprehension about your mental condition. Next, he stole small objects, such as the watch you mentioned, and planted them in your room while you were asleep. Another detail was to disguise himself like you and to wander about in the cemetery. Finally, after the plot was well-prepared, and with your 'sleepwalking' well-established, he murdered the old man, planted one of your handkerchiefs at the scene of the crime, and likewise planted the old man's securities in your room. . . . There's the whole story from a different angle—an angle which you no doubt never considered, but which is nevertheless quite possible!"
When Ihara heard this amazing theory, his whole frame began to tremble. "But—but what about Kimura's con-science?" he blurted out. "Supposing I had been convicted of the murder and sentenced to the gallows? Would he have allowed an innocent man to be executed for his own crime?"
Saito gave a weird chuckle. "There," he said, "you have a point, but my theory covers that as well. Do you imagine, even for a moment, that a somnambulist would be convicted of a crime which he did not know he had committed? In the Middle Ages it may have been possible, but not today. No, my friend, Kimura knew all along that you would be acquitted, and so he didn't worry about you!"
After thus finishing expounding his theory, Saito paused briefly and eyed his companion intently. Then he went on in a new tone of voice.
"Forgive me, Mr Ihara, for having suggested all these possibilities," he said. "I only mentioned them because I was greatly moved by your confession. If you still believe that you really did kill a man while in a trance, there is nothing further I can say or do to change your mind. However, I hope that the theory I've outlined will help lessen your mental anguish hereafter."
Ihara heard the consoling words, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "Why?" he muttered aloud. "Why did Kimura murder the old man? What reason could he possibly have had? Was it revenge? Only he can explain this!" Slowly he raised his eyes and stared into his companion's eyes. Saito, however, looked down at the floor. Softly, winter shadows had begun playing over the foliage in the garden, and all at once the crippled ex-soldier suddenly shivered with cold.
"It's become chilly again," he remarked, rising nervously. "I'm off to take another bath."
Still avoiding the other's piercing look, he quietly sneaked out of the room like some skulking animal.
Left to himself, Ihara continued to stare, eyes bloodshot with fury, at the doorway through which the other had departed, clutching in his hand the steel chopsticks from the brazier and jabbing them into the ashes. After a long moment the hardened look on his face relaxed and was finally replaced by a bitter smile playing around his mouth.
"The devili" he cursed. "I should have known he was Kimura all along!"
TRAVELER
WITH THE PASTED
RAG PICTURE
I F TRAS STORY I AM ABOUT TO tell was not a dream or a series of hallucinations, then that traveler with the pasted rag picture must have been mad. Or it may even be that I actually did catch a glimpse of one corner of another world as if through a magic crystal, just as a dream often carries one into the realms of the supernatural, or as a madman sees and hears things which we, the normal, are quite incapable of perceiving.
One warm, cloudy day in the dim past, I was on my way home from a sight-seeing trip to Uotsu, the town on the Japan Sea noted for its many mirages. Whenever I tell this story, those who know me well often contradict me, pointing out that I have never been to Uotsu. Then I find myself in a greater quandary than ever, for I do not have even a shred of evidence to prove that I have actually been there, and I begin to ask myself: "Was it only a dream after all?"
But, if so, how account for the vivid colors I distinguished in the "dream"? It is well known, as all dreamers will agree, that scenes which appear on the screen of the subconscious mind are quite devoid of color, like the flickerings of a black-and-white motion picture. But even now that scene of the interior of the railway carriage flashes back vividly to my mind, especially the garish rag picture with its striking colors of purple and crimson, with the dark, piercing, snake-like eyes of the two figures depicted there.
It had only been a short time previously that I had seen a mirage for the first time in my life. Originally I had expected a mirage to be something like an ancient painting—perhaps a beautiful palace floating serenely on a sea of mist—but at the sight of a real mirage, I was startled, to say the least. There, at Uotsu, under the gnarled branches of old pine trees lining the silvery beach, I and a large group of other visitors gazed expectantly at the expansive sky and sea. Never had any sea seemed so unnaturally devoid of sound. It was an eerie and ominous gray, without even a ripple, looking more like an endless swamp.
Gazing as far as my eyes could reach, I noticed that there was no line marking the horizon, for sea and sky were merged into a thick, grayish haze. And above this haze, a large, ghost-like, white sail suddenly loomed, gliding along smoothly and serenely.
As for the mirage itself, it seemed as though a few drops of India ink had been spilt on the surface of a milk-colored film and then projected enormously against the sky. The forests of the distant Noto Peninsula were vaguely and enormously magnified, like black worms placed under a microscope and seen through a badly focused lens. At times it also took on the aspect of a strangely shaped cloud. But the location of a real cloud is clearly distinguishable, whereas in this case I discovered that the distance between the mirage and its observer was oddly immeasurable. This uncertainty of distance made the mirage even more eerie than I had ever imagined it would be.
Sometimes the mirage took the form of a horrible ogre floating in the distant sky; then, swiftly, it would assume another hazy and monstrous shape looming inches away from my face. At other times, it was like a huge, blackish dot seen directly before my eyes. A moment later, a mammoth-sized, quivering triangle would begin to grow bit by bit; then, suddenly, it too would collapse without warning. Quickly, the same indescribable mass would appear again, this time stretching horizontally and running like a long train. But again the shape would scatter before it could be brought properly into focus, transforming itself into something resembling a row of fir trees.
And yet, despite all these changes of form, each transitional process was so subtle and gradual as to be imperceptible. Perhaps the magical power of this mirage had bewitched us all. If so, then it may well have been that the same uncanny power continued to hold me in its grasp even on the train carrying me homeward. After standing and staring at the mysterious scenes projected on the sky for two hours on end, I must say that I was in a most peculiar frame of mind as I left Uotsu for the night's journey home.'
It was exactly six o'clock in the evening when I boarded the Tokyo-bound train at Uotsu Station. For some strange reason—or was it a usual thing with the trains on that line?—the second-class carriage which I occupied was almost as empty as a church after services. As I stepped into the car I found only one solitary passenger snuggled comfortably in the farthest corner.
Soon the train got underway, the locomotive chugging away monotonously as it pulled its heavy load along the deserted seaeoast, then groaning and wheezing as it began to climb. Deep in the mist of the marsh-like sea, the crimson evening glow was now barely discernible. A white sail which looked weirdly large glided smoothly in the haze. It was a sultry evening, the air seemingly beref
t of all oxygen—even the occasional breezes which stole into the car through the open window were weak and thin. A series of short tunnels and rows of wooden posts erected as snow-breaks flickered past, making the scenery of the sea and sky play a game of hide-and-seek in my vision.
As the train rumbled past the precipice of Oyashirazu, dusk closed in upon us. Just at this moment, the other passenger in the dimly lit coach stirred in his corner and stood up. Watching him without any particular reason, I saw him spread a large wrapping cloth of black satin on his seat. In it he began to wrap a flat object about two feet by three in size which had hitherto been propped up against the window. Somehow the man's movements gave me a creepy feeling.
The flat object, which I supposed must be some kind of tablet, had until then been resting with its front side turned to the windowpane, and I began to wonder why. Now, as he moved the object, I caught a glimpse of the front side and saw it was a garish rag picture, strangely vivid and different from usual examples of this minor art.
My curiosity aroused, I looked closely at the owner of this strange object and was startled to note that he himself was even stranger in appearance. Thin and long-legged, he wore an old-fashioned sack coat tailored with narrow lapels and drooping shoulders and trousers of an equally outmoded and narrow cut. At first glance he made a rather comical figure. But as I continued to gaze I began to realize that his outdated attire was oddly becoming to him.
His face was pale and thin, with features which clearly distinguished him as a man of above normal intelligence. But what impressed me most were his eyes, which seemed to gleam with an uncanny light. Looking at his black and glossy hair neatly parted in the middle, I guessed him to be about forty years old. But I quickly added another twenty years when I noticed his face networked with numerous wrinkles. In fact, it may have been the complete disparity between his black, glossy hair and his multi-wrinkled face which caused me to feel so uneasy.
After he had finished wrapping up his tablet, he suddenly looked up in my direction. Caught by surprise, I had no time to turn away, and our eyes met. Seeing him smile, shyly, I returned his greeting with a nod.
While the train rumbled past two more stations, we kept to our own seats at opposite ends of the carriage, occasionally stealing a glance at each other, and then looking away quickly with embarrassment when caught in the act.
Outside, it was now quite dark. Pressing my face against the window glass, I looked out and could see nothing but the solitary lamp of a fishing boat twinkling far out at sea. Through the boundless darkness, it seemed as if our long, gloomy carriage were the only existing world, monotonously rumbling along on its creaky wheels, my peculiar companion and I the only creatures alive. Not a single new passenger had boarded our second-class coach, and, strange to recall, not even the conductor or train boy had put in an appearance.
As I watched the stranger in the far corner, my mind began to play strange tricks. For one fleeting moment he appeared to be some unholy foreign magician, and gradually a terrible fear began to gnaw at my heart. When there is no distraction to alleviate it, fear is an emotion which steadily grows in intensity. When I finally felt that I could stand the suspense no longer, I got to my feet and walked down the aisle toward the stranger. The very fear I had of him seemed to drag me toward him.
Reaching his seat, I sat down on the facing seat and, with narrowed eyes, peered closely at his furrowed face. My breathing was constricted practically to the point of suffocation.
All along I had been keenly aware that the man had been gazing at me from the moment I had risen from my seat. And then suddenly, before I had even recovered my breath, he spoke in a dry voice.
"Is this what you want to see?" he asked, nodding his head casually toward the flat parcel beside him.
I was so taken aback by the suddenness of his question that I found myself completely tongue-tied. The tone of his voice had been natural enough—so completely natural, in fact, that it further disarmed me.
"I'm sure you're dying of curiosity to see this," he said again, calling me back to my senses with a jolt.
"Yes—yes, if you would permit me," I stammered, feeling my face flushing.
"It would be a great pleasure," the old man replied with a disarming smile. Then he added: "I've been expecting you to ask me for some time."
He unwrapped the large cloth covering carefully with his long fingers and stood the tablet against the window again, this time facing me.
Unconsciously, I closed my eyes, although why, I could never explain. I simply felt that I had to. But finally, with a supreme effort, I forced my eyes open, and for the first time I saw—the thing!
It was just an ordinary wooden tablet, with a picturesque scene painted on its surface. The scene showed a suite of rooms, their floors covered with mats of pale-green straw, and their ceilings, painted in assorted colors, seemed to stretch far away into the distance, like the backdrops of the Kabuki theater. In the left foreground there was a classical window, painted with bold brush strokes, while beneath it there reposed a low, black writing desk, which seemed utterly out of place.
Against this background, there were two figures, each about one foot high, looming in bold relief, having been fashioned out of cloth and pasted on the tablet. One was a white-haired old man, garbed in a well-worn, black velvet suit of an obsolete European cut, sitting stiffly on the floor. And, strangely enough, this figure bore a striking resemblance to the old man sitting beside me. Shifting my gaze, I examined the other figure, which was that of a strikingly beautiful girl no older than seventeen or so. Her coiffure was of the classical style, while her intricately designed kimono was a long-sleeved affair of crimson artistically blended with other lighter hues, held together with a gorgeous black satin sash. Her posture was delicately amorous, for she was leaning shyly against the lap of the old man, as in a typical Japanese love scene on the stage.
In sharp contrast to the crudeness of the setting, the elaborateness of the pasted rag dolls was astonishing. The faces were fashioned out of white silk, with uncannily realistic wrinkles. As for the girl's hair, it was real, affixed strand by strand, and dressed with intricate skill. The old man's white hair too was no less real. As for his clothes, I noticed that even the seams were faithfully sewn. The buttons too, small as millet seeds, were there.
To add to all this, I also saw the swelling of the girl's breasts, the bewitching line about her thighs, the scarlet crepe of her undergarments showing from beneath her kimono, the natural fleshy texture of her white skin, the shell-like nails on her fingers. . . . In fact, all was so perfect and true to life that I even thought I could have found pores and downy hair if I had continued my scrutiny through a magnifying glass.
The tablet itself appeared very old; the colors of the background had peeled off here and there, and the costumes of the pair were faded in color. Despite these flaws, however, the two figures were so uncannily real that one would have expected them to come to life at any moment.
In the classical puppet theater I have often experienced the sensation of seeing a doll, manipulated by a real master of the art, momentarily come to life. But the two rag figures pasted on the tablet had not just a fleeting aliveness, but a permanent one.
Lost in my wonder, I had almost forgotten the old man beside me. But suddenly he gave a cackle of delight.
"Do you realize the truth now, my good man?"
After uttering this cryptic remark, he took the black leather case which had been hanging by a strap over one shoulder and calmly began to unlock it with a small key. Then, taking out a very old pair of binoculars, he held them out to me.
"Look through these," he invited.
I was reaching for the glasses when he interrupted: "No, no, you're standing too near. Step back a little. . . .There, that's better."
Although it was a strange invitation, I was gripped by an intense curiosity. The binoculars were queerly shaped, and their leather case was worn with age and use, its inner layer of brass showi
ng here and there. Like the clothes of their owner, the binoculars too were quite a museum piece.
Taking the proffered binoculars, I raised them casually to my eyes. But the old man suddenly cried out so piercingly that I almost dropped the glasses.
"No, no, no! Wait, wait! You're holding them the wrong way!" he shrieked wildly. "Don't—don't ever do that again!"
Startled by the outcry and the insane light gleaming in his eyes, I lowered the instrument and mumbled a hasty apology, although for the life of me I could not understand the reason for his sudden consternation.
Raising the binoculars again, this time in the proper way, I began to adjust the lenses, and gradually there came into focus an amazingly large image of the girl on the tablet—her white skin glistening with an utterly natural lustre, and her entire body seeming to move.
Within the confines of the antique nineteenth-century binoculars which I held in my trembling hands, there vividly existed another world, entirely alien from my own. And, within this realm, there lived and breathed the gorgeous young girl, incongruously enjoying a téte-à-tète with the white-haired old man who was surely old enough to be her grandfather.
"This must be witchcraft!" I unconsciously warned myself. But like a person caught in a hypnotic trance, I found it impossible to avert my eyes.
Although I could see that the girl was quite immobile, her whole appearance seemed to have undergone a complete transformation. She now seemed to be a totally different creature from the one I had scrutinized with my naked eye. But whatever the changes which had been wrought, they were all to the good. Now her whole body seemed to quiver with life. Her pale face had turned a rosy pink. And as for her breasts—they now seemed to be actually pulsing beneath her thin, silken kimono.
Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination Page 15