三 2

He asked with a sulky tone. "It's hard to tell whether Meitei is listening or just talking back. Cold Moon, don't mind such a busybody; you'd better get on with it," said the master, wanting to get past this difficult point as quickly as possible. "Sulkily I argue, a willow—or was it a coin?" Meitei muttered, as unconcerned as ever. Cold Moon couldn't help but burst out laughing. "As for the genuine use of strangulation as execution, according to my research it appears in Book Twenty-Two of the Odyssey. That is the passage where Telemachus strangles Penelope's twelve maidservants. I could read you the original Greek text, but it might seem rather ostentatious, so I'll refrain. You'll see if you look at lines four hundred sixty-five through four hundred seventy-three." "Better skip the Greek talk—it sounds as if you're bragging you know Greek, doesn't it, Kushami?" "I agree with that. It's more refined not to say such needy things," said the master, siding with Meitei unusually quickly. Neither of them could read a word of Greek. "Then I'll omit those few lines for tonight and proceed to explain—that is, to tell you.

Imagining this strangulation now, there are two methods of carrying it out. The first is that Telemachus, with the help of Eumaeus and Philoetius, ties one end of a rope to a pillar. Then he makes knots at intervals along the rope, opens holes in them, and puts one woman's head into each hole, then pulls the other end tight and hoists them up. "So we're to understand the women hanging like shirts at a Western laundry?" "Exactly. The second method is to tie one end of the rope to the pillar as before, and from the start hang the other end high from the ceiling. Then from that high rope several other ropes are dropped, with knotted loops attached, and the women's necks are put into these; at the signal, the women's footstools are pulled away. "In other words, it would look something like lantern balls hung from the edge of a rope curtain—would that be about right?" "I've never seen a thing called a lantern ball, so I can't say, but if such exists, that's probably about the idea.—Now I shall demonstrate by mechanics that the first case is utterly impossible." "Interesting," said Meitei, and "Yes, interesting," the master agreed.

"First, assume the women are hung at equal distances. Also assume the rope connecting the necks of the two lowest women is horizontal. Let α1, α2…α6 be the angles the rope makes with the horizon, T1, T2…T6 the forces on each part of the rope, and T7 = X the force on the lowest part. W is of course the women's weight. Well, do you understand?"

Meitei and the master looked at each other and said, "More or less." But this "more or less" was of their own making, so it may not apply to others. "Now, by the theory of equilibrium you know regarding polygons, the following twelve equations are established: T1 cos α1 = T2 cos α2… (1), T2 cos α2 = T3 cos α3… (2)…" "That's plenty of equations," the master said rudely. "Actually this formula is the crux of the speech," Cold Moon looked quite reluctant to drop it. "Then let's just hear the crux and skip the rest," Meitei seemed a bit abashed. "If we abbreviate this, the whole mechanical study goes to waste…" "No need to stand on ceremony, just skip ahead," the master said coolly. "Then, against my better judgment, I'll skip as you wish." "That's right," Meitei clapped his hands in a strange place.

"Moving to England, in Beowulf we find the word gallows, or 'galga,' so the death penalty by hanging must have been practiced from that age. According to Blackstone, if a criminal sentenced to hang should by chance of the rope fail to die, he is to suffer the same punishment again. But oddly, in Piers Plowman there's a line saying even for a villain, the law hangs no man twice. I don't know which is true, but it often happened they didn't die the first time. In 1786 a famous villain named FitzGerald was hanged. By a strange turn, the first time he jumped from the platform the rope broke. They tried again, but the rope was too long and his feet touched ground, so he still didn't die. Finally on the third try the spectators helped him off. "Good grief," Meitei perked up at such parts. "He really botched his death," even the master grew merry. "There's more: when hanged, the body stretches about an inch. A doctor measured it, so no mistake. "That's a new trick—hey Kushami, if you got hung and stretched an inch, you might become a normal-sized human," Meitei turned to the master, who unexpectedly serious, asked, "Cold Moon, is there any chance of coming back to life with an inch of stretch?" "Definitely not. The spinal cord stretches—rather than growing, it breaks. "Then let's skip it," the master gave up.

Cold Moon's speech was to be much longer, even touching on the physiology of hanging, but with Meitei inserting windbag-like oddities and the master frankly yawning, he quit midway and went home. What manner and eloquence he showed that night, being far off, I cannot know.

Two or three days passed uneventfully, then one afternoon around two, Meitei again drifted in empty-headed as ever like a child. Seated, he burst out, "Say, heard about Ochi Tōfu's Takanawa incident?" with the urgency of one bringing extra editions on Port Arthur's fall. "No, haven't met him lately," the master was gloomy as usual. "I came busy as I am just to report Tōfu's blunder. "There you go exaggerating—you're an impertinent fellow. "Hahaha, call it not impertinent but indifferent—but for honor's sake distinguish. "Same thing," the master sneered, a pure reincarnation of Natural Fellow. "Last Sunday Tōfu went to Takanawa's Sengakuji. In this cold—first, who goes to Sengakuji nowadays but a country hick ignorant of Tokyo? "That's his business. You've no right to stop him. "True, no right. But in that temple is the Loyal Retainers' Relics Preservation exhibit, a sideshow. Know it? "Nope. "Don't know? But you've been to Sengakuji? "No. "Never? Shocking. No wonder you defend Tōfu. An Edo man not knowing Sengakuji is shameful. "A teacher manages without knowing," the master grew ever more the Natural Fellow. "Be that as it may, Tōfu entered the exhibit and looked around, when a German couple came. They first asked him in Japanese. But he's the type who itches to use German. He rattled off a few lines. It went well—that was the root of disaster. "Then what?" the master was hooked. "The German saw Ōtaka Gengo's lacquered inro and asked to buy it. Tōfu replied, 'Japanese are all upright gentlemen, impossible.' That went fine, but then the German, thinking he'd found an interpreter, kept asking. "What?" "If I knew, no worry—but he spoke fast and asked wildly, no grasp. Occasionally understood, he'd ask about crowbars and sledgehammers. Never learned to translate those, so poor fellow. "Natural," the master sympathized as a teacher. "Then idlers gathered curious. Soon they surrounded Tōfu and the German. Tōfu reddened and flustered. From his first vigor, quite defeated. "How end?" "Finally Tōfu couldn't bear, said 'Sainara' in Japanese and left. German asked, 'In your country is it sainara not sayonara?' He said it's sayonara but for a Westerner he harmonized with sainara. Tōfu never forgets harmony even in trouble. "Sainara's fine, but the Westerner?" "Standing baffled and blank—hahaha, funny?" "Not especially. You coming to report is funnier," the master knocked ash into the hibachi. Just then the lattice door bell rang loud: "Excuse me," a sharp woman's voice. Meitei and master exchanged looks and fell silent.

Thinking a female guest rare, the sharp-voiced owner slid in, dragging a crepe double-layer across the tatami. Perhaps over forty. From a receding hairline, front locks rose like dike works, thrusting at least half her face's length to heaven. Eyes slanted like a steep cut-through hill, pulled straight up, facing left and right. Straight as a line thinner than a whale. Only the nose was wildly large, as if stolen and planted mid-face. Like moving a small shrine stone lantern into a three-mat garden, it dominated alone yet seemed uneasy. A key-shaped nose: rose high with full effort, then halfway humbled, drooping to peer at the lower lip. So notable a nose, when she spoke it seemed not her mouth but her nose spoke. To honor it, I shall call her Miss Nose. Miss Nose finished greetings: "What a fine residence," eyeing the room. The master thought "Liar," puffing smoke. Meitei gazed at ceiling: "Say, is that rain stain or grain? Odd pattern," hinting. "Rain stain of course," the master said. "Fine," Meitei deadpanned. Miss Nose fumed inwardly at their unsocial ways. Silence among three.

"I came to ask something," she restarted. "Hm," the master received coldly. Unacceptable, she said, "I live nearby—the corner mansion across the lane. "The big Western house with the warehouse? Ah, the nameplate says Kaneda," the master recognized the house and warehouse but no more respect. "My husband's often away on company business," she gave a knowing look. The master unmoved. Her manner too forward for a first meeting already annoyed him. "Not one company but two, three. He's director in each—surely you know?" as if expecting awe. This master respects doctors and professors but little industrialists, believing a middle-school teacher greater. Even if not, his rigid nature precludes their favor. Whatever their power, if no benefit to him, he's indifferent. Thus ignorant of business, feeling no reverence. Miss Nose never dreamed such an oddity lived under the sun. Till now, announcing "Mrs. Kaneda" always changed treatment; at any gathering she passed as Mrs. Kaneda; surely this fusty old scholar would marvel at "corner mansion."

"Know a Kaneda?" the master asked Meitei. "Know him—uncle's friend. At the garden party," Meitei serious. "Your uncle?" "Baron Makiyama," Meitei graver. Before the master spoke, Miss Nose turned sharply to Meitei, who in Ōshima silk and old sarasa looked calm. "Oh, you're of Baron Makiyama—I didn't know, so rude. He speaks of you often at our inn," she bowed politely. Meitei laughed "Heh, hahaha." The master watched dumb. "Regarding our daughter's marriage, we troubled the Baron…" "Heh, is that so?" Meitei startled. "Many suitors, but our standing—can't just place her…" "Quite," Meitei relieved. "That's why I came to ask you," she turned to master, forward again. "A man named Mizushima Cold Moon visits often—what sort?" "Why ask?" the master bitter. "For the marriage, to know his character," Meitei cut in. "If so, convenient…" "You'd give your daughter to Cold Moon?" "Not 'give'—" she flustered him. "Other offers—no forced match. "Then no need ask Cold Moon," the master eager. "But you'd not hide?" she grew combative. Meitei sat between, silver pipe like a referee fan, mentally crying "bagua, yes no no." "Did Cold Moon say he must have her?" the master fired. "Not 'must'…" "Think he wants?" the master saw her weak spot. "Not that far—but Cold Moon not displeased," she recovered. "Any love for your daughter?" the master leaned back. "About that," his cannon useless. Meitei, curious, leaned forward. "Did Cold Moon send notes? Fun—new anecdote for New Year. "Not notes—something fiercer. You both know?" she wound slyly. "You know?" the master fox-faced to Meitei. "I don't—if I did, you'd," Meitei modest. "You both know," she triumphant. "Heh," both impressed. "I'll tell: last year end at Abe's villa in Mukōjima, Cold Moon played. That night at Azuma Bridge something happened—details spare the person—sufficient proof, no?" She straightened, ringed fingers on knee, great nose shining; Meitei and master as if nothing.

The master, and even Meitei, struck dumb, sat like malaria-cured patients, then laughter broke. Both roared "Hahaha." Miss Nose glared—laughing rude. "That your daughter? Indeed—Cold Moon loves her, Kushami, no hiding. "Ugh," the master. "Don't hide—seed's sprung," she smug. "No help. Facts on Cold Moon we'll state—Kushami, stop grinning. Secret's fearful; leaks anyway.—Wondrous, Mrs. Kaneda, how found?" Meitei chattered. "We're not lax," she smug. "Too not lax. Who told?" "The cartman behind. "Black cat's cartman?" the master round-eyed. "Yes, used him much. Each visit, what said, he reported. "Cruel," the master loud. "Your words your affair. Only Cold Moon's. "Cold Moon's—anyone's—hate that cartman," the master raged. "He stands outside your hedge, his right. Speak softer or move in. "Not only him. The koto teacher on New Street told much. "Cold Moon?" "Not only," she fierce. The master thought her beaten: "That teacher puts on airs, human-faced—fool!" "Mind, a woman. 'Fool' misplaced," her speech showed roots. Like a fight, but Meitei watched amused, like Iron Crutch immortal at cockfights.

The master, knowing no match in insult, fell silent, then sought Meitei: "You say Cold Moon loved first, but I heard otherwise, Meitei. "Yes, the daughter fell ill—raved, we heard. "Not so," Mrs. Kaneda straight. "Cold Moon said he heard from Dr. ○○'s wife. "Our move—asked her to lure him. "She agreed?" "For a price, gifts. "Determined to dig all?" Meitei rough. "No loss—speak, Kushami. Ma'am, facts on Cold Moon we'll tell.—In order, please."

Miss Nose agreed, questioned. Polite to Meitei again. "Cold Moon's a science bachelor—specialty?" "Graduate school, earth's magnetism," the master serious. She uncomprehending: "Heh," puzzled. "That makes a doctor?" "Must he be doctor?" the master uneasy. "Just bachelor's common," she flat. The master eyed Meitei worse. "We can't guarantee doctor—ask else.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”