三 3

“Well, I hardly think so,” said Meitei, not in the best of humors. “Has he been studying that earth of his—something or other, lately?” “Some two or three days ago he gave a lecture at the Science Society on the mechanics of hanging oneself,” answered the master, quite unaware of the absurdity. “Good gracious, hanging oneself—what an eccentric fellow! With that sort of hobby he’ll never make a doctor.” “It would be difficult if he hanged himself, but as for the mechanics of hanging, he might yet become one.” “Do you think so?” This time Meitei looked at the master and studied his expression. Sadly, not grasping the meaning of “mechanics,” he could not compose himself. Yet perhaps fearing that to inquire further would compromise Mrs. Kaneda’s dignity, he merely divined the other’s face like a fortune-teller. The master’s face was glum. “Hasn’t he been studying anything more intelligible?” “Let me see—not long ago he wrote a paper discussing the stability of acorns and extending to the motion of celestial bodies.” “Do they study things like acorns even at the university?” “Well, I’m a layman and don’t know, but since Mr. Tsuki is doing it, it must have some research value,” said Meitei, coolly mocking. Hanako, seeming to abandon her scholarly inquiries as unsuited to her, shifted the topic. “Changing the subject—I hear he broke two front teeth eating shiitake mushrooms this New Year, is that not so?” “Yes, and a piece of Kūya mochi got stuck in the gap,” said Meitei, suddenly brightening as if this were his own domain. “What an unromantic man! Why doesn’t he use a toothpick?” “I’ll caution him next time we meet,” the master said with a suppressed giggle. “If shiitake can break his teeth, his teeth must be in poor condition, would you not say?” “One could hardly call it good—eh, Meitei?” “Not good, but rather charming. It’s odd he still hasn’t had it filled. It remains a snag for Kūya mochi—quite a sight!” “Does he leave it gaping for lack of pocket money for a filling, or is it mere eccentricity?” “Surely he has no intention of advertising broken front teeth forever, so rest easy,” said Meitei, his humor gradually returning. Hanako changed the subject again. “If you have any letter or such from him, I should like to see one.” “Plenty of postcards—look here,” the master brought thirty or forty from his study. “I needn’t see so many—just two or three of them…” “Here, here, I’ll pick out the good ones,” said Mr. Meitei, producing a picture postcard. “This should be amusing.” “Oh, he draws too? Quite clever. Let me see,” she gazed, then “Mercy, it’s a badger! Why pick out a badger of all things? Still, it’s recognizable as a badger—I’m impressed.” “Read the caption,” said the master, smiling. Hanako read as a maid reads a newspaper: “On the last night of the old lunar year, the mountain badgers hold a garden party and dance with fervor. Their song goes: Come, on the night of the year, even the mountain women come not. Suppokoponno pon.” “What is this? He’s making a fool of someone,” Hanako said with displeasure. “Does this celestial maiden meet your approval?” Meitei produced another. A heavenly maiden in feather robe plays a biwa. “This maiden’s nose is a bit too small.” “Nonsense, that’s normal. Read the caption, not the nose.” It read: “Long ago in a certain place there was an astronomer. One night, as usual, he climbed his high platform and gazed intently at the stars, when a beautiful heavenly maiden appeared in the sky and played music too subtle for this world. The astronomer forgot the biting cold and listened entranced. At dawn, white frost lay upon his corpse. This is a true tale, said that old liar.” “What on earth? It makes no sense at all. And he passes for a Bachelor of Science? He might read a literary club magazine or two,” said Mr. Tsuki, thoroughly trounced. Meitei, half for fun, said “How about this?” and showed a third. This time a sailboat was printed by movable type, with scribblings beneath as before. “At Yobe, the sixteen-year-old girl, lacking parents, weeps with the plovers of the wild shore, the plovers of Sayo’s waking—parents are boatmen in the depths of the waves.” “How fine! I’m impressed, he can compose!” “He can?” “Yes, this would go to the shamisen.” “If it goes to the shamisen, it’s authentic. How’s this?” Meitei thrust one out recklessly. “No, seeing just these is enough; I see he’s not so boorish as that,” she concluded to herself. Hanako seemed to have finished her main inquiries about Tsuki. “I have been most rude. Please keep my visit from Mr. Tsuki,” she made her selfish request. Her policy: learn all of Tsuki, but reveal nothing of herself. Meitei and the master gave listless “Hahs,” and she rose, stressing, “I shall thank you another time.” No sooner had the two returned from seeing her off than Meitei said “What was that?” and the master said “What was that?”—same question from both. From the back room came the wife’s stifled laughter. Meitei called loudly, “Mrs.! Mrs.! A specimen of the commonplace has called! At that level, the commonplace is rather dashing. Laugh all you want, no need to hold back.” The master said sourly, “First, that face that eats nothing,” with distaste. Meitei took it up: “The nose entrenches the center of the face, poised in defiance.” “And crooked, too.” “Slightly round-shouldered. A round-shouldered nose is a bit too eccentric,” he laughed. “A face that dominates her husband,” the master still resentful. “A horoscope of leftover in the nineteenth century, shopworn in the twentieth,” Meitei said odd things. The wife came from the inner room and, as a woman, cautioned, “If you slander so, the cartman’s wife will report you again.” “A little reporting is medicine, Mrs.” “But slandering faces is low; no one chooses such a nose—and she’s a lady, too harsh.” Defending Hanako’s nose, she indirectly defended her own looks. “What’s harsh? That’s no lady, a fool, eh Meitei?” “Maybe a fool, but a formidable one—you were quite scratched.” “What does she take a teacher for?” “About the cartman behind. To be respected by such, one must be a doctor. It’s your fault for not being one, eh Mrs.?” Meitei glanced at the wife, smiling. “A doctor is hopeless,” the master, deserted even by his wife. “Might yet be, don’t scorn. You may not know, but Isocrates wrote great works at ninety-four; Sophocles astonished the world with a masterpiece near a hundred; Simonides made fine poems at eighty. Even I…” “Ridiculous, with your stomach ailment you’ll live that long?” The wife precisely budgeted his life. “Rude—ask Agi. It’s because you dress me in wrinkled black cotton haori and patched kimono that such women slight me. From tomorrow I’ll wear what Meitei wears—have it ready.” “Have it ready? We’ve no such fine cloth. Mrs. Kaneda turned polite only after hearing the uncle’s name, not the clothes,” the wife neatly escaped blame. Hearing “uncle,” the master suddenly recalled, “Today’s the first I hear you have an uncle. Never mentioned—true?” Meitei, as if waiting, said “Yes, that uncle, that uncle’s a stubborn fool—survived from the nineteenth century to now,” looking at master and wife. “Ho ho ho, always amusing, where does he live?” “In Shizuoka, but not merely living—topknot atop head, alive, most embarrassing. Tell him wear a hat, he boasts, at my age I’ve felt no cold for a hat. Tell him sleep more in cold, he says four hours suffice, more is luxury, rises before dawn. I trained years to cut sleep to four hours; young I was sleepy, lately entered perfect ease, proud. At sixty-seven, can’t sleep—natural. Yet he thinks sheer self-discipline. Goes out always with iron fan.” “What for?” “Who knows, just carries. Maybe a cane substitute. But strange thing lately,” he turned to the wife. “Oh?” she replied vaguely. “This spring a letter: send bowler and frock coat urgent. I asked, he said for himself. Order for victory celebration on 23rd in Shizuoka. Funny part: ‘Hat any fair size, suit measure at Daimaru…’” “Daimaru makes suits now?” “No, mistook for Shirokiya.” “Measure blind, impossible.” “That’s the uncle’s uncle-ness.” “What then?” “Sent blind.” “Reckless. Did it fit?” “Somehow. Hometown paper: Makiyama elder in frock coat, iron fan…” “Fan never left, see.” “Yes, in coffin with him.” “Hat and coat fit well, good.” “Big mistake. I thought safe, then parcel from home; thought gift, opened—the bowler, letter: ‘Sent as asked but too large, take to hatter, shrink, cost by money order.’” “Indeed careless,” the master, finding a greater fool, was satisfied. “Then?” “Nothing to do, I wore it.” “That hat?” master smirked. “Is he a baron?” wife wondered. “Who?” “The iron-fan uncle.” “A Sinologist; young stuck in Zhu Xi at the academy, so under electric light keeps topknot. Helpless,” he stroked his chin. “Yet you called her Baron Makiyama.” “I heard so too in the kitchen,” wife agreed. “Did I? Ha ha ha,” Meitei laughed without cause. “Lie. With a baron uncle I’d be a bureau chief,” he said calmly. “Thought odd,” master mixed happy and worried. “My, you lie so straight. Quite the braggart,” wife impressed. “That woman’s better.” “You’re no less.” “But Mrs., my lies are mere lies. Hers have motive, labeled falsehoods, vicious. Confusing monkey wit with native comedy, even the comedy god must lament no discerning eye,” the master looked down, “Whatever.” Wife smiled, “Same thing.”

I have never set paw in the cross street. Never seen the Kaneda corner mansion, nor heard of it till now. The master’s house never spoke of businessmen; even I, eating his rice, was not merely unrelated but cold. Yet Hanako’s visit, her talk, the daughter’s beauty imagined, wealth and power—made this cat unable to lounge on the veranda. Moreover I sympathize deeply with Mr. Tsuki. They hire the doctor’s wife, cartman’s wife, even the koto-playing Tennōin, to spy even his broken teeth, while he only grins and frets his robe strings—too incapable for a fresh Bachelor. Yet with that great nose, none could approach. The master is indifferent and too poor; Meitei has money but is a chance child, little help. Thus pitiful is the lecturer on hanging mechanics. Even I must stir, scout the enemy, or it’s unfair. I am a cat lodging in a scholar’s house who slams Epictetus on the desk; no common fool cat. This adventure’s chivalry is in my tail tip. No debt to Tsuki, but not mere rashness; broadly, a fine act for heaven’s fair mean. Since men wave the Azumabashi affair unasked, since they hide dogs to gossip, since they use carters, grooms, ruffians, idle students, day maids, midwives, witches, masseurs, dolts—and trouble useful citizens—a cat has resolve. Fine weather; frost melt annoying but life for road. Mud on paws leaving plum prints on veranda may trouble Mrs. but not pain me. Not tomorrow but now I dashed to kitchen—“Wait,” I thought. I am evolved cat, brain no less than third-year middle school, but sadly throat all cat, cannot speak human. Even if I sneak in and see all, I cannot tell Tsuki. Not master, not Meitei. Then like diamond underground, knowledge useless. Foolish; stop? I stood at step.

Yet abandoning a resolved act is like waiting for rain, black clouds pass to neighbor—regretful. If fault were mine, else; but for justice, humanity, even vain death is a knowing male’s duty. Wasting bone and foot befits a cat. Born cat, I lack the three-inch tongue to exchange thoughts with Tsuki, Meitei, Kusamori, but as cat surpass in stealth. Doing the impossible is joy. Knowing Kaneda’s inside, joy beyond ignorance. Giving them the awareness of being known unspoken—joy. So much joy, I must go. I will go.

At the cross street, the Western house occupied the corner as told. The master, like it, arrogant; I entered, viewed—mere two stories to oppress, no ability. Meitei’s commonplace? Past the entrance, through shrubs to the back door. Kitchen wide, ten times the master’s, shinier than Count Ōkuma’s as in the newspaper. “Model kitchen,” I entered. In a two-mat earthen floor, the cartman’s wife stood haranguing the cook and carter. Dangerous; I hid behind the bucket. “That teacher, doesn’t he know our master’s name?” cook said. “Who wouldn’t? In this ward, not know Kaneda is blind deaf cripple,” the carter. “No words. That teacher’s an eccentric knowing naught else. Might fear if he knew master, but hopeless, doesn’t know his own child’s age,” said the wife. “Not fear even Kaneda? Troublesome blockhead. Let’s all intimidate,” “Yes. ‘Nose too big, face unpleasant’—he says awful. His own face like Imado badger, thinks grown-up, hopeless.” “Not just face; towel to bath, so proud, thinks none greater,” the master unpopular with cook too. “All together by his hedge, insult, then as madam ordered, voice only, disturb study, tease,” said the wife. “Understood,” the wife took a third of the insults. Indeed these came to mock Kusamori; I slipped inside.

Cat steps soundless, no clumsy noise anywhere. Tread air, walk clouds, strike chime in water, play se in cave, taste ghee beyond words—know cold warm self. No Western house, no model kitchen, no cartman’s wife, no Gonosuke, cook, miss, maid, Hanako, husband. Go where will, hear what will, tongue out, tail up, whiskers stiff, return calm. I am Japan’s best at this, doubt I bear the cat-spirit blood of picture books. Toad’s brow holds night pearl; my tail holds the family cure to fool mankind—Shinto, Buddha, love, impermanence, all. Cross Kaneda’s hall unseen easier than a Niō crushing tofu. I admired my power, tail’s grace; bow to Tail Great God for long luck, lowered head—but aim off. Must face tail to worship; turn body, tail turns; twist neck to catch, tail keeps distance. Indeed a spirit holding heaven-earth in three inches, beyond me. Seven and a half circles tired me; slightly dizzy, lost direction. Careless, I wandered. Behind a shoji, Hanako’s voice. Stopped, ears slant, breath held. “Poor teacher, impertinent?” her shrill voice. “Yes, impertinent; punish, tease. The school has national men.” “Who?” “Tsuki Pinsuke, Fukuchi Kishago—have them mock.” I know not Kaneda’s province, but odd names surprised. Kaneda continued, “He’s English teacher?” “Yes, cartman’s wife says he teaches English riddle or such.” “No good teacher.” Impressed despite. “Met Pinsuke, he said our school has a queer; student asked ‘bancha’ in English, he said ‘Savage tea’ serious, laughed at; such teacher troubles others—that’s him.” “Him sure, that face, with whiskers.” “Outrageous,” with whiskers outrageous, no cat could be guilty. “And that Meitei, or Hebereke, what jumping clowns—uncle Baron Makiyama, my

“Stories of the world, in your language.”