三 2

Thinking they had no business complaining about what I ate, I finished the lecture in a hurry and returned to the staff room. Ten minutes later, when I went out to the next classroom, there was written on the board: "One tempura, four cups of sake." But it said: "Do not laugh." I hadn't been particularly angry before, but this time it got on my nerves. A joke pushed too far becomes mischief. Like burnt charred jealousy, no one would praise it. Country folk don't understand this nuance, so they probably figure they can push it as far as they like. Living in a cramped little capital where even a one-hour walk reveals no town worth seeing, and having no other accomplishments, they go around trumpeting the tempura incident like it was the Russo-Japanese War. Pitiful wretches. Because they've been educated like this since childhood, they grow into twisted little dwarfs like a maple in a flowerpot. If they were innocent I could laugh along, but what is this? Children, yet with a sly venom. I silently erased the tempura and said, "Is this kind of prank funny? It's a cowardly joke. Do you know the meaning of cowardly?" Then one answered, "If you laugh at what you yourself did and get angry, that's being a coward, isn't it?" Detestable fellow. To think I came all the way from Tokyo to teach such creatures—it made me feel wretched. I told them to stop their pointless lip and study, and started the lesson. Then when I went to the next classroom, it said: "Eating tempura makes one want to run their mouth." Really beyond handling. I got so angry I said I wouldn't teach such impertinent brats, and stalked back. The students were said to be delighted at the holiday. At this point, dealing in antiques at home seemed preferable to school.

After eating tempura soba and sleeping a night at home, it didn't annoy me so much. When I went to school, the students were there too. I didn't quite understand. For about three days things were quiet, but on the evening of the fourth day I went to a place called Sumita and ate dumplings. This Sumita is a town with hot springs; from the castle town it's about ten minutes by train, or thirty minutes on foot. There are restaurants, hot-spring inns, a park, and even a red-light district. The dumpling shop I entered was at the entrance to the red-light district, and famed for being excellent, so on my way back from the hot springs I stopped in to try some. Since I hadn't met any students this time, I thought no one would know, but when I went to school the next day and entered the first-period classroom, it said: "Two plates of dumplings, seven sen." Indeed, I had eaten two plates and paid seven sen. Truly troublesome fellows. Thinking there'd surely be something in the second period too, I found written: "Red-light district dumplings, delicious, delicious." Utterly exasperating creatures. Just when I thought the dumpling matter was settled, next the "red towel" became a topic. Wondering what it meant, it turned out a trivial story. Since coming here, I've made it a rule to go to Sumita's hot springs every day. Other things can't hold a candle to Tokyo, but the hot springs alone are splendid. Since I'd come all this way, I decided to go every day, and before dinner I'd set out for exercise. But when I go, I always hang a large Western-style towel from my arm. This towel, dyed by the bathwater, had red stripes running through it, so at a glance it looked crimson. I hang this towel from me going and coming, on the train or walking. So the students, it seems, call me "Red Towel, Red Towel." Living in such a narrow place is a nuisance. There's more. The bathhouse is a new three-story building; the upper class gives you a yukata and includes a scrubber for eight sen. On top of that a girl brings tea on a tray. I always took the upper class. Then they started saying that for a forty-yen monthly salary, going upper class every day is extravagant. None of their business. More still. The bathtub is built of piled granite, partitioned to about fifteen mats in size. Usually thirteen or fourteen people soak, but sometimes no one is there. The depth standing reaches the chest, so swimming in the water for exercise is quite pleasant. Whenever I saw no one there, I'd swim around the fifteen-mat tub rejoicing. Then one day, coming down briskly from the third floor and peeking through the pomegranate-shaped opening to see "Can I swim today too?"—there was a large placard starkly lettered: "Do not swim in the bath." Few probably swim in the bath, so this sign may have been specially made for me. After that I gave up swimming. I'd given up swimming, but when I went to school, I was surprised to find on the blackboard as usual: "Do not swim in the bath." It seemed the whole student body was spying on me alone. I was sick of it. No matter what the students said, I'm not one to quit what I'd meant to do, but thinking why I'd come to such a cramped, stifling place made me feel wretched. So returning home, it was the same old antique business as ever.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”