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

by Неизвестный

  Looking toward a specific point stage-right.

  Who’s that—who’s snoring at this time of day? Nakamaru, my dear. Mr. Ichikawa Nakamaru. Grandpa Nakamaru. (Shouts.) Nakamaru! For heaven’s sake, how could you drift off so shamelessly like that, just before the curtain? Don’t forget, it’s up to you and me to hold the audience’s attention in Isaburō’s Parting. If you have time to snore, shouldn’t you be going over the scene a couple more times? Look, this is the first time you’ve ever played the part of Isaburō’s mother; I hoped you’d take it a little more seriously. . . . Wipe up your dribble. And will you please redo your makeup, around the mouth? (Sotto voce.) Really, makes you wonder, doesn’t it? We had to ask him to help out from today because we’re a bit short-staffed, but what a promising start! “Yes, I have been acclaimed as the best mature female impersonator in the Kantō region,” he says. First-rate when it comes to self-promotion, I must say.

  At this point, her attention is caught by something in the wings stage-left. She looks toward it, and then speaks in the direction of stage-right.

  Toshi, there’s someone there. You mustn’t let people into the dressing-room before curtain up. You know the dogsbody’s duties include guarding the dressing-room against intruders. We just had our costumes pinched at the Oshima Theater in Kawasaki, remember? The chappy looked so impressive I thought he was a journalist from some magazine; then, before you know it, he runs off with a basket full of costumes. . . . Eh? Someone from TBS Television? He says he’d like to talk to me after the show, so you let him in?

  Turns toward stage-left.

  Oh my, let me introduce myself: I am Satsuki Yōko.

  She takes something deferentially. It looks like a card.

  Mr. Koyama. Well, very pleased to meet you.

  Toward stage-right.

  Toshi, dear, why didn’t you tell me sooner that we have a guest?

  In the direction of stage-left.

  You don’t mind waiting until after the show? It would be better afterward because it concerns a serious matter? A serious matter, I see. My heart is already going pit-a-pat with excitement, like a little girl’s.

  Toward stage-right.

  Toshi, darling, how about opening a bottle of beer for our guest? And could you run along to the front of the house to get us some oden3 to go with the beer? Well, just oden might be a bit lonely. Add a plate of grilled squid. . . . Wait a minute, Grandpa Nakamaru, I didn’t ask you to go along. Just imagine, an old woman in white makeup parades across the stalls carrying a grilled squid in front of her—the audience will have a fit! You’re an old hand and I’m sure you don’t need a lecture on the actor’s ABCs but, for heaven’s sake, our job is to sell dreams—you can’t walk about the stalls in your makeup and costume. Eh? You want to wait for your cue in the wing? That’s why you were going out? Honestly, Grandpa; come here a minute.

  Her eyes move. They follow his movement which stops at her side.

  Nakamaru, dear, I don’t like to say this, but have you really ever played a female part before? The way you just walked over here—you were concentrating so hard on pointing your toes inward that you forgot all about your knees. I tell you what, why don’t you put a sheet of paper between your knees and try to walk without dropping it. That’s the basic technique for walking like a woman. For goodness sake, don’t just stand there looking gormless—try it. Here, take this tissue. Now, as you walk about, listen very carefully. We’ve already gone over4 the scene of Isaburō’s Parting twice. If an actor can’t get it right after two rehearsals, there isn’t much hope for him in our kind of theater; I’m afraid he’ll have to go legit.5 So, remember, Isaburō’s Parting is made up of three scenes. The first scene is almost entirely mine. There lives in the sea-town of Chōshi a clan of yakuza gangsters called the Yamagen. The chieftain is Yamamoto Gengorō and I am—that is, Isaburō is—the heir to the clan. Yakuza they may be, but the Yamagen are one of that rare and honest breed of gangsters, made up from top to bottom of saint-like characters. Well, one day Isaburō, on his old man’s behalf, pays a visit to Katori Shrine in Sawara, in neighboring Shimousa Province. When the rival Isetatsu clan find this out, however, they seize the opportunity to raid the Yamagen. The Isetatsu is an upstart yakuza clan in the same town, and naturally they’re all villains. Caught unawares, and with the invincible Isaburō away, alas, not a single man of the Yamagen survives this vicious raid. And now the old chieftain lies drawing his last breath. . . . At this point the curtain rises. As soon as the curtain’s up, Isaburō, who learned of the fatal news on his way home, comes rushing back, crying out “Father!” The old man, with his dying breath, says:

  (The lines from the scene of Isaburō’s Parting that appear several times in the following are for the most part based on a seven/five—or sometimes five/seven, seven/seven— syllabic rhythm.)6

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Isaburō. My life, like a rice cake in summer, won’t last till the night. Don’t bother attending to my wounds but listen, listen carefully to what I have to say. It’s about your origin . . . you are not my real son. Some twenty-odd years ago, the slave-trader Denkichi gave me a babe-in-arms for five ryō of gold, and that child was you; you are my adopted son. What? You knew that? Then you also know where your real mother lives? Ah, that you don’t know. I heard on the wind, she now makes a humble living alone at the Numata pass in windy Jōshū province, serving tea and selling straw sandals to travelers. Don’t trouble yourself with avenging me. Forget the Isetatsu, but leave here at once. Here, this is the talisman that was tied around your neck as a baby; it’s the talisman of the goddess Kishibo of Iriya. And 20 ryō—my farewell gift to you. Take care, Isaburō, and look after your mother well. Ah . . . how detestable is the yakuza life!”

  She becomes the chieftain halfway through, and here she/he dies. But she rises immediately.

  Good grief, what a long speech, bloody unnatural on his deathbed. That’s how countless “popular” theaters went bust in the past. However, that’s that for the moment.

  She looks toward stage-left.

  Really, there are a lot of scenes like that in Shakespeare? You don’t say. Uh . . . Shakespeare . . . Shakespeare. . . . Ah, him, he’s the big shot in the legit theater, isn’t he? Don’t they ever go bankrupt, playing scenes like that? They don’t? Aren’t they lucky to have such tolerant audiences.

  She begins to put on her costume.

  Toshi, this (a piece of her costume) stinks. It hasn’t been washed. Toshi. . . . Where is everybody in this play? Actually, Isaburō does avenge his Yamagen foster-father. He dashes over to the Isetatsu headquarters all by himself and kills everyone in sight. In the process, he ends up also killing a crooked sheriff, Isetatsu’s crony, and becomes an outlaw. This is the second scene; it centers around sword-fighting. Then comes the scene at the tea-hut on the Numata pass. Grandpa Nakamaru plays the old woman at the tea-hut, that’s right, Isaburō’s natural mother . . . you know that, do you? Well, then why do you need to wait in the wings before the curtain’s up? That’s what I wanted to ask you. Really, Grandpa, couldn’t you just relax and wait in the dressing-room? The wings are too crowded; you can’t hang around there without a good reason.

  She puts on a wig at about this point. With the wig on she now looks very much “the abandoned son.”

  In the third scene, Nakamaru, dear, you are already on stage when the curtain rises. As the lights come up, you are seen sprinkling water in front of your tea-hut. The water accidentally hits the feet of Isaburō, who happens to be passing by. The old woman apologises profusely and offers him tea. Your line here is: “Three miles to a saké shop and two miles to a tofu shop, this is a remote mountain hut, sir; I have nothing much to offer you but a cup of brewed tea. If you don’t mind that, won’t you please relieve your thirst. . . .” Got it? You must time this line exactly. Without your tea, Isaburō will just have to pass by the hut and be gone. Can you try that line?

  She listens to his line as she puts on her costume, and responds to
it.

  “You speak the same dialect as mine, ma’am. Aren’t you from the sea-town of Chōshi?”

  She listens to the line spoken by the other.

  “They say dialect is the passport of your homeland, and, just as I thought, you too come from Chōshi. How good to hear that familiar Chōshi accent in these strange parts. But I wonder, why should anyone brought up in sight of the ocean want to live in a remote mountainous place like this? There must be some deep reason. . . . Well, old mother, by some providence our paths have crossed here, and what’s more we come from the same town; I’d like to hear your story. . . . Somehow I crave to hear it. As you see, I am a rolling stone; come tomorrow, I shall be gone from the Numata pass. Even if I wanted to repeat your story, I should have no one to tell it to. I shall forget it as soon as I hear it. So you can pretend you are just talking to a wall. . . .”

  Suddenly, toward stage-left.

  Well what is this “serious matter” you wanted to talk about? As Isaburō says, “Somehow I crave to hear it. . . .” I know, you’d like me to appear on television. That’s it, isn’t it? Of course I will. It’s great publicity. How about the whole Satsuki troupe appearing all together, wham . . . ! Oh, just myself? Well, in that case, let’s see, first my close-up appears on the screen, with a big caption across the top saying something like “20 YEARS OF HARDSHIP! NOBLY THE ACTRESS/MANAGER BORE IT ALL”; then the music, ta-ra. . . . No? A reunion on the morning show!? But reunion with whom? Tagami Haruhiko! Oh, I’ve heard of him. He’s the laddie who started out with the New Music Group, then broke away to become an actor, isn’t he? I know the name and the face—I do at least read the gossip magazines, you know. I see, he’s just got a big part in a prime-time TV drama, so, to boost publicity, you’re setting up a real-life reunion drama on the morning show? Well, that’s very nice for him. But personally, I don’t know Tagami Haruhiko. And if I don’t know the boy, it couldn’t be a reunion, could it? What a funny idea. Are you really from TBS television?

  To stage-right.

  Grandpa, that long speech about her life you just tried—there were several important items missing. Would you please include all the points, in the right order, and speak clearly: (1) I was married to a fisherman in Chōshi twenty-three years ago; (2) I got pregnant right away and had a baby boy; (3) about that time, my husband, as if possessed by devils, suddenly began to go astray; (4) three years later he was stabbed to death by a yakuza in a fight over gambling; (5) furthermore he left behind as much as thirty ryō in gambling debts; (6) to pay off those debts, I was sold to a hostelry in Jōshū Province as a prostitute; (7) I had no choice but to hand my baby over to a go-between; she promised to have him adopted by a respectable foster-family; (8) two years later, I was bought out by a haberdashery merchant from Numata and became his second wife; (9) immediately I started looking for the go-between, but she was nowhere to be found; my second husband went to Chōshi to look for the child several times, but he couldn’t discover his whereabouts; (10) eight years ago, my second husband died; I seem to have rotten luck in my choice of husbands. I folded up his shop and set up the tea-hut here. With the panoramic view from here, I feel as if I could see my home town, Chōshi, though of course one can’t possibly see it. . . . So there are ten points all together. Unless you mention all ten in the right order, it won’t do, you know.

  She has almost finished dressing herself for the part. It only remains to put on the straw sandals. While she draws the sword out and in of the scabbard:

  And for the closing lines of this long speech about her life, please remember to highlight every word like a jewel. “Sir, you’ve been such a good listener that I seem to have revealed all my shameful past, despite myself. Now let me warm up a bottle of homemade sweet saké for you. There are some baked rice-cakes, too. It’s cold in the mountains, and an empty stomach doesn’t help, so won’t you have something before you go. . . . What’s the matter, sir, are you crying?”

  Toward stage-left.

  Child? Yes, I had a boy. He was adopted by a respectable family. We were living literally from day to day then, often without enough to eat. So much worry that my milk dried up in the end, and he was put into care at some Christian orphanage in Bunkyō district; yes, I remember now, it was called the Orphanage of the Holy Mother.

  Toward stage-right.

  “To tell the truth, my circumstances are just like your son’s: I too was sold to a stranger as an infant, and I don’t know if I have a brother or a sister, or even any relative at all; that’s why I was so moved by your story. But by some good fortune my foster-father was a kind man, like a Buddha but with a dagger at his side and a tattoo on his back: he cherished me and raised me like his own. All the same, ma’am, I bear a grudge, I hate the mother who abandoned me.”

  She listens to a line from the other (probably very short), and responds:

  “But why did she bear me at all if she was so ready to abandon me? . . . Your son would probably say the same.”

  She listens and responds.

  “I would rather have been killed than abandoned. The mother kills her child in desperation, unable to bring herself to give it away: that is the mercy of a true mother, isn’t it?”

  Looks toward stage-left.

  What—wasn’t my boy adopted by the Yokoyama Electrical Shop in Hachiōji? Honestly you do go on with your silly questions; can’t you find anything better to do? The nurseries don’t tell you the details of where your child went; that avoids any trouble between the adoptive and natural parents later on. The matron said to me, “Don’t worry, your child will be adopted by a respectable family. But if you want to change your mind, this is the time: Will you take the child back or send him away?” I cried and cried for a whole half-day till my tears dried up, feeling half-grateful and half-dejected. But, just supposing—mind you, it’s a big “if ”—supposing someone or other’s child really was adopted by the Yokoyama family, what of it? . . . I see, the Yokoyamas had a child of their own in time and, not unexpectedly, began to ill-treat their adopted son. Well, well . . . and what happened next? . . . The boy left home when he turned fifteen and he’s been missing ever since. Ah, it’s a heartrending story even for a stranger. But this boy Tagami Haruhiko eventually came up in the world, and became a star, isn’t that right? So the story has a happy ending, three cheers!

  Toward stage-right.

  “ ‘How can you tell a motherless child’; do you know that children’s song? It goes on, ‘He stands in the doorway, sucking his thumb.’ In the dusk, you watch the circle of children playing together, squatting in the doorway, sucking your thumb, crying because you are left out . . . that’s a lonely feeling for any child. . . .”

  Turns toward stage-left.

  A photo? Tagami Haruhiko always carried an old photo next to his heart, all the while eking out a living from one downtown restaurant job after another? A photo of a mother holding a baby? And it shows the corner of something like a costume box in the background? Are you seriously suggesting the mother’s face in the picture somehow resembles mine? Come on, mine’s a very common face with eyes looking like almonds; how can you be sure? I see, the mother’s face in the photo is rubbed off? Because of the boy’s caressing and stroking it every day? You really make my heart bleed! What—? Nonetheless you can see the character tsuki on the costume box in the background? Look, just because the box has tsuki written on it, it doesn’t mean that it says Sa-tsuki. It could be tsuki-mura or tsukigata. . . .