With everything thus furnished to his imagined satisfaction, Keitaro had set about calculating the necessary expenses. To his disappointment he found that renting the plantation grounds would be troublesome and would take a long time. And even with the ground finally secured, there came the great difficulty of cultivation. Expenses for breaking ground and planting were far more than he had anticipated. Besides these complexities, he learned he would have to employ men to weed all year round, and then, with arms folded like a fool, he would have to wait six years for the saplings to grow. All of this resulted in his beginning to regard these as sufficient reasons for withdrawing his plan. At this point, the expert in the business who had given him this information warned him that the supply of rubber produced in the region would soon exceed the world demand and that it was certain the cultivators would be in a panic a few years hence. After Keitaro heard about all these circumstances, never again did he speak of rubber.
Though thus thwarted once, Keitaro's passion for the extraordinary was not to be cooled down by such a trifle. Living in a large city, he took delight not only in dreaming of distant countries and their peoples, but the mere contemplation of commonplace women who happened to be on the same streetcar with him or matter-of-fact men going past him on his walks raised in him the suspicion that each of them might be concealing under his mantle or in the sleeve of her overcoat something out of the ordinary. And it was his wish to turn that mantle or overcoat inside out to catch a glimpse of that uncommonness, and then, having viewed it, to resume an air of indifference.
This bent in Keitaro seemed to have started to assert itself forcibly during his high school days. A teacher of English at his school used Stevenson's New Arabian Nights as the class text. Until then Keitaro had a strong dislike of English, but the book so interested him that he never failed to prepare his lessons, and each time the teacher called on him, he stood and translated the assigned passage. Once he was so excited by the story that, forgetting the distinction between fiction and reality, he asked the teacher quite seriously, "Did such things really happen in nineteenth-century London?"
A recent returnee from England, the teacher drew a linen handkerchief from a hip pocket under his black melton morning coat and, patting his nose, replied, "Possibly, and not only in the nineteenth century, but at present as well. London is really the strangest city."
This reply caused Keitaro's eyes to sparkle.
"But," the teacher went on, rising from his chair, "our writer is, as you know, noted for his original observations, and naturally his view of events is different from that of ordinary men, which might be why he came up with such stories. He was the type who even found romance in a hansom moving along the street."
Keitaro could not understand how a hansom and romance could be linked, so he ventured to ask. The teacher's explanation satisfied him.
Since that time, whenever he saw a rickshaw—that most commonplace vehicle in the most commonplace city of Tokyo—waiting for hire, he thought that perhaps this same one the night before had had in it a man carrying a kitchen knife to be used in committing a murder, or that it might have transported a beautiful woman under its hood, bringing her to some station to catch a train that would take her in the opposite direction from the one in which her pursuers thought she was going. In this way Keitaro often amused himself with imaginary terrors and delights.
As he indulged in such fantasies, there arose in him the idea that in so complicated a world something ought to happen to him that would send a fresh stimulus through his nerves, something unusual, even though it might not be exactly what he anticipated. Ever since he had left school, however, his life consisted of merely going about on streetcars and visiting strangers with letters of introduction, so there was nothing in it particularly like a novel. He was bored to death each day to see the same face of the boardinghouse maid and to eat the meals she served him. If a possibility to work for the Manchurian Railway or the Governor General of Korea had been realized, it would have at least relieved him of boredom, providing stimulus of a sort as well as a livelihood. But a few days ago it had become quite evident that he had little chance for such a job, so he had fallen into a listlessness which made him feel that the common-placeness around him was closely related to his own incompetence. He even lost the courage to make one of his desultory explorations of human lives on streetcars, which could be done as easily as walking in search of small coins fallen on the road. Still less could he bring himself to run about looking for some means of earning a living. And so in spite of having no real desire to, he had consumed a large volume of beer the previous night and had gone to bed early.
On such occasions it was a kind of stimulation for Keitaro to look at the face of a Morimoto, who could only be described as a commonplace type with an abundance of uncommon experiences. It was for this reason that Keitaro had invited Morimoto into his room, even going so far as to accompany him to a shop merely to buy a roll of writing paper.
Sitting at the window, Morimoto gazed outside for some time. "A fine view you get any season of the year," he said, "but especially on a day like today. It certainly makes a picture, doesn't it? That red brick house there among the trees, the warm-colored leaves under a sky as clean as though it's just been washed."
"Yes, perhaps," said Keitaro, not knowing how to respond.
Morimoto turned his eyes to the boards projecting about a foot outside the windowsill on which he was resting an elbow. "This could only look right if it had a bonsai or two on it," he said.
Keitaro thought that might be true, but lacking the courage to repeat the same "Yes, perhaps," he asked instead, "Do you even have a taste for things like paintings and bonsai?"
"Have a taste for? That's a good question—they certainly don't seem to fit my character, do they? But believe me, though I'm telling you myself, I've dabbled in bonsai and kept goldfish, and at one time I drew for the fun of it."
"You seem capable of anything."
"A jack-of-all-trades has ultimately become a master of none, as I am now." At these words no sharp lines of grief for his past or despair over his present appeared on his face. In fact, he showed no change of expression as he looked at Keitaro.
"But," Keitaro began seriously, "I'm always wanting, no matter how small a share, the varied kind of career you've had—"
Morimoto hurried to interrupt, holding out his right hand in front of his face and waving it back and forth as a drunken man might. "That's about the worst idea that can exist," he said. "Young men—though I may not be much older than you—anyway, young men want to do something strange and new. But when you've done all those things which are supposed to be strange and new and when you look back on them, you think, 'How meaningless all that was! How much better it would have been if I hadn't done them, if it's only come to this.' You're a young man with the world before you. Just be what you are and you'll gain as much prosperity as you wish. To risk your life on such things as speculation or adventure at this important time, well, it deserves the name of disloyalty to your loving parents. But, I've been thinking for some time about asking you but couldn't because I was too busy—have you found a good job?"
Honest by nature, Keitaro told the truth without disguising his dejection, adding that he was resting a few days because for the time being he had little prospect of success.
"Really?" exclaimed Morimoto with a surprised look. "I didn't know there was even the slightest difficulty for university graduates in finding jobs. A very bad time indeed. I guess it must be, seeing that we're well into the forties of Meiji." He spoke with his head inclined, as though he were ruminating on the truth behind his own reasoning.
The man's attitude did not seem that ridiculous to Keitaro, but caused him to wonder whether his friend had deliberately chosen his words with an awareness of their philosophical implications or whether he was unable to express himself in words other than these because of ignorance.
Suddenly Morimoto, holding his head upright, continued, "Well
, if you like, how about a railway job? If you have no objection, should I talk to someone?"
Romantic as he was, Keitaro could not imagine that a good position could be obtained through the influence of this man. On the other hand, Keitaro was not that sophisticated to feel that a kind-hearted suggestion dropped so casually was made merely to poke fun at him. He did not know what answer to give, so he merely smiled and called the maid to tell her to bring in Morimoto's lunch together with his own and some sake too.
At the start Morimoto said he had been abstaining from drink recently because of his health. Nevertheless, he emptied his sake cup as soon as Keitaro filled it. And when he finally said, "Let this be the last," he took up the sake container and helped himself. He was usually a quiet man with an easy, careless air about him. But as he drank one cup after another, his quietness took on an ardor, and his carelessness seemed to swell out larger and larger.
"Now I'm equal to anything," he began bragging. "I wouldn't be the least bit worried if they fired me tomorrow." When he noticed Keitaro, who was a poor drinker, keeping him company by taking a sip every now and then as if he only just remembered the cup before him, Morimoto went on, "You really can't drink, can you, Tagawa-san? Strange, you don't like sake, and you love adventure. Yet all adventure begins with drink and ends with a woman."
A few minutes before, he had been disparaging his past life as worthless. But now elated with drink, he changed radically and began talking big, a halo, as it were, reflecting back on himself. And most of his bragging was about his failures.
"Why, my friend," he dared to say as if in defiance of Keitaro, "let me tell you—you're fresh from school and know nothing of the world yet. Let anyone display his M.A. or Ph.D. as much as he wants. I wouldn't be cowed in the least. I know better—I'm all practice and experience." He spoke in a challenging and rude way, as though he had completely forgotten the deep respect he had paid a moment earlier to education. But suddenly with a sigh as loud as a belch, he began to complain about his ignorance.
"In a word, I've gotten along in this world like an ape. I flatter myself that I know ten times as much of the world as you do, yet I'm still bound to earthly passions. That's because of my ignorance, my total lack of education. Though you know, of course, an educated man wouldn't be allowed the kind of varied life I've had."
Since Keitaro had for a while been looking upon Morimoto as if he were a pitiable pioneer, he had been listening to him with considerable attention. But whether or not it was the effect of the sake Keitaro had treated him to, Morimoto's talk, to his listener's regret, tended toward bombast and complaint rather than to those characteristic stories of his which usually excited in Keitaro a pure interest in listening. Keitaro eventually brought the drinking to an end, but Morimoto's talk still remained ungratifying. So Keitaro made some fresh tea and, offering the other a cup, said, "I always find stories of your experience quite interesting. Not only that, but they're profitable to someone as inexperienced as I am. So I'm grateful to you. But of all the things you've done, what do you think was the most exciting?"
Morimoto, remaining silent, blew on the hot tea, his bloodshot eyes blinking a few times. "Well," he said at last after he emptied the deep cup, "looking back on those things I did, all of them seem both interesting and worthless at the same time, so I can't tell which is which. Now, when you say exciting, do you mean something with a woman in it?"
"Not necessarily, but I have no objection to a woman's having something to do with it."
"Now I see that you prefer such a story—but to be serious, Tagawa-san, whether exciting or not, I once had a life that seemed to me more carefree than any I know of in the world. Shall I tell you something to gossip about over tea?"
Keitaro's response was immediate.
"Then let me go to the toilet first," Morimoto said rising, "but I warn you—there's no woman involved. In fact, there are few human beings."
With these words behind him, Morimoto left the room. Keitaro, his curiosity aroused, waited for him to return.
Five minutes passed while he waited and then ten, but the adventurer failed to reappear. Getting impatient, Keitaro at last went down to the toilet, but Morimoto wasn't there. Just to make sure, he went upstairs again to try Morimoto's room. The shoji was open a few inches, and Morimoto was lying in the middle of the room, his head resting on one bent arm, his back toward the entrance. Keitaro called out two or three times, but the other gave no sign of moving. Good-natured as Keitaro was, he was annoyed, so entering without permission, he grabbed Morimoto by the neck and shook him vigorously. Morimoto half jumped to his feet with a cry, as though he had unexpectedly been stung by a wasp. But no sooner did he look back at Keitaro's face than he lapsed again into dreamy eyes, saying, "Is it you? Perhaps I drank too much—I felt a little sick. So I came back to rest a few minutes and dozed off."
Since the excuse had no mockery in it, Keitaro could no longer be angry. But he realized that the story he was so eager to hear was as much as brought to a halt, so he decided to return to his room alone. Morimoto, however, came after him saying, "Sorry. Thanks for coming in."
Back in Keitaro's room, Morimoto sat up straight with knees folded squarely on the same cushion he had been sitting on before. "Now then," he began, "shall I start my story of the world's most unique, carefree life?"
The story he termed the most carefree life involved an experience that he had had more than a dozen years ago while he was traveling through the interior of Hokkaido as a survey engineer. Night after night his party pitched its tent in places devoid of human habitation. As soon as work at a particular region was finished, the tent was carried to the next site. As Morimoto had said earlier, it was only natural that no women appeared in the story.
"Imagine the difficulty of making your way by cutting a path through bamboo twenty feet high!" He held his hand above his head to show how high the bamboo grew and then proceeded to tell about seeing coiled adders lying on either side of the newly cut path, enjoying the morning sun shining on their scales. From a safe distance, one of Morimoto's companions would hold down an adder with a long stick while another man beat it to death. "Then they'd broil the flesh and eat it."
"How did it taste?" asked Keitaro.
"I don't remember that well," he replied, "but it was sort of between fish and meat."
At night they would fling their exhausted bodies under thick piles of bamboo leaves and twigs with which they had covered the ground inside the tent. But sometimes they spent the night around a fire they had made outside, and on such occasions they often saw huge bears right before their eyes. The group always used a mosquito net to ward off the numerous insects. Once they took it down to a stream in a valley and caught fish with it. That night and some nights thereafter they were troubled by a fishy smell from the net. All this was part of what Morimoto had called his carefree life.
He also talked about trying every kind of edible mushroom. One called masu-dake was as big as a large tray, and when cut into pieces and boiled in miso soup, it tasted exactly like fishpaste; another called tsukimi-dake was a monster of a mushroom, huge as a circle made by two outstretched arms, but to the regret of the party inedible; and then there was one called nezumi-dake, which was pretty, like trefoil root. Of these mushrooms Morimoto gave detailed accounts. He also added that he used to pick wild grapes, put them in a large hat, and eat so many so often that he roughened his tongue to the point where he couldn't even eat rice.
Morimoto's story did not end with his episode of eating. He also recounted the miserable experience of his party's having no food for an entire week. This had occurred when the carriers had gone down to a village for rice. The route lay along the bottom of a ravine, and after the party had descended, heavy rains suddenly filled the valley with flood-like torrents, making it impossible for the carriers to ascend with heavy loads of rice on their backs. Almost starving to death, Morimoto lay stretched out, simply gazing upward at the sky until he became so dazed he could no longer
tell day from night.
"When you don't eat or drink that long, you have no excrement, I suppose?" Keitaro asked.
"Well yes, I still had some," Morimoto answered in an easy tone.
Keitaro couldn't help smiling. But what was even more humorous was Morimoto's description of the heavy winds he had experienced. While on this surveying trip through a wild tract thick with pampas grass, his party had once been caught in a gale so violent they couldn't hold their faces against it. They had crept on all fours into a dense wood nearby. Huge trees measuring a few arm spans around were being whipped and swayed by these gusts, boughs and branches making tremendous sounds. The trees were shaking even to their roots, the result being that the ground the party was creeping along shook as if from an earthquake.
"Then you weren't able to keep standing even sheltered in the woods?" asked Keitaro.
"We were lying flat on the ground!" Morimoto replied.
Keitaro burst out laughing in spite of himself, for he could not believe that even such violent winds could have been powerful enough to cause an earthquake by moving the roots of huge trees extended deeply underground. Morimoto also began laughing aloud as if the story were someone else's, but when he finished laughing, he suddenly turned serious, his hand stretched out as if to stop Keitaro's mouth.
"It may sound funny, but it is true. I know I'm a crude person, one who's had some rather out-of-the-ordinary experiences—things that are not up to common sense— yet it's true, although I must admit that it might seem quite unbelievable to you with all your learning. But let me tell you, Tagawa-san, there are many odd things in this world besides the gale I just spoke about, and although you seem to be hankering after such things, you must give them up. You're a university graduate, you know. And when the time comes, in nine cases out of ten you'll only think of your own status anyway. Even if you are determined to lower it, none of you students nowadays have that much curiosity to throw away your positions to go wandering about in the world as they did in the old days to avenge a parent's murder or something. In fact, you're safe from such whims because the people around you won't allow you to carry them out."
To the Spring Equinox and Beyond Page 2