Spark

by Naoki Matayoshi

  “You think too much. Loosen up and just do what you like.”

  “That’s OK if manzai’s just a hobby. But if you love it and want to keep on doing it, you gotta make the effort.”

  Kamiya said nothing. Maybe he was thinking.

  “You can’t throw everything away. I set my filter fine because I absolutely don’t want to get rid of anything. It means a lot of crap gets in too, but even I can chuck that stuff anytime. So please, don’t be proud only of being able to throw stuff away.”

  “Tokunaga, I’m sorry,” Kamiya said softly.

  I wish he’d slugged me instead.

  “And another thing—why the hell did you copy my hairstyle? And my clothes. You said you’d rather die than copy somebody, that you wouldn’t even want to imitate yourself… Well, look at you, are you copying me or what?”

  I really didn’t want to be saying these things, but I couldn’t help it. I also didn’t have to hear Kamiya’s response to know what he was feeling.

  “I just thought your hairstyle looked cool.”

  Was that all it was? All that mattered to him was his art—his unique ideas about comedy and expression—and he had zero interest in hairstyle and clothes? Was copying my style no different from his ordering the same thing at a restaurant that somebody else ordered because it looked good? Did he eat the same thing as everyone else while he was thinking up gags only he could come up with? Style for me was something personal, like the frame you put on a picture. It was the way you displayed yourself, the way people might see you, have an impression of you. But you did it so they would buy the picture. Maybe that was of no concern to Kamiya, the artist. But it was for me, because I believed that the frame was part of the picture, and if you completely ignored commercial considerations, you ran the risk of changing its original meaning. It was like not protecting your work.

  “It’s copying,” I said shakily.

  A heavy silence descended between us. I sat still, unable to move. Kamiya stood and, with an air of sadness, went over to the chest of drawers and rooted around in it. He pulled something out and went swiftly into the bathroom.

  What had I done? Was I trying to make Kamiya take responsibility for my lack of ability? No! I’d spoken my honest truth, exposing all the ugly, embarrassing parts of me in the process because I hoped Kamiya would turn it around for me.

  He emerged from the bathroom looking like a different person. His hair had been cut every which way, jagged, like a crazy man, shorn to the scalp here, long strands there. It was so hideous it was shocking. I could hardly bear to look at him.

  “I was trying for a Beckham look but ended up more like a cheetah.”

  “You wish!” I said, and Kamiya laughed.

  “Hey, sorry about all that,” he said, and went over to the fridge for a bottle of saké.

  I don’t remember how I got home that night. The next day I phoned Kamiya, but he wasn’t answering. I texted an apology, and immediately the reply came back: No problem. I was drunk and don’t remember a thing! It was the exclamation mark that left me feeling strangely sad.

  The manzai TV show we were on folded after a year. Doing the show had brought us a lot, though. Like invitations to appear on late-night shows, open-mic comedy nights and campus events all around the country, not just in Tokyo. I’m sure that the other comedians who got these gigs knew like we did that our fans were young and fickle, and our popularity would never last. We were too old to make the mistake of thinking otherwise. And we were almost too old to think it was our job to pretend we didn’t know—and to be sneered at because of that. But I lived for that moment—always incredible to me—when you run towards the mic in the centre of the stage and cheers rise up from the crowd.

  I moved from a shabby apartment with no bath that was 25,000 yen a month, to a classier place in upmarket Shimokitazawa that was 110,000 yen a month. It might’ve looked like I was getting in above myself, but I knew what I was doing. Just once in my life I wanted the experience of living in a place like that.

  Yamashita got a girlfriend and was living with her in trendy Ebisu. He even started talking about getting married.

  Kamiya, I hadn’t seen since that night at Yuki’s.

  In the end the Doofuses never got asked to be on the shows in which the other comedians in our generation appeared. You could tell who got on them and who didn’t from their lifestyles. But lavish lifestyles, like fame and trendiness, don’t go on forever. I knew this truth, of course, even as I hoped against hope I could hold on. Eventually, some of the manzai duos in those shows made their way on to prime-time TV, while others disbanded. They might make fresh starts as solo comedians, or switch direction to become producers and scriptwriters, or go back to their home towns and find different jobs entirely. Much of my time as a comedian had been spent with Kamiya, but in recent years it was the kohai from the agency I saw most.

  I’m not a sociable person, and didn’t get to know many other comedians. Nevertheless I thought of them as my peers, comrades battling in the same theatres at the same time as me, and I was proud to be associated with them. Whenever I entered a dressing room in my dirty Converse sneakers, they’d be there, dressed just as scruffily as me. Being with them let me forget for a moment about getting left behind in life and being made fun of as just-another-comedian. It was a way of fending off reality. We may not have ever exchanged a single word, but if it hadn’t been for them, I could never have stuck with that crazy life for ten years.

  And then slowly, I began to realize that things were changing. Yamashita and I were getting fewer and fewer gigs, and the kohai began leaving to head down new paths. I can say for a fact, though, that we were never just fooling around. We put it all on the line. We knew fear, lodged like a stone in the pits of our stomachs. Fear of all the things there were to fear: parents ageing, lovers getting old and not succeeding before time ran out. I dreaded having to put an end to my dream.

  There were many nights when everybody was a stranger. But we kept on doing our thing and refining our gags, with genuine feeling and hope, and drinking with the little money left over at the end of the month to ease the anxiety and forget about the hardship. I’d find myself getting pumped up thinking things could still change and we’d change the world. Everybody believed, absolutely, that their day would come.

  One afternoon Yamashita rang up to say let’s meet. Without asking why, I set out for the coffee shop where we always went. When I saw him sitting at our usual table, I knew from the look on his face this was going to be heavy. He told me he’d married his girlfriend, and she was pregnant with twins. Our manzai partnership was over.

  “I know it sounds lame when I say I’m doing this for my unborn children,” Yamashita said, “but it is true they’ve given me a push.” He looked relieved.

  Yamashita wasn’t suddenly throwing it all away, I thought. He was moving on to a new challenge.

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  Then: “You know, I should really get busy and find a place where the three of us can live with the twins.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, how cool if we could all live together!”

  I was a bit embarrassed at the way our roles in the duo were so clearly on display, but Yamashita kept it going neatly.

  “How would we explain it to her parents?” he said, still pushing me into being the funny man, as always.

  This coffee shop with its dirty walls was not a place we frequented because it was popular with a certain crowd. We came because it was comfortable, because we could always find a couple of seats and because we never got the slightest inkling we weren’t welcome. When I thought about never coming here with Yamashita again, I felt a sentimentality even for the coffee cups.

  I wanted to say thanks for the last ten years, but knew my voice would shake, and maybe he wouldn’t hear me properly, and maybe I’d have to repeat myself. So I left the words unsaid.

  We told the agency Sparks was disbanding. Nobody tried to stop us. The break-up
would become official once we completed any remaining engagements on the books.

  Word got out. At our last gig for the agency, the audience was bigger than usual. Apparently we’d connected with some people. We were manzai artists in some eyes at least.

  The music starts, I emerge from the wings, turn to the mic and take a bow. Yamashita bursts out from behind, overtakes me, and I follow him into the blaze of lights. Loud applause as we run towards the mic. How many times have we worn these matching tight black suits, chosen when we were twenty, on the occasion of our coming-of-age ceremonies, specifically for our future manzai career. We’d never learned to wear decent shoes until we became adults. Now we stand with the mic between us.

  Yamashita touches it lightly. “Thank you,” he says, “we’re Sparks.”

  Applause rolls through the small theatre.

  “I chose to do manzai,” I begin, “because I wanted to turn common sense on its head. But all we’ve turned on its head is that fine saying about effort being rewarded.”

  “What a bummer!” Yamashita breaks in energetically. The laughs rise up.

  “This is what I’m thinking: do you ever get so carried away with emotion you can’t say what you want properly?”

  “Ah, maybe.”

  “So this is my idea. I say everything opposite to what I really mean. That way I can be sure I get my feelings across.”

  “You certainly make everything complicated right to the very end, don’t you?”

  “Just give it a try. Ready?”

  “OK.”

  “Hey, partner!”

  “What’s up?”

  “You are so good at manzai!”

  “Hang on, that sounds good, but you’re supposed to be saying the opposite of what you think.”

  “You never trip over your words, you’re a handsome dude, you have a great voice and your family is rich—you’re the best!”

  “Uh-oh, this guy’s getting annoying.”

  “You’re a genius! A genius!”

  “I’m going to slug you for that!” Yamashita yells at the top of his lungs.

  The audience laughs and the walls seem to be laughing with them, giving back all the laughter they’ve absorbed from audiences who have sat here watching the comedy shows almost daily.

  “But, dear partner! May I point out that even such a genius as yourself has some major faults.”

  “Like what?”

  “For a start, your place is a pigsty.”

  “So my room is tidy…? Cheap ass! Can’t you think of anything else?!”

  “You eat like a bird and always take your time over meals.”

  “I eat like a pig and shovel it down…? Hey, you’re making me look like an idiot!”

  That part’s true, actually. I can never eat at my own pace with Yamashita because he always finishes too fast.

  “Your girlfriend is ugly.”

  “Very nice, but it’s not about me!”

  Yamashita’s girlfriend is awesome, very sweet and classy.

  “My partner has amazing talent!”

  “Huh?”

  “My talented, genius partner complained non-stop these last ten years, and couldn’t keep up with me at all!”

  I want to be a genius. I want to make people laugh.

  “What are you saying?”

  To everyone who doesn’t like me, who I couldn’t make laugh, I apologize.

  “The last ten years have been hell because of you, no fun at all! I’m the unluckiest guy in the world!”

  My partner made me into a manzai artist.

  “And you, audience! How incredibly smart you are! You never pay a yen to come here every day and see comedians like us who’ve made it big and have a wonderful future ahead of us!”

  The audience too has made me into a manzai artist.

  “You’re seriously smart. Thanks to you, every day was misery. Up yours!”

  “Hey, no need for bad language!” Yamashita’s face crumples.

  “I never wanted to be a manzai comedian—even since I was a kid. It’s the one thing I never ever wanted to do. Then I had the rotten luck to meet this guy in junior high and end up doing manzai. What a disaster! It’s killed me. This guy as good as murdered me! You murdering bastard!”

  The audience is a blur, I can’t see any more.

  “Then sometimes, somebody comes along and praises us to the skies. That really makes our day. Isn’t it wonderful when somebody tells you you’re doing great? But then there are others who hate you! Who come along and throw cold water on all that sweet talk.”

  I scowl at the audience.

  “When I hear you say Sparks suck! That you never want to see them again! That cuts me to the core. I hate your guts!”

  I can hear sniffling in the audience. A mixture of laughter and tears. Kamiya is there, sitting at the back, crying the loudest of anyone.

  “This is not the last time Sparks will ever perform manzai. When I think that I can see you every day from now on, I feel so happy. These last ten years have been a total waste for my future life. So I hope you all die the worst death!”

  I’m performing as I always wanted to—yelling at the top of my voice, spit flying everywhere.

  “Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!”

  I am totally in the moment, performing manzai with my partner. I turn to Yamashita. “Die!” I scream. “Die alone and away from your family!”

  “Prick! Shut your mouth!”

  Yamashita’s voice has great delivery. And there’s so much more manzai still to do… I wish I could keep doing it forever. Yamashita believed in me and let me lead. In return I gave him bitter, hard memories. I’m so sorry.

  Yamashita’s turn: “Listen! You spout abuse, you make the audience cry, you make your partner cry—how can you say that’s manzai?! Manzai is supposed to make people laugh!”

  “At last we did manzai that dumps on common sense.”

  “Put a sock in it!”

  I never want this to end.

  “Is there anything you’d like to say now we’re nearly done?”

  “Dear Partner! And audience! I am not grateful to you at all!”

  Pause.

  “You’re a real schmuck, you know.”

  “You know, you just said the opposite too!”

  Finally, genuine laughter from the audience.

  “You really are good at manzai, aren’t you?”

  “We’re done!”

  We take a deep bow. The applause is endless.

  The Net news that day carried an article with the headline “Sparks Break Up”. My mother saw it too and sent me a message that said Good work. Over the last ten years I’d only ever told my parents the good things about my work. They’d helped me to become a manzai comedian too. I’d show my gratitude from now on if it killed me. I opened up the comments column for the article.

  Who?!

  No clue. Too many comedians!

  Why do we need to hear about some lame act breaking up?

  Saw them on TV but they were so boring they soon dis­ appeared. Should try harder!

  How many people have heard of them? Not me!

  Comedians with no talent are not entertainers.

  They’re not funny. Where are all the good manzai comedians now, like there used to be?

  It’s an old photo. Maybe it’s the only one of them.

  Sorry. I only remember the silver hair.

  They should’ve broken up sooner.

  I’m an amateur but I’m still funnier than them.

  I liked Sparks’s manzai.

  They’re local amateurs, right? Anyone can be a comedian these days.

  The dyed hair is a cheap stunt. Punks!

  Thanks for the hard work (who?)

  Great they got on Net news at the last.

  Why bother writing who? etc.! Saw other responses like that but it’s OK in relation to these two. Yeah. I don’t know them either.

  Who are they?! How come they’re news?

  Young co
medians these days are simply not funny.

  They don’t train so no wonder they get dumped.

  I was grateful for the few positive comments. They saved me. I was sorry about the negative opinions towards Sparks and all young comedians. Sorry that we hadn’t been able to make people laugh. Sadly, we hadn’t been able to sustain their fantasy that comedians are always funny.

  I’d wanted to be a manzai comedian ever since I was a kid. If I hadn’t met my partner in junior high, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. I wasn’t blaming anyone in particular for my not being able to make a living as a comedian, and I wasn’t blaming it on the times or the economy either. In the public’s eyes maybe we had achieved nothing more than becoming second-rate comedians. But to anyone who thinks they’re funnier than me, I say this: Try getting up onstage yourself, just once. I don’t mean to sound superior, but see what it feels like when your view of the world is stripped naked. I want you to know the fear that no one will laugh at the jokes you thought up—or the thrill when people do laugh.

  It takes guts to keep working for a long time at something that nobody thinks essential. Especially when you think how you only get one chance at life—the thought of putting your heart and soul into something that might not produce results is scary. But avoiding risk isn’t the answer. Doesn’t matter whether they’re chicken-hearted, deluded or hopeless fools. Only those who can stand on the stage—and take all the risks—and put everything they have into breaking down the barriers of common sense, can be manzai artists. I’m glad I understood that at least. It might’ve been a wild dream, but spending these ten years on giving it a shot meant that I got to own my life.

  We hadn’t been to Mifune in Harmonica Alley for a long time. I felt nostalgia at the sight of the steep stairs leading to the upper floor. It was crowded up there. The beckoning cat figurine was next to the small TV the same as always. Kamiya sat opposite me, poking at a plate of fried pork and garlic stems, and drinking shochu on the rocks.