五 2

“Please submit a written statement saying that so many items were stolen and therefore we lodge a complaint. Not a report—a complaint. Better not address it to anyone.” “Shall I list each item separately?” “Yes. State it like, ‘Such-and-such number of haori, value so much,’ and submit it. —Well, going in to look is useless. It’s after the theft, you know,” he said calmly and went home.

The master brought brush and inkstone to the middle of the room, summoned his wife before him, and said in a tone as if picking a fight: “I’m going to write a theft complaint now, so tell me each thing that was stolen. Come on, out with it.” “Oh, how dreadful—‘out with it’ indeed. Who’s going to tell you in that bossy tone?” She sat down squarely, still wearing her thin sash. “What’s with that appearance? You look like a botched post-station prostitute. Why didn’t you tie your obi properly before coming out?” “If this is so improper, then buy me a proper one. Even if I’m a post-station prostitute or whatever, once things are stolen there’s nothing to be done, is there?” “They took the obi too? Brutes. Then I’ll write starting with the obi. What sort of obi was it?” “What sort—do you think I have so many? It’s a half-black-satin, half-crepe obi.” “One half-black-satin half-crepe obi—worth about how much?” “About six yen, I suppose.” “Putting on such a fancy obi, aren’t you proud. From now on make it about one yen fifty.” “Where would you find such an obi? That’s why I say you’re heartless. A wife, no matter how shabby she looks, as long as she’s fine with it, you don’t care, do you?” “Oh, never mind. What else?” “A silk-weave haori. That was given by Kawano’s aunt as a memento; though it’s silk-weave, it’s a different class from today’s silk-weave.” “I don’t need that explanation. How much was it?” “Fifteen yen.” “Wearing a fifteen-yen haori is above your station.” “Well, it’s not like you bought it for me.” “Next?” “One pair of black tabi.” “Yours?” “Yours, of course. Cost twenty-seven sen.” “And then?” “One box of mountain yam.” “They took the mountain yam too? Planning to boil it, or make grated yam soup?” “I don’t know their plans. Go ask the thief.” “How much was it?” “I don’t know the price of mountain yam.” “Then let’s put it at about twelve yen fifty.” “That’s absurd. Even if dug up from Karatsu, mountain yam wouldn’t cost twelve yen fifty.” “But you said you don’t know.” “I don’t, but twelve yen fifty is outrageous.” “You don’t know, yet say twelve fifty is outrageous—what’s that? Makes no logical sense. That’s why I call you an otanchin pareorogasu.” “What did you say?” “An otanchin pareorogasu.” “What is this otanchin pareorogasu?” “Doesn’t matter. Now what else—my clothes haven’t come up at all, have they?” “Nothing else matters. Tell me the meaning of otanchin pareorogasu.” “It doesn’t mean anything.” “You could tell me. You must be making a fool of me. You think I don’t know English and insult me with foreign words.” “Don’t be foolish, just tell me the rest quickly. If we don’t file the complaint soon, the goods won’t come back.” “Anyway, filing now is too late. Rather, tell me otanchin pareorogasu.” “What a nagging woman—I told you it means nothing.” “Then there are no more items either.” “Stubborn fool. Then do as you please. I won’t write the theft complaint.” “And I won’t tell you the items. Since you’re filing the complaint yourself, I don’t need you to write it for me.” “Then drop it,” said the master, and as usual abruptly rose and went to the study. The wife withdrew to the kitchen and sat before her sewing box. For about ten minutes both stared silently at the shoji, doing nothing.

Just then the front door opened briskly and Tatara Sanpei, the mountain-yam donor, came up. Tatara Sanpei was formerly a student boarder in this house, but now has graduated from the law college and is employed in the mining section of a company. He is another sprout of a practical man, a junior to Suzuki Tojuro. From former ties he sometimes visits the old teacher’s humble cottage, and on Sundays stays to play a whole day—thus on familiar terms with the family.

“Ma’am, fine weather,” he said in a Karatsu accent or such, kneeling on one knee in trousers before the wife. “Oh, Mr. Tatara.” “Has the teacher gone out somewhere?” “No, he’s in the study.” “Ma’am, the teacher studying like that is poisonous. It’s Sunday, after all.” “No use telling me; you tell the teacher.” “But…” began Sanpei, then looked around the room. “The young ladies aren’t here today either,” he said half to the wife, and from the next room Tonko and Sunko came running. “Mr. Tatara, did you bring sushi today?” asked older sister Tonko, remembering the promise, and pressed him the moment she saw his face. Scratching his head, Sanpei confessed: “You remember well. I’ll surely bring some next time. Forgot today.” “Aw,” said the sister, and the younger immediately mimicked, “Aw.” The wife’s mood finally mended a little and she smiled somewhat. “Didn’t bring sushi, but gave mountain yam. Did the young ladies eat it?” “What’s mountain yam?” asked the sister, and the younger again mimicked, “What’s mountain yam?” to Sanpei. “Haven’t eaten yet? Have your mother boil it soon. Karatsu mountain yam is different from Tokyo’s—tasty,” boasted Sanpei of his homeland, and the wife finally recalled: “Mr. Tatara, thank you so much the other day for the plenty.” “How is it, did you try? I had a box made so it wouldn’t break and packed it tight, so it stayed whole, right?” “But that very mountain yam was stolen by a thief last night.” “A thief? What fools. Who’d like mountain yam that much?” Sanpei was much impressed. “Mama, a thief came last night?” asked the sister. “Yes,” the wife answered lightly. “A thief came—and—a thief came—what kind of face did he have coming in?” asked the younger this time. Not knowing how to answer such a strange question, the wife said, “Came in with a scary face,” and looked toward Mr. Tatara. “Scary face like Mr. Tatara’s face?” asked the sister, not at all sympathetically, pressing back. “What, how rude.” “Hahaha, is my face that scary? Troublesome,” he scratched his head. On the back of Sanpei’s head is a bald spot about one inch across. It appeared a month ago; he saw a doctor but it shows no sign of healing. The first to spot this baldness was sister Tonko. “Oh, Mr. Tatara’s head is shiny like Mama’s.” “I told you to be quiet.” “Mama, last night’s thief’s head was shiny too,” said the younger. The wife and Sanpei unintentionally burst out laughing, but troubled by the fuss, “Now you children go play in the garden. Mama will give you nice sweets soon,” the wife finally shooed them off and “Mr. Tatara, what happened to your head?” asked seriously. “Bug ate it. Won’t heal easily. Ma’am got one too?” “Goodness, bug eats it—well, where the knot pulls, being a woman I’m a bit bald.” “Baldness is all bacteria.” “Mine isn’t bacteria.” “Ma’am just stubborn.” “Not everything is bacteria. But in English, what’s baldness called?” “Bald, or such.” “No, not that. There’s a longer name.” “Ask the teacher, he’d know at once.” “The teacher won’t tell me, so I ask you.” “I only know bald. Longer, how is it?” “It’s otanchin pareorogasu. Otanchin is the character for bald, and pareorogasu is head, I suppose.” “Might be. I’ll go to the teacher’s study now and look up Webster for you. But the teacher’s quite changed. Fine weather like this, staying home—Ma’am, that won’t cure the stomach ailment. Advise him to go to Ueno for flower viewing.” “You take him out. The teacher never listens to a woman.” “Lately still licking jam?” “Yes, as always.” “The other day the teacher was grumbling. ‘My wife complains my jam-licking is fierce and troubling, but I don’t mean to lick that much. Some miscount,’ he said, so surely you and the young ladies lick together—” “How awful, Mr. Tatara, why say such things?” “But Ma’am looks like you’d lick too.” “How can you tell from a face?” “Can’t tell, but—so Ma’am never licks at all?” “Well, I lick a little. What if I do? It’s ours.” “Hahaha, thought so—but the books, the thief was a sudden calamity. Only mountain yam taken?” “If only mountain yam, no trouble, but everyday clothes all taken.” “Immediately troubling? Must borrow again? If this cat were a dog—what a pity. Ma’am, keep a big dog without fail. —Cat is no good, only eats—does it catch any mice?” “Never caught one. Truly an impudent, brazen cat.” “Well that’s hopeless. Throw it away soon. I might take it and boil it.” “Oh, Mr. Tatara eats cats?” “Ate. Cat is delicious.” “Quite a hero.”

Among lowly students I had heard tell of barbarians who eat cats, but that Tatara, who daily honors me with his favor, should be of this ilk I never dreamed until now. Moreover he is no longer a student; though recently graduated, he is a full-fledged bachelor of law and an officer of the Muttsui Trading Company—thus my astonishment knows no bounds. The maxim “suspect every man a thief” was already proven by the acts of Kanetsuki the Second, but “suspect every man a cat-eater” is a truth I first grasped thanks to Mr. Tatara. To live in the world is to learn; to learn is joy, yet dangers multiply daily and vigilance daily grows needful. To grow cunning, to grow base, to don a two-layer protective suit—all are results of learning, and learning is the sin of aging. That no good comes of the old is by this logic. I even thought it perhaps wiser to attain buddhahood with onion in Mr. Tatara’s pot ere it be too late, and shrank small in the corner, when the master, who earlier quarreled with his wife and withdrew to the study, hearing Sanpei’s voice, ambled out to the kitchen. “Teacher, heard you met a thief. How foolish,” he opened by cornering him. “The fool is the one who entered,” the master self-assured as ever of his wisdom. “The enterer is foolish, but the robbed isn’t too wise either,” said Sanpei. “One with nothing to rob like Mr. Tatara is wisest,” the wife this time took her husband’s side. “But the stupidest is this cat. Truly, what was it thinking? Catches no mice, ignores thieves. —Teacher, give me this cat? Left as is, it’s no use.” “You may have it. What for?” “Boil and eat.”

At this fierce word the master leaked a queer, stomach-weak laugh, but gave no real answer, and Sanpei did not press to eat it—a happiness beyond hope for me. The master soon turned the topic: “Cat aside, robbed of clothes, it’s cold,” greatly dejected. Indeed cold it must be. Yesterday he wore two padded layers; today only an unlined kimono and half-sleeve shirt, sitting motionless from morning with no exercise, so insufficient blood works wholly for the stomach and circulates not at all to hands and feet. “Teacher, being a teacher won’t do. Meet a thief and straightaway troubled—change your mind now, become a practical man.” “The teacher hates practical men, so no use saying that,”

said the wife to Sanpei. She of course wishes him a practical man. “Teacher, how many years since graduation?” “Ninth year now, I suppose,” the wife looked to the master. He neither affirmed nor denied. “Nine years, salary unchanged. However hard you study, none praise; a lonely gentleman,” he intoned a poem line learned in middle school for the wife, who understood not quite and answered not. “Teacher hates teaching, but hates practical work more,” the master seemed inwardly pondering his likes. “Teacher hates everything…” “Only the wife not hated?” joked Sanpei unlike himself. “Most hated,” the master’s reply is simplest. The wife turned aside, posed a moment, then faced him: “You hate living too, I suppose,” meaning to deflate him. “Not especially fond,” he answered unexpectedly cheerfully. No handling that. “Teacher, walk a bit or you’ll ruin your health. —And become a practical man. Making money is truly easy.” “Though you’ve made none.” “Ma’am, he only just entered the company last year. Even so he has more savings than the teacher.” “How much saved?” the wife asked eagerly. “Already fifty yen.” “What’s your monthly salary?” also the wife’s question. “Thirty yen. Of that, the company keeps five yen a month, accumulates, gives in need. —Ma’am, buy a little Outer Moat Line stock with pocket money; in three or four months it doubles. With a little money it soon doubles, triples.” “With such money, thief or no, no trouble.” “That’s why I say practical man. Had the teacher done law and joined a company or bank, by now three or four hundred a month—what a pity. —Teacher, know the engineer Suzuki Tojuro?” “Um, came yesterday.” “Indeed, at a banquet lately I mentioned you; ‘so you were at Kusamidori’s? I too self-cooked with him at a Koishikawa temple; say hello when you go, I’ll visit too,’ he said.” “Came to Tokyo lately, seems.” “Yes, till now in Kyushu mines, now Tokyo post. Quite good. Talks to me like a friend. —Teacher, guess his pay?” “Don’t know.” “Two hundred fifty a month, plus dividends, average four or five hundred. That man thrives, while you, reader-only ten years one fox coat—absurd.” “Truly absurd,” even the master, a transcendentalist, differs not from common men in money sense. Nay, in poverty he may want it twice as much. Sanpei, having fully preached practical gain and nothing left to say, “Ma’am, does one Mizushima Kangetsu visit?” “Yes, often.” “What sort of person?” “Said to be very learned.” “Handsome?” “Hohoho, about like Mr. Tatara.” “Is that so, like me?” Sanpei serious. “How do you know Kangetsu’s name?” asked the master. “Asked by someone lately. Is he worth such inquiry?” Sanpei already braced above Kangetsu. “A far greater man than you.” “Is that so, greater than me?” neither laughing nor angry. This is Sanpei’s trait. “Soon a doctor?” “Writing thesis, seems.” “Foolish still. Writing a doctoral thesis—thought him more talkative.” “Same old, fine insight,” laughed the wife. “When he’s doctor, give so-and-so’s daughter or not—such foolery. To be doctor for a wife? Better give her to me, I told him.” “To whom?” “The man who asked me about Mizushima.” “Suzuki?” “No, haven’t said that to him. He’s a big shot.” “Mr. Tatara is a hero in hiding. Comes here and brags, but before Suzuki shrinks.” “Yes. Else dangerous.” “Tatara, shall we walk?” suddenly said the master. Earlier in only unlined kimono, cold, he thought a little exercise might warm him, thus this unprecedented motion. “Let’s. Ueno? Or Imo Hill for dumplings? Teacher eaten there? Ma’am go once, soft and cheap. Sake too,” he rambled disorderly, and the master already donned hat and descended to the genkan.

I need a little rest. What antics the master and Sanpei performed at Ueno Park, how many plates of dumplings at Imo Hill—no need to detect, no courage to tail, so omit and rest meanwhile. Rest is a right demanded of heaven by all things. He who bears the duty to live and stirs must rest to fulfill it. If a god said, “You were born to work, not to sleep,” I would answer, “Born to work as said, therefore I ask rest to work.” Even the master, a wooden fool who wound complaint into a machine, sometimes self-rests beyond Sundays. I, sensitive and sorrowful, mind laboring day and night, though a cat, need rest above the master. Only Sanpei’s cursing me as a useless thing with no ability but rest troubles somewhat. Worldly men, driven by matter, know no activity beyond the five senses’ stir, and in judging others scarce pass the corporeal—inconvenient. They think unless kilt hiked and sweat shed, no work done. The priest Daruma sat staring till his legs rotted, yet even if vines crept through wall cracks and sealed his eyes and mouth, he neither slept nor died; his head ever active, pondering fine nonsense like “void and no-sage.” Confucians too have quiet-sitting practice—not cloistering limp in a room, but brain-fire burning double; only outwardly calm, thus common eyes deem these sages comatose fools, useless eaters. Such eyes are born blind to mind behind form—and Sanpei is first-class in that; his taking me for dried dung is natural, but regrettable that the master, who read books and knows truth somewhat, agrees with shallow Sanpei and raises no objection to cat-pot. Yet stepping back, their contempt is not unjust. Loud sounds reach not rustic ears; few echo “spring snow” song—old simile. To demand of form-blind men sight of your soul’s light is like telling a monk tie hair, a tuna make speech, a tram require derail, the master resign, Sanpei forget gold—all absurd demands. But a cat is social; as social, however high self-placed, must harmonize somewhat. That master, wife, children, Sanpei rate me not as I am is regrettable yet unavoidable; but if ignorance flays me for shamisen shop and carves my flesh for Sanpei’s table, that is grave. I, a cat of ages born to act with my head, am a precious body. “A thousand-gold child sits not at the fence” —to prize transcendence and court danger is self-harm and against heaven. A tiger in a zoo neighbors a pig; a wild goose caged dwells with chicks. Among mediocre men, be a mediocre cat; to be so, catch mice. —I finally resolved to catch mice.

Lately Japan is in great war with Russia. I am a Japanese cat, so of course pro-Japan. I’d organize a mixed cat brigade to scratch Russian soldiers. Such is my vigorous spirit that mouse

“Stories of the world, in your language.”