“Just wait,” he said, taking out a tobacco pouch. “I need a smoke.”
The pouch was a brownish thing, made of some kind of leather or paper. He carried it tucked in the waistband of his pants under his jacket. With obvious relish, he inhaled the smoke to the bottom of his lungs, and while he was releasing it through his nose, he tapped the short stem of his pipe with his tubular pipe case. I saw a tiny shower of sparks leap from the metal pipe bowl and fall to the toe of his sandal, where they fizzled. The miner blew into his empty pipe. From the bowl emerged a puff of smoke that had been trapped in the stem. Only now did he speak to me.
“Where are you from? What’d you come to a place like this for? You look kind of frail—I’ll bet you’ve never worked before. Why are you here?”
“It’s true, I’ve never had a job. I came here because … something happened …”
I said that much, but I didn’t tell him that I’d be leaving the mine because I was sick of all the miners there. Still less did I say that I intended to die. But talking with him was different from talking with the others. I wasn’t keeping up a respectful front while inwardly despising him as an animal. I simply didn’t spill out everything that was on my mind. What I did tell him, I said with sincerity and honesty and genuine respect. The miner stared silently for a while at the bowl of his pipe. Then he pressed in another wad of tobacco. When the smoke started streaming from his nose, he opened his mouth.
What most surprised me when he began to speak was the extent of his education—the refined sentiments, the insight, the intensity, the superior vocabulary. He employed difficult Chinese-derived expressions of a sort that a miner could never hope to know, and he did so with the ease and naturalness of one who had been using such written words as an everyday part of his home life until the day before. Even now the sight of him comes back to me vividly. With his big eyes wide open and fixed on me, his head thrust a little forward, the knuckles of one hand pressing against his knee, left shoulder slightly cocked, he spoke to me, grasping his pipe in the fingers of his right hand, his handsome teeth showing now and then from between thin lips. I recall the exact words he chose, the order in which he spoke them, and I have recorded them here without alteration (though there’s nothing I can do about his tone of voice):
“You know what they say, ‘The older, the wiser.’ I may be engaged in this lowly profession, but I want you to take what I have to say as good advice from someone older and wiser. Youth is an emotional time of life—how well I remember! And in that time of life, a young man tends to make mistakes. It’s true for you, I’m sure. It certainly was for me. It’s true for everybody. I understand what you’re going through. I don’t know how much your circumstances differ from mine, but believe me, I understand. I’m not going to criticize you. I sympathize with you. I know you’ve got your reasons. If I were in a position to offer you advice, I’d listen to your story, but I’ll never be able to leave this hole, so there’d be no point. And you’d probably be better off not telling me. You know, I myself was a—”
When he cut himself short at this point, I noticed that his eyes were shining a little strangely. Some powerful feeling had obviously taken hold of him. Whether this was because of what he had just told me—that he would “never be able to leave this hole”—or because of what he was about to say, I couldn’t tell. But his eyes were undeniably strange. And they were focused on me with penetrating intensity. Beneath that intensity, there was something—call it nostalgia, call it melancholy—something warm and appealing. Now, in this black hole, humanity was this miner, and this miner was his eyes. Suddenly my entire spirit was drawn into them, and I absorbed his every word. He began again, as he had before the pause:
“I was a student once, too. I’ve been educated beyond high school. But when I was twenty-three, I became involved with a woman and—I’m not going to go into detail, but because of this I committed a terrible crime. By the time I realized what I had done, it was too late. There was no place left for me in society. I hadn’t committed this crime on a momentary whim. Circumstances had forced me into it. But society is a coldhearted master. Keep your sins hidden and it forgives you, but bring them out into the open and it will never let you go. I’m an honest, straightforward sort of person. I don’t like the twisted and false. Which is precisely why I ended up committing the sin I did. But once I had done it, there was no way around it. I had to abandon my studies, cast aside all hope of distinguishing myself. My life was ruined. It was a painful truth, but an immovable one. And in addition, the hand of justice was reaching out for me.”
(I don’t know how consciously he employed this literate phraseology, but he expressly referred to “the hand of justice.”)
“Still, I was not convinced that I was the guilty one. I couldn’t blindly accept punishment. That kind of thing is just not in my nature. So I ran. As far as I could. I ended up here and buried myself in the hole. For six years now, I haven’t seen the light of the sun. Every day I spend swinging the hammer. Six whole years of nothing but hammering. Next year will be the seventh, and it’ll be safe for me to leave the hole. But I won’t leave. I can’t leave. The hand of justice can’t touch me, but I won’t leave. What would be the use? Even if I could go back to the world, the deeds I committed there wouldn’t go away. I still carry the past around in my guts. And you—it’s the same with you, isn’t it? You still carry the past around in your guts, don’t you?”
His question took me off guard. I had no ready-made answer for him. Inside my guts was anything but the “past.” It was more like the present, including everything from over a year ago to the day before yesterday. I strongly considered confessing all my secrets to this man, opening myself up to him. But he seemed almost determined to prevent that as he continued his story.
“I’ve seen every dirty thing there is to see about men in the six years I’ve lived here. But still I don’t feel like getting out. No matter how angry it makes me, how sick to my stomach, I don’t want to leave. Back in society—that place where the sun shines—there are far more painful things than what I have here. That’s what keeps me going. When I think how dark and cramped this place is, I’m satisfied. Now my body stinks of copper and it can’t go a day without the smell of an oil lamp. But—but that’s me I’m talking about, not you. We mustn’t let this happen to you. It’s a terrible thing for a living human being to take on the smell of copper. We can’t let that happen. I don’t care what great decision brought you here, what your purpose in coming here may be. All it takes is a couple of days here for decisions and purposes to be snuffed out. That’s where the real pity lies, the shame—which may be all right for some bastard without ideals who doesn’t know how to do anything else but use a hammer and chisel. But somebody like you—you were in school, I suppose. Where was that? Oh, never mind, it doesn’t really matter. And you’re young. Too young for the hole. This is a place for human trash. It’s a cemetery. A place where human beings are buried alive. A trap. And once you’re caught in it, you never get out, no matter how fine a man you are. You didn’t know that, I’m sure, and you probably let some procurer talk you into coming here. This makes me very sad for your sake. It’s a terrible thing to cause the degeneracy of an individual human being. Just killing the person would be less of a crime. The degenerate goes on to cause harm, to hurt others. I know what I’m talking about because that’s just what I have done. It’s the only thing I can do—now. And all the crying and regretting in the world aren’t going to change that. Which is why you have to get out of here fast. For the others. It’s not just you who’ll suffer if you become degenerate … Tell me, you have parents, don’t you?”
I answered simply that I did.
“All the more reason for you to get out. And you’re a Japanese, aren’t you?”
I did not reply.
“If you’re a Japanese, you should take a profession that will benefit Japan. For a man of learning to become a miner is a great loss to the nation. That’s why you should g
et out now. If you’re from Tokyo, go back to Tokyo. And do something decent—something that’s right for you and good for the country. You simply must not stay here. If you don’t have the fare, I’ll give it to you. So get out. Go home. You understand what I’m trying to tell you. I’m in the Yamanaka Gang. Just come to the Yamanaka Gang and ask for Yasu. Be sure to come. I’ll see to it that you have your fare.”
With that, Yasu finished speaking. I had been told that there were ten thousand miners in this place, and I had come to the conclusion that every last one of them was a monster, an animal without the slightest trace of intelligence or human feeling. For me to have met Yasu at a time like this was something right out of a novel. Snow in midsummer would have seemed less of a miracle to me than my having been the recipient of Yasu’s lecture in the mine. Sure, I had heard “It’s always darkest before the dawn,” and I knew the old sayings about Buddha swooping down to save you from Hell, and adversity being the surest guide to salvation, and these had left me with the vague impression that, if I were in deep trouble, someone would show up to save me, adding a touch of drama to situations in which I had been in trouble. But this was totally different. I was all the more amazed by this encounter with Yasu because it occurred at the precise moment when seething flames of indignation had permanently branded my heart with the overpowering certainty not only that ten thousand men were brute beasts but that every single one of them was my mortal enemy. Yasu’s admonishments struck me with such force that they turned my original intention on its head.
Both of us kept silent for a time. Having said all there was for him to say, Yasu had no further need to speak, but now I had an obligation to make some sort of reply. No. Describing my position as an “obligation” is an affront to Yasu. I wanted desperately to express the gratitude I felt in my heart, and I wanted him to hear some of the thoughts that were going through my head. My nose was stuffed, however, making it impossible for me to speak. Had I tried to force the words out, I felt, they would have come through my nose instead of my mouth. As I struggled with my feelings, the corners of my mouth began to tingle and my nostrils to twitch. Soon, denied an exit, the emotion that clogged my nose and mouth coalesced in my eyes. The lashes became heavy and the lids began to burn. It was a difficult moment for me, and Yasu, too, wore an odd expression on his face. The awkward silence continued as we sat cross-legged on the ground, facing each other. Then, from the neighboring work site, there came the clanging sound of ore being chipped from the rock. Thinking back on it now, I wish I had learned exactly how many feet beneath the surface of the earth lay this place in which Yasu and I faced each other without speaking. Such chance encounters are rare enough in a big city, but almost impossible in the depths of a mine. To think that there could be a stage far down in a sunless hole where two men, forgotten by the world, by other men, by history, and even by the sun, were bestowing sacred teachings and shedding precious tears: surely no one could know this but the men themselves who sat cross-legged upon the earth, gazing wordlessly at each other.
Yasu lit another pipeful. One after another, thick puffs of smoke floated up and melted into the darkness, and before long my voice came back to me.
“I want to thank you for everything you’ve said. And I agree: this is no place for human beings. Until I met you, I was sure that today would be my first and last day in the mine …”
I cut myself short here, unable, of course, to say that I had planned to leave the mine and die.
“All the better,” he said with enthusiasm. “You should leave as soon as possible.” When I kept silent, he went on, “And don’t worry about the money for your fare. I’ll raise that.”
His repeated offers to pay my fare I took as a sign of good will, but I had not the slightest intention of accepting his money. Nor was this the same as my having declined the boss’s offer of charity the day before. I had badly wanted to accept that—so badly that I would have bowed down to the ground for it. But I had forced myself to refuse it when I calculated that it was more to my advantage to become a miner than to accept travel money. No such calculations were involved with Yasu. I simply didn’t want to take his money. I ought to have taken it, of course, if I was not going to negate his goodwill, and it would certainly come in handy if I was going to quit the mine, but still I didn’t want to accept it. Now that I think the matter over, this feeling seems to have sprung from a sense that it would have been a shameful thing to accept money from a man of such fine character—that my character would stand in a position inferior to his. Since he was such a gentleman, I wanted to be as much of a gentleman as possible, fearing that if I weren’t I’d lose face. To give significant satisfaction to a person by accepting his goodwill is gratifying to both parties, but one who accepts money when he has no reason to do so, merely to put himself in an advantageous position, is no better than a beggar. The thought of demonstrating to a man so worthy of respect as Yasu that I was a beggar, that I was in no way superior to a beggar, I found intolerable. The stupidity of youth is counterbalanced by a surprising cleanness.
“I can’t accept your money,” I said.
Yasu had taken a few more puffs and was just putting his pipe back in its case. “Sorry if I insulted you,” he replied, glancing up.
I felt terrible. If he had insisted that I take the money then, I’m sure I would have. Since that time, I have noticed that, when people accept money, they tend to refuse it at first and pocket it later. This is probably just a social form that developed from the psychological state I was then actually experiencing. Being the admirable man he was, Yasu merely apologized, saving me, fortunately, from being trapped into following the form.
Yasu immediately turned from the question of my fare to ask, “You will be going back to Tokyo, though, won’t you?”
My determination to die had dulled somewhat by then, and I felt there was some possibility of my returning home after I had saved enough to pay my way. “I’ll give it serious thought,” I replied. “I’d like to come to you for advice again soon.”
“I see. Well, then, I’ll show you the way out.”
He thrust his tobacco pouch into his waistband and covered it with the skirt of his jacket. Holding my lantern, I stood up. Yasu led the way. The climb was surprisingly easy. After four or five of those terraced places and two stretches of crawling, we came out to a tunnel with a fairly high ceiling where you could walk upright. We followed the long, curving roadway, climbing to the right. At the top of the slope we suddenly came out to Checkpoint No. 1. When we could see the electric lights shining, Yasu came to a halt.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “That’s the checkpoint. Climb to the right from there and you’ll come to the tracks. After that, it’s one tunnel all the way. I can’t go out now, though. It’s too early for me. I have to work a little more. But I’ll be back in my boiler this evening. Any time after five. Come and see me if you’re free. Watch yourself, now—and goodbye.”
Yasu’s shadow slipped into the darkness. By the time I turned to thank him, his lantern had rounded the corner. I found my way to the mine entrance alone and staggered as far as the boiler. Many thoughts crossed my mind on the way. This man called Yasu—what would he be doing now if he had developed his talents in society in the normal way? One thing was certain: he would have risen to far greater heights than a miner. Had society killed Yasu, or had Yasu done something that society could not forgive? It was unthinkable that such a man—so refreshingly honest and straightforward—could have committed some extreme outrage. Perhaps the fault lay not with Yasu but with society. Being so young, I possessed only the haziest notion of what “society” was in the first place, but I felt sure that any society that would expel a man like Yasu could not be worth much. Maybe because I was standing in his corner, I could not bring myself to believe that Yasu had committed a crime that made it necessary for him to run away. What I needed to believe was that society was at fault; society had killed Yasu. But, as I say, I did not even know what society w
as. I just assumed that society was people. And it made even less sense to me why people would have killed a good man like Yasu. I more or less concluded that society was at fault, though this didn’t make me hate society. It simply caused me to take pity on Yasu. I found myself wishing that I could take his place. I had come this far on my own initiative, planning to kill myself, and if I changed my mind there was nothing to prevent me from going home. Yasu, meanwhile, had been killed by other people, and he had no choice but to live in this place. Even if he wanted to go home, there was nowhere for him to go. He was by far the more pitiful of the two.
Yasu had called himself a degenerate, and I suppose it is a form of degeneracy for a man who has been the recipient of higher education to become a miner. But it pained me to think that he seemed to mean not only a debasement of social position but a corruption of personal integrity as well. Was Yasu offering up his money to the “goddesses”? Was he shooting dice in the mine? Did he torment sick men by forcing them to watch funeral processions? Had he put up a wife for collateral? No, not Yasu. Of that I was sure. Not a single miner had failed to mock me from the moment of my arrival the day before. Alone among them, Yasu—in a deep, dark hole—had given full recognition to my character. Yasu was doing the work of a miner, but he was not a miner deep in his heart. Despite this, he had called himself a degenerate and insisted that he would remain so as long as he lived, that his was a living death in the depths of degeneracy. Fully aware of this, he yet continued to live and to work. To live and wield his hammer. To live—and try to save me! As long as Yasu was alive, I could not die. To die would be a form of weakness …
I had made up my mind. Now, whatever I did, it would be after becoming a miner. Hurrying back as quickly as I could, I found Hatsu sitting on a rock, waiting for me, some fifty yards from the boiler. The rain had stopped. The sky was still overcast, but I didn’t have to worry anymore about getting wet. There was a breeze blowing down from the mountain. I felt cold but tremendously happy to see the bright, daylight world. As I rushed toward Hatsu in my joy (though still dragging my tired feet), he fixed me with an odd stare and said, “Hey, you found your way out! Pretty good!”
The Miner Page 20