The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by J. Thomas Rimer

  “Don’t be silly. . . . If the verdict comes that I am sick and I must spend time recuperating, what will happen then? . . . Who’ll look after my wife and sister?”

  These words, pronounced with indignation, were peculiar as logic. But I felt as if I had been overcome, all too easily. I had nothing more to say.

  The old fortune-teller was preparing to set out on business, but he asked, “How are you? Feeling a little better?” As he spoke he bent over the pillowside.

  The “high-class beggar” looked up with leaden eyes. “I’m all right. . . . Hurry out and earn your living!”

  Even in a flophouse like this one, from early morning it was noisier and more bustling than usual because the year was about to change.

  I looked into the sick man’s face. Each time he was at last about to drop off into peaceful sleep, he would wake with a start at some loud noise that also made me start. Time passed before I knew it.

  The old man returned, stinking of saké. “Oh,” I said in surprise, “is it that late?”

  In a display of inborn cheerfulness, he replied, “It’s the end of the year. It’ll be next year before you know it. I expected to spend the whole night at my work, but business has been pretty good, and besides, I was worried about his illness, so I closed shop early.”

  Hardly had he plopped himself down beside the “high-class beggar” than bells, from the Asakusa Temple on down, began to sound here and there.

  “Those’re the bells ringing in the new year. . . . You know, I was thinking as I walked back that, since it’s my business, I’ll predict your fortunes for next year.”

  He stood up, and after saying something to His Lordship, the Fox, he carried the fox’s cage into the room. He thrust a tube filled with lots under the fox’s nose.

  He cried, “My Lord Fox, please vouchsafe next year’s fortune.” The fox had been trained to take one lot at a time from the tube with its teeth.

  “Tell me whether or not his illness will soon be cured. Oh, wondrous is the oracle of Inari!” Following this preliminary, he set to work.

  “My Lord Fox, I beg of you, divine his fortune for the new year.”

  I tried to stop him. I was worried about the effect it might have on the sick man, who was of a nervous disposition, if a fortune appeared with the prediction that he would not get better. But the dirty-looking fox, whose fur had lost its sheen and looked as if it would be rough to the touch, had already taken a lot in its mouth.

  The old man, with an exaggerated bow, expressed thanks, then picked up the paper. “Wonderful! Cheer up! There’s nothing to worry about. It says you’ll soon be on the road to recovery. All’s well that ends well.”

  So saying, he thrust the paper before the eyes of the sick man.

  I was happy. I thought that even if it was just an accident, it was a good thing that the fortune was not bad.

  “Well then, My Lord Fox. I pray I may ask another favor. . . . Please grant another fortune. . . . Ohh—it’s because you always say bad things. You sinner! Look! My Lord Fox is facing the other way. He’s acting as if he’s not interested.”

  It was just as the old man said. The animal, pushing the tip of its bushy tail outside the wire netting, had stationed himself with his back to us in an attitude of indifference.

  “Please, do it again, once more, My Lord Fox.”

  The fortune-teller tried coaxing the fox two or three times more until finally, looking as if it hated doing it, the fox without further ado chose a lot.

  “Well, at last. Thank you. Here is your fortune for the new year.”

  The old man opened it for me, only to emit a wild cry the next moment. “How could such a thing happen? It’s come up ‘Dire misfortune.’” He stared at my face with an expression of astonishment. “It’s crazy. Such a thing can’t happen. It’s weird, really weird.”

  He seemed amazed that a calamity had occurred that should not have been possible. Holding both hands behind his back, he said, “My fortune-telling is fairly popular in the licensed quarter and I have regular customers among the stockbrokers too, so I absolutely never put in a bad fortune. But in spite of that—what can it mean, this lot is bad, and not only bad but dire misfortune.”

  He examined the slip any number of times as if unable to believe it.

  “Yes, it’s dire misfortune. No doubting it. . . . When a fortune comes up that I can’t remember putting in, it means punishment has come from O-Inari-Sama.”

  The excited fortune-teller went on talking to himself, unable to understand this strange, inexplicable occurrence. His usual, uneasy irritation with me now turned to anger.

  “Vile sinner! Scoundrel! Dire misfortune doesn’t mean only for next year. Your whole life will be one dire misfortune. . . . And you dared question my fortune-telling!”

  The New Year bells were still booming. In their midst, he was barking like a wild beast.

  TANI JŌJI

  Tani Jōji (1900–1935) was one of the three pen names used by the writer Hasegawa Kaitarō. Although he moved to the United States at the age of eighteen to go to college, he soon dropped out of school, lived a vagabond life, and then returned to Japan to join a group of writers working for a detective fiction magazine, Shinseinen (New Youth). Under the name Maki Itsuma, he wrote his own mystery stories and also translated the work of foreign mystery story writers. As Tani Jōji, he wrote about his experiences in America in a series of writings known as merikan jappu (’Merican Jap). Tani also delved into the field of historical literature with his creation of the character Tange Sazen, a master swordsman with only one eye and one arm.

  The story “The Shanghaied Man” (Shanhai sareta otoko), published in 1925, is a cleverly constructed tale of murder, with a hint of social concerns not unusual for this period.

  THE SHANGHAIED MAN (SHANHAI SARETA OTOKO)

  Translated by Kyōko Ōmori

  I

  Hadn’t he gotten himself out of bed at least once in the middle of the night? Tossing and turning because of the moaning sounds made by the roommate sleeping next to him, he had stepped briefly into the back garden from the edge of the veranda, hadn’t he? “I’m sure I did,” Tamekichi told himself. It could not have been for long, however. Exhausted from a whole day’s search for work, he crawled back in bed almost immediately. Or so it seemed. He could not be sure. But he knew he heard the moans of the man with whom he shared the room. From the minute that Tamekichi met him, the man had been in misery. That was on account of a bad tooth, he said. He had let an unlicensed dentist pull it the previous day.

  Tamekichi drifted into the seamen’s inn nearest the wharf after looking at other lodging houses in Kobe. These inns, in addition to being places to sleep, served as employment agencies for jobless sailors. Rooms were shared, but when Tamekichi met his roommate for the first time, the man had nothing to say. He stared at Tamekichi. “You’re bothering me.” That was the look on his face.

  Tamekichi heard the man was a third-rank engine oiler who was back in port after working on the SS Toyo’oka, a transport ship that plied local waters. The two men had nothing in common because Tamekichi was a deckhand who specialized in long-distance voyages. Perhaps that explained why he decided not to worry when the man continued to groan through the night.

  When Tamekichi woke up after the long, restless night, he found that his futon reeked of oil and sweat. As he looked about the room, he saw the man’s bedding was still spread out, but it was empty. So what? Why should he care? For a man of the sea, he had been on land far too long. What mattered to him—indeed, what he longed for more than anything in the world—was the deep, low roar of the vibration of a ship’s engines. That was what occupied his mind. It was always in the mornings, in the moments after he woke up, that he missed the sound most.

  He was prepared to do anything, even if it meant apprenticing himself as a sailor on a boat headed for Australian waters or being a “gofer” on a ship bound for the United States. Anything would be OK as long as he could get on boa
rd a ship today. After a hasty breakfast, he rushed to the room where jobs were posted. Alas, there was only one listing on the blackboard, and it was for a second-class cook on the Sakhalin ferryboat named the Blagoev. The gang of “regulars” was already up. There was a huge table placed in front of the blackboard. They always sat on top of it, sitting barefoot and cross-legged in a circle. It was still early in the day, but a dice box was at the center of the table. The dice had been shaken and the box turned over. The men were ready to gamble.

  “Place your bets. Everybody, place your bets.” Sawaguchi appeared to have appointed himself as banker. Not very long ago he was fired for being a troublemaker aboard the SS Chin’yō.

  “Place your bets, but don’t break your old man’s heart!” rambled one of them.

  “How true!” echoed another. “A lantern maker doesn’t make any money ’til he goes to work, pulls out his ‘paper,’ and slaps it on the frame. . . .”

  Tamekichi stood there, absentmindedly watching the men gamble their money away. One sailor, nicknamed “the SS Kenpuku” after the name of his previous ship, was winning every hand.

  “All right now, young fellows. Don’t let yourselves get carried away.” It was O-kin, the old woman who owned the lodging house. “We have a ‘visitor,’” she said, pointing her chin knowingly over her shoulder. “Don’t you boys have anything better to do in the morning? . . . Anyway, Tamekichi, I want you to come with me.”

  As they walked across the dirt floor toward the main entrance where she had an office, the old proprietress lowered her voice and whispered in Tamekichi’s ear. She kept repeating herself.

  “Now, look honest. That’s the best. Anybody can do something silly on the spur of the moment. I’m sure it’s not serious. As I say, just be your honest self.”

  Tamekichi had cut his finger. When had that happened? He felt glum without knowing why. He seemed to know what was going on; at the same time, he understood nothing at all. It was an odd feeling. The morning sunlight shining into O-kin’s office was so bright it almost made his eyes hurt.

  “Are you the one they call Tamé?” The man spoke in a deep, booming voice.

  Tamekichi did not reply. He blinked and looked up. The man was in his forties. He was dressed in Western-style clothes.

  “You know a fellow named Sakamoto Shintarō, don’t you?”

  The man fired one question after another. Sakamoto Shintarō had been Tamekichi’s roommate last night. Tamekichi nodded in silent agreement. Something deep inside him told him there was something ominous about the man’s attitude. He thought it best to say as little as possible.

  “I can see I’ve got a stubborn one,” said the man. He grabbed Tamekichi by the arm. The gamblers got up from the table. The door to the blackboard room was partially open. They looked terribly surprised as they vied to peek through the opening at the doorway.

  “I’m with the Kannonzaki Police Station. I think you’d better come along with me.”

  Tamekichi was cool, preternaturally cool. While the others were on their feet and making a great fuss, it all seemed curiously unrelated to him. He watched everything with a cold, objective eye. A smile played about his lips. It was almost funny to watch them. But the smirk on his face made him look like a real pro of a villain. The detective, who liked to talk tough and use leading questions to intimidate his suspects, felt more confident that he had found the right man.

  “Let’s get moving.”

  Excited by his success, the detective was eager to get back to the police station. By now he was practically pulling Tamekichi to the door.

  “OK, I’ll go. All I have to do is go with you, right? You’ll have the answers to your questions soon enough.”

  “Get a move on!” The detective gave Tamekichi a shove.

  Tamekichi brushed the detective’s hand aside. “What the hell do you think you’re doing! Damn you!” When he swore, he used English instead of Japanese.

  The detective’s hand flew up and hit Tamekichi on the face. “Resist, and you’ll regret it.”

  “Now, now, officer, let’s not get excited. . . .” The boss of the crew from the SS Africa saw what was happening. He rushed over to O-kin’s office. “The young fellow said he had no objections. He’s prepared to go along quietly. So what’s the problem?”

  “Look, numbskull, what do you know?” By now the detective was breathing hard. He was almost out of breath. “Haven’t you boys figured it out? Sakamoto Shintarō was murdered last night.”

  Everyone gasped. But most surprised of all—or at least it seemed that way—was Tamekichi.

  “NO!?! That can’t be.”

  “Don’t feign innocence with me!” the detective stormed at Tamekichi.

  “Regulations require that I search you before I take you in. Step over here!”

  With that he reached into the pocket of Tamekichi’s work pants and pulled out a penknife. The name “Sakamoto” was carved into it in roman letters.

  “It doesn’t mean what you think it does!” Tamekichi’s face turned white.

  “Keep your mouth shut!”

  The place on Tamekichi’s finger suddenly caught the detective’s eye. “What’s the bandage for? It’s stained with blood, isn’t it? Never mind. Don’t explain it now, because you’re coming with me. Anything you have to say, you can tell to the detective in the duty room. Get moving!”

  As he was led from the lodging house, Tamekichi turned and looked over his shoulder at the sailors standing behind him. They were in an uproar.

  It was a gloriously warm autumn day. Little waves of heat rippled in the air. Along the waterfront, gangs of stevedores were shouting back and forth. Foreign sailors in groups of two or three were walking down the street that ran along the water. Tamekichi himself was surprised at how cool and unperturbed he felt at being escorted in public by the detective, who stuck close to his side. He was past caring now. The faces of the passersby struck him as silly. He felt as if the man being led down the street was someone other than himself. No, it was not the Tamekichi that he knew who was experiencing all this. His sole regret—and it was a strong one—was that for the foreseeable future, it was clear that he would not be shipping out to sea.

  A detective from the Kannonzaki Police Station patrolling the street along the waterfront at dawn this morning had been startled to find a large pool of blood on the sidewalk in front of the seamen’s lodging house run by O-Kin. The drops of blood ran in an unbroken line for another fifty meters to the south. There he found footprints in the mud. Pieces of torn clothing were scattered in the vicinity. One could easily surmise there had been a fight. No question about it. An oil tanker had been anchored at the wharf. It had set sail, leaving behind an empty dock—and the dark, oily waters that stretched from the foot of the quay all the way out to sea. On top of the stone wall of the quay, the detective found a sailor’s passbook and a pawn ticket that belonged to Sakamoto. Sakamoto must have dropped them.

  The authorities immediately launched an investigation. Because the motive for the crime was unclear, it was perfectly natural—albeit too bad for Tamekichi—that they considered Sakamoto’s roommate of the previous night as the prime suspect. Mori Tamekichi. He must be the murderer. But even after dropping nets over the side of the quay and sending down divers, they were unable to find any further trace of Sakamoto, let alone a body. They were waiting for high tide when they would extend their search to the bottom of the bay by dragging it in cooperation with the harbor police.

  When Tamekichi contemplated the fact that the police had the penknife as evidence against him and there was the cut on his finger, he was sure he was fighting a lost cause. He could see it all now. There he was, mounting the scaffold and standing before a hangman’s noose. His feet ground to a halt. He found it was impossible to make them move. More than anything else, he was loath to abandon the call of the sea. At the end of the street was the old stone building of the police station. It was waiting for him. A breeze carrying the exotic odors of life
at sea grazed past his nose. The blue waters of the ocean spread to the left of him; clouds, swelling into great peaks, floated above them.

  The sea was calling him. Tamekichi had left Naoetsu Bay in Niigata at the age of nine. He had sailed under flags from all over the world for twentysome years. The sea was his home. It was like the bosom of a loving mother.

  He heard an anchor being hoisted. He saw a black flag with a white rectangle in the center flutter as it was raised on a foreign ship along the quay. It meant the ship was about to sail. It only took one glance at the ship for him to recognize the freighter belonged to the Norwegian company PN. Three sailors with purchases tucked under their arms passed hurriedly by him. They did not want to miss getting back on board. The strong smell of pipe tobacco stung his nose. Images of harbors in foreign lands rose before his eyes. They floated in the air like phantoms that appear and then disappear. That was when he made up his mind.

  “This shoe is pinching my foot.”

  Dropping to the ground and pretending to untie his laces, Tamekichi seized the opportunity to grab the detective by the leg and knock him over.

  Tamekichi was desperate. He thought he heard angry voices behind him. He must have bumped into people walking down the street. Summoning every ounce of strength in his body, he raced toward the foreign sailors who were about to climb the rope ladder to the Norwegian ship.

  “Let me on!” he shouted. Dumbfounded, the sailors let him through.

  “Get me aboard your ship! Somebody’s after me. I’ll go anywhere. I’ll do anything. I’ve sailed Norwegian ships before.”

  It was Tamekichi’s fluent English that saved him. Moreover, he spoke the brand of English understood the world over only by men who sail the seas. He knew all the slang that sailors used.

  “Aye, mate, you must be a sailor without a home!” The chief mate called to him from the ship’s side.