九 1
On the morning of the day when there was to be a farewell gathering for Uranari, when I got to school, Yamarashi suddenly told me: “The other day a fellow named Ika came around and said Uranari was being rough and causing trouble, and asked me to talk him into coming out, so I took it seriously and told him to go ahead and show up. But when I asked around later, that guy’s a rotten scoundrel—he’s known for pressing fake seals and forged signatures onto paintings and palming them off on people. So everything he said about Uranari was surely a pack of lies. He was trying to sell Uranari hanging scrolls and antiques and make a business of it, but since Uranari wouldn’t have any of it and there was no profit in it, he cooked up that story to fool him. Since I didn’t know the man, I was awfully rude to you—please forgive me,” and he went on at great length apologizing.
I said nothing, took the one sen five rin that was lying on Yamarashi’s desk, and dropped it into my toad-mouth purse. Yamarashi asked suspiciously, “Hey, are you taking that back?” so I explained: “Yep. I hated being treated by you, so I’d fully meant to pay you back, but the more I thought it over afterward, it seemed better to just let you treat me, so I’m taking it back.” Yamarashi burst out laughing with a great “Ah ha ha ha!” and asked, “Then why didn’t you take it sooner?” I said, “Truth is, I kept meaning to take it, but it felt sort of odd, so I left it. Lately it got so I hated even laying eyes on that one sen five rin at school.” He said, “You’re quite the sore loser,” so I answered, “You’re quite the stubborn one yourself.” Then the following exchange passed between us.
“Where are you from, anyway?” “I’m an Edo kid.” “Hm, an Edo kid—no wonder you’re such a sore loser.” “And you?” “I’m from Aizu.” “Aizu, eh—that explains the stubbornness. You going to the farewell party today?” “Of course. And you?” “I’m naturally going. When Koga leaves, I mean to see him off all the way to the beach.” “The farewell party’ll be fun—you ought to come. I plan to drink plenty today.” “Drink all you like. I’ll eat the side dishes and head straight home. Any fool who drinks sake is an idiot.” “You’re the type who picks a fight at the drop of a hat. Indeed, you show the light-footed ways of an Edo kid.” “Whatever. Before we go to the farewell party, stop by my place—I’ve got something to tell you.”
Yamarashi stopped by my lodgings as promised. Lately, every time I saw Uranari’s face I felt terribly sorry for him, and now that his farewell day had actually come, he seemed so pitiful that I almost felt like going in his place if I could. So I thought I’d make a big speech at the farewell party and send him off in style, but in my rough Edo patter it would never amount to anything, so I hit on the idea of hiring loud-voiced Yamarashi to thoroughly rattle Red Shirt’s liver, and that’s why I specially called him over.
I started at the beginning, with the Madonna affair, but of course Yamarashi knew the Madonna affair better than I did. When I told him about the riverbank of the Nogiri River and said “that guy’s an idiot,” Yamarashi said, “You call everyone you grab hold of an idiot. Didn’t you call yourself an idiot at school today? If you’re an idiot, then Red Shirt isn’t one. You claimed you’re not in the same class as Red Shirt.” So I said, “Then Red Shirt’s a spineless good-for-nothing,” and Yamarashi heartily agreed, “Maybe so.” Yamarashi’s strong, all right, but when it comes to words he knows far fewer than I do. Aizu types are probably all like that.
Then I told him about the raise affair and Red Shirt’s talk of “promoting you heavily in future,” and Yamarashi snorted through his nose and said, “So he’s planning to dismiss me.” When I asked, “You think he means to dismiss you?” he said, “Who’d let that happen? If I’m to be dismissed, I’ll have Red Shirt dismissed along with me,” and puffed himself up grandly. When I pressed him and asked how he meant to get Red Shirt dismissed too, he answered, “Haven’t thought that far yet.” Yamarashi seems strong, but not too bright. When I told him I’d refused the raise, the captain was greatly pleased and praised me: “Truly an Edo kid—admirable.”
When I asked why, if Uranari disliked it so much, he hadn’t worked to keep him on, he said that by the time he heard it from Uranari it was already settled; he’d gone to the principal twice and Red Shirt once to argue, but could do nothing. On that score too he lamented that Koga was too good-natured for his own good. When Red Shirt first broached it, he should have flatly refused, or dodged with “I’ll think it over”—but he was fooled by Red Shirt’s smooth talk and gave his consent on the spot, so later even when his mother came weeping and even when Yamarashi himself went to negotiate, it was no use. He was very sorry about it.
When I said this whole affair was surely Red Shirt’s scheme to send Uranari away and get the Madonna into his hands, he said, “Of course it must be. That fellow puts on an innocent face while doing evil, and the moment anyone says anything he’s got an escape route all prepared—he’s a thorough scoundrel. Against that kind you need fist-law punishment,” and he rolled up his bumpy-armed sleeve to show me. Since I had the chance, I asked, “Your arms look strong—do you practice jujitsu or something?” The captain flexed his bicep and said, “Here, try to grab it,” so I kneaded it with my fingertips—it was nothing but like a pumice stone you’d find at the bathhouse.
Since I was so impressed, I asked, “With arms like that, you could slap down five or six Red Shirts at once, couldn’t you?” “Of course,” he said, and bent and unbent his arm, and the muscle rolled round and round under the skin. Great fun. According to Yamarashi’s demonstration, if you twist two strands of manila rope together, wrap it around where that muscle bulges, and bend your arm hard, it snaps clean through. I said, “If it’s manila rope, I might manage it too,” and he came back with, “You couldn’t. If you could, show me.” Since it’d be embarrassing not to snap it, I held off.
“What do you say—after drinking plenty at the farewell party tonight, how about we beat up Red Shirt and Noda?” I proposed half in fun, and Yamarashi considered, “Well…” then said, “Let’s skip it tonight.” When I asked why, he added, sensibly enough, “Tonight would be hard on Koga—and anyway, if we’re going to beat them, we ought to catch them red-handed in their wickedness and beat them on the spot, or it’s our fault.” Even Yamarashi seems to think more than I do.
“Then make a speech and praise Koga plenty. If I do it, it turns into Edo chatter and carries no weight. Besides, the moment I stand up somewhere formal, my gorge rises and a big ball climbs to my throat and I can’t speak—so I’ll leave it to you.” He asked, “Queer sickness. So you can’t talk in front of people? That’s rough,” and I just answered, “It’s not that rough.”
While we were at it, the time came, so Yamarashi and I went to the hall together. The hall was called Kachintei, said to be the top-class restaurant in town, though I’d never set foot in it. The story was they bought the former residence of the chief retainer or someone and opened it as-is; sure enough, it looked forbidding from the outside. A chief retainer’s mansion turned restaurant is like taking a campaign coat and resewing it into a undershirt.
By the time we two arrived, most of the people were already there, and two or three clumps of humans had formed in the fifty-mat hall. Being fifty mats, the alcove was splendidly large—no comparison to the fifteen-mat alcove I’d occupied at Yamashiroya. Measured, it was two ken. On the right stood a Seto-ware vase with a red pattern, and in it a great branch of pine. What they mean by sticking in a pine branch I don’t know, but since it shows no sign of falling even after months, it costs nothing and is fine. I asked the science teacher where that Seto-ware was made, and he said, “That’s not Seto-ware, it’s Imari.” When I said, “Imari’s Seto-ware too, isn’t it?” the science teacher went “Eh heh heh heh” and laughed. Later I asked and heard that since it’s fired at Seto they call it Seto. Being an Edo kid, I’d thought all ceramics were called Seto-ware. In the middle of the alcove hung a large hanging scroll with twenty-eight characters written about the size of my face. Dreadfully poor writing. Since it was so bad, I asked the Chinese classics teacher, “Why hang such a poor thing so prominently?” and he told me, “That’s by Kaioku, a famous calligrapher.” Kaioku or whatever, I still think it’s poor.
Presently the clerk Kawamura said, “Please be seated,” so I sat where there was a pillar handy to lean against. The badger took his seat in haori and hakama before the Kaioku scroll, and to his left Red Shirt took his place, also in haori and hakama. On the right, as the guest of honor, sat Uranari, likewise in Japanese dress, waiting. Since I was in Western clothes and felt cramped bowing formally, I sat cross-legged at once. The gymnastics teacher next to me, in black, sat properly straight—true to his trade, he’s unnaturally disciplined. Soon the trays came out, the sake bottles lined up. The organizer stood and gave a brief opening. Then the badger stood. Red Shirt rose. Each delivered a farewell address, and all three, as if rehearsed, proclaimed Uranari a fine teacher and good man, said it was truly regrettable he was leaving, a great loss not only to the school but personally to each of them, but since he had earnestly requested the transfer for his own convenience, there was no help for it. They tell such lies and hold a farewell party, and feel not the least shame. Especially Red Shirt, who praised Uranari the most of the three, even saying losing this good friend was a great misfortune for himself. And his manner was so plausible, softening his already gentle voice further as he spoke, that anyone hearing it for the first time was bound to be fooled. The Madonna was probably hooked by this trick too. While Red Shirt was holding forth with his farewell address, Yamarashi, seated opposite, looked at my face
“Stories of the world, in your language.”