五 1

“Won’t you come fishing with me?” Red Shirt asked me. Red Shirt is a man who speaks in a creepily gentle voice. You can’t tell if he’s a man or a woman. A man ought to sound like a man. Especially since he’s a university graduate. Even I, from a physics school, can produce a better voice than that—for a Bachelor of Literature to be like this is a disgrace.

When I gave him a reluctant “Well, I don’t know,” he rudely asked, “Have you ever been fishing?” I’ve hardly done it, but when I was a child I caught three crucian carp at the fishing pond in Ko-ume. Then at the Bismon festival at Kagurazaka I hooked an eight-inch carp, and just as I thought I had it, plop, it dropped back—even now I think that was a pity. Red Shirt thrust his chin forward and went “Ho ho ho ho.” He needn’t put on such affected laughter. It didn’t suit him. “Then you don’t yet know the pleasure of fishing. If you like, I’ll teach you a thing or two,” he said, quite pleased with himself. Who’d want his instruction? People who fish or hunt are all heartless types. If they weren’t heartless, they wouldn’t take joy in killing. Fish or birds would surely rather live than be killed. If they had to fish or hunt to survive, that would be one thing, but to be living without want and still not be able to sleep unless you kill living things—that’s pure luxury. I thought this, but since he’s a Bachelor of Letters his tongue is clever, and I knew I couldn’t win an argument, so I kept quiet. Then, mistaking my silence for surrender, he said, “Right, I’ll teach you at once. If you’re free, how about today? Let’s go together. With just Mr. Yoshikawa and me it’s lonely—do come,” and he pressed me. Mr. Yoshikawa is the drawing teacher, the fellow they call Noda. This Noda, for some reason, goes in and out of Red Shirt’s house morning and evening and follows him everywhere. He’s nothing like an equal. More like master and servant. Since wherever Red Shirt goes, Noda is sure to go too, I wasn’t surprised, but why, when the two of them could go alone, did he invite unsociable me? Probably the proud fishing hobbyist wanted to show off his catch to me—that must be why he asked. I’m not one to be shown up like that. Even if he catches two or three tuna, it won’t faze me. I’m human too; however poor I am at it, if I let out a line something will bite. But if I don’t go here, Red Shirt will surely suspect: “He didn’t go because he’s bad at it, not because he dislikes it.” With that in mind, I answered, “Let’s go.” After school I went home once, got ready, met Red Shirt and Noda at the station, and went to the shore. There was one boatman, and the boat was a long, narrow thing of a shape I’d never seen around Tokyo. I’d been looking over the boat since earlier, but not a single fishing rod was in sight. How do you fish without rods? What’s the plan? I asked Noda, and he stroked his chin and said, in a darky-like way, “For offshore fishing we don’t use rods, just line.” I should’ve kept my mouth shut rather than be talked down to like that.

The boatman rows slowly, slowly, but skill is fearsome—looking back, we’re already out far enough that the shore looks small. The five-story pagoda of Kōhakuji pokes above the woods, sharp as a needle. Looking the other way, Ao-shima floats. They say it’s an uninhabited island. Looking closely, it’s only rocks and pines. Indeed, with only rocks and pines no one could live there. Red Shirt keeps gazing about, saying it’s a fine view. Noda says it’s a superb scene. Superb or whatever, it’s surely pleasant. Out on the wide sea, blown by the salt wind, I thought it was medicine. My stomach growled strangely. “Look at that pine—the trunk is straight, the top spreads like an umbrella, looks like something from a Turner painting, doesn’t it,” Red Shirt said to Noda, and Noda, looking knowing, said, “Exactly Turner. The way it bends is just right—just like Turner.” I don’t know what Turner is, but since I don’t suffer for not asking, I stayed silent. The boat passed the island on the right and circled around. Not a wave. It was so flat it was hard to take it for the sea. Thanks to Red Shirt, it was quite enjoyable. If possible I wanted to land on that island, so I asked, “Can’t the boat put in at those rocks?” “It could, but for fishing you don’t want to be too near shore,” Red Shirt objected. I kept quiet. Then Noda made the unnecessary proposal: “What do you say, Head Teacher, let’s name that island Turner Island from now on.” Red Shirt agreed: “That’s amusing, we’ll say so from now on.” If I’m included in that “we,” it’s a nuisance. For me, Ao-shima is plenty. “How about placing Raphael’s Madonna up on that rock? Would make a fine picture,” Noda said, and Red Shirt gave his creepy laugh: “Ho ho ho ho, let’s skip the Madonna talk.” He glanced at me, then deliberately turned away and smirked. I felt a nasty sensation. Madonna or young master, it’s none of my business—set it up as you like—but to say things no one understands and act as if, since I don’t understand, it doesn’t matter if I ask, is vulgar. And this is the man who claims, “I’m an Edo kid too.” I figured “Madonna” must be the nickname of some geisha Red Shirt keeps. It’d be convenient if he could stand his kept geisha under the pine on a deserted island and gaze at her. Noda could paint it in oil and enter it in an exhibition.

“Around here’s good,” the boatman stopped the boat and dropped anchor. “How many fathoms?” Red Shirt asked. “About six,” he said. “At six fathoms tai will be hard,” Red Shirt said, and flung his line into the sea. He means to catch a tai, bold fellow. Noda flattered, “Oh, with the Head Teacher’s skill something will bite. And it’s calm,” and let out his line too. It was just a lead sinker-like weight hanging below. No float. Fishing without a float is like taking temperature without a thermometer. As I watched, thinking I could never do it, he asked, “Come now, you try too—got line?” I said I had more than enough but no float. “Without a float you can’t fish—you’re an amateur. Like this: when the line reaches the bottom, you gauge by feel with your index finger at the gunwale; when it bites you feel it at once.—There, it’s on!” The teacher suddenly hauled in, so I thought something was caught, but nothing was—only the bait was gone. Served him right. “Head Teacher, what a pity—that was surely a big one, but if even the Head Teacher’s skill lets it escape, today we can’t be careless. Still, even escaping, it’s better than those who stare at floats. It’s about the same as needing a coaster brake to ride a bicycle,” Noda babbled odd things. I nearly smacked him. I’m human too; the sea isn’t rented out to the Head Teacher alone. It’s wide. Even a bonito, out of courtesy, might bite, so I plopped the sinker and line in and fooled with the line tip by feel.

After a while, something twitched at the line. I thought: this must be a fish. Nothing dead would twitch so. Got it—I reeled in hard. “Oh, you caught one? A force to be feared in later years,” Noda teased, and by then I’d reeled in most of it—only about five feet remained in the water. I peered over the gunwale: a goldfish-like striped fish clung to the line, swaying side to side, rising to my hand. Fun. When I lifted it from the water it plopped, splashing my face with seawater. I finally grabbed it and tried to remove the hook, but it wouldn’t come. The hand holding it was slimy. Thoroughly unpleasant. Troublesome, so I flung it by the line into the bottom of the boat—it died at once. Red Shirt and Noda watched in surprise. I sloshed my hands in the sea and sniffed at my fingertips. Still fishy. Enough’s enough. Whatever’s caught, I won’t grip a fish. The fish wouldn’t want to be gripped either. So I wound up the line for good.

“First spear’s a feat, but it’s a Gorky,” Noda said impudently again. “Gorky—sounds like a Russian man of letters,” Red Shirt joked. “Yes, just like a Russian man of letters,” Noda agreed at once. If Gorky’s a Russian man of letters, then Maruki’s a photographer in Shiba, and the rice plant’s my life’s parent. This Red Shirt has a bad habit: he grabs anyone and strings together katakana foreign names. Everyone has their own specialty. A math teacher like me can’t tell Gorky from a cart-puller—he should show some restraint. If he must, use names even I know, like Franklin’s Autobiography, or Pushing, Two, Ze, Front. Red Shirt sometimes brings a bright red magazine called Teikoku Bungaku to school and reads it self-importantly. I asked Yamakaze: Red Shirt’s katakana all come from that magazine. Teikoku Bungaku is a wicked magazine.

After that Red Shirt and Noda fished with all their might, and in about an hour the two of them pulled up fifteen or sixteen. Funny thing: everything caught was Gorky. Not a tai to be had even if you begged. “Today’s a Russian-literature bonanza,” Red Shirt told Noda. “With your skill it’s Gorky, so for someone like me to get Gorky is unavoidable. Naturally,” Noda answered. I asked the boatman: this small fish has many bones, tastes awful, can’t be eaten—only good for fertilizer. Red Shirt and Noda were fishing fertilizer with all their might. Most pitiful. I’d had my fill with one, so I lay on my back in the bottom of the boat and had been gazing at the sky since earlier. Fishing—

“Stories of the world, in your language.”