The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by Неизвестный

  “You didn’t write an article?”

  “Oh, yes, I wrote something, but I just strung together some fancy-sounding words, that’s all. I wouldn’t swear to it, but he seemed to trust me when he talked like that. And the story was really too delicious for the newspaper.”

  Chang’s craggy face broke into a great wrinkled smile. I felt as though I had seen the flash of a sword, a brief glimpse of pain, grief, and fury. I could do nothing but look down in silence. Evidently there was a narrow path, something akin to an escape route between the chairs, but its danger was immeasurable. Didn’t the English call this kind of situation “between the devil and the deep blue sea”?

  Late in the afternoon of the day before my departure for Tokyo, Chang and I were strolling along when we came to a sign that read “Heavenly Bath Hall.” Chang stopped and explained.

  “This is a tsao t’ang, a bathhouse. It’s not just a soak in a bath, though; you can have the dirt scraped off your body, get a good massage, have the calluses removed from your feet and your nails clipped. All you have to do is take off your clothes and lie down. If you feel sleepy, you just doze off and sleep as long as you like. Obviously some are better than others, but this one is famous for the thorough service you get. And when you leave, they’ll give you the ball of dirt they scraped off you; it’s a good souvenir. How would you like to try it? They use three kinds of cloth, rough, medium, and soft. They wrap them around their hands and rub you down. A surprising amount of dead skin will come off, you know, enough to make a ball of it. It’s fun.”

  I nodded my consent, and he led me inside the door and talked to the man at the counter. The man put down his newspaper, listened to Chang, and with a smile gestured to me to come in. Chang said he had some errands to do, but would come to the airport the next day to see me off. He left me at the bath house.

  When the bathkeeper stood up I found he was tall, with muscular shoulders and hips. He beckoned, and I followed him down a dim corridor with shabby walls, then into a cubicle with two simple beds. One was occupied by a client wrapped in a white towel and stretched out on his stomach, while a nail-cutter held his leg, paring skin off his heel as though fitting a horseshoe. The bath-keeper gestured to me, and I emptied my pockets and gave him my billfold, passport, and watch. He took them and put them in the drawer of a night table, then locked it with a sturdy, old-fashioned padlock. The key was chained to his waist with a soiled cord. He smiled and slapped his hip a couple of times as though to reassure me before going out. I took off all my clothes. A small, good-looking boy in a white robe, with a head like an arrowhead bulb, came in and wrapped my hips from behind with a towel and slung another over my shoulder. I followed the boy into the dark corridor, slippers on my feet. Another boy was waiting in the room leading to the bath, and quickly peeled off my towel before pushing the door open onto a gritty concrete floor. A large rusty nozzle on the wall splashed hot water over me, and I washed my body.

  The bathtub was a vast, heavy rectangle of marble with a three-foot ledge. A client just out of the tub was sprawled face down on a towel, like a basking seal. A naked assistant was rubbing the man’s buttocks with a cloth wrapped around his hand. Timidly, I stepped into the water and found it not hot, nor cool, but soft and smooth, oiled by the bodies of many men. There was none of the stinging heat of the Japanese public bath. It was a thick heat and heavy, slow-moving. Two washers, a big muscular man and a thin one, stood by the wall, quite naked except for their bundled hands, waiting for me to come out. The large man’s penis looked like a snail, while the other’s was long, plump, and purple, with all the appearance of debauchery. It hung with the weight and languor of a man with a long track record, making me wonder how many thousands of polishings it would take to look like that. It was a masterpiece that inspired admiration rather than envy, appended to a figure that might have stepped from the Buddhist hell of starvation. But his face showed no pride or conceit; he was simply and absentmindedly waiting for me to get out of the tub. I covered myself with my hands and stepped out of the warm water. He spread a bath towel quickly and instructed me to lie down.

  As Chang had told me, there were three kinds of rubbing cloths. The coarse, hempen one was for the arms, buttocks, back, and legs. Another cotton cloth, softer than the first, was for the sides and underarms. The softest was gauzy and used on the soles of the feet, the crotch, and other sensitive areas. He changed the cloth according to the area, tightly wrapping it around his hand like a bandage before rubbing my skin. He took one hand or leg at a time, shifted me around, turned me over, then over again, always with an expert, slightly rough touch which remained essentially gentle and considerate. After a while, he seemed to sigh and I heard him murmuring “Aiya . . .” under his breath. I half opened my eyes and found my arms, my belly, my entire body covered with a scale of gray dead skin like that produced by a schoolboy’s eraser. The man seemed to sense a challenge and began to apply more strength. It was less a matter of rubbing than of peeling off a layer of skin without resorting to surgery, the patient task of removing a layer of dirt closely adhering to the body. Talking to himself in amusement, he moved toward my head, then my legs, absorbed in his meticulous work. I had ceased to be embarrassed and, dropping my hands to my sides, I placed my whole body at his disposal. I let him take my right hand or left hand as he worked. Once I had surrendered my body to him the whole operation was extremely relaxing, like wallowing in warm mud. Soap was applied, then washed off with warm water; I was told to soak in the tub, and when I came out, again warm water was poured over me several times. Then he wiped me thoroughly with a steamed towel as hot as a lump of coal.

  Finally—smiling, as though to say “Here you are!”—he placed a pellet of skin on my palm. It was like a gray ball of tofu mash. The moist, tightly squeezed sphere was the size of a smallish plover’s egg. With so many dead cells removed, my skin had become as tender as a baby’s, clear and fresh, and all my cells, replenished with new serum, rejoiced aloud.

  I returned to the dressing room and tumbled into bed. The good-looking boy brought me a cup of hot jasmine tea. I drank it lying in bed, and with each mouthful felt as though a spurt of perspiration had shot from my body. With a fresh towel, the boy gently dried me. The nail-cutter entered and dipped my toes and fingernails, trimmed the thick skin off my heels, and shaved my corns, changing his instruments each time. When the work was completed, he left the room in silence. In his place, a masseur entered and began to work without a word. Strong, sensitive fingers and palms crept over my body, searching and finding the nests and roots of strained muscles, pressing, rubbing, pinching, patting, and untangling the knots. Every one of these employees was scrupulous in delivering his services. They concentrated on the work, unstinting of time and energy, their solemn delicacy incomparable. Their skill made me think of a heavyweight fighter skipping rope with the lightness of a feather. A cool mist emanated from the masseur’s strong fingers. My weight melted away and I dissolved into a sweet sleep.

  “My shirt.”

  Chang looked at me quizzically.

  “That’s the shirt I was wearing until yesterday.”

  When Chang came to my hotel room the next day, I pointed out the dirty pellet on the table. For some reason, only a twisted smile appeared on his face. He took out a packet of tea, enough for one pot, and said that he had bought me the very best tea in Hong Kong; I was to drink it in Tokyo. Then he fell silent, staring blankly. I told him about the washer, the nail-clipper, the boys, the tea, the sleep. I described everything in detail and revealed in my praise of these men, who knew one’s body and one’s needs so thoroughly, and were devoted to their work. One might have called them anarchists without bombs. Chang nodded only sporadically and smiled at whatever I said, but soon fell to gazing darkly at the wall. His preoccupation was so obvious that I was forced to stop talking and begin packing my suitcase. I had been completely atomized in the dressing room of the bathhouse. Even when I had revived and walked out of the door there see
med to be some space between my clothing and my flesh. I had felt chilly, and staggered at every sound and smell, every gust of air. But one night’s sleep restored my bones and muscles to their proper position, and a thin but opaque coating covered my skin, shrouding the insecurity of stark nakedness. Dried up and shriveled, the ball of dirt looked as if it might crumble at the lightest touch of a finger, so I carefully wrapped it in layers of tissue and put it in my pocket.

  We arrived at the airport, where I checked in and took care of all the usual details. When only the parting handshake remained before I left, Chang suddenly broke his silence. A friend in the press had called him last night. Laoshe had died in Peking. It was rumored that he was beaten to death, surrounded by the children of the Red Guard. There was another rumor that he had escaped this ignominy by jumping from the second-floor window of his home. Another source reported that he had jumped into a river. The circumstances were not at all clear, but it seemed a certainty that Laoshe had died an unnatural death. The fact seemed inescapable.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he do to be denounced?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What sort of things was he writing recently?”

  “I haven’t read them. I don’t know.”

  I looked at Chang, almost trembling myself. Tears were about to brim from his eyes; he held his narrow shoulders rigid. He had lost his usual calm, his gaiety, humor, all, but without anger or rancor; he just stood there like a child filled with fear and despair. This man, who must have withstood the most relentless of hardships, was helpless, his head hanging, his eyes red, like a child astray in a crowd.

  “It’s time for you to go,” he said. “Please come again.”

  I was silent.

  “Take care of yourself,” Chang said and held out his hand timidly; he shook mine lightly. Then he turned around, his head still downcast, and slowly disappeared into the crowd.

  I boarded the plane and found my seat. When I had fastened the seat belt, a vision from long ago suddenly returned to me. I had once visited Laoshe at his home in Peking. I now saw the lean, sinewy old writer rise amid a profusion of potted chrysanthemums and turn his silent, penetrating gaze upon me. Only his eyes and the cluster of flowers were visible, distant and clear. Distracted, I took the wrapping from my pocket and opened it. The gray pellet, now quite dried up, had crumbled into dusty powder.

  MURAKAMI HARUKI

  Murakami Haruki (b. 1949) has doubtless become the most widely read contemporary Japanese author in the United States, with his stories (in translation) often appearing in the New Yorker and other magazines. A popular writer, in both Japan and elsewhere, Murakami treats ambitious themes with his own brand of laconic humor. A number of his novels are available in English translation, notably Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (Sekai no owari to hādo-boirudo wandārando, 1985) and The Wind-up Bird Chronicle (Nejimaki-dori kuronikuru, 1994–1995). “Firefly” (Hotaru, 1983), a preliminary sketch for his novel Norwegian Wood (Noruei no mori, 1987), presents a wry view of student life in Tokyo.

  FIREFLY (HOTARU)

  Translated by J. Philip Gabriel

  Once upon a time—more like fifteen years ago, actually—I lived in a privately run dormitory for college students in Tokyo. I was eighteen then, a brand-new college freshman, and didn’t know the first thing about the city. I’d never lived on my own either, and my parents were naturally worried; putting me in a dorm seemed to be the best solution. Money was a factor, too, and the dorm seemed the cheapest way to go. I’d been dreaming of living in my own apartment, having a great old time, but what can you do? My folks were footing the bill for college—tuition, fees, a monthly allowance—so that was that.

  The dorm was situated on a generous piece of land on a rise in Bunkyō Ward and had a great view. The whole place was surrounded by a tall concrete wall, and right inside the main gate stood a huge zelkovia tree. Some 150 years old, maybe more. When you stood at its base and looked up, its huge, leafy branches blotted out the sky. The concrete sidewalk detoured around the tree and then ran straight across the courtyard. On either side of the courtyard were two concrete dorm buildings, three stories tall, lined up side by side. Huge buildings. From the open windows, somebody’s transistor radio was always blasting out a DJ’s voice. All the curtains in the rooms were the same cream color, cream being the color that fades least in the sunlight.

  The two-story main building fronted the sidewalk. A dining hall and communal bath were on the first floor, an auditorium, guestrooms, and meeting rooms on the second. Next to the main building was a third dorm building, also three stories. The courtyard was spacious, and sprinklers spun around on the lawn, glinting in the sunlight. Rounding it all out was a playing field for soccer and rugby behind the main building, as well as six tennis courts. Who could ask for more?

  The only problem with the dorm (not that everybody was convinced it was a problem, though) was who ran it—some mystery foundation headed up by a right-wing fanatic. One look at the pamphlet the dorm put out made this clear. The dorm was founded on a spirit of “achieving the basic goals of education and cultivating promising talent to serve the country.” And a lot of well-heeled businesses that agreed with that philosophy apparently helped underwrite the dorm. At least that was the official story. What lay beneath the surface was, like many things there, anybody’s guess. Rumor had it the whole place was a tax dodge or some sort of land-fraud scheme. Not that this made a bit of difference to the dayto-day life at the dorm. On a practical level, I guess, it didn’t matter who ran it—right-wingers, left-wingers, hypocrites, scoundrels. What ever the real story was, from the spring of 1967 to the fall of 1968, I called this dorm home.

  Each day at the dorm began with a solemn flag-raising ceremony. The platform for the flag raising was in the middle of the courtyard, so you could see it from all the dorm windows. Of course, they played the national anthem. Just like sports news and marches go together, you can’t have one without the other.

  The role of flag raiser was played by the head of the east dorm, the one I was in. He was fiftyish, tall, an altogether tough-looking customer. He had bristly hair with a sprinkling of gray and a long scar on his sunburned neck. It was rumored he was a graduate of the Nakano Military Academy. Next to him was a student who acted as his assistant. Nobody knew too much about him. He had close-cropped hair and always wore a school uniform. Nobody had any idea what his name was or which room he lived in. I’d never run across him in the dining hall or the communal bath. I wasn’t even sure he was a student. But since he wore the uniform, what else could he have been? Unlike Mr. Nakano Academy, he was short, chubby, and pasty looking. Every morning at six, the two of them would hoist the rising-sun flag up the flag pole.

  I don’t know how many times I saw this little scene played out. The 6:00 a.m. chime would ring and there they were in the courtyard, School-Uniform Man carrying a light wooden box, Nakano-Academy Man, a portable Sony tape recorder. Nakano-Academy Man placed the tape recorder at the base of the platform, and School-Uniform Man opened the box. Inside was a neatly folded Japanese flag. School Uniform handed it to Nakano Academy, who then attached it to the rope. School Uniform switched on the tape recorder.

  “May thy peaceful reign last long . . .” And the flag glided up the flagpole.

  When they got to the part that goes “Until this tiny stone . . .” the flag was halfway up and reached the top when they got to the end of the anthem. The two of them snapped to attention and gazed up at the flag. On sunny days when there was a breeze, it was quite a sight.

  The evening ceremony was about the same as in the morning, just done in reverse. The flag glided down the pole and was put away in the wooden box. The flag doesn’t wave at night.

  I don’t know why the flag has to be put away at night. The country continues to exist at night the same as always, right? And plenty of people are hard at work. Doesn’t seem fair those people can
’t have the same flag flying over them. Maybe it’s a silly thing to worry about—just the kind of thought a person like me is likely to fret over.

  In the dorm, freshmen and sophomores lived two to a room, while juniors and seniors lived alone. The kind of two-man room I inhabited was cramped and narrow. On the wall farthest from the door was a window with an aluminum frame. The furniture was Spartan looking, but solidly built—two desks and chairs, a bunk bed, two lockers, and a built-in set of shelves. In most of the rooms, the shelves were crammed full of the usual stuff: transistor radios, blow driers, electric coffee pots, jars of instant coffee, sugar, pots for cooking instant noodles, cups, and plates. Playboy pinups were taped to the plaster walls, and lined up on the desks were school textbooks, plus the odd popular novel.

  With just men living there, the rooms were filthy. The bottoms of the trash baskets were lined with moldy orange skins, and the empty tin cans that served as ashtrays contained four-inch-high layers of cigarette butts. Coffee grounds were stuck to the cups; cellophane wrappers from instant-noodle packages and empty beer cans were scattered all over the floor. Whenever the wind blew in, a cloud of dust swirled up from the floor. The rooms stunk, too, since everyone just threw their dirty laundry under the beds. And no one ever aired out their bedding, so all of it reeked of sweat and BO.

  My room, though, was spotless. Not a speck of dirt on the floor, gleaming ashtrays as far as the eye could see. The bedding was aired out once a week, the pencils were lined up neatly in the pencil holders. Instead of a pinup, our wall was decked out with a photo of canals in Amsterdam. Why? The reason was simple—my roommate was a nut about cleaning. I didn’t have to lift a finger, since he did it all—the laundry, too, even my laundry, if you can imagine. Say I’d just finished a beer; the instant I set the empty down on the table, he’d whisk it away to the trash can.