六 1

Such heat is unbearable even for a cat. There is a story that a man called Sydney Smith of England complained in distress, wishing he could shed his skin, shed his flesh, and cool off with just his bones. Even if I need not be reduced to bones alone, I feel I should at least have this pale gray, mottled fur coat cleaned and stretched, or perhaps put it in storage for the time being. From a human perspective, a cat may seem to wear the same face all year round, pushing through spring, summer, autumn, and winter with a single signboard—a perfectly simple, uneventful, and inexpensive existence. But even a cat feels heat and cold accordingly. Now and then I would not mind a little bath, but since using water over this fur makes drying no easy matter, I have endured the sweaty smell and never once passed through the curtain of a public bath in all my years. Occasionally the thought arises to try a fan, but since I cannot hold one, there is nothing to be done. Thinking of this, humans are luxurious creatures. They take what should be eaten raw and deliberately boil it, roast it, pickle it in vinegar, or dip it in miso, gladly adding needless trouble and mutually expressing their gratitude. Clothing is the same. To tell them to wear the same thing all year like a cat may be too much to ask for beings born incomplete, but there is no need to pile such a variety of things upon the skin to live. To avail themselves of sheep, to be indebted to silkworms, and even to receive the charity of cotton fields—one might well assert that luxury is the result of incompetence. Granting that food and clothing may be overlooked with leniency, it is quite incomprehensible to press on in this manner even where there is no direct vital interest. First of all, the hair on the head grows naturally, so leaving it alone would be simplest and best for the person, yet they fuss needlessly and delight in various odd shapes. Those who call themselves monks always show a shaven blue scalp. When hot, they put a parasol over it; when cold, they wrap it in a hood. Then what was the point of baring the blue? On the other hand, some take pleasure in using a meaningless saw-like implement called a comb to divide the head hair evenly left and right. If not even, they impose an artificial partition on the skull at a seven-three ratio. Some have this divider run past the crown and spill out behind—like a counterfeit banana leaf. Next, they shave the crown flat and cut the sides straight down. Putting a square frame on a round head, it can only be taken as a sketch of a cedar hedge with a gardener's trim. Besides these, they say there are half-inch, three-tenths, and even one-tenth crops, so in time they may popularize novelties like minus one-tenth or minus three-tenths, shaving even the back of the head. Anyway, I cannot tell what they mean by troubling themselves so. First, having four legs but using only two is luxury enough. With four, one could go that much faster, yet they always make do with two and dangle the remaining two like a future stock of dried cod—ridiculous. From this, humans must be far more idle than cats, inventing such mischief for amusement out of boredom. The only funny part is that these idlers go about proclaiming how busy they are, and their expressions look so busy that one fears they may be eaten alive by busyness. Some see me and say, 'How carefree you must be,' but if carefree is good, become carefree. No one asked them to fuss so. Manufacturing more troubles than they can handle and crying 'hard, hard' is like building a big fire and crying 'hot, hot.' If a cat ever devised twenty ways to crop its head, it could not be so carefree. If you want carefree, train like me to wear fur even in summer. —That said, it is a bit hot. Fur is truly too hot.

This makes even my monopoly, the afternoon nap, impossible. Is there nothing to do? Having long neglected observation of human society, I thought to watch them fret in their whims today after a long absence, but unfortunately the master is in this regard much like a cat. He naps nearly as much as I, and especially since summer vacation he has done not one human-like task, so there is no point in observing. If only Meitei would come at such a time, his stomach-worry skin would react somewhat and drift from catness for a while. Just as I thought 'he may come now,' someone unknown was splashing water in the bath. Not only the sound of splashing, but now and then a loud voice joined in: 'Ah, splendid,' 'What a fine feeling,' 'One more,' ringing through the house. No one but Meitei comes to the master's house with such a loud voice and such rude antics. It must be Meitei.

He has come at last, I thought, now half a day is spent, when the gentleman wiped his sweat, squared his shoulders, and as usual strode into the parlor, shouting 'Madam, where is Kushami?' and flung his hat onto the mats. The wife, in the next room, had been sprawled by the sewing box in a fine doze, but at a bark-like resonance striking her eardrum she started awake, and with eyes not yet open pretended to wake and came out—only to find Meitei in Satsuma gauze occupying a spot at will, fanning briskly.

'Oh, welcome,' she said, somewhat flustered, 'I had no idea,' bowing with sweat on her nose. 'Why, I just arrived. I had Otomi pour water on me in the bath, and only just came back alive—isn't it hot?' 'These past two or three days, one sweats just sitting still; it is most hot. But are you well?' the wife said, still not wiping her nose sweat. 'Yes, thanks. Heat alone won't change me much, but this heat is something else. The body is so sluggish.' 'Even I, who never napped, in this heat cannot help—' 'You do? Fine. If you can nap by day and sleep by night, nothing better.' He lined up his usual easygoing remarks, but seeming unsatisfied, 'I don't want to sleep, by nature. Seeing Kushami nap every visit, I envy him. Though his weak stomach answers this heat. Even a healthy man finds holding his head on his shoulders a burden today. But since it is on, one cannot twist it off.' Mr. Meitei, unusually troubled about his neck. 'The madam still has something atop her neck, so she cannot sit—the weight of the coiffure alone makes one want to lie down.' The wife, thinking her nap betrayed by the coiffure, said 'Ho ho, you wicked tongue,' and touched her hair.

Meitei, unconcerned, said 'Madam, yesterday I fried an egg on the roof.' 'Fried?' 'The tiles were so finely baked, I thought merely placing was a waste, so melted butter and dropped an egg.' 'My word.' 'But the sun did not cooperate; it would not half-cook, so I went down to read the paper, a guest came, and I forgot. This morning I recalled and thought it safe, went up—' 'What was it?' 'Far from half-cooked, it had wholly run off.' 'Dear me,' the wife sighed with furrowed brows.

'But mid-dog-days were so cool; heating up now is strange.' 'Truly. Lately a single layer was cold, but since the day before yesterday suddenly hot.' 'A crab would walk sideways, but this year's climate steps backward. It may say, "To act in reverse and do the opposite—is that not permissible?"' 'What is that?' 'Nothing. This climate's reversal is exactly Hercules' cow.' Encouraged, he spoke stranger still, and as expected the wife understood not. But chastened by the earlier reverse line, she only said 'Heh' and did not ask. Not asked, Meitei's effort was wasted. 'Madam, know Hercules' cow?' 'No such cow.' 'You don't? Shall I explain?' The wife could not well refuse, so 'Yes.' 'Long ago Hercules led a cow—' 'Was this Hercules a cowherd?' 'Not a cowherd. Not an iroha husband. This was when Greece had not one beef shop.' 'Ah, a Greek tale? Then say so.' The wife knew the country name. 'But it is Hercules.' 'Hercules means Greece?' 'Yes, Hercules is a Greek hero.' 'No wonder I knew not. And the man?' 'The man, madam, as you see, grew sleepy and snored—' 'Oh, bother.' 'While asleep, Vulcan's son came—' 'What is Vulcan?' 'Vulcan is a smith. His son stole the cow. But he pulled it by the tail, so Hercules awoke and cried "Cow, cow," but could not find it. No wonder—the tracks were backward, dragged rear-first. For a smith's son, quite clever.' Mr. Meitei had forgotten the weather.

'Where is your husband? Still napping? A nap in Chinese poetry is elegant, but as Kushami's daily routine it is vulgar. Like dying a little each day. Madam, trouble, wake him.' The wife, agreeing, 'Yes, truly, it is a problem. He only worsens. Just eaten, yet—' rose, but Meitei said 'Madam, speaking of rice, I have not eaten.' and calmly declared unasked. 'My, the hour—I did not notice. Nothing much, but tea-rice?' 'No need for tea-rice.' 'Still, nothing to your taste,' the wife said with slight spite. Meitei, aware, 'No tea-rice, I ordered a feast on the way; I shall eat it here,' stating what no amateur could. The wife said only 'My!'—a mix of surprise, slight offense, and relief at saved trouble.

Then the master, disturbed by unusual noise, as if his dozing sleep were dragged up, drifted from the study. 'Same noisy man. Just as I slept well.' yawning with a sour face. 'Ah, awake. Sorry to startle the phoenix sleep, but occasional is fine. Sit.' Whose guest unclear. The master sat silent, took a 'Asahi' from a marquetry case, puffed; noticing Meitei's hat in the corner, 'Bought a hat?' Meitei at once 'How's this?' proudly showed it. 'Oh, fine. Very fine weave, soft.' The wife stroked it. 'Madam, this hat is handy—obeys any order.' He balled a fist and struck the Panama's side; surely a fist-sized hole opened. Before she could 'Heh,' he pushed the fist from inside and the crown dented; then took it and crushed brim to brim—flat as rolled soba. Rolled it like a mat. 'See?' pocketed the round hat. 'Strange,' the wife marveled like at a magician. Meitei, encouraged, pulled it from the left sleeve. 'No damage,' restored, spun it on a finger. Thought done, he flung it back and sat squarely on it. 'You all right?' even the master looked worried. The wife naturally 'Please stop, you'll break that fine hat.' Only the owner pleased: 'But it won't break,' pulled the crumpled from under, set it on his head, and it recovered to head shape. 'Truly sturdy, how?' 'Nothing, it is such a hat,' answered with it on.

'You should buy such a hat,' the wife later urged the master. 'But Kushami has a fine straw.' 'The children crushed it the other day.' 'Oh, pity.' 'So a sturdy fine one like yours would be good,' she, not knowing Panama's price, pressed 'This, please.'

Meitei now drew red-cased scissors from his right sleeve. 'Madam, enough hat, see these scissors—handy, fourteen uses.' Had they not appeared, the master would have been Panama-pressed by the wife; lucky she, by feminine curiosity, escaped—not Meitei's wit but fortune, I observe. 'How fourteen?' At once he 'Listen: this crescent notch cuts cigars; this root twists wire; laid flat, a ruler; back has scale, a measure; front file, files nails; tip in screw head, a hammer; thrust, opens nailed boxes; blade tip an awl; this spot erases writing; separated, knives. Last—madam, most fun: this fly-eye ball, look.' 'No, you'll fool me.' 'Trust me, just look. Eh? Reluctant? Just a peek.' He passed it. She took it, eyed the ball. 'Well?' 'All black.' 'Black won't do; face the shoji, don't tilt—there.' 'Oh, a photograph! How stuck such small?' 'That's the fun,' they chattered. The silent master suddenly wanted: 'Let me see.' She, scissors to face, 'Lovely, a nude beauty,' not releasing. 'I said let me.' 'Wait, beautiful hair to waist, tall, fearful, but a beauty.' 'I said let me,' he pressed. 'Sorry, enjoy,' she passed it; from the kitchen Otomi announced the order: two baskets of soba.

'Madam, my self-paid feast; excuse me, I eat here,' bowed politely. Ambiguous, the wife only 'Please' and watched. The master freed from photo: 'Soba in heat is poison.' 'Nonsense, liked things rarely hurt,' opened the steamer. 'Fresh is thanks. Limp soba and empty humans are never pleasing,' mixed condiments wildly. 'Too much wasabi,' the master warned. 'Soba is tsuyu and wasabi. You dislike soba.' 'I like udon.' 'Udon is for horsemen. None sadder than those who know not soba,' jabbed many onto two inches, lifted. 'Madam, many ways to eat soba. Beginners dip madly and munch—no taste. Like this, hook a lift—' raised chopsticks, a foot of soba aloft. Thinking enough, he looked down: twelve or three tails still on the slats. 'Long, eh, madam?' She 'Indeed long,' impressed. 'Dip a third, swallow whole. No chew—chew loses taste. Slurp down the throat is the point.' He raised high; it left ground. Into the cup, lowering chopsticks, the soaked part raised tsuyu level—Archimedes—but cup was eighty percent full, so before half soaked, full. His chopsticks stopped five inches above. No move—any lower overflowed. Meitei hesitated, then like a fleeing hare, mouth to chopsticks, slurp, throat worked once or twice, the soba vanished. Tears from his eyes. Wasabi or effort—unknown. 'Admirable, swallowed at once,' the master admired. 'Splendid,' the wife praised. Meitei silent, put chopsticks, struck chest, 'Madam, a basket in three and a half to four bites; too much fuss spoils.' Wiped mouth, breathed.

Then Kaneda came, for some reason in heat wearing a winter hat, feet dusty. 'Ah, fine gentleman, but mid-meal, excuse,' Meitei, behind all, finished the remaining steamer shamelessly. Unlike before, no show, no handkerchief pause—cleanly two baskets, well done.

'Kaneda, done with the doctoral thesis?' the master asked; Meitei after, 'Miss Kaneda awaits, submit soon.' Kaneda gave his eerie smile: 'A sin, I wish to ease her soon, but the problem is a problem, needing labor.' 'Yes, problem is problem, not as the nose says. Though that nose merits reading.' Meitei matched him. The master graver: 'Your thesis title?' 'On the effect of ultraviolet on the electric action of the frog's eyeball.' 'Odd. Truly Kaneda. Frog's eyeball rolls. Kushami, report just the title before completion?' The master ignored Meitei: 'Such hard research?' 'Yes, complex; first the lens structure is not simple, so experiments, but first a round glass ball—' 'Glass ball, any glazier—' 'Why—

“Stories of the world, in your language.”